The Power of Positive Thinking

It works as a party trick, but it doesn't on a deep level.

With Easter coming tomorrow (today), I was just thinking back to, oh,'84, or so... Home from college for the long Easter weekend and with nothing to do, I'd shown up uninvited Saturday at a high-school play acted in by my "estranged best friend"'s new best friend. My "friend" and I hadn't had a fight or anything, but she'd been telling me in letters about this great new girl at school... So I showed up at the play ("Man in the Moon Marigolds"); my friend freaked out and ignored me at first, then finally invited me to join her and HER friend and cast members for pizza. AWKWARD. Since I was still hanging around, she politely invited me and her friend over to her house. Her friend soon had to go home. G. and I sat and talked stiffly for about another hour or so. Finally, out of pure politeness, she asked if I wanted to spend the night. The vibes were so non-existent, I said no and left. Once home, though, stayed up 'til dawn, wrote a pretty Easter poem that attempted to rearrange the awkward vibes of the night before. Part of it I still remember by heart:

Sunday morning silver floods the room
with all the goodness I can muster
and I say goodbye to past infractions, impurities,
the vapid ash of what has cornered my faith.

I thought at the time that I could, by channeling, somehow magically reconfigure and/or charm the lost relationship into something special again. I could not. I had pretty thoughts in my head and pretty words on paper, but the thing itself had already disappeared. (I was soul-sick over that girl up until '88 or so. Her loss clouded what should have been fun years at college.)

So that's my Easter memory at the moment. But thinking about that also made me think of the "philosophy" of "the power of positive thinking." I most recently employed said philosophy while in New York/Weehawken; I was truly grateful for being there, for the beauty and good vibes of the place. I said so all the time (both out loud and to myself and to "God"). And I tried and tried and tried to stay there, up until the very last second. According to the positive thinking creed, and combined with personal effort, that should have been enough! Nope.

Along those lines, here's another similar trick I tried a few times that DID work as far as actually changing my mood (not my circumstances, just my mood):

(1) When I was six, I had a babysitter on some days; she and I were both told that I could not go across a busy street to the playground by myself; she had to go with me. One day, I asked her if I could go by myself. She said yes, and I did. When I came home, my parents were already there for some reason, along with the babysitter. Where had I been? At the playground. By yourself? Yes. We told you not to go without ---; why did you disobey us? [While the babysitter had indeed told me to go ahead, I didn't tell my parents this. Not to protect her, but because, perversely, I was kind of curious to see what was going to happen.] I dunno. [I got a spanking, the very idea of which usually terrified me as a kid, but in this case it didn't because I was in a weird "Hmmm...let's see what will happen" state of mind. I for some reason was completely disassociated from that punishment.]

(2) When I was in junior high, my parents were being punitive (as was their wont). Whatever minor thing I'd done, I was being sent to bed early. Usually, the norm was that I'd argue and moan and stomp off to bed at the last minute before the "deadline," feeling hated and hateful, just bad vibes all around. This time, though, I -- an hour ahead of the early bedtime -- drew a warm bath, soaked leisurely, got in my pajamas, went out to bid them a pleasant guten nacht before walking calmly to my room and turning out the lights. The looks on their faces! I didn't do all that to mess with them, but, again, had just intentionally experimented with being in a particular state of mind...

(3) While at grad school in SF in the mid-90s, missing a married man I'd been seeing in Austin who was barely/very rarely communicating with me, I was walking across campus feeling horribly lost and lonely, and then thought I'd pull the trick again, imagining that I was just now seeing him walking up to me... The flood of serotonin, or whatever pleasure-inducing internal chemical it was, was bizarrely effective; my mood changed immediately.

Knowing that I can conjure up such good feelings, why then don't I try to do so more often? Eh, because it's fake. In the above cases, I hated my parents, I didn't like the absent lover for leading me on. I'm kind of a purist, and I'm not one in general for pretending to feel things that I don't feel. Doing The Trick felt/feels somehow like cheating. Denying the reality of the situation.

On the other hand, wishing desperately for the love of my high-school friend and for NYC/Weehawken was The Real Thing. The poems and prayers, however agitated, were deep and true. And, ultimately, much less effective!

While neither The Real nor The Trick ever actually get me the outcome I want, at least with The Trick, I feel momentarily better!

Lament (I and II)

Both for S. on Friday. With respect for her feelings, but not for the worthless dick who inspired them.


Lament (I) by Anne Sexton

Someone is dead.
Even the trees know it,
those poor old dancers who come on lewdly,
all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
I think...
I think I could have stopped it,
if I'd been firm as a nurse
or noticed the neck of the driver
as he cheated the crosstown lights;
or later in the evening,
if I'd held my napkin over my mouth.
I think I could...
if I'd been different, or wise, or calm,
I think I could have charmed the table,
the stained dish or the hand of the dealer.
But it's done.
It's all used up.
There's no doubt about the trees
spreading their thin feet into the dry grass.
A Canada goose rides up,
spread out like a gray suede shirt,
honking his nose into the March wind.
In the entryway a cat breathes calmly
into her watery blue fur.
The supper dishes are over and the sun
unaccustomed to anything else
goes all the way down.

------------------------------------

Lament (II) by Rainer Maria Rilke

Everything is far
and long gone by.
I think that the star
glittering above me
has been dead for a million years.
I think there were tears
in the car I heard pass
and something terrible was said.
A clock has stopped striking in the house
across the road...
When did it start?...
I would like to step out of my heart
and go walking beneath the enormous sky.
I would like to pray.
And surely of all the stars that perished
long ago,
one still exists.
I think that I know
which one it is --
which one, at the end of its beam in the sky,
stands like a white city...

The Beatles at Shea Stadium, 1965

From the clip's interviews with sincere teens at the show:
"The Beatles bring joy to the world."
"We forget our cares when we hear Beatle records."

Exactly! I don't know how to explain it, but the Beatles just give off VERY good vibes. In their early years, their joy is contagious. In their later, sadder years, even when they're exploring dark stuff, they EXPLORE it... they never lose themselves in hate and fear -- they (John particularly) delve into it, but they don't ever give in to it...



"Baby's in Black" lyrics for S.

Oh dear, what can I do?
Baby's in black and I'm feeling blue,
Tell me, oh what can I do?

She thinks of him and so she dresses in black,
And though he'll never come back, she's dressed in black.

Oh dear, what can I do?
Baby's in black and I'm feeling blue,
Tell me, oh what can I do?

I think of her, but she thinks only of him,
And though it's only a whim, she thinks of him.
Oh how long will it take,
Till she sees the mistake she has made?

Oh dear, what can I do?
Baby's in black and I'm feeling blue,
Tell me, oh what can I do?

Please Mr. Postman

OK, for real, I was fully expecting at least one of the three possible freelance checks to arrive today (Monday). Which meant one main thing to me: I could at last buy CIGARETTES!

When I woke up Sunday, I had no beer and only 7 cigs to last me 'til Monday. With that in mind, I did only productive things all day -- finally doing my own taxes (as opposed to begging my mom for help with them) and walking them to the mailbox down the street so they'd go out by deadline Monday; washing all dishes; hand-washing bras and shirts; finally reading the Stieg Larsson book that's been hanging around for two weeks. Since the majority of the day/night, after the stress of the taxes, was spent in bed reading (rather than on the Internet, which always gets me hyped up), I didn't really crave cigs THAT much and so was able to ration without going absolutely nuts. Plus, I had the end in sight: Monday, and the mail with check(s) would come, and then all would be well.

I woke up Monday at 9:30 a.m. with 2 cigs and a huge knot in my stomach. I had one of the cigs after breakfast while waiting for a phone interview at 10 a.m. The sick stomach was not only nerves about the lack of cigs and the impending interview but also nerves that my phone service might have been cut off over the weekend for overdue payment. (I'd gotten 3 or 4 reminder-calls from the company in the past week. I had no idea when they'd finally pull the plug. Just my luck that it would be before the phone interview! And how would I explain THAT to the interviewer?) 10 a.m. on the dot: Nothing. 10:01,10:02,10:03--RINNGGGGGGGG! WHEW! :)

When the interview was over @ 10:30, I showered and dressed, in anticipation of finding checks in my mailbox and immediately going to the bank to get cash and then going to the store. By then it was 11 a.m. The mail here usually comes anywhere between 11 and 11:45. I didn't want to go down right at 11, since if the mailbox were empty, I'd be upset, even if it was empty only because it was too early. Wait. Wait. Wait. Finally at 11:26 I couldn't stand it any more. I had to check. When I went down the stairs, the USPS car was parked in the parking lot, with the mailman in it. I went to my mailbox: NOTHING.

