"Hope is a state of mind, not of the world. Either we have hope or we don't; it is a dimension of the soul, and it's not essentially dependent on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation. ...Hope, in this deep and powerful sense, is not the same as joy that things are going well, or willingness to invest in enterprises that are obviously heading for success, but rather an ability to work for something because it is good, not just because it stands a chance to succeed. The more propitious the situation in which we demonstrate hope, the deeper the hope is. Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.
"
Vaclav Havel

Funky Town

I went there last night. Not the physical rendition that features music, disco lights and gyration, but rather the mental one where there were echoes, memory strobes and emotional gyrations. Mind you, I chose to go there. Bought the ticket on my own volition; I even know why I chose the destination as I stared out the windows at the passing landscape.

I'd decided that somehow I'd missed a connection in the station of my life where writing takes up residence, when many years ago I'd gotten off the train that was hurtling through the land of magazines and publishing. In doing so, I'd chosen another path: to teach a bit, to freelance, to put it all together on my own time. I'm still doing that, but there are times more recently when I find myself looking into the face of people who stayed put on the train, made connections and transfers to places that spoke of "career path" (I was tempted just now to use the word security, but that is something I can't forecast for anyone else's life).

It's quite amazing to be at a place where taking ownership for life and where I am inside of it is undeniable. Where I know what it is I can do, what I like to do, what I choose to do, and how I often willfully look away and step into the box marked Pause. I know it's up to me to keep writing because I get a charge from it. Whether it's entries into this blog or stories written just for the fact of writing them. I know that if I send out story ideas, yet don't hear back or don't get a thumb's up that it's not a reason to stop. I know that the muscle of my writing self is strengthened when I write words for this space right here. I even know that there's an agent out there open to my book idea, and that having one, two or three jobs at a time working with other people's words is not an excuse to stop stringing my own words together. I know there a whole lot of knows in this paragraph (five not counting this sentence). So... if I know this, then can I give myself the confidence to move forward? Since it's up to me. To realize that what's been—the places, people and experiences—are amazing, have happened and are no litmus test regarding who I am now or what I can still do.

Every time is different and there's a crazy kind of clarity in my life right now. I look at my face snapped during the last mile (or so) of this year's NYC marathon. What I see is pain, endurance, elation, thoughts of giving up, yet knowing that I won't. That I'll celebrate at the finish line for getting there and seeing all I did during the miles. Then I go on and decide whether I want to do it again. and in the end, whether I do or not won't matter, because I had the moment and it was good, hard and all things in between.

Today's soundtrack: "The Hustle" and this time I'm gonna dance. Arms up, eyes open, ideas poppin'.

Through the looking glass

Yesterday on the radio, I heard an interview with a man who wrote a book about how we (humans) are not as smart as we often think we are. That our level of delusion—or, maybe, rose colored glasses—guide our thoughts, how we go forward in the world, deal with people and make decisions. And sometimes, when we get a glimpse of what others may see in us (also, subjective, since they're seeing through their own special lens)...eeek, we may be freaked or pleased or possibly just plain stymied.

I've had a couple of those come up in the last little bit. One happened when I received the photos above, taken at the day of fun with my pole classmateS. I looked at these and had a moment of instant-look-away shortly followed by a pride. A pondering of what my body looks like and moves like. It reminded me of the many conversations I've had with my female friends about how women, at least in a majority of the generations I'm intimate with, are raised to be humble, quiet about accomplishments, not loud and proud. This has for me and many of my friends seemed to translate into taking that whole bushel and hiding under it. When there's something to be bragged about, to caveat it in all sorts of language that disguises the real message of "Hell, Yeah, I'm awesome. Look at me go."

So I find myself grappling with this ownership of good stuff. Having recently written and had published a magazine article that focused the spotlight again on my love of words and how I use them, I am sitting with the attention of people saying You need to do this more. And I know that they're right. I can feel that, yet my initial response has tried to be: That was just a one-time, a revisit, a perfect storm of timing, history and friendship. And of course that's bullshit. Staying with the thing I love to do and do well is just real, it's not a compliment, it's not a favor anyone is doing for me, it's just a part of my life to own. Even if 90% of the time I don't hear back on proposals for stories, that's not an indictment of my ability, that's just people being busy and a challenge for me to keep on going with my ideas and words.

This sunday is my fourth NYC marathon. MiHoney's first. I've been feeling the fluttery anticipation along with the "Can I do it again?" thoughts because I know—at least geographically and miles-wise—what the course holds. How I'll feel during those miles is another thing altogether. I've been a bit envious of his newbie-ness, everything is novel along the course. And I realize it's so much like life in that when you've done it, and done it fairly well, there's an interesting bit of nerves and ego that accompany the return, the question of at least matching the success of the last time. Whereas when it's the first time, you really can't go wrong. You're setting your own moment in time to do with what you will.

My realization: Every one of these minutes is a new one to fill with braggadocio, pride, and whatever level of confidence I choose to bring out. Ready, set, go...
PS: if you want to track my marathon moments, here's how: CLick this ING link, follow directions for the tracker app and type in my race #55-532.

the wide open

For the last few, I've found myself regularly time-challenged at this time of year. It seems that when I make plans to run the NYC marathon, as I have for every year of the past four—except last when I was on the sidelines—I go forward from July marking training runs on my calendar as if they're merely squiggles on a page filled with squares. Then I follow those squiggles as best I can as the miles expand exponentially. Inevitably summer becomes fall and suddenly those markings take on a life of their own, not to mention fill up to the brim this life of my very own. That I still continue to say Yes to dance luvuh outings, class fun and dining with friends, not to mention the necessary dates or do-nothing nights with miHoney is absolutely crucial for my sanity. Yet sometimes I wake up screaming (alright, I'm not actually screaming, but my eyes definitely pop wide open and my heart beats hard) realizing that I have a couple of paying jobs going right now and that with the publication of my Nirvana piece I've discovered that I actually enjoy writing again and would like to get some proposals out to magazines. I'm not sure how to fit it all in.

