Seems Like Old Times.

You can see the big image here.

***

I don't do New Year's resolutions. I might have in the past, in fact, I'm sure I did at some point in life. Somewhere along the way, I dropped that tradition. Probably wasn't making much headway in whatever I had resolved to do.

And I don't make those lists of things I did in the past, either. I can hardly remember what I did last week, let alone try to scratch out what I was doing a year ago, or heaven help me, a decade ago (this being a more pivotal, albeit still arbitrary date, people really seem to be taking this whole decade thing to heart).

I just figure if I'm going to do something, for good or bad, I'll just do it when I decide to do it. That keeps it pretty simple for me.

That being said, I wanted to give a HUGE THANK YOU to all of you who responded via email or on the blog about helping HAMO and the Diapers for Everyone 2010 Diaper Drive. I have to say I'm a little behind in getting back to you all who volunteered to donate or help in some way, but know your offers are duly noted... and you'll be contacted soon.

I guess I do have a sort of resolution process. It's called Looking Forward to Good Things. Some of those things, like the Diaper Drive and working with HAMO, I know about. The rest: I'll just have to wait to be surprised!

Wishing you the best kind of New Year's Eve in whatever manner you choose to celebrate it. And mostly, a year full of Looking Forward to Good (Surprise) Things.

xoxo

And now back to being completely shallow...

Thank you all of you who commented on my last post. This whole issue with K and the kids became a litmus test of sorts for me, and not intentionally. It surprised me to see who came out of the woodwork and expressed some amount of care and support for me and the situation. It was certainly disappointing to see those people who I thought would do more to help end up doing nothing at all. This definitely colored my view of certain people and who I thought they were, and made it hard for me to keep in contact with some of them because of it.

I couldn't get past my disappointment. But then when I thought about it, I didn't want to. It surprises me how many people talk a good line... but that's it. It's so easy to rant about what everyone else is up in arms about and then live a life completely isolated from what one is so riled up about. I think this happens a lot in the blog world because the platform is so easily accessible. So passionate about political, social and religious issues but then how far do you take it? Do you walk your talk or just like to spread the flames about? I've decided personally that I'm not going to be one of those people if I can avoid it. I'll write about something if it affects me and my life personally so that my experience is what informs my opinion, for right or wrong, because it's what I directly know. There's too many directions one can be pulled in already, and too many distractions.

You can't save the world by writing about it and then hoping other people will do it for you.

But enough of that.

***

Well, after all of that, I thought I might have something else to add, but apparently I'm all out of ideas!

Guess I'll have some breakfast instead. Enjoy the rest of your weekend!

The Internet Tantrum

I'm up early for what looks like another marathon day of nose blowing and figuring out which corner of the sofa I'll be foxholed in all day.

Apparently, yesterday was the Solstice, so had I not been so self-absorbed (not possible, really) I would have written introspective and heart-searching things but dammit, I missed all that. I guess now it's too late. I'm still in mourning that very soon we will not be able to get Egg Nog Lattes from Pete's, which is a terribly seasonal injustice.

Nobody guessed what the brown thing on a stick was from yesterday's post (although some of you surmised it was chocolate: close, but no cigar). And then I got all hung up in reading my own past posts that bear the tag "bitching and/or whining". Not surprisingly, there are quite a few posts in this vein. A preponderance of illnesses, work gripes and public transportation fiascos, some of which I barely remember. But at the time were all foot-stompingly, indignantly worthy of the tag.

I guess in looking back at my past internet tantrums, all I can say for myself is that I'm grateful they weren't really significant. A cold, yeah... we all get them. And if you live in SF, you LIKE making fun of MUNI, no matter what you say. And jobs? What are those again? I'm broke as hell but I love not having to deal with a dysfunctional group of prima donnas anymore. (I guess I'll have to delete this part of the post when I start sending out resumes again). So life is good, despite the tag I give it.

So, here I started out making wads of used Kleenex on my desk and deciding what to bitch about this morning... and still got all (slightly) introspective despite myself. I'm sure I'll get over it soon.

The Advisor

Nobody can give you wiser advice than yourself. ~ Cicero

***

So this morning I gave an interview to a writer for the SJSU alumni magazine, Washington Square. She had found me via the San Francisco Chronicle article that came out on October 1 about i live here:SF. I'm going to be part of a laid-off alumni finds new direction in life kind of article. It's flattering just to be found and contacted, let alone think that someone would actually be interested in 1. my story, or 2. my pearls of wisdom. But it still feels quite odd, mostly.

I think part of my dilemma is that I don't really feel qualified to give much of a chat about anything...yet. I'm not an expert on photography or even portraiture, nor an active alumnus, or even someone who really feels down-and-out even though technically I am unemployed. When we talked about my major and my school days, it seemed like an achievement made by someone else. I vaguely remember going to school at this point. Lord knows where my diploma is. (Last time I found it, it was with a bunch of old CDs under my bed. I did not mention that to the writer.)

I thought back to my previous post about Julie & Julia. One of the commenters there pointed out that Julia has probably misrepresented her connections and qualifications in the publishing world, as she started her blog on Salon.com and that's not really where the newbies go to get their first blog. And here I am, thinking I'm totally the opposite. It makes me wonder really what it is that people see in what I'm doing. To me, the purpose of blogging personally hasn't really changed, and although i live here:SF is a blog written by other people, I still see it as a local thing and mine. Even though other locals (and some not so) seem to love it, too, and I'm really grateful for that.

I get the you should do a book/video/other creative thing advice a lot from people lately. I guess I will. I mean, I know I will. Someday. But why push it? When the writer asked me for what advice I had for other laid-off people who are struggling at this time, all I could say is that they needed to have hope, to hang in there. That something good would come of all of this eventually but to try to force things to happen just makes life harder. That's probably the most experiential advice I could give. And to have fun, if you can.

***

I'm basically getting by. Scraping by is probably a better way to put it. I've had some inquiries about other gigs, and have sent out some estimates, and am waiting. If these jobs come to pass, then that will be awesome. I'm finally looking at how to market myself, and use my recent experiences to carry over into something bigger and-- well-- paying. Now I feel like I'm the newbie.

