Posts Tagged ‘plans’

Well, here we are again.

Thursday, June 8th, 2017

After some time keeping my head barely above water, my hearts busted open into a suck wound of fuzzies and my brain is linking up solutions again. Good night! 

What will I wake up to, though? Ugh, I hate waking up. Maybe that adjustment today worked, but I can’t know until I sleep how things will be when I wake up. 

I need to work on trusting my body more, and relying on my mind less. My fatigue right now probably isn’t physical. I forget that my ballcurled psychic emergency cutoff is to be too exhausted to carry out the plan. I forget that I know how to not spin myself comatose with infinite looping worry when something is wrong with my body. 

Yes, somethings wrong with probably my nerves, and yeah, it hurts. And having my legs giving out on me periodically is not any kind of ok, I’m not gonna lie. 

All the same, I think it’s about time to look into what’s happened in the SSRI world since I visited it last. Aside from being back in a mental place where I must consider that I really could die from this; I cannot accomplish my goals while feeling this way.

Is it valid? Yes. I dont deny or begrudge it. But I’ve got shit to do, god damnit. Shit to do so I can be in a position to handle whatever this is without feeling like I’m waterboarding myself while reciting the most horrible things I can imagine people I love saying about me. 

I trust you, gut. And I can’t right now. You’ll have to wait. 

I’ll get to you, too, but you’ll just have to wait.

Revisiting pencil

Thursday, May 26th, 2016

Going a layer deeper in my pencil skills. I feel as though I used to have this down pretty well when I was younger, but I need different drugs now or something. These are both within the last few days.

The framed piece on the right will be given away next month. $15 and above patrons who are signed up by Monday 5/30 get their names in the hat for this one. Good luck! She’s a stunner.

Pies

Monday, May 23rd, 2016

Huh.

Baking pies is fucking messy. Like seriously, the oven is a battlefield. Guts dripped everywhere.

It’s a strawberry and rhubarb. Strawberry and rhubarb that I helped harvest today at the farm, and then came home and made a fucking pie out of it. For the filling I used brown sugar, lemon zest/juice, cinnamon, a little flour and fresh lemon balm (also from the farm).

I NEED a crust recipe. I like flake, and salt, and butter, and almost a smoked cream kind of finish to pie crust. How do I do that? SOMEONE TELL ME HOW TO DO THAT. OMG.

I am so excited for the blueberries we’re going to have later this season. I was wondering what I might pair them with in a pie. Probably Meyer lemon and thyme, or tarragon.

But I’d use orange zest, instead of lemon like this pie, and maybe crush a bit of black sea salt on a dollop of vanilla whip. I’d probably try a warm sour cream drizzle with a raspberry and maybe a slice of dark chocolate on top also to see if I liked that better.

Bone broth and roasted vegetable pot pie. With sage and a tiny sprinkle of gruyere browned in the edges of the crust.

Cheeses around the crusts!!

omgomg I feel like I’m blowing my own mind right now. !!! The ideas keep flooding in.

Apple, maybe Braeburn, with sweet onion and basil in the filling, and browned cheddar around the edge of the crust.

Garbanzo bean and spinach filling, lots of herbs and spices, sliced avocado on top.

Roasted radish, parsnip, garlic, leek. Garnished with parsley, maybe rosemary and some mixed olive tapenade.

Sweet potato and kale, fried egg on top.

When I have access to awesome food, fucking magic happens. What a fucking rewarding, badass summer I’m gonna have. Two in a row now. Shitchea.

Next up: The Bosque Village

Tuesday, August 4th, 2015

The conversations have been had, the mutual admiration has been expressed, the values and goals are well aligned, the time is right, the action item list is soft drafted. I’ve the plane ticket and the passport renewal submitted in plenty of time (presuming no catastrophic postal issues) and am thus ready to let the population at large know what my patrons have been hearing for a while now – after having Brian Fey and his amazing project on my radar for many years, my next adventure begins in September, in Mexico, at the Bosque Village.

A good page to familiarize ones self with what the Bosque is: https://www.quora.com/Mexico/What-is-the-Bosque-Village/answer/Brian-Fey?share=1

The Bosque facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/bosqueforest

Patrons will continue to get my personal experience and musings/updates about my travels. $5 a month at http://patreon.com/courtnee gets you all the updates and the opportunity to support what I am doing, directly. Sign up, and spread the word if you would. My goal is to break 35 patrons before I depart in September.

A large part of my contribution to the Bosque will include video production, process documentation and social media, in addition to faciltating music, art, movement programs and of course, hands on learning about sustainable forest living.
Between my personal projects, philosophical musings, and the work I will be doing to contribute to the Bosque specifically, I expect to enjoy a very rich and busy rest of 2015.

BAM.

Road Trip Cancelled. Plan of Action: Engaged

Sunday, May 18th, 2014

I have, roughly, $6000 in unappropriated savings, at current.

I also have, roughly, 3 months left at my less-than-market living situation.

This has incited an exceptionally stressful dichotomy of needs; and a sobering wakeup call to how unbelievably fucking expensive it’s gotten to live out here.

I gave up the studio this month to slice my office rent, and started taking on more clients, 5 days a week. Exhausting, but working, too, I think.

The problem I’ve been most running up against, is that I don’t have anywhere viable to go, and I don’t have the savings required to buy or build my tiny house on wheels.

The secondary problem, is that the family whose property I have intended to live on has also been anticipating another year or two of time to prepare for me.

We’re all a wee bit stressed out.

I’ve run numbers on getting just a house shell on a trailer with no services or furnishings to crash in like a bum in a train car while simultaneously building the rest out as much as I can with whatever extra cash I can put into it over the summer.

I’ve run numbers on getting a shipping container and insulating it and welding a hole in the ceiling to build out the loft space for my bed, also no furnishings or services.

I’ve run the numbers on getting an enclosed cargo trailer high enough to put a loft in. Again, no furnishings or services.

All of these options provide me with no comforts, require me to pay to store everything I own, require that I find a place where I can build and weld with no building experience and an accelerated timeline, and cost ~$10k to do it right.

So, I’ve made the decision that I will be getting an RV to live in.

I want a tiny house, yes. I want a lot of things. But the bottom line is that I have managed to save up $6000 bucks toward freedom housing, and I need a place to live that CJ and I can move into in August. RV’s are where that’s at.

At this point in my life, more than needing things to be pretty and cute and designed perfectly, I need a place that is mine, that I can afford, that I can modify and count on, and that I can take with me; which was the root of what the tiny house project was meant to accomplish.

So, that means my road trip is cancelled. I’ll be flying directly to and from Palm Springs (I have a second room in my suite, would welcome sharing the cost with someone, and the airfare round trip from Seattle was a paltry $220; so if you think you might want to take your own Palm Springs vacation from June 12 to 17th, hit me up) to get my certification in grief recovery and come back immediately – to work, and search, and hopefully, find home.