I felt sick to my stomach as I trudged back upstairs. I sat on my bed pondering the one last cigarette: What in the world to do? Call my mother and ask to borrow $10? No way in hell. After her huge nice gesture of buying me groceries and lending me rent money last week, there was NO WAY I could ask for anything else from her so soon. (I think I need to wait another year or so before I dare ask for another favor.) Pawn something? The only thing of value I have to pawn is my dead aunt's diamond ring that my mother had given me. Huh? I was REALLY considering pawning an heirloom ring just to get cigarettes??

After even briefly considering pawning the ring, I got very mad at myself and started working desperately to get into a non-addict frame of mind: "If the checks aren't here today, they'll be here tomorrow. Just one more day. Just stay in bed again and read. Lie there and watch TV. Don't get on the Internet. Be calm. You've got food to eat. You don't need cigarettes. Didn't you feel better health-wise when you got up today after not drinking or smoking much the day before? Yes, you did. It's better for you not to smoke. Maybe this'll be the impetus to stop smoking for good since you'll know you can go without. You didn't have that many yesterday anyway. Remember that time in 1992 when you didn't smoke for 2 days? That wasn't so horrible. Think of all the money you'll save. Deep breaths. Come on, now. Be cool. You're just going to read a lot today, that's all. Read and eat. It'll be fine."

One last flicker of hope: Had the mailman been sitting there PRE-mail or POST-mail? PRE or POST? PRE or POST???!!!!!!!! I sat there staring at the clock. When should I go back down and check one last time? And what about the one last cigarette? Should I save it for some point in the next 24 hours or just go ahead and have it now, and then be completely cold turkey 'til Tuesday? I smoked it and then sat and watched and watched the clock.

At 11:42 a.m., I ventured back out. The mailman was still there; out of car this time, and from the second floor I could hear him clanking around the group mailboxes. (That's a good sign. That's a good sign. That's a good sign.) I stood leaning over the railing, waiting for him to leave... Clank, clank, clank. Clank. I smiled and awkwardly nodded "Hi" to various neighbors coming in and out of their apartments while I was leaning over the railing. (Some said "Hi" back, some just looked at me funny for standing there.) Mr. Postman finished up and got in his car. And then sat there fiddling with his...GPS, I think it was. OK, I'm not going down to check until he leaves. Sit. Sit. Sit. (Leave please, mister. Leave, leave. LEAVE GODDAMMIT!)

He finally pulled off. I went down. Absolutely sick to my stomach. Opened the box... Checks. Plural CHECKS. THREE CHECKS. THREE CHECKS FOR A TOTAL OF $1600. $1600 meaning only two things: Bank and smokes, bank and smokes, bank and smokes.

All the way to the bank, still not allowing myself to relax, a drumbeat of unnecessary nutty: "What if the two dollar bills that I saved for my bus fare on this happy day are counterfeit and they won't go through the fare machine? What if the bank is closed for some random holiday? What if the teller won't give me any cash back from my deposit and I can't buy anything 'til Tuesday?"

Um, the bus took my dollars, the bank gave me cash. :) What a day, what a stupid 12-hour day in the fuckin' life:

I am completely drained, both emotionally and psychically. All over a $6 pack of smokes! As of 11 a.m. this morning, I did not have $6 to my name. How Dully Precarious. (The evil twin of Truly Scrumptious.)

buh-roke

baroque [Fr, orig., "irregular"]

This is the "baroquest" I've been since 1996! When I got up today, I had exactly $2.58 in the bank and $10 in my wallet, plus a margarine container of pennies, nickels, and dimes. Oh, and a laundry-quarters "stash" of...$1.

I've got two freelance checks overdue. Each should have arrived last week, but for the fuck-ups of the companies. (I was so frustrated and mad about one delay that I finally actually cc'd the president of one company with my e-mail tirade. While I'd been getting the runaround from a lowly staff member, the president himself apologized profusely and took the blame and said he'd have the check mailed out last Thursday. That's the sign of leadership -- he didn't bullshit, he just thanked me for my "being a member of the team," said he was sorry, and said that he'd take care of the matter immediately. As opposed to the lower-level people trying to cover their asses. That said, no one there will probably ever offer me work again, but at this point, I honestly don't give a shit.)

I'm so sick of being a victim of pure incompetence. For some reason, I kept thinking of the scene in "Terms of Endearment" when Shirley MacLaine loses it when the nurse is late giving her daughter her pain medication. Paraphrasing: "All she had to do was wait until 1pm! It's 15 minutes after 1! Where are her pills?! GIVE MY DAUGHTER HER PILLS!!!!" I felt that I'd had to wait the 60 days for the check. Then I was told it was the Friday AFTER the 60 days. I was still patient at that point. But then this past Wednesday I got the message that, oops, the check wasn't mailed out Friday the 8th as it should have been. THAT is when I went all Shirley MacLaine on everyone's ass.

All that said: I jumped out of bed Saturday morn, yes more-than-half expecting to have two different checks in my mailbox (aside from the above, there was another check from another company also nearly a week late) and worrying primarily about how quickly I could get to the bank before it closed at 1pm... ZIP. Mailbox empty.

My dilemma: I had 4 cigarettes left, and 4 beers. Hardly enough to get me through the rest of the weekend before Monday's mail! So I counted out the 10 dollar bills in my wallet. Set aside 2 of them to pay the bus fare to the bank on Monday (when I'm ASSUMING one or two checks will arrive). Raided my 4-quarter laundry stash, and the margarine container of change (putting the dimes and nickels from the latter in a plastic baggie for neatness' sake). Ultimately scrounged up an even $13 to spend on beer and smokes. At the corner store, had to ask the counter-guy beforehand exactly how much a 6-pack of Bud and one pack of cigs would be: $12.99. Yes! My $13 covered it!

Jesus Christ. What am I, 19 years old? Apparently I am, financially! Unable to even come up with timely rent at a one-room place where mainly 19-year-olds (and older slackers) live, and scrounging for change to buy beer and cigs to make my Saturday night! While the checks-delay wasn't my fault, I feel that being so reliant on the arrival of $1000 IS my fault. A 45-year-old shouldn't be so beholden to random companies (and have so nothing in savings) that their incompetence creates such personal havoc.

I need to get my act together, obviously. I'm not 19 any more. While neither parent rescued me financially when I actually was 19, I cannot, at 45, now try to re-enact a 19-year-old self begging for my mother's help. Lost psychically as I may now feel, the fact remains: I'm a grown 45-year-old woman who should be paying her own way. BUCK UP (so to speak!).

Something Funny for S. (recognize that guy?)

from Robert Lowell's "Skunk Hour " (1959)

...One dark night,
my Tudor Ford climbed the hill's skull;
I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down,
they lay together, hull to hull,
where the graveyard shelves on the town....
My mind's not right.

A car radio bleats,
"Love, O careless Love...." I hear
my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell,
as if my hand were at its throat....
I myself am hell;
nobody's here---

only skunks, that search
in the moonlight for a bite to eat.
They march on their soles up Main Street:
white stripes, moonstruck eyes' red fire
under the chalk-dry and spar spire
of the Trinitarian Church.

I stand on top
of our back steps and breathe the rich air ---
a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail.
She jabs her wedge-head in a cup
of sour cream, drops her ostrich tail,
and will not scare.

----------------------------------------------

I've been reading the 1994 Lowell biography by Paul Mariani. I never liked Lowell much as a person to begin with, and much less after reading the facts (my poem):

He smashes his first wife's face, twice,
drowns their three orange kittens goodbye...
-----------------------------------------------

Lowell's "Life Studies" (where "Skunk Hour" is from) is a touchstone for Plath, Sexton, the poetry world in general. And so I re-read it just to get back in touch with what was going on in 1959, pre Everything. There's a lot of extraneous shit in the book, a lot of at-the-time AND latter-day hype, for both the book and the author. But "Life Studies" in general and "Skunk Hour" in particular is TRULY pure and new, a real breakthrough in intimate, psychologically profound language.