I've been taking pictures, pictures, pictures. But after that, where to go next? How do I take the next quantum leap?

I should probably take my own advice.

The Odd Relative

Here I am, it's 12:27am as I write this. Las Vegas, Nevada. Sleeping on my sister's couch and trying to stop singing that goddamned song that Ariel sings from The Little Mermaid. The Disney Alert Level in this house is Orange. We are knee-deep in princess paraphernalia.

I fell asleep on the sofa tonight as everyone else was watching the season finale of Mad Men. Since I don't have a television and obviously do not watch the show, I had nothing invested in this episode or any other, and I fell asleep. Now my body clock is punishing me by mentally singing this infernal Disney song and making me write posts in my head.

Anyway, this weekend has been full of family and friends celebrating the littlest one's first birthday. I am staying in a place that is perfectly groomed and planned and made hospitable despite the raw nature that looms so hugely behind this housing development. I couldn't be any farther away from home right now. Not as an indictment of Las Vegas and the baggage/dreams this city inspires, but that all around us we are surrounded by the harshest kind of desert. Nevada makes me feel very conscious that I live on a planet. A rock in space.

Inside this new and lovely home, we don't feel the heat. The treeless mountains that loom behind us look as sharp as glass and are shaped like the fins of sharks. I can't decide if the mountains are protecting us from something even harsher or are just biding their time. I wake up thirsty and my lips are peeling.

In being introduced to my sister's friends and neighbors, and reacquainting myself with extended family that I rarely see, I realize that I am the odd relative. The one who doesn't quite know how to answer: So, what have you been up to these days?

The rootless one. I try to see myself through their eyes and wonder how I can answer that question in a meaningful way. Even if it's only in polite conversation, that question makes me paste a two-dimensional smile on my face that I'm sure is unattractive, and I can feel my eyes drifting off somewhere else and not on purpose.

I could say:

1. I'm using photography as a metaphor for examining almost everything in my life and the world around me and cannot help doing so. It makes me extremely happy and self-conscious at the same time.
   
2. I have a feeling that my life is in total flux and transition and although I'm not entirely uncomfortable with this state, it makes me impatient and often moody.
3. I spent an hour curling my hair this morning.
4. I'm doing great!

I've been going with Answer 4.

***

On Friday, my sister and parents drove me out into the desert so I could be my photographic self. I took almost 450 photos and some of them are stellar, even though I really can't see them until I get home and can import them into my computer. We four-wheeled it over rocks and dusty faint roads and they helped me notice things. In the desert, there is much to photograph.

So even if I am the odd unsettled relative, my sister and my parents understand. I will dedicate this next set of photos to them, for their love and in getting me to places I couldn't have gotten to by myself. I look forward to sharing these images with you soon.

ps.: There are two incredible installments on i live here:SF today. One in the morning (9:02am, Mat) and one in the afternoon (2:22pm, Catherine). I am BLOWN AWAY by these people for entirely different reasons but both have made me have crushes on them. Please promise you'll look at their photos and read their stories today.

incubator

Today we had a little death in the house.

***

It was probably a big death to the being who was personally involved, and I know that I tend to use the word little far too much as a descriptor.

And now I feel guilty because I'm the one that saw the streak of gray fur out of the corner of my eye, the wiggle of the inanimate paper grocery bag on the floor as though a tiny gust of wind came from behind the stove and shook the bag, surprising me. Had there been a chair handy, I would have jumped on it and shrieked, like in the cartoons.

I thought at first I had one of those optical migraines, where artifacts not real put themselves into our reality, and we believe in them even though they are entirely manufactured in our nervous systems.

How could a mouse run so fast? I thought I had imagined it. But still I got the heebie-jeebies, so The Boy did what he does best, being The Boy of the House. He bought several types of traps (the best kinds), loaded them with tiny bits of peanut butter (per the instructions) and then placed the traps on the floor, out of my line of sight.

So all this time I thought I had imagined that smooth gray swoosh, until this morning when I saw the tail.

gray. adjective. variant, also grey: 5. having an intermediate and often vaguely defined position, condition, or character

***

I got all queasy looking at that little tail. Feeling terribly guilty and wishing I hadn't said anything to The Boy. I told him he had to come and get the trap, that it was his job as The Boy to deal with such things, and he said he would get it, in a bit.

And then he said jokingly, Tell me you're not really that much of a girl! Meaning that I had gotten all wussy on him, to which I freely admitted at that point, Yes, I am a girl. You have to throw this trap away!

***

When The Boy came to take the trap, all of a sudden I realized that I could look at the mouse (or at least the tail, and then later, its hindquarters) under the mental disguise of taking a photo of it.

In that instance, the mouse became an object. Life or the lack thereof no longer mattered. It's just a mouse.

And that thought made me feel brave, but it also made me sad – in a different way.

The old chestnut remains: the camera reveals, yet it also shields. How can one be engaged and remote at the same time?

How do we decide what we wish to see?

How do we decide how we want to see?

The Continuum

wheels
downtown, yesterday
(click on the photo to enlarge)

***

"Life is a whim of several billion cells to be you for a while." ~ Author Unknown

I took this photo yesterday while I was downtown, supposed to be paying attention to someone else.

The contrast of the young man on the skateboard and the older man in the wheelchair was like a sudden invisible slap. This was the only photo I was able to take with both of them in action, moving in separate lines on their own trajectories, in the same frame for an instant.

Both of them on wheels.

***

Yesterday was a day of contrasts and many meetings.

People with jobs.
People knowing they'll lose theirs very soon.
Love and devotion.
Mediocrity.
Loneliness.
Cluelessness.
Purposefulness.
Questionable massage parlors.
Fancy hotel lobbies.
Happy hour sangria.
Bowls of cereal.
Laughing.
Dying.
Sun.
Mist.

***

Some days I think I wouldn't be able to write a word if I didn't have one of my pictures to get me started. But I don't mind it... actually I'd feel okay with just the pictures.

More later.
I'm still thinking of what I want to say.
But here's what I saw.