It also means I’m selling nearly all of my stuff and furniture, which works out well since I’d like to manage a couple more grand over the next few months to get a nicer trailer with more to work with.

And lastly, it means I’m looking for a place to park and hook up; Land ho!

I’m pretty excited, and feeling ok about how things are shifting; If everything works out, having a home will be way better than a motorcycle vacation would have been.

Like, way better.

Epic motorcycle trip is Epic

Sunday, May 4th, 2014

After crunching the numbers and needing a long walkabout about now anyway, I’ve determined that I will be riding the motorcycle solo down to Palm Springs and back to take my Grief Recovery Method certification workshop next month.

My definite stops on the down route will be looking something like: Portland, Grants Pass, Crescent City, Redding, Tahoe, Bishop, Palm Springs.

Then I’m in Palm Springs for 4 days getting certified and spending way, way too much money staying at the Embassy Suits where the workshop is.

Stops on the way back will be looking something like: Los Angeles, Sacramento, and then whofuckingknows so far, but I imagine I will be taking I-5 back up to save time and mileage.

After the crash in February turning on metal tracks in the rain up here, I haven’t ridden much. After this I’ll either be roadsplatter, or damn comfortable on that bike.

Big adventure.

When I was just a little girl…

Monday, August 26th, 2013

Want to help me flesh out some specifics from a scene in my newest show?

Please respond with what immediately comes to mind when presented with the phrase “Inner Child”.

Mine was: Inconvenient asshole.

SEAF 2013

Monday, August 5th, 2013

Disclaimer: After a long week on my feet, I am a bit fried mentally, more than a bit exhausted physically, and yet still rather awake and energetic. My creativity is in the shitter, though, so if you’re hoping for poetry unfortunately I doubt you’ll find much this time. You will, however, find a blog entry about my experience performance directing for the Seattle Erotic Art Festival this year, and a little bit of a backstory as to why that’s kind of a Big Deal for me. Also; I speak only for myself on this blog, and do not represent any official stance of the FSPC or SEAF directorial committee here. Enjoy.

Well, that was really something!

This year’s Seattle Erotic Art Festival had us returning to one of my favorite festival venues – the Showbox Sodo – which, at the time of our last occupation in 2007, was the Fenix. The Showbox had the best facilities and friendliest staff of any venue I’ve worked in, ever. They were wonderful and contributed highly to my enjoyment this weekend.

After many years of vastness and what became a disproportionate focus on spectacle performance art and dance parties, it feels to me now that SEAF has again embraced its roots as an *ART* festival. Though the event wasn’t perfect (um, we seriously need to strike those walkway tables after 10pm next year – great when there’s 100 people, not so much when there’s more.), I would be hard pressed to be more pleased with the results of our hard work this year.

Up until 11pm, patrons could browse, hold a conversation, ask about the artwork and purchase pieces without being interrupted, or having to scream over loud thumping music. During our after-parties when we’d raised the volume some, patrons never had the lights illuminating the artwork shut off on them and were still capable of browsing and buying, and were never forced to pay attention to anything they didn’t want to.

The artwork was the best I’ve ever seen at the festival, which is including the catalogues from previous years in which I did not attend. Most of the pieces that weren’t really my style had a clear validity and seemed to belong in the festival regardless of my personal preferences. I think I only truly disliked perhaps two. The film exhibition, which I unfortunately had absolutely no personal experience with due to it being offsite (I’d like to see the films onsite, or staggered next year with the visual art festival on another weekend), was spoken of incredibly highly and sold very well.

My absolute favorite parts?

In addition to this, I directed a suite of beautifully organic and diverse performances that included many shapes, sizes, and colors that complimented the art, captivated our audience and helped maintain a dignified, elegant and erotic atmosphere.

My team was impressive, I had an excellent stage manager, and every single one of my performers made me look really fucking good.

In addition to that, my workload was reasonable enough that I got to have a lot of fun at the festival, both during my tenor as a director and after my performances were finished. The vibe in the venue was positive, and everywhere I looked patrons were smiling and happily chatting. I even spent a bit of time at the bootblacking station overseeing most of the venue, smiling, watching people slowly pour in through the cash doors.

And boy do I fucking love being on a headset!

These are only my vanity pictures. To see the other amazing pictures of the festival check out SEAF’s flickr stream and be sure to log in to see the ‘adult’ ones with buttcrack and boob.

SEAF for me carries a long backstory with many deep layers, in regards to my individual growth in sexuality, as an event director/performer, and in terms of healing from an abusive relationship. I was first involved in the festival as a model in an accepted piece in 2003, and nearly every year since then.

From 2005-2008 I contributed to SEAF directly as a performer, patron and director. After the 2008 festival, in which I had directed aerial performances and performed, I stepped away from SEAF during a bad breakup with the Performance Director at the time, who had eyes on directing the Festival.

When we split up, we were both heavily involved in SEAF and the Little Red Studio together. In the separation, though we never officially divided things, I basically got LRS, and in turn got Obsidian (If you don’t know about that show, you probably should.), and he got SEAF, and with that, the Director title he’d wanted, eventually.

I was angry, hurting, mentally dismantled, and felt left out by cutting myself off. I was also busy with my own creative endeavors, and really, I had no choice but to leave given the circumstances.

Over the years, I heard through the grapevine of the changes being made to the festival, how it had become bigger, more glitzy, more stage show, bigger, bigger, bigger, and less focused on the artwork or feeling like an art festival.

In 2011, I submitted artwork, a performance proposal and returned in a limited capacity under the direction of Eva Luna as an ambient performance artist, with my most estranged year away being 2012 in which I strenuously returned to having no involvement.

I had no idea how much I missed SEAF, in part due to these changes I didn’t agree with and my bitterness toward the person making them, until I was capable of returning in a directorial capacity when my ex left on bad terms in December. I wrote after being invited to the first planning meeting I’d been to in 5 years;

It’s funny, when something is simply off the table, how disconnected with missing being involved in it you can be. – http://blog.neevita.net/archives/13498

I had forgotten that SEAF, when available to me, is one of the few places I absolutely, without doubt or apology, belong.

My reentry has been validating, satisfying and very fruitful after a rough start in preproduction earlier this year. I can attest with no hesitation that we pulled off a miracle given the circumstances and logistical/administrative turbulence we all went through.

One of my favorite things to do right now is marvel at how impressively all the people who remained involved stepped up and gave this event everything they had. We worked together naturally and without any pettiness, arguments or personal difficulty that I could see. Everyone was amazing at their jobs and awesome to work with.

I am so thrilled that I stuck with this through my storm of concerns over the last few months. I have learned a lot in the past 6 weeks and grown as an event director as well as personally through this experience. I really just can’t express in words how lovely it is to be back, or how proud I am of what the festival has become/returned to being.

As the smoke clears I can see that the occurrences which lead me away for a while had also saved me from the corrosive aspect of the learning experiences the org went through during the time my ex was in charge, and for that I’m thankful. Had I still been working on SEAF since 2009, regardless of my personal feelings regarding him, knowing myself as I do, I suspect I would have been worn of it and have moved on by now, just as it’s getting good again.