I think about prioritizing. Such a big word. And even as i write that, I glance to my left where a large pile of magazines sits that I want to read and get ideas/contacts from. The question becomes: What's important? (and what does that word important actually mean anyway?) My go-to place is that money-making is quite crucial, yet that seems to usurp a lot of time I might spend creating story ideas. The trick, I think, is to shift out of the mindset that I only have now to make money and that I have some faraway wide open future date to be creative. And since, at the rate things are going, as long as I have use of my eyes, I'll be freelancing in some way or another.

This poses the question of balance and paying attention. As I know myself well enough after all these years to sense when I might be using something as an excuse, I'm just gonna come out and admit it: I'm scared of the great wide open. Afraid of finding out that the ideas I have are not that special after all or even discovering that deep down inside I'm actually rather lazy and don't want to do the work it takes to get something from point A to Z. This is why I enjoy deadlines. I have no choice. I've got to get it done. Apparently this is also why I majored in journalism and didn't get my MFA in fiction. I like assignments with end dates.

Which brings me right back around to training for the marathon—which I've always viewed as a metaphor for life—and time. It's now the final days of crunch and while I'm not altogether looking forward to strapping on my sneakers for my 20-mile run today (yes, I know, I need to get going soon), I also appreciate that it says right there in a squiggle on my calendar what needs to be done. But I'm also learning to bend the rules a bit. A few weeks ago, one of the ladies in my S class invited a group of us to her place in the Berkshires. On my sheet of little boxes that stands for September, there was a run scheduled, yet I ignored it and went away for the day to eat, laugh, wander the roads (where swarms of mosquitoes laid in wait), dance and drink. It was a blast (picture at top reflects that), and it was great to play. I realize that it's up to me what I do with all the space—fear or no, squiggles and all—and in some ways it doesn't even matter. I can say the sky's purple and the days contain 38 hours, and while that's not technically true, I can fill up that sky and those hours with a balance of what I need to do and what I want, regardless of whether I can tell the difference between the two. It'll all be just fine...even if it's not.

Old/new, tried/true

Right now a man is lying beside me and it's comforting to hear him breathing deeply and to know there are wonderful, fun moments and crunchy, unsure bits. that that's part of living. Twenty years ago, very close to this actual time, I was eye-ing a particular guy and wondering what it would be like if he were lying beside me. He was giving me all kinds of signs for me to find out, yet I was too awkward, unsure—in that moment at least—to actually take him up on it, afraid of what to do with the brittle not-perfect bits. Thinking I could ward them off by taking more time to make it all perfect, then act. not realizing how overrated perfection is.

A few hours ago, I was sitting in a room with a group of amazing women--some of whom I know and some i don't--listening to an enigma of a lady talk about what a difference we girls can make in this world just by being our messy selves, and i am in full agreement. When I started taking S classes my self did change and so went the world around me. I brought and wrought that change and I'm glad she started something for me to find. But I have no illusions that she or I or what she started is perfect, cuz truth*be*told, that would be boring. it's quite wonderful that it introduced me to myself in a very powerful way, and now I can take that into the rest of the world to investigate what else moves and shakes to my liking.

Twenty years ago, minus a few hours, I was standing in a club listening to an enigma of a band made up of boys that would make a difference to a lot of people in the world, including me. But the difference was, I was watching, not doing. It was a boys boys boys world, and i loved it, but I worked hard to make myself fit into it, which of course was impossible. But damn if i didn't love trying and wouldn't have traded it for anything. The impact was profound and lingers to this day.

I went back to visit that world, and even wrote an article about it and it felt so good to do that because I felt i had nothing to lose. Don't get me wrong, the actual deadline and writing of the piece was all the sweet torture I remember from magazine editors and 2AM mornings of finding the right ending because it's due...in 5 hours. gulp. rinse and repeat. but i had nothing to lose as far as my self was concerned. i felt like a stronger writer because my life didn't depend on it. and, oh back in the day, my life truly felt like it rose and fell with every word. none could be wrong. now i know the beauty of wrong, and raw, and stumbles, and flow. Of falling and getting back up. of sometimes hooking your leg and finding yourself aloft and sometime just not quite getting there and landing back on the floor. of memories and of now. Of listening to my good friend and teacher describe an arch of my back and leg on a pole, my head hovering above the floor and I do it. and i'm safe, and it hurts, but oh so wonderfully because i'm strong and brave enough to try. and I feel good knowing that i can handle it, i can fall, too. i like hearing him breathe raggedy beside me because it's not perfect, it's just living.

Madge

There are certain TV ads that stand out as markers in my life (PlopPlop, FizzFizz=watching The Sonny and Cher show with my grandma on a summer saturday night when I was little. Clap on/Clap off=newly moved to NYC watching The Mary Tyler Moore show at 11.30PM after a waitressing shift at Yaffa Cafe... and on and on.) One chestnut that's popped into my brain lately had the tag line "You're soaking in it." The premise was this: a lady's getting her nails done and complaining to her manicurist, the oh-so-wise Madge, about the state of her hands after doing dishes. Madge suggests she switch to Palmolive dishwashing liquid. When the woman looks doubtful, Madge says, "You're soaking in it" at which point the lady recoils and reflexively pulls her hand out of the goo, because soaking in dishwashing liquid is not her idea of what happens during a fancy manicure...naturally. Madge simply rolls her eyes, chuckles and pushes the lady's hand back into the bowl. Nuff said.