Thanks for looking with me.
xoxo

An Embarrassment of Riches

"It is an unfortunate human failing that a full pocketbook often groans more loudly than an empty stomach." ~ Franklin Delano Roosevelt

***

I don't know what it is exactly about my particular malady of the moment, but despite the fact that I cannot seem to stay awake for more than an hour or two during the day, at night I have these vivid, crazy dreams or my mind is awake and filled with essays and far-flung ideas that all seem to connect, as if I have a high fever. But I'm not feverish at all. My head hurts and I can't put my mind to rest after dark. I'm becoming a creature of the night.

After tossing and turning for over an hour, plus it's quite warm here now (75º at 12:42am as I write this), I've decided to just write write write until I can go back to sleep again.

***frieze above the Villa Taverna, Hotaling Place
a private club where only being rich makes you worthy

I'm thinking a lot about having money, about not having money, and what having an extreme amount of money does to atrophy the human heart. For the past thirteen years, I've been working for and around extremely wealthy people, mostly women. I've been culling these snippets and observations for such a long time now, at first fascinated by a world that most of us will never have entree to, and now have left it for good, with a reserve of disgust built up by what I've seen. It's a specific segment of the ruling class, and by no means a statement on those philanthropists who use their wealth to improve lives, but to those petty lesser nobles whose only cares run the gamut of designer shops, country clubs, spas, bridge games and gossip.

I think about this now, as my iPhone beeps daily with little sweet messages from K and the kids over the past week: Aunty Julie, we LOVE you. Get well soon! Aunty Julie, we miss you! BIG hugs!!!

I miss them, too.

I am so fortunate. I cannot think of a single wealthy woman I've ever met (except with one brilliant and generous exception) who would have helped K. In fact, those who have been in a position to help in a profound way have completely ignored my story.

Most of these women (and again, I haven't much experience with the husbands, just the wives) are obsessed with their appearance and are deathly afraid of aging (is that the precursor to losing the husband who pays all the bills?). Plastic surgery aside, getting facials, manicures, pedicures, eyelash tinting, eyelash extensions, hair color, blowouts, massages, fat reduction ... all of these sometimes weekly activities, not counting the endless hours of private designer trunk shows at Neimans, Saks and Chanel, tea parties, socials and the like... a life so unexamined leaves little time for anything of substance. In fact, it renders many helpless, if not downright ignorant (why learn to use a computer if you can have someone use it for you? Or even possess the skill to write a complete sentence, for that matter?). Of course a staff is needed to cook and clean and maintain the home so it looks like a perfect hotel, not to mention the retinue of gardeners that are on site five days a week.

One employer who begrudged me a measly $2 hourly increase in pay and never failed to mention it with a sigh ("I never paid my previous assistant as much as I pay you"), as if I was robbing her blind, as I filed her numerous bank statements, each account holding monies well into the millions, had three closets. One contained only shoes from floor to ceiling, the cheapest pair starting at around $400, and many of them unworn because her bunions were too painful. How many trips did I make to the shoe repair man to have these perfect shoes stretched to accommodate growing bunions? And still she made a hobby of buying expensive shoes she couldn't wear.

Again, I am fortunate. That sort of wealth without the heart or mind to claim some common sense and decency instead creates a prison of the soul. These people are so afraid of not having money that they're probably worse off than people who really are impoverished. Not having money means not having the right friends, power and position in "society." It sounds very Jane Austen-ish, and it is. Nothing much has changed in that regard where position and money rule. At one time, I thought I'd write my own version of The Nanny Diaries, and capitalize on the inanity I've been exposed to, but when I think about it now, I realize these people just aren't worthy of my attention any longer. I am grateful for that.

I am looking forward to feeling better soon (!) so I can see my little family of friends again. This week Aunty Julie will be ready for them, BIG hugs having been stored up for days on end.

Full of riches that don't cost a cent but that still can't be bought at any price.

a sea change

sea change
n.

1. A change caused by the sea: "Of his bones are coral made:/Those are pearls that were his eyes:/Nothing of him that doth fade,/But doth suffer a sea change" (Shakespeare).
2. A marked transformation: "The script suffered considerable sea changes, particularly in structure" (Harold Pinter).

***

1.	a striking change, as in appearance, often for the better.

2.	any major transformation or alteration.

***

at the Palace of Fine Arts
lingering memories from the 1915 Panama-Pacific International Exposition

Last night I went to sleep much too late. It must have been an exceptionally foggy night because the fog horn moans were much longer and deeper than I remember them sounding. Even being so many blocks away from the ocean, it made me wonder and appreciate 1. how loud those horns must be to the people that live closer to them, and 2. how many maritime disasters were averted over the years by the sounds of these horns, hidden in the fog but providing a necessary warning to those who might stray into harm's way.

***

When I was a little girl, I had a Viewmaster-- you know, that plastic gadget that you insert a reel of slides in and look through the eyeholes. My favorite reel was the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, and aside from the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, my favorite Wonder was the Lighthouse at Alexandria.

With its height, its fire and reflective mirrors, that lighthouse not only marked an incredible achievement in engineering but also provided an invaluable alert to avoid danger and destruction and loss of life.

***

Fog horns and lighthouses. Keeping strange travelers safe from harm.

***

I just have to tell you that things are better today with K and the kids. I know you were worried and so was I, and despite the fact that I won't say more about the past few days, you should know now that the sun is shining and we are back on track.

Last night, as I laid in bed and listened to the fog horns, I thought about the phrase a sea change and pondered what exactly it meant. Truly, meeting K and the kids has provided the basis for an alchemical change in me, how I see the world around me, what my opinions are about people and their nature, how I see this city from a different vantage point and perhaps how cities in general function or do not.

All of these things are good. I think some of you were worried that in my efforts to help K, that I am not taking care of myself or am putting her welfare above my own. Yes, and no. As a hedonist and selfish person, I'll never fully be able to not consider my own happiness. However, my happiness is surely linked to others and I don't find that to be a bad state of affairs. What you might read here, whether it is frustration, sadness, anger, hope or love, is true and real.