Instead, I get the best of both worlds – I didn’t have to continue working with him, didn’t have to be around him, I got to take a break and focus on my own work and artistry, put on some amazing shows, created an arts nonprofit, nurtured my massage and gallery business, and now I have the ability to reap the benefits of his work and what was learned from his mistakes regardless. Thanks, dude!

Now Extrovert Entertainer Whip-cracking Chatty Me fades into the background, and Tender Introverted Drained Me begins her recovery from intense connection fatigue and activity of the last few days. I connected with a LOT of people in profound and significant ways, my feet are killing me, and I am very, very tired.

For now, I will be behind the scenes again for a while, tending to myself, my personal creative work, and processing through the emotional impact of a very big few days – which includes being rather elated and prideful of my accomplishments, and planning my strategy for next year.

It feels good to be back to what was my element for a long time, and to again embrace it as a keen expression of who I am and who I want to be in the world.

Don’t go to art school

Thursday, June 27th, 2013

You’ve got other options.

You don’t have to go to college to be an artist. Not once have I needed my diploma to get a job. Nobody cares. The education is all that matters. The work that you produce should be your sole concern.

View story at Medium.com

Meeting Stockholm

Saturday, June 15th, 2013

In the airport feeling sad and disconnected, so I bought myself a new friend.

One of the stewardesses on my flight asked me if I’d named her yet, and when I said I hadn’t, she declared that her name is Nalle, which is Swedish for “teddy”. For some reason I was really touched by that. Once the stewardess had moved on, I petted Nalle’s head and cried quietly for a little bit.

It seems, having traveled internationally now a few times, that my body tends to freak out a little on these long flights. Maybe planes tend to fly higher for longer trips or the amount of time I am in the air matters, but for both my Ireland and Sweden flights I’ve had weird shit happen to me physically.

This time, after an hour or so in the air, I felt nauseous and had the salivation indicative of impending vomit. I noticed I was incredibly sensitive to the loo chemicals and was getting waves of discomfort every time someone opened the lavatory doors a few rows behind me.

Based off my experience after eating the (delicious tasting) airline food last time, I skipped dinner this time around, and thankfully I wasn’t very hungry anyway having eaten before the flight. My stomach was sour and I couldn’t escape the discomfort, so I went to the lavatory to stick my head closer to the chemicals that seemed to be contributing to the feeling and try to throw up.

About a half dozen dry heaves later, I realized that wasn’t going to do anything for me either, and decided to sit back down. I never lost consciousness like I did last time, but I did fold in half and rest my head on Nalle and the tray table, periodically falling into a deep strange sleep that felt like a heavy energetic vortex.

It was like I was tapping into a river running under my conscious brain which then sucked me down into sleep. It felt sourceful and calming despite what I appeared to be having to go through to get to it. Notably, I haven’t felt the hopeless alien sadness that I’d been battling, fairly consistently from the beginning of my trip, since. It was like I reconnected with myself a little.

Periodically, I’d wake up in a haze, having to burp up giant amounts of gas, both folded over and then urgently having to sit up to let more out or risk choking on it. Then I’d get more light headed again, feel the river, get sucked back down, and fall asleep for another hour or two.

Eventually my body stabilized, with no cold wet sweats or voided bladders. Later on in the flight, about an hour before landing, my sinuses and teeth ached but also balanced out, and thankfully none of my descents have resulted in ear pain or uncontrollable pressure which is very common for me.

I was glad to have Nalle for the rough parts, and the rest of the flight was pretty uneventful. I tried to watch the new Cirque movie, but found myself completely bored, so settled on the Bill Murray film “Hyde Park on Hudson” which I related to in ways I wasn’t expecting. Customs was a breeze, and Per was waiting for me at the airport.

Per explained to me on the ride home in no uncertain terms that my trip to Sweden was his gift to me, which included my food, our shared outings, and necessities like a transit and bike pass. The way he presented these facts left me totally at ease and immediately feeling lighter for not anticipating nickel and dimeing myself and continuing to skip meals to save money, which I kinda hadn’t realized I’d been doing this whole time already.

And then I saw the house. Shit on me this place is fucking adorable. Tinyhouse inspirations everywhere, including their incredibly compact bathroom and exceptionally comfortable stripy fold out loveseat.

I’ve said more than once that, god forbid they both die in a plane crash or something, I’ll totally take the condo, and I’m up for house sitting with enough notice to get back here.

Their cat, Bosse (boo-sah), is super chill and largely keeps to himself but gives a little cat dudenod when you give him some attention.

Per is on an extended vacation right now, and up for adventure, or lazing around, or both, which we are doing all of in spades. Ingrid, his supercool wife, will also be on vacation next week, and I’m really excited to have girl time with her getting facials and shit. She’s on the quieter side, so Per and I are doing the social things, like Karaoke, after she goes to sleep (which is early).

We’re authoring a list of stuff we’re all interested in doing together which includes some neat museums, walking through a massive graveyard, a flea market, some schmancy food (you’ve never had OYSTERS? BLASPHEMEY!), and checking out a 16th century warship.

Thus far we are gelling nicely and they basically think I’m the best houseguest ever. I’m sleeping a fuckton, letting them feed me and doing dishes. I feel as though coming here is really cementing an already genuine and long term friendship and adding to my membership of chosen family. It feels good, especially to have another strong woman in the fold that I connect well with.

I had hoped this trip would feel more breezy and vacation-y once I left America, and I am glad that is what came to pass. It’s been rainy and cold here, too, but the sun came out today, and will on other days, and really the periodic rain is a good cue for me to take the day to chill out and rest. Now that I’m finally doing that and don’t seem to be so chewed up inside I don’t mind it very much.

As the three of us wandered through a small portion of Stockholm looking at antique shops and hitting up a cafe for fika and shrimp sandwiches, I was reminded again of one of the reasons I think it takes transplanting myself into different cultures to relax; Being in a place where I can’t read the signs produces a calm something like being in nature, in that it is impossible for me to be accosted by advertisements and media like I am at home and as I wander, I’m not really paying all that much attention. There is a sense of calm and belonging, and everyone here speaks English, so I’m managing to get around really well even without being able to read anything – best of both worlds.

England wasn’t quite so effective at this advertising cushioning effect, as the large American corporations have a fairly big presence there, and I remember being somewhat disappointed by that. But as I recall Ireland, Amsterdam, France, and most of all Sweden are rather untouched by the tendrils of American corporate greed and indications of their existence here are few and far between. So far, the only US company I am seeing here in Stockholm is 7-11, which for some reason isn’t really bothering me.

The more I learn about how things work around here (Per is super talented at explaining things and likes to talk aloud a lot) the more I like the thought of immigration. The economy is solid, in part because Sweden resisted the Euro, and their politics are very progressive and supportive of the humanities, even more than Amsterdam, which also sounded pretty fucking good. In the 50’s this place was just as sexist as America was, but they’ve really worked to get their shit together about it, and the benefits of being employed here are fucking staggering, including paid leave for fathers as well as mothers. It’s also expensive, and white, as fuck.