Lately I've found myself needing a little touch of Madge in my reality as I agitate around the idea of what life is supposed to look like. My expectations of how job interviews are supposed to go, the way story assignments are meant to unfold, what intimacy in relationships feels like and what communication between friends is meant to be. I've found myself taking a turn down Frustration Avenue and, no surprise, discovered a dead end street there, having stopped breathing in the air of joy that I really do know exists.

Today as I ran around Central Park and really paid attention to how gorgeous the day was and took in some deep deep breaths, I started to find my way back to the realization that things don't often look or feel like you think they should or would, and actually that's rather amazing. That in choosing to go down that particular avenue of F that I was chasing a mirage of how I thought things should go, at the mercy of other people's timing and ideas, forgetting that I can choose to accept things as they are and keep my hand there, or pull my hand out if I'm honestly not feeling it. And inside of all those moments there is real wonder, excellence and joy plus challenge, too, as long as I pay attention and let it come, let it be.

Life, I'm soaking in it. Thanks, Madge.

slip and slide

This is the view from the bedroom window during a particularly steamy summer 2011 sunset. It's gorgeous, eh? (That's New Jersey across the Hudson River.) When this pic was taken it was during a week when the temperature had reached about a million degrees (actually 100-and-something including humidity) and the Hudson was uninhabitable for the regular kayakers, jet-skiers, and even swimmers (oh, yes they do) because a sewage plant had sprung a leak of toxic materials that had yet to be stopped or cleaned up. Yet still, when you look at this picture, it's a beautiful thing to see, shimmering light, heavy-weighted clouds, and hot sun)!

I'm currently having moments that remind me that day-to-day, minute-to-minute, the challenge is how I see things, take them in, trying not to bring enormous amounts of backstory and judgment to the situation. If I take the picture apart, I guarantee I won't let myself just appreciate what's in front of me. For instance, I've always had a picture of myself writing a blog entry at least once a week, that hasn't happened. Of course that's been on my mind for the last few weeks and I painted myself a bit ugly because of it, but at some point I just thought "I'll get to it" and now I'm here.

While that was one I let myself off the hook on fairly quickly, it appears there are other things in my life that I feel I have to root around in, get dirty with, wrestle to the ground, and somehow, er, tame/understand/solve. And, even as I write that the snarky voice in my head says "Right. How's that workin' for ya?" actually, not so well, as I found out this last weekend during class. I thought I needed to revisit a song that carried a lot of history and weight (oh, taskmaster-self, why do you rule me so...when I let you? ). I thought I'd make it my own. The thought process went a little like this: Look at how far I've come, healed, I'm gonna dance it out to that song that floods me with uncomfortable memories and make it my own....

And wow what a weird ride it was. First of all, the notes started and I absolutely froze, paralyzed, couldn't move. I'm lucky enough to have a teacher who recognized this wasn't moving me anywhere anytime soon (in fact she said "It's like foreplay that goes nowhere" which I thought brilliant, since that about sums up why this song is such mindf$%k for me). She switched it to a something similar, but much more cathartic for me. But then I went nuts and suddenly their was anger rising up and spilling out, which was okay except I wasn't really paying attention to myself, taking any care of my body (and, if the ladies there weren't so excellent knowing this room is where it can all roll safely, I'd have sworn that I became very scary). In that moment I was so angry that I couldn't solve this thing. Make myself all better. I raged against it.

And here's the thing that finally came to me as I unpacked it all in the hallway with my teach: there's nothing to solve. I'm fine. It's done and I didn't need to revisit anywhere (hence my paralysis as there was nowhere for me to go). I've moved through this stuff and while some slip and slide happens, there are times I need reminding that a moment in life is just a moment. It won't be wrestled and tamed. Doesn't need to be. Can just exist in its own space, though I may touch-pearls-and-wave at it once in awhile just to know I can. If I take the picture apart, thinking I can put it back together again the way I want it to look, I'm just going to lose a piece here and there and it will come out all cubist. It's fine how it is.

When I was little I had a summertime toy called a Slip'n'Slide that was basically a strip of long, flat plastic, the width of a body, that you ran a hose through so you could, er, slip and slide down the length of plastic, picking up speed&getting soaked as you hurtled toward the end. As I remember it, when I first got it I mistakenly placed it facing the street and if I'd lived on a busy street--instead of one little-traveled--would have ended up being dumped straight into traffic and flattened by a car, instead I ended up with some scrapes and a mouthful of pebbles. But that didn't stop me from loving this toy and using it almost every day during the summer (after unfurling it in the backyard away from traffic). This, to me, becomes a metaphor for the here&now (and beyond) because I will slip and I will slide and I will end up with a mouthful of pebbles and some scrapes and I will end up squealing with joy and getting soaked, too. Even as I go back in time to look at snapshots of my life, and even write stories about them, I'm not going to wrestle with them or try to repaint the picture. My gallery of life.

One of my dance luvuhs sent me this article that ties into soooo perfectly and worth the (very quick&lovely) read! Tiny Wisdom: Letting Go of Painful Memories

a funny thing happened on the way to 50

This is my foot. This is my foot at 50. I have two of them, but the picture didn't come out so well with both of them featured. Here's the thing that you maybe can't see: this foot is pink with sunburn because, apparently, it doesn't matter what age I am, I still forget to put sunscreen on those tender bits that never see the light of day, like the tops of feet. hmmm.