I would rather write something abrasive and honest because I have experienced it, then not to write it at all. Those who can take it and understand will stick with me, and those who can't won't, and that's fine too.

But those lighthouses and fog horns are real. We all need to see them and listen to them. For this one little family living on the edges of a world that doesn't see them, there are many many others who also need help. I think we need to start small.

I think we can all be fog horns and lighthouses in ourselves. Even if it is to guide one other person, we can do that.

xoxo

ps.: The PayPal button will be up again shortly. Use it if you can.

Rewind and Read These (Interviews, of course!)

rewind rewind rewind

The post before this one was my 700th (wow) and not that I need to attach any symbolic significance to that, it's such a nice solid number that now I feel badly that it was wasted on the dreaded First Day Back From Staycation dreck post.

***

I was rereading a post that I wrote last year that seems a little too familiar today. Even though I still have the Euros and the passport in my wallet because of it, and the quote by Anais Nin is always a helpful reminder to me, running off into fantasyland isn't the most productive option, really.

There's just something about cramming all of this living into two weeks out of a 52-week year that makes me anxious. Time really does fly by. I think that's what hits me most.

***

Today in Chinatown there was a New Year's Day Carnival at Portsmouth Square. The narrow alley was filled with cheap arcades where you could pay a dollar to try to win a stuffed animal or a trinket. You could buy churros, caramel apples and Cup-O-Noodles at the snack wagon.

Little girls dressed in colorful New Year's finery were begging for toys and balloons everywhere you looked. Older children were lighting firecrackers and throwing those little exploding balls onto the concrete. The ground everywhere was littered with the remnants of these noisy festivities.


You watch these tiny colorful people going about their business: tooting plastic horns, begging for dollar bills from their mothers to play a carnival game, or running about like the wind. Watching them doesn't make the worries of the day go away, but it does help for a while.

***

Two more delightful interviews floated in across the interwebs today.

Please spend some time with Liz and her family at Eternal Lizdom. She makes you feel welcome and like you're already part of the family.

And then there is my tango love and photographic muse, my sweet and talented Red Shoes of Heartbreak Tango. I have a ginormous crush on this woman, and you will too if you read her blog.

UPDATE 10:26pm: If you want to know about a fascinating lady who's working on a book titled “My Life as a Bra Queen” (I'd buy that book!), please visit Debbi at An Ever Fixed Mark. A talented costume designer (and tango dancer), she describes her office as "a library and fabric store had a whirlwind romance near my desk." I don't know about you, but that sounds like my kind of office.

***

ps.: I'm officially interviewed out... I still have a few more to write and am waiting for others to roll in. For those of you arriving late, thanks for your interest but I'm hanging up my Baba Wawa hat now and not taking any more requests at this time.

20/20 has not called me, sadly.

Connection Overload

“Our life is composed greatly from dreams, from the unconscious, and they must be brought into connection with action. They must be woven together.” ~ Anais Nin

***

It appears that whenever I have something to say, Anais has already said it a thousand times better than I could.

This weekend was full of tiny surprises and subtle happenings. And connections. My goodness. Except I couldn't start to put them all down here because the power was out last night, for hours and hours. It was so cold and dark, so nothing got done. Even sleep, although eventually I dozed off.

All I could do was to think about the little gems I wanted to relive here, but also how very very cold you can be, even when layered with sweatshirts but there is no heat, and what was happening to all of my food in the freezer.

The power came back on after 1am, and I just downloaded the photos I was so anxious to see. I think now I can't tell a story unless I've taken a photo of something related to my thoughts, so in order to make it all real and before I can type the words, I have to process what was in my camera.

Here is a peek.

Happy Monday. I have to get dressed for work now.

xoxo

Free Fridays

Tomorrow is my first Free Friday. I had to make up a name for it, and Free Friday sounds a lot better than "Pay Cut Friday" or "Be Glad You Have a Job Four Days a Week Friday."

(Due to my unavoidable penchant/habit of free association, in my mind the words Free Friday cannot help but take a tiny detour and become Free French and then I also have to hum "La Marseillaise.")

***

Of course, I'm not comparing my new day off to the brave French Resistance and I'm not even trying to make any sort of political or military observations here. But I am thinking about what I might do with some of these Free Fridays to make a valuable impact on my life and perhaps the lives of others.

There's something symbolic in not being at work on a traditional workday, to me at least. I'm sure I'll get over it in time, as I get used to the idea or as my economic circumstances change. However, I'm not one to let something go by without making a symbolic statement to myself, for the time being.

Take the word free, for example. At the moment I am looking at it as 1. free to do as I please, 2. free from the ordinary, and also 3. freedom to not spend money. And then I wonder, why is it taking this mental exercise when I can have this any day I wish, if it's important to me? I guess I go with the flow more than I'd like to.

I am making a list of things I can do that are free, but that will also be rewarding and interesting. Of course the standbys are photography and writing. But what about volunteering? Mentoring? An apprenticeship? Exploration? More time for friends and family? I'm even trying to envision a free tango scenario, like the dances in the park we used to have.

Not a lot of specifics yet, but I'll narrow the field soon. In the meantime, I'll just keep singing to myself.

***

This version of "La Marseillaise" and this scene are the best part of Casablanca. I always get a tear in my eye when I watch this. Screw the Nazis.



And then this one is just the cutest thing I've ever seen. I think she's going to be the anthem of my Free Fridays.

Tradition

“Do not believe in anything simply because you have heard it. Do not believe in anything simply because it is spoken and rumored by many. Do not believe in anything simply because it is found written in your religious books. Do not believe in anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders. Do not believe in traditions because they have been handed down for many generations. But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it.” ~ Buddha

“For those who believe, no proof is necessary. For those who don't believe, no proof is possible.” ~ Stuart Chase

***

I wanted to thank all of you who so sweetly wished me a happy Chanukkah/ Hanukkah (however you like to spell it... I could never get the spelling right) from the last post.

I kind of feel like a heel. Part of me wants to just to revel in your lovely wishes because I know it made you happy to wish that for me. And it made me happy to receive your wishes, your blessings. You are all so very very kind. But the other part of me has to come clean and say I don't celebrate Hanukkah (or any other holidays) anymore. I fell off the wagon quite a while ago.