Still, every time I come over to this area of the world, something in my tectonic plates gets set right, and I wonder what the fuck I am doing in the United States. I am so fatigued and tired of watching the US fuck everything up, starving for basic human rights like health care and mental support, scraping at the bottom of the barrel and feeling subhuman because I care about shit that’s actually important in life when the culture around me doesn’t.

You can’t judge a place by a vacation in it, and I know that. But, no matter what I was doing for work, so much of what I constantly stress over in my daily life would be alleviated if I were just doing it here, and the more of the world I see the less I believe I belong where I am. Even if I don’t wind up in Sweden, I can’t help but think maybe it’s time to actually listen to what travel is telling me and make some long term plans that enable me to do something about this.

For now, I’m thoroughly enjoying my time here, have met a few people already (we went to karaoke upon being invited by a shopkeeper today when Per mentioned to her that I am a singer) and am looking forward to continuing my explorations. I’m slowly figuring out the subway and where I am staying geographically in reference to the different areas of interest around the city, and figure I’ll be ready for extended solo walkabouts by the middle of next week.

I’d like to take this moment to extend my gratitude again to Per and Ingrid for their fucking amazing gift, as well as to the others in my life who have supported my ability to have experienced more of this world.

If London is a watercolor, New York is an oil painting.

Wednesday, June 12th, 2013

“For in that city there is neurosis in the air which the inhabitants mistake for energy.” ― Evelyn Waugh

The New York subway has its own distinctive scent, like a cocktail of black tar and metal shavings, that I immediately find familiar and comforting every time I retun. You’d think it would mostly smell like pee and refuse, but for the most part it doesn’t.

I was periodically thankful for having that sense memory, and generally a lot of time, the half dozen or so instances I took the train in the wrong direction during the week I was visiting; also a bit of a staple experience for me here.

In the first day I was back, I remembered one of the reasons I considered moving to New York City – all the free stuff on the streets! Within a few blocks of walking a neighborhood, there’s always some motley crew plethora of building materials, toys, electronics, old furniture (much of it antique) and, of course, actual trash laying around. I remember fantasizing about having to purchase nearly nothing for my shoebox apartment should I have moved, back in 2005.

I also remembered one of the reasons why I decided not to move to New York City; There’s, uh, fucking trash everywhere. And with trash, comes vermin, which is also everywhere, including squashed on the streets and scurrying across all manner of floors, sometimes even near my stuff. Humph.

Slow Start

For various reasons, including working my way through the antibiotics I started in Sacramento and actually getting a ton of shit done in between, I spent a couple entire days in PJ’s (or rather, the clothes I slept in, because I didn’t really bring PJ’s) without going out or eating much of anything. With the exception of a few days in which I had plans already, I found that I didn’t have the motivation to do much, and was rather steadily depressed with a few spikes of life in between.

Sitting alone in a small, tidy NYC diner. A white nondescript plate of steaming corned beef hash that most certainly came from a can sits half eaten in front of me, its ridiculous portion blanketed in eggs over medium. I’m listening to Dido seeping from the ceiling, remembering my trip to Toronto when I listened to her a lot. The cold, mostly, and the alone time on the vibrating street cars. My heart is lighter than yesterday, allowing for sweet sadness to spread to my throat and the furrow of my brow. A small wise smile finishes the edges of my lips that feels like a gate to the knowing field. Everybody seems to want to ask me about myself. Perhaps it’s because they know, too. I’ll stay here until the plate is clear. Two more rest periods, I’ll bet. – June 7, 2013

It rained as much as it was nice while here, complete with the signature humidity of an NYC summer, but thankfully it never got agonizingly hot. On the few days it never stopped raining I pretty much hung out in bed with Bejeweled, which I had played for the first time on the plane ride out.

That said, there were plenty of standout times, starting with seeing my friend Rob Paravonian (for the first time in like 6 years) opening and MCing for his friend Liam McEneane’s live show taping at Union Hall in Brooklyn, the day after I arrived. They’re both funny as shit and super sweet – buy their stuff.

Saturday

On Saturday I went to FIGMENT NYC with Donia, my friend from Seattle whom I originally learned fire spinning from, and my host in NYC. FIGMENT is a giant not for profit public collective interactive free-for-all art event on Governors Island, an amazing retired military base converted into a public park, complete with dozens of huge, gorgeous Victorian era houses and lots of green hilly things. The weather, thankfully, was perfect for it.

The day before FIGMENT (a Friday that was lost to the rain and the comfort of Donia’s guest bed), after looking over the website and really liking what I saw, I sent a little introduction mail through their contact form explaining a small portion of my background in the arts and non-profit work and expressing my interest in putting on a FIGMENT event in Seattle. To my surprise, I was quickly responded to by the Executive Producer and given contact information to be utilized when I arrived.

Within about 3 hours of meeting, wandering, philosophizing and effectively interviewing one another, I was given a nametag, shirt, and was being introduced as “working on Seattle”. Suddenly, I had plans to return for the second day to attend the producers brunch in the morning, which I did, and it was pretty glorious too. One of the things that traveling to the east cost illuminates is just how fucking passive aggressive and flakey people in Seattle are. It’s a wonder anything ever gets the fuck done.

I feel confident that there is intense possibility here, though. Many more things need to fall into place before I know exactly where I fit into the Seattle plans with FIGMENT, however, it’s safe to assume based off my experience with the organizations core assets and many representatives from other areas, including Washington D.C., Boston, Chicago, and even Australia, that it’s rather likely I will be involved in some sort of leadership role in the process. (Unless, of course, I decide to stay in Sweden.)

Hack tha planet, bitchez

After my first day of FIGMENT, and discovering my notable sunburn, I stopped by a place in midtown for some Summercon afterdrinking with my hacker boys, and to pick up the convention badge I never ended up using. I had supposed to attend con and meet up the night before but I simply didn’t feel well enough yet.

I did, however, show up eventually. In turn I got to visit with a few of my favorite people in the world, many of which I hadn’t expected to see, and got a little bit of my drink on.

I was met almost immediately with a pretty awesome exchange with my longtime friend and hobbiest photographer Weld, who happened to notice some time ago that I borrow the SLR camera I often use. He also happens to have a Canon 40D he is not using, and happens to think I need to be taking WAY more pictures. What can I say, the man’s a problem solver – He offered his old camera to me, and I’ll have a 40D of my very own shortly after I settle from my trip. I live a charmed existence indeed.

I invited my distant ex to join us as part of our shenanigans and we ended up having an awesomely entertaining and rather public series of heart to hearts, in which we aired out a lot of the crazy shit we’d pulled on one another, sometimes for the first time since it had happened, and recounted some pretty awesome memories in there as well.