Michael Lohan on the Dr. Drew Show

Dr. Drew Pinsky had Michael Lohan on his new show tonight. In which Pinsky said that the now-sober Lohan was a "great role model" and that ex-wife Dina was just "angry." Drew also stuck up for Michael Lohan's recent uninvited visit to his daughter Lindsay's house. After watching the show, I was shocked at Pinsky's utter ignorance. Here's what I posted on his CNN website just now:


I'm disgusted with Pinsky's enabling of Michael Lohan's stalking. If his daughter did not invite him to her house, then why is it OK for him to come over and knock on her doors and peer through her windows? After my parents divorced when I was 12, my father would often drive the 40 miles from his apartment over to the house and do just that: Park up the street, sneak in the back yard, and peer through windows to see what we, the family, were doing in there. It was horrifying and life-scarring to hear that tap at the door after midnight.

Pinsky also said that Michael Lohan was a "great role model" and that he should "reach out to Dina." That's sick. The VERY last thing that abused women, and abused children, who have finally gotten over their emotional connection with their abusers want is to "make nice" with their abusers, just because the abusers want to feel better by saying "sorry."

Almost universally, even after they've gotten sober, the abusers still exhibit the nasty personality traits that the substances only exacerbated: In Michael Lohan's case, he obviously has a control issue. Once he was kicked out of the family, he simply cannot let his attempts at control go. Michael Lohan: Leave your ex-wife alone. Leave your children alone. Pinsky, stop encouraging him. It's obvious that his former wife and children want to leave that ugly part of their lives behind them. Let them move on. Let Michael Lohan move on.

------------------------

Sic Transit Gloria

Somewhere along the hairpins and curves
No last-minute swerve toward mercy

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang

This is one of the best movies I've ever seen! Weird and interesting. Here's one scene in the film that I've always remembered. (The dad's kids have been kidnapped by an evil child-hating monarch, and the dad and girlfriend Truly infiltrate the kingdom to try to rescue the kids...) I can't get over how extremely creative this is!

In praise of Duty

Good lord, but I'm grateful for my mother! There is often tension between us when we attempt to communicate about normal, everyday things, but when it gets down to serious matters, she's always there for me.

I think that's somewhat of a Germanic thing: the Sense of Duty. Not a lot of warmth and affection, but rock-solid help when it's needed. Not excessive help, mind you (and an ongoing expectation since childhood that you will not ask for help unless it's absolutely necessary), but help when truly needed. She must've sent me $3000 during my 3 years in NYC/Weehawken, as I struggled to find work there. And she paid my first month's rent/deposit when I got the apartment that I'm in now after moving back to Austin. (Great stress when she refused to co-sign since I didn't have a regular 9-5 job at the time and the apartment managers wanted some proof of income... Admittedly, I hated her for that, since it wasn't clear that I could get ANY apartment without a job or a co-signer...)

Over the past few days, with the eviction threatened by my apartment managers after my freelance paychecks were delayed, I've been a complete nervous wreck, constantly worrying about which check was going to arrive when, what the managers would say or do if I didn't get everything to them by next Tuesday (knowing that all the money arriving by then was just NOT going to happen). I hate asking for help, but today I broke down and asked my mom if she would lend me $200... I started a long explanation: "One check for $450 is going to arrive next Tuesday, but the other one I expected is not coming on time, and the apartment is starting eviction proceedings two weeks after the 10th if all the money's not in, and..."

She just stopped me and asked how much I needed to pay EVERYTHING due right now. And did I need groceries. (I did. Her only caveat: "I'm not paying for any beer, any cigarettes, or any cosmetics!" Deal!) :) She then drove with me to the manager's office and paid what I owed, then took me to the supermarket.

Good lord, what a HUGE psychological weight lifted. Some breathing room. I was in such a negative state. Though I have another project I'm working on now, I neglected it over the past two days, thinking, "What does it matter? I won't get paid for it until Christmas anyway..." (Actually much sooner than Christmas -- the apparently standard 60 days -- but it didn't feel like that. I felt like I was just spinning my wheels uselessly and wanted to give up.)

She IS getting paid EVERYTHING back (except the groceries, her treat) by May 1! I really DO have 5 checks coming in in the next 5 weeks! So I'm not a total bum. But I feel like one when I have to ask for favors. I'm so grateful to her, though, for being nice about this, and for giving me some much-needed psychological relief for the next 2 weeks while I wait for what I've actually earned to start trickling in.

Something to be said for Sense of Duty and Character, those usually much-under-appreciated stalwart traits. Not glamorous like "Love," but they're also sure, not fickle. What remains when all else is gone.

---------------------------

Addendum: Funny, I just got my e-mail horoscope from astrocenter.com, about "modest" people (I'm decidedly, sometimes ashamedly, not one; my mother is):

Your horoscope for April 9, 2011
Modernism isn't always what we believe it is, STEPHANIE. It often happens that it is the people who are rather modest, who don't give a thought to trying to "be modern," who force the most progress in the world. They simply go through life doing as they see fit. On the other hand, notice to what extent the modern world sometimes resembles the past. It would benefit you to think about this today.

Anne Sexton, 1974, on the husband she'd just divorced after 25 years

"I had a pal; I had my freedom; I had, oh, you could name so many things. I had the father that never loved me, loving me. I didn't have children (it was a while before we had children, because we had eloped at nineteen). We were children together, playing house. What else could you say?"

----------------------------

And then this earlier excerpt from a poem:

"I am surprised to see
that the ocean is still going on.
Now I am going back
and I have ripped my hand
from your hand as I said I would
and I have made it this far
as I said I would
and I am on the top deck now
holding my wallet, my cigarettes
and my car keys
at 2 o'clock on a Tuesday
in August of 1960."

Money Honey

Geez, but lack of is a complete drain.

I've been living sparsely for the past month, highly anticipating the day when my first check from the huge February freelance project would arrive. Contract said "60 days 'til check" (I counted the days: April 5 was "60."). Well, turned out it was 60 days, then the first Friday after the 60 days, then the time it would take to cut and mail the check after that Friday, blah-blah-blah. It's just mind-deadening. In the meantime, my cheap apartment says they'll start the eviction process if I can't come up with rent by April 15th. This after I've paid my rent religiously on the 1st of every month for the past 9 months. I've NEVER been late until now.

Why is everything such a goddamn corporate hassle? (1) Pay me the goddamn money I'm owed within (not AFTER) the 60 days written in the contract. (Why 60 days anyway? Regular employees get paid every week, bi-weekly, or monthly.) And, (2) If I've paid rent on time for 9 months straight, why pull the "eviction card" on me when there's the first glitch? And when I've immediately come to you explaining the situation (rather than just silently not paying until notices started stacking up). Give me a fucking break.

Jesus Christ, the stress.

Ironically, I've been busy as hell work-wise for the past week (for a different company)... Pay date? 60 days from whenever!

I used to condemn women for seeking out Sugar Daddies... I'm starting to see why that's an attractive option!

Lincoln via 8-Year-Old Nephew

"What if he just wears that hat because his head is shaped like that?"

Daydream Believer

Citizenship Test

NEWSWEEK CITIZENSHIP QUIZ

In March, Newsweek/The Daily Beast published a 20-question test taken from the actual citizenship test given to foreigners wanting to become US citizens. Getting 60% right is passing.

In a survey, 38% of (native-born) Americans FAILED the test.

Me, I got 100% right! The only one I was hesitant about was the Amendment question. (Call me crazy, but I "visualized" the exact answer to that one.) My mom read the test to me out of Newsweek at her house; while I was whooping and hollering afterwards about getting every damn thing correct, she said, "OK, OK! We all know you're smart." Me: "If only EMPLOYERS knew that!" :)

Book Smart

Last night I had a dream that I was back shelving books at the university library that I used to work at. When I woke up today, I really felt like going to the library! And so I did (the city one, though). It was the perfect thing to do on a Saturday with no money.