I think I first started to fall off it around the age of eight or ten. It had to do with me reading the story of Abraham and the Sacrifice of Issac, in a book I used to really love called The Children's Story of Israel. It was a really interesting book. I remember loving to read it, not only for the vivid stories, but for the smell and feel of the paper, and the stark black and white illustrations. I think they were engravings. The paper was incredibly silky and smooth. I remember just running my fingers over the pages because they felt beautiful. It was odd. I've never had another book quite like it. I have no idea where that book went to, but it was old.

Anyway, I used to read that book a lot. And then one day it dawned on me what was really going on in that story of Abraham and Isaac. I understood that it meant that Abraham might actually kill his own son because God told him to. And what would that say about any father who might get a message from God. That scared the piss out of me, to be quite frank. I never read that book again. I remember feeling betrayed. And it made me wonder exactly where these stories were coming from and why I read them.

This post isn't to rain on anyone's parade (I don't mean to do that in the least) or to expound what I believe or don't believe. But what this holiday wishing made made me think about is Tradition. Why we believe what we believe.

Like the Buddha says in that quote above: How much of our beliefs are our own? And how often do we question ourselves and our own minds? What is the relationship between our individual identity and what is forged by the traditions and beliefs handed down to us?

***

In thinking about my Hanukkahs of the past, I think about my grandmothers. My grandma Helen (aka Little Helen) and my grandma Annette. For Grandma Helen, I remember the potato latkes and how I've never had any that taste better than hers did. Every year she would come to my mother's house, with an old metal food grinder in an ancient cardboard box. The grinder part was held on by rubber bands. My mom and I would peel potatoes, keeping them in a bowl of water to keep them from turning pink, until Grandma Helen could grind them up into a big bowl filled with eggs, onions and flecks of black pepper. I remember her forehead getting damp. It was hard work grinding all of those potatoes.

But she said that's what made them taste so good and she was right about that. I've just come to realize that I'll never have that particular taste in my mouth again.

And then there was my Grandma Annette. In her being absent for most of my life now, I think she's come to make a greater impression on me because I didn't know her well. But she represented Tradition to me in a way I craved. She came from the "Old Country" (the Ukraine) as she called it in her heavy accented English, and I still vaguely remember her stories of village life and her brothers and sisters and escaping the Cossack raids.

She knew all of the Sabbath blessings and kept kosher. She was tiny and also very formidable in a quiet, fragile way. I used to watch Fiddler on the Roof a lot as a kid, because I imagined that her vanished village with no name was just like the one in the movie. In a way, I was probably right.

***

Looking back at grandma Annette and her lost world of the Old Country, I realized for many years that what I wanted, or perhaps envied most, was her tradition. The surety of a world where your place was known, where everyone knew what was expected of themselves and they were surrounded by a community that might have been confining but was also there as a protection. I had this fantasy of how life might just be so much easier if I knew exactly what I was supposed to be when I got older.

Unfortunately or fortunately, life in the 'burbs just isn't the same thing as life in the shtetl. Of course now I'm grateful that I ended up where I am, but for many years, I really felt I was missing out on something very subtle and very important. But my world is a lot bigger now. And I'm not so scared of it anymore. I'm not scared of not being what I thought I was going to be when I grew up, either.

***

Several years ago, I went on a business trip to Houston. On the flight home, my fellow passenger was an Orthodox rabbi. He had the peyes, the prayer shawl, the black hat. He was my age, rotund and jolly. He had five beautiful children (in his words, I'm sure they were) and he and his wife ran an Orthodox community in Dallas. He was flying to Palo Alto to perform a wedding.

Now all these years later, I felt like I finally had my chance. I had to ask him what was up with the Abraham and Isaac story. I told him what it did to my kid psyche and I could see on his face that I wasn't the only one who had a problem with the tale. He looked pained as I poured my heart out to him. He explained it to me, in what the metaphor of the story really meant, and apologized that no one was there to tell me that when I was young. I tried not to cry. But I did and he gave me his beverage napkin so I could blow my nose. His explanation was calming in its way, but still did not erase the savagery of the act that almost was.

I don't know why it affected me so, to have some closure on that story so many years after the fact. I mean, I could have gone to any temple around and just asked someone. But that was the right time for me. It was the right time, and at the same time, it was too late.

The rabbi and I kept in touch for a little while via email but whatever tradition I felt I should have had just wasn't inside me. I think some things you have to be exposed to at a very young age for them to take hold in your heart, otherwise the roots are just too shallow.

But I don't feel too badly, because I also realize that there was a little eight or ten year old girl who read something and then had an opinion about it and took a position. Above all else, I appreciate that little Julie who reads and thinks about what she reads. And wherever that tradition came from, I'm most grateful for that of all.

***

More and more, I'm fine with where I'm at. It's a journey though, and I'm still working on it. But I'm not as worried so much about not having all the answers.

“Frisbeetarianism is the belief that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof and gets stuck.” ~ George Carlin

***

Paintings by Marc Chagall: 1. Solitude (1933). 2. The Birthday (1915). 3. Title unknown (if you know, please tell me).

"One fine day... as my mother was putting the bread in the oven, I went up to her, and taking her by her flour-smeared elbow I said to her, 'Mama ... I want to be a painter.' " ~ Marc Chagall

Nocturne #2

"I am the keeper of fragile things and I have kept of you what is indisolvable." ~ Anaïs Nin

***

I feel like a watercolor this week.

By the end of the day, all of my edges are blurred. My eyes seem to get more tired than usual, and the rims of my eyes are red by 5pm, like clockwork. My makeup disappears, where to-- I have no idea. It's like I never put it on at all. I have to go to the bathroom and dab on a bit of rouge, a little lipstick, just to show up and not be a shadow of myself.

I feel like I'm one of those marbleizing trays of water, when the drops of dye are added and they swirl together, little eddies of color. Each time a different pattern. Each night I come home looking like a different person than when I left the house in the morning. I almost don't recognize myself.