There was a lot of laughing, from both us as well as the people around us who were listening to these tragically hilarious recountings, and a lot of recognition between us. Much Good Stuff was had from our interactions, especially for him, as he’d been slower to process and grow out of the place we were back then and had apparently been holding on to a lot of stuff I’d put down some time ago.

It felt really good, and I was aglow with the familiar feeling of having contributed profoundly to another persons inner world by being generous with mine, though I never stop being surprised when that happens. Nothing we talked about triggered me and I felt a lot of gratitude and connection about it all. It’s sort of amazing how healing admitting to your ex you were kinda happy when you saw he got fat can be.

I ended up spending a night in Manhattan which consisted of very little sleep, not enough dancing, and long awaited connections of multiple types. It was a welcome contrast to the work emails, event coordination mode, recovering from infection, actual work, etc. I got to just be myself for a while, say what came to my mind and be with people who’ve seen it all and stuck around anyway. It really felt great.

Sunday

Spent some time at MOMA in NYC yesterday, mostly mouth agape at the ridiculous piles of shit that the elite seem to think constitutes as artwork. A few things stood out for me, including an antique slideshowing depicting horrific facial deformities, many appearing to be the result of bombings and shootings to the face in the world wars. Some of them were so brutalized it was difficult to imagine how they continued to exist, missing large portions of their bone structure. Something about it captured me but I couldn’t put my finger on it; I realized this morning that the exhibit spoke to my experiences regarding the uncertainty of the results of healing. I expect a scarless, flawless result from mine, particularly when addressing emotional and spiritual injuries. But sometimes, no matter how much more you fiddle with and stretch your skin over the giant hole collapsing your face in, there comes a time to accept that it’s just always going to be tender and unsightly. Disturbing.

I have decided that most Modern art is a bunch of fucking bullshit, and the Museum of Modern Art kinda sicked me out. It’s almost impossible not to compare my work to the work that’s displayed, and so much of it is SO BAD it’s just unbelievable.

Indecipherable pencil scribbles on torn pages of newsprint? Horrifying greenscreened clunky dancers in garish bedazzled zentai suits on video, chunks of which are invisible because the colors of the costumes matched the screen too closely? Chunky paper with strands of human hair swirled sloppily on its surface and put in a frame? Duct tape squares on fucking cardboard?

It seems that any old piece of trash is modern art as long as you make it a series. Who the fuck decides to put this shit in a museum, anyway – cause I’ve got a pile of my crap smeared to a 2×4 to fucking sell the pretentious fucker.

The one thing we were actually there for, the Rain Room, was an hour and a half wait when the exhibit closed in an hour and 15 minutes. No pictures in the Rain Room for Will and I on Sunday. We decided to try later in the week. BLECH.

A Case of the Mondays

Low energy and fairly uncomfortable, strumming the uke without much direction. I’m traveling, taking antibiotics and have pooped twice all week. Help a sista out and suggest some songs you’d like to hear me cover. If any of them work out well I’ll post the progress to soundcloud.

Once that eventful and potentially life altering weekend was over, New York City spent another solid day raining. The last time I was around these parts for this kind of weather, I spectacularly wrecked on the NJ turnpike with my ex after hydroplaning over a temporary lake I couldn’t see.

That was about 16 years ago now and the sound still shoots me up with adrenaline, but that’s about the only thing that remains in me from our ridiculously abusive (both self, drugs and one another) history, for both of us now, I think, and I found the weather to be almost communicative, like a final nod goodbye to all that fucked up victim bullshit. I found myself wondering if I would still periodically panic when I heard hydroplaning anymore.

Monday also happened to be the day that I traveled farther east in Brooklyn to meet with Dese’Rae Stage of the Live Through This Project (for those who know NYC, I was staying on Atlantic Ave near the Nostrand stop on the A, and went to Saraghina off the Utica stop for my meeting) to talk about life after an adolescence wrought to the core with suicide attempts.

When I had originally contacted Dese’Rae after discovering her project, I was in a pretty solid mindstate. I offered to talk about my experiences because I felt I had a lot of encouraging words and insights that could help people who weren’t feeling that life was very worth living, or were questioning if it was all worth it. I’d been there and done that and was proof that it got better.

Of course, when it came time to actually talk to Dese’Rae, I felt like total fucking shit. I was worn down again, tired, sad, alien, weird, alone. My trip wasn’t freeing and energizing like I was expecting, the time off felt like an emotional prison plagued by sickness and conflict, all these fucked up emotions kept surfacing and for much of the weeks leading up to this commitment I’d been stifling tears and avoiding feeling what was calling them out.

As I sat at the table with her chatting and occasionally advising about the administrative challenges of her project, what felt most real to me as my time to speak and be recorded loomed in the distance was how hard it still is. How hard it is at least a portion of almost every single day of my life. How hope for living is a constant battle, a constant struggle to remember that year that gets farther and farther in the past where I didn’t see suicide as an option, or a concept that was just at my fingertips, at the ready, waiting for me to slide down far enough to have nothing but it to cling to. How hard it is to remember the tiny strands of that reality, to remember when I feel bad that it is possible for me to feel better, for what felt like a long time, and maybe some day if I work hard enough I might feel that way again.

So, that, and ideas and insights surrounding that, was what I talked about, once I got through the basics of my history, which took a while in and of itself. I’ll be interested in seeing what she chooses to include in my story on the projects website, which as far as I can figure is about 6 months off from being published. I’m glad I did it, and I know I will be touched by what comes out of it. For now, though, I am comforted by the fact that I’m likely to forget about it entirely in the meantime.

The Final Act

This vacation, thus far, has turned into a lot of work, very little movement/exploration, and laptop forearms. Considering unplugging entirely while in Sweden.

The last few days in NYC were pretty typical. I slept a bit, scheduled a shoot in Sweden for the 17th, checked a lot of email and took Donia for Indian food as a thank you for letting me crash at her place.

Will and I did get some good pictures in the Rain Room exhibit first thing in the morning the day I left, and I was reintroduced to SnapSeed, which I had tried but didn’t really get into before, for post processing arty images.

Up at 7am preparing for a second crack at getting into the MOMA rain room exhibit to have some pictures taken of me. After that, a final couple of hours in NYC which are likely to include central park and stopping by the piano stores I noticed in the neighborhood last time. Then back to Brooklyn to pack up, and the long flight to Sweden.

I had the opportunity to play a Yamaha C7 grand piano at the recommendation of my friend and musical collaborator Aaron Marshall, who suggested I try a Yamaha after reading about my experience with Steinways. We hit up Central Park for a walk and some ice cream and had a ridiculous lunch at a place called the Jekyll and Hyde club in Times Square. It was good to see Will again, it had been since 2005 that I had, and he is what one might call Good People.

The plan is to return to New York for FIGMENT next year. We shall see. I have a lot of travel, still, this year, and next year might need to be a year that I stay home and tend to my various businesses. Especially considering a majority of my commitments in the near future include SEAF and FIGMENT which are volunteer. I really need to figure out how to get paid for this shit.