These feet, though, have carried me through a whole lot of adventures. They've danced, run, skipped, and walked many streets. They still do that, but in the last couple of weeks they've also been put to the test of resisting the desire to run away (more figuratively than literally) as it seemed the wheels were coming off the (metaphorical) vehicle that had been carrying my day to day forward. The new job I'd started which allowed me to earn a comfortable sum while also having time for my writing came quite suddenly and unexpectedly crashing to a halt; the book proposal I'd been crafting and had turned in seemingly ready to peddle was rethought by the agent as needing a complete rewrite; the apartment I own (which, by the way, is mortgaged by an institution so onerous that even a money manager I spoke to said "Oh, they're...er... tough...," when I told him how many times they'd denied my petition to lower my rate), anyway, the tenants who the day before were ready to re-sign the sublet lease changed their mind and said they'd be moving. This all unfolded over a few day period and I swear I felt a little like I was living in a wack-a-mole game, as if life's mallet was landing squarely on my head over and over. MiHoney said, between giving me cocktails, kleenex and hugs, Sometimes you need to shake things up, get through the logjam and get to the other side. Philosophically, even spiritually, I knew this to be true, but I still didn't want any of it to be happening. (He also said "Do three things" which seemed highly doable. action. i do like that.)

So I was in it. A few days away from the half-century mark of my life and I had a choice: a) feel sorry for myself, b) get on with it, c) change my identity and have those feet carry me away. I went with a) for a bit, ruminated on c) for a second, and settled on b). So the wheels came off the vehicle that I thought was carrying me so securely, it was time to fashion another one. And a funny thing happened as I investigated how that might look: I got a call from an old friend who works for a London magazine asking if I'd be interested in being sent to Seattle to write about the 20th anniversary of the release of Nevermind; a woman who is singing at the Metropolitan Opera this fall is going to sublet my apartment; the onerous bank is quiet for now as my accounts are brought up to date. Three things and beyond.

Then the weekend came for my birthday and it was glorious! Blue, blue skies, the sun shining, and fluffy clouds. And after a brief period of motoring, mihoney and I ended up at a ritzy beach village where many adventures ensued. Watching the local firemen douse a spontaneous car fire, I thought that was a kind of apt, though maybe over-the-top, way to welcome us to the area (no humans or animals were hurt in the process, only a very cool, old Corvette suffered), a moment that was followed—in no particular order—by amazing swims in the ocean, a stay in an old, awesome bed&breakfast, sipping G&T's on our terrace, laughing a lot, wandering the town to find limes and tonic (we discovered the people of this town have no concept of distance), Rudy Giulliani blocking our path on the sidewalk, bum-rushing an art opening where free champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries were enjoyed, helping a bicyclist who was grazed and dumped off his bike by a car, watching a valet relay race outside a ritzy party, eating amazing food, and, did I mention floating and paddling in the vast and magical ocean? Oh, and getting a little sunburn...

On the way back from this wonderland of fun, as we were a few blocks from home, mihoney asked me to remind him to make an appointment with a physical therapist for a hip situation and I asked him to remind me to file for unemployment, and it suddenly seemed funny. How that was just a snapshot where we are in our existence. The ups, the downs, the sideways. And I smiled to think what a good, strange brew this life can be.

the ladies in my life

A couple of weekends ago the annual Mermaid Parade took place in Coney Island and I got an e-mail with the subject line: Was it really 15 years ago today?! You see, a decade-and-a-half ago a group of friends and I climbed aboard a Cadillac, donned some fishnets and glitter and became a part of the parade. The fact that the car wasn't really ours and the parade wasn't really a parade (in the drive-down-the-road-at-a-steady-clip-while-doing-a-touch-pearls-and-wave-move-to-those-on-the-sidelines sense) only served to bond us more closely. We became known as The Mermaids. That we're only sometimes in touch with one another these days does not alter in any way the great and hysterical moments we had together. Moments that had begun before that fateful day in the sun when we painted up a car that one of us had, er, won(?) in a poker game, drove to Coney Island in very small amounts of clothing and fishnet stockings (under which most of us had forgotten to put on sunscreen so that at day's end our legs looked like we'd been beaten with a fly swatter), climbed on top of the metal machine that felt to be at least 180 degrees Fahrenheit to the touch, found ourselves creeping down the parade route at no more than 5 miles an hour while swatting away creeps who kept spraying us with beer and trying to take liberties while one of our amazing ladies who was driving and who happened to be pretty rad with the boxing gloves got out of the car every few feet and said "You wanna piece of me? You come any closer and that's what your gonna get." and we smiled and waved and then... we ran out of gas (apparently we were so busy forgetting sunscreen that we also forgot gasoline). the fact that we were pretty much at the end of the route—and our last nerve—motivated us to, as I remember it, abandon the car on the street and go ride the cyclone, then have some drinks, then i don't know what else. But I do know that the car was never seen again. And I'm not totally sure why...but i also know that from that day was spawned a series of monthly Mermaid dance parties at a club in NYC called Don Hill's that became legendary for fun and fabulousness.

And in thinking about this time and looking at the pictures of us (one of which is above), I realize how incredible it is, and how lucky I am, to have the ladies I do in my life. While the group may morph and ebb and flow into varying women at specific times of life, the thread that runs through it is the experience of that moment. The mermaids came at a time when the music business was my life, and we all inhabited that world in one way or another. We brought out a sort of fearlessness in each other that I still call on to this day, a confidence born of camaraderie that felt invincible.