It's been a long week and there's still one day left to go. I grant that much. And it was wonderful to share some laughter with you yesterday, with that post about my dad. You guys gave back the joy of laughter to me tenfold by telling me you laughed too. That was the real gift.

***

Tonight I had dinner with my little friend Chipmonkey. In my watercolor state, I look at her and all I keep seeing are her beautiful eyelashes. I don't know if I have come right out and told her she has pretty eyelashes, but she does. And if she's reading this, then she'll know.

After dinner, we walked through the Mission back through the Castro and in my watercolor state, the streets just shimmered with lights and people walking to restaurants, riding bikes and generally just being outside, together.

It drizzled a little. Little rain droplets, intermittent. More watercolor.

***

On the train home, the fluorescent lights are harsh on the eyes. A young Asian man is sketching in a clothbound journal with a pencil. I watch him and he's drawing people sitting nearby. He's doing it so quickly and secretively that they don't even notice. But I do.

I smile at him and I can tell I just made him feel shy. So I smile at him again and then I can see that I've reassured him it's okay that I saw him drawing, and he starts to draw me. Then I feel I must turn my face away and pretend I don't notice. Please, I think, draw me pretty. I am so smudged right now. I have no hard lines and everything's running together.

The only thing I really want to do is listen to a nocturne. That is what they are for, inspired by night, to be listened to when it's dark outside. If there was music written for a watercolor, then I would listen to that. But right now it is Chopin. There is a reason why ladies still leave flowers at his grave at Père Lachaise. I would too if I were in Paris.

I'm sorry if this post makes little to no sense at all. I'm probably confusing you right now.

Perhaps if you listen to this nocturne with me then you'll understand what I mean. Have a good night.

“Music melts all the separate parts of our bodies together” ~ Anaïs Nin

Chopin: Nocturne #2 In E Flat, Op. 9/2, CT 109. Photo taken at the Palace of Fine Arts.

Dig Deeper

"And, everyone who ever had a heart
They wouldn't turn around and break it
And anyone who ever played a part
Oh wouldn't turn around and hate it."

~ Lou Reed, "Sweet Jane"

***

Here I am.

No, Oprah did not call.

No, John Podesta did not call.

Despite my apparent virtual fame (lol), I'm still here.

***

I can see now where those people who were on a season's reality tv show or that poor doofus Joe the Plumber got all bedazzled by some sudden portion of starlight and sunshine. Look at me! You finally found me!

I'm somebody!

Well, truth is that we were all somebodies before the searchlight, right? We all had a life. You don't need 6,102 hits in a day to prove it (truth be told, the vast majority of hits are not readers).

It's nice to think that some of you here suddenly feel like I'm the little golden nugget you found after spending hours in the cold stream, panning through muddy silt. And here I show up in the bottom of the tray, glinting at you. That's cool. But dig deeper. I dare you to read this blog. Not just the last three posts but a whole bunch of 'em if you really mean it. Then you can decide if I'm still golden and if we still have something to say to each other.

And for those of you who've been here with me the whole time, maybe months or more than a year, you know, as with your own selves, you scratch the surface and there's so much more than you can even begin to write. And then there are the things that will never get said at all, but you still hope that people can read between the lines. Or see it in a photo because words just aren't enough sometimes.

***

"If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it." ~ Anaïs Nin

A few types of comments jump out at me:

I'd love to have a blog but I don't know how.
I don't have anything to say.
I'm boring.

For those of us who've been blogging for a while, we've been more than pleasantly surprised that the act is a reward in itself. Our blogs become a virtual studio, an open creative space, and a salon where like minds congregate. There's no impetus to succeed or stand out; in fact, it's a place to get away from all that stuff: Stretch your brain while you exercise your fingers. Manipulate thoughts into words and see if that effort translates into something beyond what you meant.

So grab that brass ring and write and share, for reals. And if the blog doesn't feel like your thing, then go out and do something else. There are no real rewards at the end of the day, just your creativity and your happiness.

***

This morning I made my own infernal music loop (in response to the earworm saga yesterday) by listening to the Cowboy Junkies' cover of Velvet Underground's "Sweet Jane." But this time it's a song I really love, sometimes crave to hear (isn't it funny that you can crave a sound just like something to eat?) so I purposely wanted to hear it as many times as I could before leaving for work.

The Boy had not heard this song before, and we slow-danced in our pj's to it. I nuzzled his neck. Margo Timmins has such a sexy voice.

Before I left for work, he says, "You know what Sweet Jane really is, right? It's heroin."

I figured the lyrics had something to do with drugs, but never gave it much thought. I just like the song. But that's what I mean. Dig deeper. There are little hidden truths buried all over the place. Not just here.

***

ps.: I took that photo a few weeks ago, in the Tenderloin before going to that talk about Benjamin Franklin I told you about. What's really attracting me lately in my photos as I sort through them are the ones that are full of contrasts or contradictions. This image in particular really says more to me than I can describe.

All or Nothing/Starting Small

Words of wisdom: As you advance in age, falling asleep on the sofa is not a good thing for your back.

It is either very early in the morning or very late at night as I write this. If I was dancing tango, it would be very late at night. As things stand now, it's just very early in the morning.

A year ago today I wrote this post.

I still have that dress, that perfume, that bracelet and those shoes. I still can conjure up the feelings I had that evening just by reading my words again and listening to the music in the clip. The tango is still in me; it's like riding a bike or having sex. Even if you don't do it for a while, at your core you still know how to. For the scant remaining tango dancers that might still read my blog once in a while, you know exactly what I mean. For you new readers that came later and have never danced tango, you can use your imagination about that feeling and you'd probably be right.

I often think about why I haven't danced in months. I could say it is my personal finances that prevent it, or I could paint sweeping generalizations about the drama of participating in tango society or I could point fingers at specific people disguised in anonymity. Part of the reason is that tango, for some, requires a kind of immersion that is not copacetic with "real" life. To experience tango, for some, it's an all-or-nothing scene. Compromise is hard.

And I tend to be an all-or-nothing person.