Packing up and soon to be out of communication until July. If you’re planning on having any big news or have something to say to me before then now’s the time to speak up. Otherwise, see you on the flip side.

Given my penchant for spiraling into the social networking abyss, I will be offline apart from updating my blog until I return from my trip.

Breaking Bad: R.I.P. XP-30, 2001-2013

Thursday, April 25th, 2013

Yesterday, while troubleshooting glitching technology, again, rather than practicing music, again, I came to a place of silence. I stopped hitting buttons and searching google, and sat, and thought.

I had already emailed the event coordinators for Tomb and the Womb and said that due to technical difficulties I would not be singing “Covering Lisa” for their show.

When I made that decision, immediately and in one swift motion, I was reminded all at once of every single one of the countless hours I’ve spent agonizing over unreliable equipment.

How that collection of experience lurking in the shadows of nearly every musical performance I have ever done has limited me, angered me, and frustrated me to the point of wanting to bash my own head inside out.

I remembered having to cancel the first house concert I was invited to because of similar problems. I remembered how often technological music equipment and every step in that direction has conformed me around the limits of the equipment.

I remembered that encountering this is part of the reason I don’t perform often. I remembered that, after years of thinking I was just stupid, hiring a sound engineer had not only failed to alleviate my tech problems, they had added to them and to my anxiety.

I once again got in touch with that deep festering feeling – my growing hatred for technology – remembering how it so easily came to rule my life. How insidiously my bad habits and obliviousness toward its role in my existence remain, having grown up consuming gadgets and socializing on computers, still sucking on tech like a dried shriveled up tit that stopped actually feeding me years ago.

I sat there thinking, playing an internal game of eeny, meeny, miney, moe.

Would it be the new mixer, whose highly reviewed onboard effects – the reason I bought the fucking thing to begin with – every single one of them, make me sound like a fucking diseased hobo barfing into a tin can?

Would it be the everpresent annoyance of my iPhone, which was currently skipping every other fucking letter I typed into a text message and interrupting me 3 times in the 45 seconds it was taking me to type and edit the fucking thing to let me know that, guess what, T-Mobile’s service is a fucking raging puss filled sac of fail and has cut out again? and again? and again? DO YOU WANT TO GO TO YOUR SETTINGS (which won’t let you turn this fucking message off)?

Or would it be my synthesizer, whose MIDI fuckups and inability to keep the default settings has been quietly invading my trust since preparing for Embodied?

I thought about the limits and usefulness of all of these things for at least 20 minutes, as my anger simmered. I thought about each piece of equipment, its monetary value, my relationships to them, my history with them, and I decided which one was the one that I wanted to be complete with.

I then spent the next few minutes silently raising my Roland XP-30 over my head and slamming it into the ground as hard as I could. I used my whole body for every throwdown, whistling it through the air and dropping it full force into the floor.

Each time I watched it hit the ground and react while a surge of energy ran through my body. Once it hit the ground, if it still had any piano keys attached, it went back up for another wide armed slam from over my head. Over, and over, and over.

With each throw I gave myself some time to soak it in all before continuing. I was half flourishing and half emotionless while I systematically destroyed the synthesizer I’ve used for almost exclusively for 10 years.

It felt like breaking out of a cage.

Once plastic stopped sailing away from the synths body when it hit the floor, I started taking a hammer to its fleshless metal skeleton. With each tiny crater my hammer made in the body of my synth I felt new space give way in my life.

I’ve been thinking about that space today, as I’ve searched around for the guilt, for the remorse, for the backlash of deciding to break the living shit out of my gear. I am finding that I have none.

Sure, there is a loss there, and a sadness, among other things, that surrounds it. I know at least one person who is likely upset that they won’t hear that music again. Era’s ending are tough, afterall.

Throughout my musical evolution, I’ve been restrained by these giant hulking heavy spacehog fucking keyboards, the problems they have and the sounds they make.

For 13 years I’ve looped endlessly between the same songs, the same sounds the same feelings, the same rutt, over and over again, barely inching forward with a new song every few years since my mp3.com explosion in 2000.

While identifying with what opportunities they paved for me a lifetime ago while I was discovering them, I’ve also identified with the barriers having them has placed on me and my musical freedom to explore.

I’ve held onto my synths because I identify with them. Because maybe one day years from now I will want to play a show again. Because I was afraid to let them go.

The UI for the XP-30 is horrible for my exploration and creation of new music. There are no sliders, no knobs, no instant gratification for sound editing, no accessible creativity for me like I have with the Junos. It was good to me in how far its default sounds took me, and I did some cool things with it.

However, the instrument had run its course, and the MIDI being nonfunctional was pissing me the fuck off. It was worth about $400 and I had just spent $150 getting a key replaced on it last year. I didn’t want to subject myself to another money pit diagnostic/repair bill.

I could have sold it, sure. But there’s no ritual in that. There’s no art in that. There’s no catharsis in that. There’s no finality in that. There’s no closure in that. And while none of these rationalities came to play while I was annihilating my instrument, I sensed that I needed a cleansing.

One awesome thing about being an unsigned, virtually unknown musician is that I don’t fucking owe anyone anything. I’m not obligated to play the same songs for 40 fucking years to giant arenas. I don’t have crowds of fans who are pressuring me to perform my classics. I’m not swept up in contracts and deadlines and money.

My XP-30 no longer exists, and because of that I will not play my songs from it as they were recorded again. In its demise a symbolism is also unearthed, as well as a new more flexible approach to my music.

I am thinking like a newbie again, feeling excited to experiment. The amount of agony I will endure bashing my head against a wall trying to make my shit work is diminishing. And the effort I am willing to spend searching the same places for the sounds and ease that excite me as a musician is a fraction of what it was before.

Tomorrow, I purge my music gear. Anything that isn’t high quality cabling/basics and doesn’t answer “YES” to all of these is for sale:

1) Do I like how it sounds?
2) Is it easy for me to use and intuitive to troubleshoot?
3) Do I ENJOY playing it?
4) Does it fuel me creatively?

For now, I am enjoying the immense flood of inspiration and creative ideas that are swirling into my consciousness about music, and brainstorming what I may want to trade for new stuff.

If I ever change my mind, I can rent or buy another XP-30 to play the songs I created with it. That inconvenience is worth the sense of satisfaction I got when I finally took that raging bull by its fucking nutsac, and slammed it into the floor. I hadn’t even realized I’d grown to hate that fucking synth.

Sometimes it takes a loss to break an infinite loop. I get the feeling I’m the person in my circle of friends who gets that the most.

Totem

Sunday, February 24th, 2013

It’s time to start designing the cover-up.

Stampede

Monday, February 18th, 2013

I’ve been thinking lately about my decision to, though currently saving for a house, and recently leaving one of my part time jobs, simultaneously agree to increase my office rent by about 75% for the next year in order to add a second room for an art studio.