And it wasn't only those five women at that time: there were at least a half-dozen others for whom I'd have (and still would) give&do anything. My two oldest friends who I'd known in Cali and who'd moved to NYC around the same time as I did—and who I'm still lucky enough to know today—were the bane of countless friday nights at our regular bar in the east village (next to the laundromat where miraculously my friend and I managed to get our clothes clean between shots). And the dinners I get to have today with two friends who I also knew/met in music biz days that now have amazing kids and lives that, though seemingly different from my day-to-day, bring me right back to the comfort zone of who and how we are. These four ladies remind me of just how awesome it is to be curious about what's next. We know where we've come from and what we've come through, we don't know what's to come, yet the humor and wonder of us gives me hope. And no matter how long between coming together again, whether by phone or face, brings the joy of picking up where we left off.

My dance ladies inspire another level of connection that is born out of newness, though the years they do roll, and the discovery that our passion for what we do physically and see in others and onstage is ongoing. This wrap-around brings me the confidence to keep finding out what my body and mind are capable of, especially when I start to go down the road of time&age, yet any misgivings I have disappear when we're all together. And, in fact, the studio introduced me to a type of friendship that had nothing to do with movement in careers and everything to do with movement in body&soul. Again, though many of the women I knew in my original class are rolling and tumbling out of my sight, they're not out of my mind&heart and those initial days I think about with amazement because they were minus the competitive streak that can so often come from women's groupings.

In writing my book I'm coming across many examples (in fact my entire thesis is based upon) the fact that so often women do things in competition with each other: fashion, body modification, money making and love making being at the top of the list. And while a little rivalry can sometimes be a healthy moment (read: when I did a pole inversion I hadn't done in awhile—and didn't think i could actually do anymore—because I was in a group with two women that I was determined to not flail in front of), I know I've been incredibly lucky to be with women who just bring the equality. Maybe I'm just naive and missing some cues, but overall I've felt that no matter where I am financially, professionally or generationally I'm in the company of women who teach, support, inspire and entertain me and that makes it so much fun to give it right back. Even as I write this I think of more and more ladies I want to mention who are in/and have been in my life, yet that would make this post go on until next year. In essence, before I'm tempted to start belting out a sappy "wind under wings" kind of ditty, I'm going to wrap it up knowing that the smiles, memories and fun continue!

the men in my life

oh my cool and groovy dad (check the sideburns). He's still cool and groovy, though the sideburns don't look quite the same. He instilled in me a lot of things: love of reading and all things words, appreciation of art (him being a graphic designer and all, though I can't draw a straight line to save myself, i like how they look. i like the squiggly ones, too), a passion for music, and most important, the ability to look around me without judging the who or what I see. Even though this last quality is something I fall down on all the time (and I suspect he has his share of that, as well), it's something I'm so appreciative for having grown up with that I keep on paying attention. As an only child there were plenty of chances for me to get spoiled. Then as an only child of divorced parents, the scales shifted slightly, but the luck fell on the side of me never feeling pulled by one parent's judgment toward the other. Instead I had a pretty great freedom in taking each for who they were, untainted by the crazy anger you often see/hear about in really gnarly splits.

As life rolled on, my dad's cool factor maintained even into my teenage-hood. The fact he bought me almost all of Elton John's albums (yes, vinyl. yes, I melted for Elton John. I also adored Freddie Mercury. Big crush on both. Wanted to marry them.No idea that I was on the wrong team. This confusion regarding radar may have lasted into my later years...) and the memory of me explaining to him the profoundness of the lyrics to "The Bitch Is Back"—yikes, I wish I could remember what made them, er, profound—makes me realize how determined I was to have him understand the things I enjoyed. Even when he came, decades later, to meet me for lunch at the airport hotel where, as a reporter with Spin, i was stationed for a music convention featuring many metal bands, and the elevator door opened into the lobby where he stood and watched me step out followed by all manner of crazy-haired, tattooed, leather-wearing rock guys did he seem to doubt my choices (though I think he did ask "What exactly are you here to do?"). And that, I realize, has instilled me with a great fearlessness.

Although I'm often confused about my choices, usually in retrospect (see Elton John, Freddie Mercury mentions above), I do think that taking my first steps into a decision, taking a chance, grabbing an opportunity even if it vaporizes in my hands, is something I've been given because of his belief in me. That while looking at the situation with clear eyes is important, if there's an inkling that it can be achieved, enjoyed, learned from...then why not?

It's taken me quite awhile to let the right one in as far as my romantic heart goes. I've given it away plenty of times inappropriately even if the receiver didn't realize I was actually giving it (again, see EJ and FM mentions above), but I've never given and received equally as I'm getting to do in my life right now. I'm also making the acquaintance of the part of me that could be referred to as my masculine side, which I think is more just about that inner power that feels dominant and is more expressed by men. In the studio lately I've been a bit of a beast. Not in an altogether menacing way (tho I did try to follow one of my classmates around for an entire song and take over whatever chair or pole she was using, but she seemed to enjoy the give and take). It feels more like in an exploratory investigation where it's fun to strut and beat my chest a bit (not quite literally) and because this activity is assigned mostly to men, it's thought of as a primarily male attitude. But I'm enjoying the outlet and am quite absolutely sure that because of the men in my life—really all of them in one way or another, but two very particularly right now—that I can enjoy that part of me without fear of judging by either myself or someone else.

Jacoby & Pronk - Mia Michaels Rehearsal

so you think you can dance?