The main branch is located downtown. The bus there stops right across the street from my apartment; it takes about 15 minutes to get downtown, plus a 5-minute walk once I arrive. Perfect! It's funny, I was never really aware of downtown Austin in the DAYTIME when I lived here for over 20 years before. Going out at night, yes, but not in the day. (My former workplaces were either the university or driving 20 miles North or South. There was never really any reason to go downtown in the daytime.) It's really pretty around Congress Ave. Lots of shops, outdoor cafes, benches everywhere, people roaming about.

As for the main library: Before this spring, I think I'd been there maybe ONCE since 1983! Up until 2000, when I quit, I always had access to the university library (which has something like 6 million books -- one of the biggest in the country). And from 2000 to 2007, when I moved to NYC, I don't know WHAT I was doing for reading material... probably just buying from Amazon and eBay. That's a pretty long stretch of not going to a library! (In NYC and then Weehawken, I did have library cards for both, but checked out maybe 10 books in 3 years. Too busy sightseeing, looking for work, and crying, I suppose!)

Anyway, I'm now in love with the main Austin library! As mentioned, the bus trip and scenery are both pleasant. And the atmosphere in there is a nice one: It's quiet, stuff is shelved where it's supposed to be, the staff has been uniformly nice and helpful. (I also get a weird sense of calm when I watch the shelvers there... If you're not anal like me, then you will never know how good it feels to get those books re-shelved in the proper place! I'm actually considering applying for a part-time job there, under 10 hours a week -- shelving might bring peace, but only when done in small increments. After that, it gets mind-numbingly dull and you have to keep stopping to read to break up the tedium.)

I feel content the whole time I'm there -- plus, at the end, I come home with a treasure-trove of stuff... FOR FREE! It's like shopping, when you feel like you're selecting things that are somehow the Very Essence of You, but... FOR FREE!

After reading lots of Anne Sexton-stuff lately, and a bio of Elizabeth Bishop, Robert Lowell kept coming up. (His "Life Studies" initially influenced Sexton, and he was a longtime friend of Bishop's.) While I'd read "Life Studies" maybe 25 years ago, it was time to re-read, plus learn more about his life (the only things I already knew were that he came from a good family, held the workshop where Plath and Sexton met, and had multiple manic-depressive episodes). And then I've been hearing a lot about recently deceased author Stieg Larsson lately (but have never read him), so got "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" and a new bio. The one Joan Crawford bio I've never read, by Charlotte Chandler, came out a couple of years ago -- from the reviews, it sounded run-of-the-mill, so I never bothered buying it... but, thanks to the library, I can now READ it! Oh, and then there's Liz-and-Dick! (Note from the photo which book of all of these I immediately started reading once I got home!) :)

I know all this and more

Take your hat off, boy, when you're talking to me.
---------------------------------------------------------

This old man I've talked about
Broke his own heart,
Poured it in the ground.
Big red tree grew up and out,
Throws up its leaves,
Spins round and round.
I know all this and more.
So take your hat off
When you're talking to me
And be there when I feed the tree.

This little squirrel I used to be
Slammed her bike down the stairs.
They put silver where her teeth had been.
Baby silvertooth, she grins and grins.
I know all this and more.
So take your hat off boy
When you're talking to me...

This old man I used to be
Spins around, around, around the tree.
Silver baby come to me.
I'll only hurt you in my dreams...


---Belly, "Feed the Tree" (1993)

Iconic

One day, I want this image, life-size, in the entranceway of my home:

"Welcome, motherfuckers!"
"Here there be dragons."
"Enter at your own risk."
"Arbeit macht frei."

Your pick!

Half in Love

I just recently re-read Linda Gray Sexton's "Searching for Mercy Street: My Journey Back to My Mother, Anne Sexton." It first came out in '94, when the author was 41, and it was a relief to gather from the book that Linda Sexton had overcome the childhood trauma and had gone on to a happy family life.

Well, just now I found out that she has a brand new book out -- "Half in Love: Surviving the Legacy of Suicide." Turns out that since 1994, she's tried to kill herself several times and has been institutionalized, as well. And that her first husband of over 20 years had been completely overbearing (in '94, he was the perfect stable mate). Wow. I suppose I shouldn't be shocked, but I am. The '94 book didn't even hint of what was to come for her.

I also just found her blog (most recent post was today):
http://lindagraysexton.com/blog/

It's part of her website that also includes some interesting essays, including this one on her best sex ever.

Life just keeps on comin' at ya, doesn't it, though? :)

Wouldn't It Be Nice

The Hope Song (1966)

Sustenance from an 8-year-old boy

"Your eyes are green."
"Sometimes they're green, and sometimes they're blue or grey."
"Right now your eyes are very green."

[His beautiful eyes are brown. He's just learned about the bombing of Hiroshima and the Cold War, and about who killed Martin Luther King. I still kick his little ass at both HORSE and Connect Four.]

Anne Sexton, from "The Death Notebooks" (1974)

BABY PICTURE

It's in the heart of the grape
where that smile lies.
It's in the good-bye-bow in the hair
where that smile lies.
It's in the clerical collar of the dress
where that smile lies.
What smile?
The smile of my seventh year,
caught here in the painted photograph.

It's peeling now, age has got it,
a kind of cancer of the background
and also in the assorted features.
It's like a rotten flag
or a vegetable from the refrigerator,
pocked with mold.
I am aging without sound,
into darkness, darkness.

Anne,
who were you?

I open the vein
and my blood rings like roller skates.
I open the mouth
and my teeth are an angry army.
I open the eyes
and they go sick like dogs
with what they have seen.
I open the hair
and it falls apart like dust balls.
I open the dress
and I see a child bent on a toilet seat.
I crouch there, sitting dumbly
pushing the enemas out like ice cream,
letting the whole brown world
turn into sweets.

Anne,
who were you?

Merely a kid keeping alive.

---------------------------------------------------

My heart is broken. Not for me. My own grief I can handle, like the Red Rover brutes bruising my skinny arms, my locked-arm defiance. I would not let go, on principle, though they broke through. I think that I was brave, I hurt for her.

B: How to dance like the Go-Gos

Waterhouse 1915

"...'I'm half sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott." (Tennyson, 1842)

Imagine a place where "we'll take the trail marked on your father's map" doesn't just automatically mean something shitty!

I do, though, like this pretty song.

I want you at odd hours, like
the howls of the wolves who raised you,
the remnants of my own serpent-scars

Flowers Never Bend With the Rainfall

Green

A bright middle-March day
stolid oaks waving wildly naked
was no time to stay in and bemoan lost elms.

The bus at my door took me straight to where
no lions crouched before the gates. There
were no grand stacks, no lampshades
glowing green over hushed, pale faces in a field-sized room
I'd once seen only in films.

Here, though, were some of the former rewards.
I lugged an armload of Romans, a Bishop, a George,
a Sexton out to sidewalks
where people also sat and dawdled and talked.
There were still seven-dollar sandwich shops!
And street vendors with the same boiled dogs!

I ate on a bench before a trellis
just starting to bloom. What else to do
but let the Japanese girl shoot my picture, let the squirrel
toss nutshells on my head

As I smoked and read and smoked
and said hello to my newfound old home.

Return II

Meghan O'Rourke on the death of her mother, in The New Yorker (3/7/11)

"...Already left behind, I wanted to call out, like Orpheus, 'Come back! Come back!'

Yet the story of Orpheus, it occurs to me, is not just about the desire of the living to resuscitate the dead but about the ways in which the dead drag us along into their shadowy realm because we cannot let them go. So we follow them into the Underworld, descending, descending, until one day we turn and make our way back....

...I would always look for clues to her in books and poems, I realized. I would always search for the echoes of the lost person, the scraps of words and breath, the silken ties that say, Look: she existed."

---------------------------------------------------------

I think the key is: "...until one day WE TURN AND MAKE OUR WAY BACK." Obsessing over the dead and trying to follow them does no good; we'll be there soon enough, anyway. Following the dead is not the mission of the living. The attempt to do so is pathetically (in the sense of "pathos," not pity) noble, but ultimately, obviously misguided; how we turn and make our way back is what counts. The return an homage to BOTH the dead and the living.