In some ways, and surely on the paper itself, the decision seems ludicrous. It’ll take all the money I make from my various forms of work to pay my rents and provide basic things for myself, like food and bus fare – and it’s not even for the huge gorgeous mountain view office I REALLY wanted (which was $1410 a month – over twice what my new office is). Still, it’s entirely possible and I am preparing for the reality that I will be eating ramen for months in order to make this change in my life.

And yet, the move seems completely worth it. I have some concerns but they are being overridden by my connection with myself and what I want in my life. This is the right step for me right now – and that dream office I can’t afford seems like a good goal for my future.

In the past when I have had a space to make art, it’s been inconvenient somehow – like a shared space I couldn’t leave my work in, or a cold dirty partially finished basement that made me sneeze. I made the most of these solutions and they were great stepping stones while I learned about myself.

But more of that at this point in my life won’t fuel me and propel me through forward motion like I want. It won’t address the challenges I now face as opposed to the challenges I faced years ago.

To the degree I am currently capable, I have accepted and embodied the reality of my being fundamentally artistic human being. My deepest wish for myself, and my adult-life struggle, has centered around how to truly create an abundant life in which my artistic pursuits are the focus. I need my own space for that.

In the time since I came to this awareness I have yet to meet an artist I consider successful who does not have a dedicated physical space to work. Whether it’s aerial, or visual art, or massage, or writing, a true artist to me is someone who values their work enough to create a space in physical time to pursue it – and made that space their own, as well.

Over the years I’ve nagged at myself that I need a studio and yet have not made one happen. I’ve been waiting to succeed before rewarding myself with the freedom to express and create and experiment. I’ve been waiting to prove to myself that I am worth the same efforts that the successful people around me have seen themselves as being worth. I’ve been waiting for someone else to see the value in me and make it happen. I’ve been waiting to give up, sign my soul and energy away to a social machine that doesn’t speak to my life values in order to afford an art space I wouldn’t have the time or substance left in me to use.

No matter what the story or visual, the constant in my view of my life is that I’ve seen through a perpetual state of deficiency, trying to make space for myself when I felt I didn’t have the resources to take ownership of any. I’ve been doing this (to lesser and lesser degrees) for years and it hasn’t been working. It’s time to set another big suitcase full of baggage down.

With this new office, I will have a place to create, that is not attached to my living space or who I am as a person. This dovetails very well with an emerging perspective of artwork as being something I make, something I produce under the guidance of my Self, which is sometimes an intense and extremely vulnerable expression of that self (I.E., my aerial act), but doesn’t have to ONLY be that kind of art for that purpose.

I want to make art because I saw a cool tutorial on youtube and I want to try a new painting style. I want to make art because it’s cute, or funny, or because I feel like experiencing blue on canvas, or because I want to cover my fists in paint and throw myself against something. I want to make crap. Lots and lots of crap. I want to let myself practice things.

I also want to make art because I have to, because it’s the only way I can create glimpse of what I am experiencing as a human being in this world. I want to make art because I have a new dress that I feel sexy wearing, I want to make art because I discovered a new way to pose my body. I just want to MAKE. ART.

Having this new space supports that vision of myself, and I believe that vision of myself will support me in paying for this new space. Now that I have a second room in which to otherwise be productive, I have the opportunity to be more disciplined in my work, which is an aspect of the success of my mentors I have had a lot of difficulty mimicking in the past.

I can now hold business hours in which I am present, working on art, in addition to offering massages. I can now separate my work from my home life and self care, rather than having half of it jumbled into one big gob of a thing. Now, I can accept walk-in’s and last minute bookings, whereas before I could not manage time effectively enough to offer that to my clients.

Additionally, having this space allows me to expand and collaborate with more people who are doing things in this world that I want to support and be a part of.

Yes, it’s a risk. It’s all a risk, no matter what I choose to do, or if I choose to change nothing. But with this decision, even if I utterly fail, default on my lease, and completely knob the whole thing up – even if the voice in my head that suggests I’m too crappy an artist to have a studio, that even if I have time set aside and a space to create that I won’t ever get any better, that I’m too enslaved by my moods and inspirations to be consistent enough to make this decision work, that the furniture isn’t all going to fit, that I just can’t do it, is right – I will emerge from this choice changed for the better by the experience and I will learn from trusting in myself to handle this challenge of taking more responsibility for my life.

So fuck that tiny little voice. Fuck that I don’t have myself entirely positioned over a safety net. Fuck that I have questions, that I don’t know all the answers, that I’m not certain how this will all pan out. I’m doing it anyway. It’s a no brainer, and whatever happens, I can handle it.

Even if what happens, is wild stampeding success.

G.T.F.O. 2013

Thursday, January 17th, 2013

Self Photograph, Amsterdam 2010

  • May 18 – 19: Road trip to SMF with Bev, hanging at her Mama’s house with a pool, visiting family and friends in the Sacramento area.
  • June 2 – 5: Drive down to SFO, stay a few nights with Prophei, high probability of music work in the studio.
  • June 6 – 12: Flying to JFK to spend a week in New York (it has been far, far too long) crashing with Donia Love.
  • June 13 – 26: Heading to ARN (Stockholm, Sweden) to finally meet and crash with Per Edman and his wife, after nearly 20 years of online friendship and mutual respect.

I will be at FIGMENT in New York June 8-9 http://newyork.figmentproject.org/

I am looking for aerial training, music collaboration and massage trades/workshops while traveling, preferably for barter since I will be broke as a joke while I’m gone. If you have suggestions for me or are in these areas yourself and want to meet up please let me know.

These trips, as is the case with most of my travels, are being made possible by the generosity and open heartedness of my friends.

Bev is driving to SMF and SFO and letting me stay with her while her mother is on vacation (she is flying into SFO on 6/3, which turned out to be a great opportunity to go down there for a day or so before heading on), Prophei is putting me up in San Fran, Donia is putting me up in NYC.

Most notably, thus far the airfare for this trip has cost me roughly $80 out of pocket due to $1000 contribution to traveling to see Per in Stockholm – my reward, apparently, for enduring 18 years of present-less friendship. :P

After that, back home to bust ass and recoup lost cash flow from 5 weeks away. Strangely enough, what I am super excited about at the moment is to be travel-blogging again. I’ve missed that.

Modeling the Arts

Tuesday, January 8th, 2013

Later this month, I will be art modeling for Beverly Naidus at the UW in Tacoma.

Through reading, a variety of studio art practices and an analysis of contemporary media and art, we will examine notions of body image and why so many people in modern mainstream society are obsessed with their appearances. We will study the body through drawing, photography, photo-collage and site-specific installation to develop perceptual and conceptual skills. We will expand our ideas about what is a healthy relationship to our own bodies and to those of others and view of the work of artists working on this theme.

From my brief conversations with her about this project, my sense is that Beverly teaches art much in the way I have found is the best way to learn it – by introducing content, such as art history, in conjunction with skill development, packaged in a way that makes the material relatable to the lives of her students.