I get a weekly astrology e-mail from Rob Brezny that I take in certain doses of seriousness (depending on my mood, etc.). But this week's actually resonated in a way that had me reading it over again a few times:

CANCER (June 21-July 22): I'm not a big fan of the "No Pain, No Gain"
school of thought. Personally, I have drummed up more marvels and
wonders through the power of rowdy bliss than I have from hauling
thousand-pound burdens across the wasteland. But I do recognize that in
my own story as well as in others', hardship can sometimes provoke
inspiration. I think it may be one of those moments for you, Cancerian.
Please accept this medicinal prod from the ancient Roman poet Horace:
"Adversity has the effect of eliciting talents that in times of prosperity
would have lain dormant."

While I'm not living in the land of deep adversity at present, I am in a mode of needing to unearth some talents that I wasn't sure I had. A lot of it is beginning again/facing challenges that are a bit unnerving.

I started a new job and while it's happily working a part of my writing/organizational brain that's lain dormant for awhile (ok, actually i'm also excavating a part of my brain that's never been used: namely the left side having to do with medical terms and such), I also realize how impatient I am regarding my own learning curve, basically that i only give myself about an hour before i think i should have it all down. It's like i know logically that's an outrageous demand, somehow my ego thinks i'm different and capable of superhero-like immediate intelligence.

So, there's that. Then there's also this moment with my book proposal: the agent I contacted is awesome and giving me good notes on what to do in order to give the overview and chapters the most punch so publishers will say YES, let's buy this idea and have this woman write the book. The thing is...i hate rewriting because somehow i think of it as having to...yes, start again. (Even though i realize revisiting is really more what's going on. Reworking. Remodeling. Reaffixing.) Again, my ego says What? it's not perfect the first time? Well, no, it's not.

In other movement: I'm taking a class taught by one of my favorite people, and she's kicking my ass. Breaking down moves that i kind of thought i knew but realize i'd fallen into a habit of laziness with, and i'm surprised at how resistant my body has gotten about correcting. I've had moments where i thought Did I ever know how to execute this spin correctly in the first place? At the S studio, I'm also in a new place, and that's a lovely challenge on a whole other level to do with honesty and rawness.

There's new territory being forged with mi honey. And the heart-land is a place that scares me like no other. it's a landscape so totally foreign to me (read: trust, patience, resting in each other's arms) that it's like starting a new language. Even if we're learning it together, it's still a surprise.

I'm getting that life is always about the flexibility and willingness to grow, move through things, take the learning, leave behind the stucked-ness. Start again. Right now, although it seems that everything's rolling at once, i know there's a rhythm to it. It's just me slowing down and appreciating, paying attention to, the steps. not being afraid to do a little cha-cha-cha.

I'm including a video (see above) by my favorite dancers choreographed by a woman who I think brings the challenge of movement like no other: Jacoby and Pronk with Mia Michaels. (also recently posted on one of my other favorite blogs: Arial Amy)

SeeSaw

This morning on my run I passed a sign for a nearby playground with a picture of a seesaw on it (the fact that there wasn't actually a seesaw in the playground, or come to think of it, ever a seesaw that i've seen in an NYC playground made me want to find one somewhere. but i digress). It got me thinking about the nature of trust, balance and what we see and don't see right in front of us.

In the last week I've started this new job where I work primarily on my own and that can be really peaceful, but also somewhat stressful in that I'm not totally sure the process of how the whole thing works yet. But it's coming slowly and I'm starting to trust that I'm not completely f$*&ing it up, yet I realize that not having the ability to just walk across an aisle and ask someone is actually a bit awesome&terrifying. I've been ruminating on the nature of dependency: How there's sometimes a little buzzing need under the surface of the skin to be able to look out and see yourself reflected in another human, whether that's someone doing a similar something or just someone you want to be there.

The thing about the seesaw is that there is someone working with you, balancing out the activity, and you might have your eye on them, but you can't really get any closer than you are. there's trust they'll do what they need to in order that the rhythm keeps going, or you agree to stop. And, as I remember it from my seesawing days, sometimes the someone on the other end drops out of view, below the line of vision, for just a split second—or maybe that was just when I closed my eyes—but in any case, the sense of flying solo, yet being supported is magnificent.

I've been having that seesaw reminder in a particular relationship at present, where a certain amount of trust is called into action because although that someone may seem out of emotional sight lines for the moment, they haven't jumped off the ride altogether, and hopefully are gaining some momentum and free-flying fun of their own. Yet then when eyes do meet across the space, there's a gladness to know said person's there, figuring out the right balance, speed, etc.

Often in class during the dance i feel the give-and-take presence of who's on the other side, balancing out the rhythm in the room. and while my eyes are often closed, I can feel they're all there and putting just as much faith into the movement as I am. they might be surprised that we're going faster or slower, but generally we're all in it together.

As i lift and fall through these moments I'm glad to know I'm sharing the balance, yet can also feel my legs getting stronger with each proverbial push.

a Goldilox moment

Looking for the just-right. Interesting how that can be such a time-killer, a way to put off the settling down and in. Yesterday was the first day of some newness. I've taken on a freelance job that is not dependent on me showing up anywhere and I got a go-ahead to polish up a couple of things so that the agent I'd submitted my book proposal could shop it around. Both of these things are awesome, and also dependent on me getting on with it! So, of course it was crucial that I spend the first half of the day wandering around from location to location to find a spot that would be perfect for me to sit down and work. It had to be a table with a chair, some sunshine, but not too much that it would obscure my computer screen, maybe some music on in the background, but not too loudly...easy, right? hah. First I went to a local cafe, bought coffee, set myself up and found out they didn't have wi-fi access. hmmm. ok, took my coffee and wandered by Starbux. no. Came back to the apartment and went into the common garden. Literally went from table to table (there are three) and chair to chair (there are six, and two benches) and sat down at/in each. looked around at the view. What did I want to look at? What did I want to feel? By this time 2 full hours had gone by (and the kids at the play area next door were let out to frolic....oops, too much noise). After finding a table that worked, I sat there for another hour until I realized I was freezing and hungry. I finally came upstairs and settled down at my desk to finish off my work. Seriously: too big, too small, too hot, too cold...looking for the just right and realizing there's really no such thing from the outside in.