Return I

Grace

I suppose what killed my cat
was not so much curiosity
as mere lack of funds.
We both died writhing.

Sometimes I still cradle the ash.
That is all there is.
We went there once, there is no
going back.

Glass

Dawn or dusk, the shadows yawn
I have nothing left to show
The see/be seen of windows

O lighten up, the dawn is yonder
Windows only breaking
into song

Four

(1)
At ten 'til there's still time
for one more, she said, so one more
is what we had, her head turning, her
turning heads

(2)
It wasn't the sky as she saw it that lingered so longingly
Hung up on itself, a hanger-on

Where were we?
(the dream still warm in my hand)

(3)
By four the late-night's stumbled home
What's said is done, there is no more
At four the place you lay your head
is stone or screen or hearth or whore

(4)
there was a blank thing, black thing, blanker
than the static remnants of the Big Bang,
now flippant through channels -- ancient radiation
remote between our current stations

the dripdripdrip of deprivation
tosleeptosleeptosleeptosleeptosleepperchancetod...

On the SS Mercy

(1)
You found the fetid water warm, and so churned, charmed.
Content to sink more than swim.
"Me, too," you murmured as you were spewed out.

(2)
The luminous waves turn gray, toss the bottled message
back toward the waiting rocks

Glass cracks, words soaked into

what you heard as only the sound
of the wake, mercy blurring

Drowned and drowned out

(3)
Your seashells appear on the edge
of the frame that your daughter wished unadorned

Shhhhh. Too much, too much to be borne.
While you lose yourself, save her.

Cornflower Blue

Recently I found some old grade-school friends on Facebook. In briefly chatting about some school photos, one girl said to me, "I remember you! You had to go to the hospital that time with allergies or something. I was worried!"

Oh lordy.

That memory rather depressed me because it reminded me of what an annoying FREAK OF A CHILD I WAS! (No, I didn't just become annoying as I got older...)

This "hospital case" started out with a simple sneeze. We 8-year-olds were all coloring at the time. And I, obviously desperate for attention, decided to announce to everyone that I'd sneezed because I was allergic to the "Cornflower Blue" crayon in the crayon-box: "So, keep that crayon away from me!" Of course, everyone immediately dug that crayon out and stuck it under my nose. SNEEZE, SNEEZE, SNEEZE, SNEEZE, SNEEZE. "Stop! Stop!" SNEEZE, SNEEZE, SNEEZE.

Our teacher, understandably, got irritated with the commotion and told me I'd have to go out in the hall if I didn't quit it. Stubbornly: SNEEZE, SNEEZE, SNEEZE, SNEEZE. Out in the hall I went. SNEEZE, SNEEZE, SNEEZE, SNEEZE, SNEEZE, SNEEZE... Passersby stared. The teacher came out a time or two to give me more warnings. SNEEZE, etc. By this time, I'd sneezed myself right into a figurative corner. I, of course, wasn't allergic to the darn crayon. But I didn't know how to get myself out of the hall punishment without seemingly losing face before all of my classmates. (And a part of my antagonistic little brain was also thinking, re the teacher: "How does SHE know that I'm really not allergic? I could very well BE allergic!") SNEEZE x 50, x 100...

After god knows how long, the teacher finally got a little worried. (HA! See?) It was decided that I had to go to the hospital! (Whoops. Back down now and admit I was faking? Too late!) My mother was called; my teacher herself drove me to the hospital, Mom meeting us there... The nice young doctor promptly put a paper-bag over my nose and mouth and told me to breathe deeply... I wasn't quite sure what this technique was for, but I decided that now, upon "treatment," was my chance to be officially cured. I breathed and breathed, with just a tiny sneeze popping up every now and then, until finally, whew! A MIRACLE!

What was wrong, what was wrong??! The diagnosis: Hyperventilation. YES. A GREAT-sounding face-saving term that I could take back to school with me the next day. (It oddly satisfied all the grown-ups, too. No one looked at me askance. My teacher felt chastened for doubting me. Ha!)

But the fact remains: I MADE THE WHOLE THING UP! WHO DOES THAT?? :0 Luckily, I didn't go on to be one of those serial Munchausen Syndrome people! But, looking back, that's exactly what I was doing in that one case -- feigning a freakish illness for attention. (Ultimately, I think, the mental effort involved in faking such a thing for hours and hours, and the accompanying guilt at the deception, was way too strenuous to ever attempt again!)

(In a similar show of freakiness, around the same year, on the playground, I pretended that, when I pressed my ear to the ground, I could hear what The Devil was saying! Being a ringleader, I had 5 or 6 other little kids all stretched out on the ground trying to hear Satan! I did have a bit of grudging respect for one girl who was true to her religious self and said solemnly, "I don't think we should be doing this," and walked away. But at the same time, I also thought she was terribly stodgy! Looking back... WHO DOES THAT?? WHO THE HELL ACTS LIKE THEY'RE LISTENING TO SATAN ON THE PLAYGROUND?? :)

Hey, don't get me started on the "Flying Ants" in the kitchen when I was 6! :)

There's nothing I disrespect more...

... than a former Catholic school-boy from Pottsville, PA, trying to act like he knows what kind of beer I like!

In this guy's (James Kilroy's) case: He initially posed in 2001 (yes, 2001 -- this has gone on for over 10 years) as an "intellectual," seemingly "outraged" at "Julie"'s treatment of me. The "intellectual outrage" soon turned into an ongoing stream of porno shots sent to me, and a series of hacking impersonations of legitimate people on my Joan message board. (I must apologize to Julie here: I thought up until now that this goofball was you!)

As it turned out, James Kilroy is a Putz from Pottsville, Pennsylvania, who graduated in 1984 from the Nativity Blessed Virgin Mary High School.

Want people to call you and write you, James? I'd be happy to oblige. Want your Comcast cable to cut you off? I'd be happy to oblige.

Marty, the Rock-n-Roll Nigger

God, maybe 15 years ago, a friend of my brother's whom I'd known since he was a kid in Azle (and who subsequently moved to Austin) was hanging out with his mother (visiting from Azle) in an Austin bar that my brother worked at. We all were talking and talking the whole night. He and his mom invited me over to watch movies. In this case "watching movies" meant "watching movies"! One movie they'd rented earlier in the evening and had yet to watch until I came over was the Oscar-winning "Marty," with Ernest Borgnine, about a schlubby man who was torn between hanging out with his friends and being with the plain woman that he loved and who was in love with him (though the woman was not "hot" by his friends' standards, which was a dilemma for him).

"Marty" just came on TCM a few nights ago. After watching, I immediately thought of the pleasant evening with my brother's friend and wrote him via Facebook. He responded:

Oh yeah, that was nice. I remember we had a good time. Actually, I've always enjoyed hanging out and talking with you. You always have something interesting to say and you're never fake. Can't say that much in this city.

Hey I'm reading Patti Smith's book about her friendship with Robert Mapplethorpe in the late 60s to the late 70s in New York. Good book. You kind of remind me of her just in terms of how widely read she is with such a restless intellect. Called "Just Kids."

---------------------------------------------

I responded to him:

I haven't read Smith's book yet, though I saw several interviews with her about it months ago (on Charlie Rose, etc.). I was always afraid of women like her... I was raised so conservatively, I never wanted to APPEAR "weird" like she did, though I very much actually admired the life, the thinking... (I didn't mind BEING weird, just didn't want to APPEAR so!) :)

-----------------------------------------------
Fuck the Clock, indeed! :)

Somewhere depp inside...

Slave Names

I was just searching on YouTube for Terence Trent D'Arby, who put out my favorite album of 1987, "The Hardline According to..."

Since then, he's changed his name to "Sananda Maitreya."

Terence Trent D'Arby (Darby) = Sananda Maitreya
Cassius Clay = Muhammad Ali
Malcolm Little = Malcolm X

I wonder when women will also stop taking the names of their owners.

As with the slaves brought over from Africa, women's roots have also been nearly completely obliterated because tradition has insisted that they take on the names of their husbands (in effect erasing the woman's own roots).

In my case: My last name is Jones.
My mother's last name is Lerche.
Her mother's last name is Hoche.
Her mother's last name is Osterroth.
Her mother's last name is Kramer.
Her mother's last name is ?. The maternal line dies out for me in the early 1800s. And even all of these women's last names is a given from their father. I have no real name. There's no way out of it.