For my part in this, I responded to a call for an art model who would be willing to talk about body image issues while posing nude for a class. It was, again, a very synchronous and organic opportunity that materialized as I have been observing the subtle changes in my own image of my body.

I have begin resisting more formally the constant onslaught of shame and guilt in not only having what many people are brainwashed into thinking they want by the mainstream photoshopped anorexic media, but also suffering from the same sense of hopelessness in being incapable of maintaining a warped and unrealistic measure of beauty.

In feeling so I’ve been creating art and conversations that are meant to share my journey and inspire/make a difference for others who are also touched by the realities of this society-wide sickness. So, this was perfect for me, and I am looking forward to the experience.

This is the second juicy, soul serving opportunity/possibility that has emerged from Tacoma in the last month, and a few other not as juicy things have come up as well – not to mention a much more organized, welcoming art community. In contrast to the pretentious scarcity I find leaking from the pores of Seattle, which I am utterly, entirely fucking sick of, I continue wondering if I may find myself living in Tacoma at some point in my near future.

Wednesday, December 26th, 2012

“If you don’t build your dream someone will hire you to help build theirs.” – Tony Gaskins

Rock Lobster: Finding home

Thursday, December 20th, 2012

Ever since I can remember really, I’ve felt a deep sadness when passing seafood tanks full of crab and lobster in the supermarkets. The way they’re piled in on one another with their claws drawn shut, robbed of their dignity and eventually their lives, bothers me. Deeply, profoundly, seeing them treated that way has always felt so inhumane to me, so close somehow. Often times I will tear up.

I’ve wondered why it only consistently bothers me at this level with those species, as opposed to the other fish and living things. I mean, it’s not as if they’re cute, or as if they’ve ever been a significant part of my life. I’ve come to realize of late why I relate to them so much (even though they’re like, totally ugly and gross.).

In my recent leveling experience, one of the many things I’ve evolved about is my understanding and internal relationship with what I used to think of as my armor (which I now see as My Protector).

I’ve been thinking about, even though armor is meant to be versatile and removable, why it is, that when I work to strip it away, especially at the encouragement of becoming closer to someone else, it’s so utterly painful and uncomfortable and wrong feeling, and ultimately it doesn’t work.

It’s because what I’ve been thinking of as part of my armor isn’t my armor at all. It’s my shell.

Lobsters and crabs live in hard shells and must molt periodically in order to grow. They grow in spurts, much like I do, in an excruciating and all encompassing process which includes swelling themselves with seawater to the point that their shell splits and separates from their little sternums.

They then spend all their time and energy hiding in their burrows, writhing their way out, and once free of their old shells are completely fucking vulnerable until they grow and calcify their new, bigger shell, in part by eating what they’ve just discarded to nourish the process.

It takes all they have and more, as well as having the ability and instinct to create a hospitable and safe environment, to be able to live through this agonizing and dangerous growth process. And, you can imagine how painful and inefficient trying to peel their shell away at any other time might be.

Each time I’ve embarked on a dark night transformation life transition doohicky thing like what I’ve just experienced, this is what has been happening to my emotional body. It is utterly traumatic, incredibly painful, and encompasses all my resources to achieve.

I thought, when I first realized the distinction between a shell and armor a few weeks ago, that I would relate more to the Nautilus, which is a creature that moves to bigger and bigger shells over the span of its life, living inside of them, making them their home. Plus, you know, beautiful, and all that – and they get HUGE, which is something I relate to – some day I am going to be larger than life if I keep this up.

But, as it turns out, once again the universe shows me that not everything about me is pretty – and my shell is not my home, which is why trying to make it my home has failed me so.

I need to make myself a burrow. Someplace truly safe, that is mine, where I can go through these processes in peace. I understand now why I yearn so, so much for a house, a safehaven, a place I can belong, a place where I can grow and molt and suffer these tides in unabashed dignity. I thought it was about family and connection – it’s not. It’s about taking care of me.

It’s time to prioritize taking care of me. I want to build myself a tiny house, on a trailer.

It feels like the rightest thing I’ve considered doing in a long, long time – since December of 2006 when I decided to go to massage school and leave my marriage. It’s small, which caters to the part of me that enjoys working with little, and having a small footprint. It’s portable, which caters to, well, just about everything about me. And it’s cheap, which caters to my life situation.

Funny, how this shit seems to so frequently happen in Nov/December. Though it looks different depending on how I’m expressing it, I am fucking peeling apart my protective layers and literally growing out of myself almost every year when the weather turns cold. No wonder these months are always so hard for me.

P.S. Honk if you ended up with the B-52’s earwig from the title.

*HONK*!

Thursday, August 9th, 2012

I think putting on a music show every fall might just end up being my thing.

Saturday, July 7th, 2012

I totally know what my next art show is going to be.

Saturday, June 9th, 2012

“The best part of any meal are the ingredients brought by friends.” – Courtnee Papastathis

What I learned on my vacation

Wednesday, May 23rd, 2012

The basic takeaway from my two weeks away is this:

I am tired of worrying how every fucking decision I make and every fucking thing I decide to do with my life is going to make the world a better place.

I am tired of being in a self-propelled forced loop that screams to me that unless I am gutting myself for the betterment of mankind I’m not doing anything that’s worth a shit.

I am tired of busting my ass for months to put on shows I don’t get paid for that only a handful of people see.

I am fucking SICK of being BROKE.

I like giving massages.
I like cooking.
I like the sun.
I like the ocean.
I like animals.
I like art.
I want a house I can make my home.

Yap. That just about covers it.

Saturday, March 24th, 2012

Video game collaboration idea: Mixed gameplay, dramatic plot-driven, 60 playable hours — varied and beautiful high production value, in chapters, with cinematics to continue the story. It would be difficult to die, however if you do, you will have to start the entire story over, even if you die at hour 56 of it.

150 dev teams from 150 game companies, 150 different storylines to play, at 60 hours each. When you die you either replay from the story beginning, or start another story and abandon your current one. You’d move on to a new story knowing that you will never know the ending to the one you died playing.

Title ideas: Abandoned. Afterlife. Abandon afterlife.

This could be how I finally enslave you all. I wish I had written it on a napkin.

Wednesday, June 9th, 2010

If I was young, I’d flee this town. I’d bury my dreams underground. Let the season begin.

“This will make you love again”

Thursday, September 10th, 2009

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Nick Cave & Warren Ellis – Carnival
Pink Martini – Que Sera Sera
Husky Rescue – New Light of Tomorrow
IAMX – Running
A Perfect Circle – Peace Love and Understanding
IAMX – Spit it Out
Waldeck – Fallen Angel
Inbar Bakal – The Bride
Peace Orchestra – Who Am I?
T.A.T.U. – How Soon is Now?
Naomi – White
Pink Martini – Veronique
Beth Gibbons & Rustin Man – Romance
Electric President – Bright Mouths
Barcelona – Please Don’t Go
IAMX – This Will Make You Love Again