I kind of remembered this thinking about how when i'm in a writing groove, I could probably be hanging from my ankles (more about this later) and still go forward with the story. Which also reminded me that the romantic vision of how freeing it is to be your own boss is often much stronger as a wish than a reality. Writers might be singularly set up to be solo creatures, yet it can still be eerie to not speak to anyone for hours on end.

So yesterday I realized that just-right is whatever i decide it is, which will help me to stop avoiding the just-get-down-to-it.

And about hanging from my ankles (really this will tie into the just-right moments as well): Yesterday, while challenging/spinning/climbing through a new class (what's become one of my favorite hour's of the week), my teacher was watching me swing through a move i've done (in theory) many many times before, tho not under her tutelage. As she observed that I was stepping off on the wrong foot, and as I listened and corrected and then proceeded to step off on the wrong foot again and again, she said, that instinct must be somewhere deep in your body. Yes, see, i always thought i was doing it just right...and somewhere inside i stubbornly couldn't let that go, even tho i totally understood that it wasn't correct, in fact made the move harder. After class I was lucky enough to be in attendance at an open rehearsal for one of my favorite set of dancers, Jacoby & Pronk. As I sat in a dance studio with only about 15 other people watching these amazing bodies talking through routines and practicing over and over choreography they'd done many many times before, they became stuck on one move.
Drew Jacoby said, "Hmmm, maybe this motion is too deep in my body and I can't get to it anymore." And, there it is, i thought, the just-right. we think we've got it, but even if it shifts ever-so-little, it'll trip the whole thing out of focus. so spinning into the too big, the too little, the just right and making it our own, that's the challenge.

Now I'm off to eat some porridge and break some chairs (metaphorically speaking).

PS. if you're anywhere in the tri-state NYC area this saturday (14th), try to go to this Jacoby&Pronk performance/fundraiser. they're so deserving of the support and spotlight that will be shining on them! Here's a link:
http://jacobypronk.com/go/party.html

the big ask

i make a lot of stuff up. all the time. about a lot of things. and when i do that, i often forget that maybe all i have to do is ask and i'll find out something closer to the truth (whatever that is...).

for instance: when my ex and i split up, i got custody of his big, old cat, along with my own slightly smaller, old cat. they did seem a set and the ex was moving to Cali, so it just made sense. plus, the boy-cat, although ornery and high-maintenance, was also lovable in his own way. As the years have passed, this furry beast has become a bit more, er, beastl-y. in all honesty, he's just responding to the fact that his body is breaking down, as bodies are wont to do as they get older. and he's got some particular problems (diabetes, near-blindness, weird inner-ear issues) that have been intensifying over the last little while. for a while now i've been harboring some anger at the ex for not being more present in taking care of him (namely to the tune of dollars and cents), and when i moved in with my honey a few months ago, i even entertained the thought of having the ex sublet my place, cats and all (i know, totally wrong-headed idea, but sometimes i'm crazy like that). Anyway, in the last weeks, the boy-cat has been slipping a bit and i stood on the edge of a decision to put him to sleep, as quality of life seemed seriously impaired. So I sent out a message that this action may be imminent, but it weighed on me. i just couldn't bring myself to do it, and the boy seemed somewhat ok and it was just a damn quandry. an either/or, life/death question. then, upon talking to my mom and mi honey, it was posed to me: why not ask the ex to come and get his cat for the duration? of course i made up that a big No-can-do would be the response. Imagine my surprise when the message back was, Yes. I will take him if that's what you want. When's a good time to pick him up? I felt nauseous suddenly. I'd gotten what I wanted, so why did i feel so confused? i'm just not used to it: the asking and the affirmative. when i think all i'm going to get is a No, then i talk myself out of asking. I also do that awesome thing of assuming i'm not right in asking in the first place. wacky. getting this Yes put me in the position of getting what i wanted, and while i'd like to say that gave me a rush, it actually totally threw me off kilter. did i really want this? (actually, yes, i'm ready for the furry boy to spend what he's got left with the guy who took him as a kitten. and me to have some breathing room from his caretaking.) The Yes also let me know that i can always ask, and again, that makes me nervous, tho the powerful part of it is slipping in. I can be prepared for No's, in fact i may be more used to that. but again, i'm sure i've made that up...i get Yes's just as much.

so i tested the asking again. going to get cat food(?!?!?! seriously, a theme here?), i was in what appears to be the most popular grocery store in all of the universe: Whole Foods, Chelsea (apparently it's their special sauce...). the check out line snaked through the store (seriously). BUT at the coffee bar spot in the back of the store there was no one. nada. i was sure the counter lady was bored silly. so i asked her if i ordered something with caffeine, could i pay for my stuff. Yes. Crazy...and this time it felt good to trip past the line-drones on my way out of the store. just ask, i thought.

i've got a few good things on my list-of-now-future to ask for. so even if i make stuff up, as i will no doubt continue to do, as long as i remember to open my mouth and pose a question...why not?