African-Americans have made great efforts to reclaim their roots. Women of all races have not. For generations, women have been passively content to take on their husband's last names, in effect willingly erasing their own history. No one seems to see anything odd or completely psychotic about this. Women's roots have been as completely obliterated as slaves' roots. The only difference? Women have WILLINGLY given up their names and ancestry. (Don't think the slaves had much of a choice.)

Thank you! :)

B, COME OVER!! :) :) (dance with me!) :)

(4am's not a booty call if you wake up at 2pm to begin with! and where on earth do we have to be tomorrow???) :) ;p

Found!

When I walk down the back stairs of my apt. complex, I can look out into the alley and the backyards of houses from the next street over. A few days ago, I noticed a table lying in the alley. Austin only allows you to put out bulk items twice a year (rather than every week, like Weehawken), so this wasn't trash; I assumed that maybe someone had been moving and this fell off their truck or something, and they'd be back to get it later.

Today, on the way to the trusty beer store, I saw that the table was still there! I immediately speed-walked around the block to the alley (no short-cut through the fence; speed-walking because I was sure someone would come and grab it in the next 30 seconds if I didn't get there first) and tried to carry it home...I was able to walk about 10 steps before I had to put it down and rest. I did that maybe 3 times, then realized there was no way that was going to work. There are occasionally homeless guys-n-gals walking around the area, so I thought hopefully, "Maybe one'll show up right this second and I can give him my beer money to help carry this..." But did I really want a homeless guy knowing where my apartment was? (Not that one even showed up, despite my magical thinking.) So I did the next best thing: Ran home and called my mom. She's 70, with a nice car that this table probably wouldn't fit in, but... I HAD TO HAVE THIS TABLE!

Luckily she was game, and came RIGHT OVER before someone else could grab it! After much huffing and puffing, we managed to wedge it into her trunk and get it up my stairs. (I was nervous the whole time; even though it had been lying outside in an alley for 3 days, I still felt like I was somehow stealing it...)

I love this thing; nice, solid wood. For now kind of stuck in a corner with knick-knacks on it, but a good little kitchen table in the future... (Oh shit. I just thought of something. Last year I saw a reality show called "Hauntings" or something where a family picked up a piano off a curb (after reading a Craig's List ad offering it for free) and took it home... Within days, things in their house started going very, very wrong... When the show's psychics contacted the family who had initially gotten rid of it, they were reluctant to talk but finally admitted that it had given them the creeps and they just wanted it OUT of their house!)

Well, I guess I'll know soon enough if I have a haunted table! :) (Seems, though, that an 80-year-old piano is a much more evocative place for spirits to cling to than a circa-2002 table...)

Freundinnen

from McCartney II: Temporary Secretary (1980)

From the same album as "Waterfalls" (see video posted earlier). Harsh but interesting and surprising (oh, just how I like 'em).

Garbot 2002

I have several copyediting projects going on right now: a couple that pay well enough so that I don't get irritated if the writing's bad since, hey, I'm getting paid well enough to spend the time correcting the author's shit. And then there's the "other" project... the pay is a penny per word which, in cases of "normal" writing, would end up being a decent hourly wage. Except in this case.

What takes so long to copyedit here is the horribly convoluted writing that I often have to read two or three times to simply figure out the meaning of before I can even begin to figure out how to rewrite it. (I'm too drained by it to even copy and paste an example to show here.) As with life, when you're constantly slogging through shit, you start to doubt yourself: "Am I just an angry, irritated person? Or is this SHIT what's irritating me??" This murky stage might go on for a while, but in my experience there's almost always a clarifying moment when things get so outrageously bad that the lightbulb finally goes off: "It's not ME, it's YOU!"

In this case: The constantly incorrectly written prose was the angering, irritating murk. The outrageous, clarifying "YOU'RE CRAZY" moment(s):

(1) "In the 1940s, actress Greta Garbot insured her legs for $1 million."
(2) "When the Twin Towers were hit in 2002... After the 2002 attack on the Twin Towers..."

The person that wrote the above got paid about triple what I get paid. He or she is allegedly an expert in the field, or wouldn't have been commissioned to write the text. And yet...

Let me address the most obvious first: 2002? Not once (perhaps an honest mistake), but TWICE?? Really?

As for the insuring of legs in the '40s:

First, the name "Garbo" (sans "t" at the end) is, or should be, common knowledge. Maybe not common knowledge for a 16-year-old high-school drop-out, but common knowledge, nonetheless, for any adult with even a smidgeon of general education. And especial knowledge for an author writing on the topic.

Second: Since when has Garbo ever been known for her legs? Garbo, in a "great-leg context," has never, EVER even been bandied about pop-culturally. (In actuality, in the '40s, both Betty Grable and Marlene Dietrich did indeed have their legs insured for large sums, which was widely reported in the general press at the time and passed along to legend today. Garbo, on the other hand, famously retired from films after 1941, still best known for her FACE.)

When We Were Groovy

Walk Like an Egyptian

While I was in the middle of my 12-hour-work-marathon today, I had CNN on in the background, eagerly awaiting news of what was almost promised to be Mubarak finally getting the hint and stepping down. The mounting Cairo crowds were jubilant; our CIA director Panetta was telling Congress the resignation was imminent... Hour after hour went by, and then finally the man showed up on his television station. This is how his speech began (text from the BBC):

"...I am proud of you as the new Egyptian generation calling for a change to the better, dreaming and making the future.

First and foremost, I am telling you that the blood of your martyrs and injured will not go in vain. I assure you that I will not relent in harshly punishing those responsible. I will hold those who persecuted our youth accountable with the maximum deterrent sentences.

I tell the families of those innocent victims that I suffered plenty for them, as much as they did. My heart was in pain because of what happened to them, as much as it pained their hearts.

I am telling you that heeding to your voice, your message and demands is an irretraceable commitment.

I am determined to live up to my promises with all firmness and honesty and I am totally determined to implement (them), without hesitation or reconsideration...."

---------------------------------

I'm sure I had an incredulous look on my face: Did he just say he was going to avenge the youth who had been killed? And that he heeded their call for change? Um... I'm pretty sure it was Mubarak who hired the thugs who beat and killed the anti-Mubarak protesters. And that the protesters' "call for change" was a call for MUBARAK TO RESIGN. I felt like I was crazy when I was listening to him, as I'm sure the protesters watching must have felt! (That's the problem with "crazy": Crazy people make YOU feel crazy! They're not usually lunatics waving their arms around with their eyes popping out; no, the ones who are really good at it are masters of double-speak, of seemingly saying something while not saying anything at all.)

Listening to Mubarak tonight actually made me mad: GET OUT, ALREADY, you nasty old bastard! You've got your billions of dollars that you've stolen from your country; you've got your 10 or so estates in various cities around the world; you're 82 years old and have had your 30 years of absolute tyranny. GET OUT. You've been asked relatively politely (nonviolently) by millions of your own citizens. What, are you waiting for them to storm your palace and string you up by your heels? Do you really want to go out like that?

Shallowly, since I have no stake at all in the matter, I've been "enjoying" the past 2 weeks of HARD NEWS coming out of Egypt. Finally, I can turn on a 24-hour news network and see actual, meaningful NEWS instead of interviews with the Kardashians and/or blandly-opining panels of intermarried/intereducated East Coast journalists. Again, listening to that kind of stuff constantly, I start to feel like I'M crazy! I'm NOT crazy! That the Kardashians are interviewed for an HOUR by Piers Morgan is crazy! The SAME EXACT opinion showing up in the New York Times and The New Yorker and New York magazine and The Huffington Post and on MSNBC is crazy!

Who knows how it will play out for the Egyptians. I've been impressed with the protesters' "sophistication," for want of a better word. They're not running around chanting "Death to the U.S.!" and "Death to Israel!" (as some Muslim revolutionaries have been known to do on occasion); most likely due, ironically, to the close ties they've had with America for the past 30 years under Mubarak. Lots of business and technology and student exchanges. The protesters aren't backwards/backwoods radicals but rather people who have had a taste of some modern perks like the Internet that have made them hungry for more openness, this time at home.