Some people come to tango and it's like enjoying an apertif: they drink their cocktail, enjoy it, and then move on to dinner. And then there's the other people: they start with one drink and then stay until the bar closes. For them, tango cannot be practiced in moderation.

I think about going back to dance, but in the limited way I could manage, that would put me in the perceived lower echelon of random occasional dancer and that doesn't seem to be worth the effort. The retirement home of Tango.

So now I'm in this space where not dancing is like coming out of a bad romance: I don't want that guy in my life anymore, but I still think about him. Perhaps if I was younger, I would have made the sacrifice.

***

Speaking of being younger, last night I went to see something that was pretty awesome. In the inspiring, look what kids are doing today kind of way.

About five blocks away from my house is a circus school. I kid you not. The whole works: acrobatics, juggling, contortion, aerial silk and ropes. Of course they have adult classes, but I wonder how many adults could stick with such an education, even if they had comprehensive health coverage.

But those bendy and talented kids--they put on quite a show for us, a crowd of friends, family and a few random neighbors like me. It was a cross between an Andy Hardy movie (hey kids, let's put on a show in the barn!) and a seedling class of Cirque de Soleil future talent.

As much as I was enthused by the young performers and how capable they are (and slightly cringing at times in a protective reflex that someone was going to get hurt), I mostly felt so glad that these kids had the opportunity to discover something they loved from a very young age, practice it so they were advanced and talented enough to perform, and still have many years ahead to make their talents deepen. The little Julie inside me was more than slightly jealous of them having that chance. The older Julie knows not having found that creative niche as a kid has driven me to explore many kinds of outlets, tango included, but that creates the bedrock of my personal dilettantism, too.

Sometimes I feel like I'm too old to be good at anything at the deepest level. And the other part of me thinks I just haven't found that thing yet. And a tiny voice says that all of these thoughts surface in the wee hours because I should be sleeping right now.

But you'll be relieved to know for my own personal safety that I did not sign up for circus school.

Yet. They have an open house where you can try the flying trapeze and more on December 20. Hmmm.

Image: Tight-Rope Walker by Jean-Louis Forain, 1885.

A Paean to Penicillin

I guess I could have also titled this post a "Canticle to Ciprofloxacin hydrochloride" since I'm actually allergic to penicillin but then you might not have known what I was talking about. (Although I know you are all very brilliant minds and you would have figured it out quickly.)

Last night I finally took myself over to Urgent Care to get a prescription for this stuff because after a week of "oh, I think it's going away..." I realized that I needed some real medicine. (No worries, I'm fine.) But anyway.

The thing I walked away most grateful for last night, besides the extremely nice people that helped me-- from the intake lady to the doctor to the pharmacist who let me sneak in and filled my prescription in like 30 seconds even though they were closed-- was how freaking lucky I am to have received a slim plastic bottle of pills that will make me feel all better by tomorrow or the next day. Even though I am going to take the entire week's dosage and I hope that you take ALL of your antibiotics like you are supposed to because it's very very very important and I'll get back to that later.

I can't help thinking about what it must have been like to live 100, 200 years ago with a minor illness, which although not life threatening is certainly life-annoying and can get much worse if left unchecked, without the benefit of something like penicillin. I've always loved to read the biographies of scientists who made major discoveries to the benefit of all mankind. Louis Pasteur, you are the man. Marie Curie, you're even more the man because no one wanted you to study science in the first place.

One of the books on my nightstand that I'm chipping away at before bedtime is about Joseph Priestly and Antoine Lavoisier, one a humble English minister type and the other a French nobleman who was eventually guillotined during the Terror, and their quest to discover oxygen. Subject might not sound like a blockbuster but in the history of important knowledge that's benefited humankind, it is. What strikes me about both these guys is that their lives were not easy, got totally messed up by religous zealotry (one in the strict sense, and one by the religion of political fervor) and how the human mind can be so single-mindedly brilliant when it wants to be.

The tiny list of scientific explorers I mention here helped to pave a way to an improved quality of life for all of us, and they did it without the benefit of government grants, readily available ingredients, laboratories or assistance, and sometimes working under life-threatening circumstances. That type of perseverance, to the understanding of our physical universe with the side effect of benefiting fellow humans and generations to come that could build on their discoveries, always fills me with pride and hope that we can do more and be more as a species, regardless of our gender, religion or nationality.

I am not going to talk about Sarah Palin and the fruit flies again. But to me, now, she is the ready poster girl for a subset of people who not only walk around clueless, but could possibly impede the future and direction of scientific inquiry. This is not a rant but if you want to read a well-reasoned and informed one, check out Andrew Sullivan. Now I'm not saying that all of us have to geek out on science like me. I used to hang out after school in junior high and help my biology teacher separate and count fruit flies, not for extra credit, but because I thought it was very cool to be a tiny part of a scientific process, even at the age of 12. So even back then, I knew that studying fruit flies wasn't just blowing smoke up someone's ass. (Certainly at age 12, a person can find lots of things to do after school besides observing Drosophila melanogaster.)

What I hope is that our country will turn back the clock on eight years of morality-induced prejudice leading to anti-scientific inquiry. I wrote a post recently about change and what we might be willing to do to help move our country forward, to the benefit of all Americans and the world. I'm thinking maybe one avenue for me might be to help support issues regarding the advancement of scientific research. Not just because of the Cipro. But because to me, Science can be a tool to advance Hope, and wasn't that also a theme of this election? Making life better for all of us in a measureable, meaningful way?

But first I must address why I woke up at 1:20am and found myself here in front of the computer. (Actually, I was thirsty. So I'll get my drink of water and catch you all later.)

***

ps.: For a hair-raising but very important read on why we all need to do our share to help prevent the development of super-resistant strains of bacteria, read Laurie Garrett's The Coming Plague. It's like reading The Andromeda Strain or The Stand and then coming to the uncomfortable realization that you're reading non-fiction. Want to believe in a real Armageddon? Good chance it could come from a microbe. And there's no mention of the Rapture, either.