Watching the events on TV, I keep thinking about the "10 Days That Shook the World" of the Russian Revolution. This is serious, interesting, heady, scary stuff going on. Right now.

My wish for what would happen there in the immediate future? The military overtly takes the protesters' side and tells Mubarak to get out or they'll kill him. The guy's had his chance to retire with dignity. Maybe all he can understand are threats. My second historical preference: The protesters storm the palace and first offer Mubarak a plane ticket to Frankfurt, or wherever else his estates lie, and, if he refuses, kill him. Tsar Nicholas was never offered so much mercy. "Pharaoh Mubarak" has been offered mercy again and again. He needs to take what's offered before it's too late.

Work!

I just made a-fuckin'-thousand dollars this week! :) :)

This is what I looked like when I started the project:
















And this, when I was done:














But at least I didn't have to do this:

Waterfalls

I think the video initially tries to re-create a feeling of starkness (working by lamplight late at night), but ultimately belies the true starkness of the song with The Darn Vest and Paul's bad emoting.

I think this has often been Paul's ongoing image problem: He is usually in actuality just as "deep" and creative as John, but presents himself in a more trivial, lackadaisical way, which reviewers/the general public pick up on. As a result, he doesn't get the critical acclaim that John gets.

When I was younger and first discovering The Beatles, I adored John and "John [as opposed to "Paul"] Songs." As I got older, I started to recognize more and more that Lennon was a bit of a poseur. His persona influenced how his songs, and how he as an artist, were perceived. If he said something serious, he was sure to point out how serious he was being. McCartney, on the other hand, wrote sad and serious and superficial and day-to-day and bombastic, without making any pronouncements about how we, the listeners, were supposed to receive.

This song, "Waterfalls," is from the "McCartney II" album, 1980 (pre-John's death). The whole album is electronic, stark, and experimental for McCartney; he played all instruments, did everything himself.




DON'T GO JUMPING WATERFALLS
PLEASE KEEP TO THE LAKE
PEOPLE WHO JUMP WATERFALLS
SOMETIMES CAN MAKE MISTAKES

Na na na na, na na

I thought this song was the sexiest thing in 1984, when I was 19. At 45, I still like it a lot and appreciate its sweetness. The Beatles, to me, always gave off the most positive of vibes. Post-Beatles, Paul and John did, also. Even when writing about difficult things.

Where I Am Not

I envy Paul his innate sense of place. I couldn't stop crying, my lack so defined.

This One

What kind of magic might have worked if we had stayed calm...

Read. Learn. Don't be an incompetent dipshit.

Joan Crawford = The Ultimate in Competence

p.s. I've got a book once personally owned by this woman in my house: "World Famous Paintings." (Published 1939, by "Wise and Co.")

There's nothing like an international crisis...

...to turn a newsman back into a newsman.

CNN's Anderson Cooper, with his "Ridiculist" and increasing focus on celebrity interviews, was on the brink of (seemingly intentionally) becoming the next Andy Cohen.

Thanks to the revolution in Egypt, Cooper seems to have again found his hard-core news roots (as has, to a lesser extent, Brian Williams of NBC, et al).

Katrina and Haiti didn't count -- It doesn't take either guts or journalistic ability to wade around in the aftermath of a natural disaster in a form-fitting black T-shirt, posing for the cameras. It does, however, take a lot of both to insert yourself into the midst of an explosive revolutionary crowd and report back from an undisclosed location with gunshots and governmental repression hindering you.

Winter!

These are "Me, Happy" pictures! The very first day this winter when I could dig out my "Winter Shoes" and "Hats/Scarves/Gloves" boxes from the top of my closet! I think the high today in Austin was 27 or something. Yes! With snow expected overnight!

I was seriously excited about getting to wear my nice NYC coat and boots, and my old scarf and hat and lined gloves, again. Went briskly marching around the streets, leering at the shivering wimps I saw. (Not that there were many "shivering wimps" out to see... tha wimps were mainly all indoors!) I walked for over an hour, all the way to the old graveyard that I used to visit occasionally back when I had my nearby rental house (2000-2007). There's nothing like a graveyard in winter.

Klimt, Medicin, 1898/1907

This is an early take on the theme, from 1898; his final version was done circa 1907. (All later destroyed by the Nazis in 1945, with just photos remaining.)



And then a detail -- "Hygeia" -- from the 1907 painting. It's interesting to see how Klimt had finally become "Klimt"... He has to be my absolute favorite painter. (I was lucky to get to see a rare exhibition of his work -- including a replica of his work-space -- at the Neue Gallerie in NYC, back in November 2007.) He has the lush sensuality of Waterhouse (whom I like very much), for instance, but is able to combine that surface lushness with dozens of other "things" going on -- psychologically (Freud coming into vogue at the time), symbolically, texturally (not "textually," but, rather, the TEXTURES of his paintings in his heyday are insanely creative and innovative). I'm completely stimulated -- mind, body, soul -- when looking at his paintings. (Which reminds me... A few years ago, a co-worker that I had a crush on -- sophisticated, an art lover -- actually told me she didn't that much care for Klimt: "All that [makes a face and manic hand-gestures] going on!" Wow! To me, all that [...] is The Complete: Lush Ordered Chaos!

My Life as a Blog (aka "Bus Friends, in a Good Way")

[Dang... I thought that the "My Life as a Blog" title was so clever, but then I did a search -- everybody's using it! Including one guy who went on and on in his sole post of 2011 about "When Did Angelina Jolie Become Angelina Jolie?" Duh, Dude: "Gia." Can you please stop trying to post now?]

In "This Woman Is Dangerous" news:

Monday I woke up around 1 pm with a huge hangover, no clean clothes, only soup in The Room, under five cigarettes, and a big work project to start with a too-fast turn-around time that made me nervous.

As soon as I opened my eyes and saw how late it already was, and knowing how much I had to do (esp. GET CIGS!), I initially groaned and thought about just making it a "hangover day," i.e., lying in bed for 12 hours watching TV and using the hangover as an excuse for not "feeling like" doing anything at all. Then I saw the weather report -- starting Tuesday, it was going to be nasty for the rest of the week. Did I want to walk for miles carrying groceries and stand for a half-hour at the bus-stop in 30-degree weather? No, I did not. Up, up -- don't be ashamed of putting on those unwashed jeans wrinkled-fresh from the laundry bag -- while the grocery-getting days are still warm!

After shopping, I was standing for a very long time at the bus-stop. At nearly the half-hour mark, a young Hispanic guy showed up. We nodded hello, and after a few minutes, he asked how long I'd been waiting, etc. I was wary and monosyllabic. (Honestly, nearly everyone in Austin who strikes up a conversation at the stop or on the bus is weird in some way. I rarely hear anything but stories of evictions and drugs and burglaries and druggie neighbors burgling and former drug addicts finding God and now wanting to be lawyers or something equally impossible or else hating all rich people. Usually ending with an insistence on a handshake, which I acquiesce to because I don't want to seem like a snotty white woman who's too good to shake their god-knows-what-they've-been-digging-through hands. In New York, I only once had a homeless guy shake my hand -- after which the work-friend from Queens that I was standing with at the bus-stop immediately/automatically/sympathetically gave me a hand-sanitizing wipe. Thank you! New Yorkers aren't afraid to be overtly ANTI "down home" and utterly SANE!)

After a few more minutes, my wannabe bus friend tried again:

[Which of the two buses that stopped there was I waiting for?]
[inward sigh] Either one.

Either one?
Yeah, they both take me back to the same place.

I like ___ better because it's usually less crowded. But since it's less busy, it doesn't come as often.
Yeah.

I was just at the tax office. It took me two hours to get up there. Have you ever had to go there on a bus? It's a pain. And now THIS bus is late.
No. Where is it? Way up north? I don't usually go anywhere but my hairdresser's by campus and this grocery store. I don't know why this bus is so late. Oh, and Marshall's.

You like Marshall's? They have some really great deals there! I just bought my wife a sweatshirt there -- you know the kind with a zipper in front, and a hood? -- for only $9.
I know! I got a $100 gift card there for Christmas, and I was able to buy 4 pairs of pants, some socks, AND a pillow! All for $100!