Fleeting Enchantments

“I make my pictures for what Hollywood spends on lipstick” ~ Maya Deren

***

I love tiny discoveries. People or places or things that I've never heard of before that make me pause and find yet another way to see the world as a fascinating place (granted, lots of people have made these discoveries before me and I'm just coming around to it late in the game).

But they're my tiny discoveries. And like a trickle of water that gradually flows to a larger body of water, I'll be able to follow this rivulet to people or other things that will enhance my appreciation of what I've just found and make my personal world more interesting.

***

On Friday night, I stopped into Amoeba Records on the way home. I love to walk the length of Haight Street when I'm not too tired, from the Lower to the Upper Haight instead of taking the train. Two possible treats await me at the end of my walk: plantains and black beans (and maybe a glass of sangria) at Cha Cha Cha, and/or a video or two from Amoeba. For some reason I never buy any music there, probably because the place is so cavernous and overwhelming in its selections, but I seem to navigate my way around the DVD room quite well and always find something I want. Finding restraint at the cash register is harder.

What excites me tremendously is when I discover a fascinating person. Perhaps you've already heard of her, but I found a collection of short films by Maya Deren. I was so entranced by her work. I couldn't stop watching.

From the bio in the Harold Gottleib Archival Research Center at Boston University:

Maya Deren (1917-1961) has been called "the mother of the American underground cinema" and remains perhaps the most noted female experimental filmmaker in the United States from the 1940s until her untimely death in 1961. In addition, she was a noted theorist whose innovative writings are shamefully not as familiar as those of her male contemporaries.

Eleanora Derenkowsky was born on April 29, 1917 in Kiev, Ukraine, the only child of linguist Marie Derenkowsky and her psychologist husband Solomon. In 1922, the family fled the Soviet Union to escape from anti-Semitism, settling in New York City and shortening the family name to Deren... Deren often self-distributed her films, going so far as to screen them on her living room walls. If she managed to land a booking, she often accompanied the screenings with a lecture...She received the Cannes Film Festival Grand Prix Internationale, became the first filmmaker to receive a Guggenheim Foundation Fellowship, which allowed her to begin research on the Voudoun ritual in Haitian culture.

***

Maya died at age 44. It amazes me the body of work: art, thought-- that some people can create in a such a short life. My birthday is on Tuesday. Some days I really feel like the clock is ticking...

What people or places or things have you discovered that made a lasting impression on you? Anything you'd care to share? I'm in the mood for discovery. Now that this election is over, I feel like I can breathe again.

Here is Deren's film Meshes of the Afternoon (1943). I wonder what you think of it.

Don't write

Don't write.
It's too powerful.
It might tell someone how
you feel. How you hurt.
What you don't understand.

Don't write.
It's too powerful.
It will show who you are
on the inside to the outside.
It'll blow your cover,
your nice reputation.

Don't write.
It's too powerful.
You might hurt someone's feelings.
People may not like your words.
They may attack you, or abandon you.

Don't write.
It's too powerful.
It might give others hope.
Let them know
they're not alone.
It might change minds.
Change directions.
Change the world.

So, whatever you do,
don't write.

***

I wish I had written that poem.
But I'm not there yet.

I read this poem fairly often now, since Tara first posted it on her blog. It's a little mental shock to the system, and I don't mind that. "It'll blow your cover, your nice reputation." I'm still working on that one.

This poem is by Jen Lee and I think it's a very important reminder given current events and how people decide to censure themselves... or not.

For those of you who want to visit Tara's post and leave a comment, you can enter to win one of Jen Lee's journals. Her drawing will be held on Saturday.

Seeds

"The hardest thing about any political campaign is how to win without proving that you are unworthy of winning." ~ Adlai E. Stevenson

I took this photo a while ago, for a woman I've never met. My little Christina of Soul Aperture, who tells it like it is. The world as seen through her soft brown eyes and large, wonderful heart.

Christina is a professional chef.
She's a photographer and artist and writer.
She's a mother of two beautiful children who ask the right questions.
She's the wife of a self-made man who is working to make the world a better place.

Christina and her family live in Milwaukee, in a neighborhood that knows poverty and the ills that come from lack: lack of education, lack of opportunity, lack of hope.

***

Christina wrote a post after the last debate, and on the eve of this one, I wanted to share an excerpt with you. No matter what your opinions are about the candidates, whether you feel smug or bitter or tired or hopeful, know that what is happening in the drama-inducing headlines is obscuring what is happening on the front lines.

Christina has taken it upon herself to go door to door, talking with neighbors and people in her neighborhood, to make sure that they understand their rights as citizens. That they can and should vote.

From Christina's post, No Title:


I respect that you may not share my views or opinion so I give you the option to stop reading now. Please save the hate mail, the N. word and whatever else. Been there, been called that.

I want to pass on some information to you.

1. If you wear an Obama shirt to go vote in Nov., it is considered campaigning and your voting rights will be taken away.

2. If you have warrants out for your arrest do not go vote! If you go to vote in Nov. there are undercover officers waiting to apprehend you!

3. If you have unpaid parking tickets you will be arrested in Nov. if you go to the polls to vote.

Everything I just typed is bullshit!!!!!

These are just some of the messages printed on flyers and being distributed through urban, inner city neighborhoods.

It's called Voting Fraud and that is illegal!!!!!

Please, please let anyone you know that these flyers are only being passed out to low income neighborhoods and they are a ploy to keep people from voting.

Sad but true!

***

Hearing from Christina first hand what she sees around her was shocking. I don't expect much from the media, the spin doctors and the pundits. Part of my solace comes from the people that make fun of it all.

But when you really are confronted with the truth that corruption exists at every imaginable level, it's almost mind-blowing. I want my America back.

***

When I took that photo above, I immediately thought of Christina, since it's a photo of sesame seeds and as a chef, I know she likes our foodie conversations as much as I do.

But then I saw the photo differently. It made me think that we are all those little sesame seeds: white, brown, black. All little seeds, just in different colors.

All little seeds.

Seeds of hope? I hope.

***

"I offer my opponents a bargain: if they will stop telling lies about us, I will stop telling the truth about them." ~ Adlai Stevenson, campaign speech, 1952