-------------------------------------------------------

Well, after that, we were off to the races! :) I think as soon as he mentioned both his wife and Marshall's, I relaxed -- he was just being friendly and wasn't a weirdo trying to pick me up. (And it was cute to me that he was married so young and that he took pleasure in getting a good deal on a sweatshirt -- you know, the kind with a zipper -- for his wife.) So, for the next 15 or 20 minutes until the bus came, we chattered away.

For one thing, we had both moved back to Austin in the past year and weren't readjusting 100%. I was missing the beauty and energy of New York, while he was missing the more laid-back vibe of Guadalajara, where he'd also moved just to do something different and interesting. (Funny, but he thought Austin was not laid-back enough! He also thought the weather in Austin was too...cold!) I had to come back because of no job; he came back because the crime there was starting to get too serious. Both of us liked the public transportation systems of our previous cities very much, and both of us now very much missed our cars, which we'd sold when we went off on our adventures. He'd also lived in NYC for a few months several years ago with a friend -- where he'd liked clubbing, but did not like the weather and the crowds.

Once the bus finally came, there wasn't room for us to sit together, so we just waved (NOTE: "waved," not "shook hands") 'bye when I got off. But the whole conversation put me in a really good mood. It was fun to be able to talk to/hear the thoughts of a real person instead of leaving messages on a computer! Seriously -- I'll maybe talk to a family member once every two or three weeks. During the week, I'll say hi to the beer-store guys or to neighbors that I pass by the mailbox. But other than that, I haven't really had much human interaction since moving back to Austin. (I have been invited out a few times, but have usually been feeling too sluggish to do anything "structured" -- meaning, I guess, having PLANS to meet and interact as opposed to just running into someone at a bus-stop!) :)

Anyway, a peppy start to a peppy rest-of-the-day. (Once home, did every last bit of warsh -- including the bedding, which is always a pain; and started marinading the chicken breasts that I'd just bought -- I always hate touching raw meat of any kind and have sometimes let what I've bought go bad because I didn't ever feel like handling it. Oh yeah -- and got a good start on the work project, which I'm not nervous about any more.)

It might also be a peppy month, work-wise, at least. (When I have the promise of work/money coming in, that usually puts me in a correspondingly more positive mood. I like having something "real" to do for part of the day and THEN being able to relax with a few beers. As opposed to waking up with nothing to do BUT "relax" and drink.)

I Need a Man

Evenin'

End of Days

All of this especial chaos in the Middle East the past couple of weeks, especially Egypt now, is freaking me out. What if the end of the world really IS nigh??? (I just heard that now the citizens of Jordan are also starting to protest.)

A couple of weeks ago, I had a dream where I was standing by some large glass doors looking outside. All of a sudden there were swarms of people rushing about, then both citizens and soldiers with machine guns started to swarm inside through the doors. The soldiers weren't chasing people; they were just running, too. Nobody was after me -- I just stood back and watched them run through -- but they scared me because they were bringing in waves of pure fear with them. I remember thinking, calmly, "Wow. This is it. It's ending now."

And then there's all that Mayan calendar stuff -- their 13th and final cycle ending on December 21, 2012. (I pay more attention now to the Mayans than, say, all the Millenium brouhaha that went on in 2000 because, according to the Mayans, the world began on MY BIRTHDAY -- so they MUST know what they're talking about!) :)

And this is even more minor, but it still weirded/weirds me out: Just before the election in 2008, I worked the night shift at a law firm doing proofing with two really religious black women. They loved Obama, but sometimes said some disturbing things, like "I hope no one kills him. Well, it won't matter if they do. The world will end before he leaves office anyway. That's right. It's prophesy. End of days." Whenever they'd start up with these conversation, I'd sneak a peak at them to see if they were kidding; nope, dead serious. Just matter-of-factly agreeing with each other that the world was gonna end before Obama left office. (Other than this odd talk, they were completely nice and normal.) I knew it was crazy-talk, but it still gave me a creepy feeling to listen to.

Not that I really think the "End of Days" are coming, but if they were... Just wondering what I would do, where I would go. Not to my brother's; he and his friends' families would probably all be hunkering down together. I'd be this random stray person hanging around. My mom's is a dilemma -- yeah, I suppose I'd rather die in her home with marauders at the door rather than in my apartment by myself with marauders at the door. She and I would have a couple of hours to look over photo albums, at least. Though her innate tension and background of hatred would make everything worse mentally for me. If I were by myself, I could run around to avoid marauders for a few days, at least. Before then, listen to my own goodbye-music, read my own goodbye-books and poems. Feel sorry for my impending plight, but also feel a sense of purity and allegiance to myself. But being around family and people who know me still feels good... I dunno what would win out -- oh, hell, yes I do. I'd go beg at the door of my mother and/or brother to let me in. (What did I just do last year at my own minor "apocalypse" when I ran out of money in New York? I didn't take in roommates; I didn't go to 20 employment agencies instead of 4 or 5; I just laid back and gave up trying, then went home with my tail between my legs, hoping for mercy. With disastrous emotional results.)

Dang. Let's hope for no more apocalypses, no having to rely on people who don't love you, but whom you have to go to out of desperation for charity. The latter's pretty close to being the worst thing in the world.

Job Advice

31. Painters, Sculptors, and Illustrators — $50,630

These three art professions fall under the umbrella of the fine arts. Painters and sculptors make most of their money by selling pieces through galleries and art dealers, and by completing commissioned works of art. Illustrators have more of an opportunity to make a living in commercial industries, designing book and magazine covers, illustrating, and creating technical drawings.

Since it takes years to build a reputation as an artist and it is often difficult to sell one’s art, many fine artists supplement their income by teaching in universities or secondary and elementary schools, or by giving private workshops and lessons. They may also find freelance jobs in commercial fields. Painters may get illustration jobs and sculptors may create furniture. Fine artists can also often find jobs in museums....

...Having an up-to-date, stylish portfolio with your most recent and varied work is also necessary if you want to be taken seriously. Have your pieces professionally photographed and select a professional-looking carrying case. It’s also an excellent idea to have a website with your resume, contact information, and a gallery of artwork to show to dealers, galleries, and prospective clients.

Sarah Palin: WTF

Sarah Palin just posted a response on Facebook to President Obama's State of the Union speech. She wrote:

"He dubbed it a 'Winning The Future' speech but the title's acronym seemed more accurate than much of the content."

I had to read that twice: the title's acronym -- Winning The Future = WTF... OH... What The Fuck, in online lingo... Did Palin REALLY just use "WTF" as an argument? Is she 14 years old?

I voted for McCain/Palin in 2008, sorry to say. I'd liked "maverick" McCain in his 2000 campaign against Bush. I'd liked Palin in 2008. (She had every bit as much experience as Obama, and the initial unwarranted media snobbery against her pissed me off.) But once, post-election, McCain started back-tracking and sucking up to the Republican right wing, especially about both immmigrant and gay rights, I started to get disgusted with him. Just as I've recently become disgusted with Palin about her whole gun-lingo/website imagery of "targeting" Congresspeople like Gabrielle Giffords.

And then this "WTF"-thing...

You know, I don't think that much of President Obama -- I think he got elected based on little more than a smooth speaking style, with very little content to back him up. (But kudos on his minor health-care overhaul, his only achievement.) I don't think that his State of the Union speech said anything at all. Nor did his earlier "memorial" speech for the STILL-ALIVE Gabrielle Giffords.

But for a supposedly serious national political figure to respond to the President of the United States with "WTF"? You know what? If you disagree with the President's policies as proclaimed in his State of the Union speech (innocuous as said policies are), then disagree with them on an intellectual level. Don't resort to the teenaged Twitter-like idiocy of saying "WTF." It's embarrassing for you; it's embarrassing for any of the intelligent people who once supported you.

Behind Closed Doors

I've always loved this sexy Charlie Rich song. But... upon re-viewing it on YouTube tonight... WHY are his fingernails so long? Seriously. Look at all of the close-up piano-playing shots... A man who prefers to wear his fingernails like that is usually gay, a cross-dresser, a pimp, or else Joan Crawford's second husband Franchot Tone. What's Charlie's real story?