(boy cat on left, girl furry on right)

BTW: because no post would be complete without a little dancy-dance mention, here tis: Dance Luvuhs and I went to see Karole Armitage's new program this week. Truly crazy wonderful. She is by far in my top-5 of choreographers (Jacoby & Pronk in there as well). Her boldness, braveness and all around rad sense of self is beyond inspiring. She was actually one of my first blog postings (January 2010) and my passion about her work and her coolness has changed not one bit. As a mature woman who is doing what she wants, creating how she wants and succeeding, she inspires me. one of her quotes that i feel embodies dance and life is this: “Seek beauty. Show mutability. Move like a blaze of consciousness. Perfection is the devil. Express the eroticism of gravity.” Next to Rumi, she has become someone whose words speak to me powerfully.
Here's a clip of the third part of the show: a merging of toe shoes and rock chords that is stultifying. chaos and love. Drastic Classicism:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yP-0bDaGGvI
Also: one of my dance luvuhs has an awesome blog. her last post perfectly encapsulates how the intersection of the Armitage and life come together. check it out: Buddha Becky.

what will be...

I'm currently working on a book proposal having to do with the tight lacing movement in corsetry during the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. In sum, this is a form of body modification primarily practiced by women whereby a corset is cinched tighter and tighter over time to reduce the waist size dramatically, the goal usually being somewhere between 16 and 18 inches (from a normal 20-plus size circumference). The reason I'm so fascinated by this process is the psychology attached. The fact that tight lacing was at its peak in practice during the Victorian era when women had very little control over their lives (even less than in previous centuries when at least piano legs weren't covered for fear that they suggested lascivious curves). In all honesty, men didn't have a helluva lot of freedom either, yet, being (usually white) guys, they still had mostly the upper hand.

So what really moves me is how these women found a way to control their body in such a way that it was within respectable bounds—corsets being an expected article of clothing for all women—while still giving a healthy fuck-U to those who would have them conform. Of course the other side of this story is the extremes women would go to in order to stand out in the crowd and be noticed by men—since marriage was still the ultimate expectation of the time. Where i'm going with this is how women lose themselves while still fighting, sometimes to the detriment of their health, for a way to be found on their own terms. As I do the research, i'm reminded of how lucky I am to live in this day and age given my freedom of movement and literal ability to breathe (given that I'm not forcibly laced into a contraption that stops me from taking air fully into my lungs), yet i'm still enraged over and over again when I listen to the debate in Congress about rescinding government funding for Planned Parenthood. Again, ownership? I can't believe this argument is still going on with no signs of it diminishing in ferocity. One of the more telling moments i've come across in my reading is the fact that before the early-twentieth century, doctors paid very little attention to health concerns specific to women. So, for instance, a woman's pregnancy did not begin until she decided that it did, usually when she first felt the baby move. Oftentimes when a woman didn't want to be pregnant and knew that she was because she hadn't gotten her period, it was referred to as a blockage and a tightly laced corset was employed to remove it. (Great information about this in a book called Bound to Please by Leigh Summers.)

Now, this is an awfully brutal way to take control of one's body, and in a time when health care was even less reliable (for different reasons) than it is today, I'm not suggesting this was a positive way to live, but it does speak to the way in which women used what was at hand to control what they could. Pregnancy was not a celebration, but a duty, and sometimes a curse as well, one that often kept them bedridden for months. The thought of a woman experiencing passion of any sort was completely negated with the Victorian view being that a normal female would never get turned on. A classic story of the time: A young English girl asks her mom how she should behave on her wedding night, and is told, "Lie still and think of the empire." Sex as duty. No fun.

Again, I'm reminded of how lucky I am to be here now, when I can spend time not only expressing but celebrating my physicality and sexuality. But I'm also reminded of what a challenge it can still be to own the depths and heights of it. It's an individual journey, not dictated by a man, yet letting myself take that trip can be hard. A seemingly simple assignment in class to bring in song and movement that encompasses love kind of tripped me up this week. I realized how hard it was for me to let go in the emotion, even when invited to do so. A little I felt exposed in front of others (even though they are beyond supportive), mostly I was afraid of how dissolving in the complete luckiness of my situation, moving how I wanted to sounds that reminded me of my love(r) and my own desire were mine to have how I wanted, and it stopped me in my tracks. In a way, emotionally I laced myself up rather tightly, yet still I could feel the cords dangling for me to undo. I know all the knots i've made, it's just a matter of loosening them. The more stories I hear, read and write about women, life, humans and circumstances, the more I see that we are responsible to find our freedom and it can sometimes be more challenging to push against ourselves than against blowhards in congress or strictures in society.

These fine characters (from left: Polaire, Willy, Collette) make an appearance in my book. Notice the tiny, tiny waist on Polaire, who trained her waist down to silly proportions and ostensibly admitted to being the "ugliest" actress in the world, yet who knew her power to manipulate an audience with her fierce personality and performance. she was a bit of a punk rocker in her time, not afraid to show anger, emotion, passion...at least onstage. Though Willy, Collette's husband at the time, thought he had the upper hand in starting her career onstage, she went on to leave him in the dust. And Collette did pretty well without him, too. Breathe.....

mama's got a brand new bag

There was a time when I carried around a picture of this marc jacobs bag (see above to get general idea) that I coveted. It wasn't just the bag that i desired (tho it was a sweet chocolate brown leather with some slouchy style and well-placed pockets), it was what this bundle of cowhide, straps and clasps represented that made me want to own it. Not status or cachet, but instead this bag symbolized an anchor in my life to stop spinning.

At the time I was teaching writing workshops in the public schools, and while there were absolutely moments of satisfaction and smiles, it was also a really hectic and taxing gig, both emotionally and physically. I carried with me to every school a massive satchel filled with the students' writing books, groves-worth of Xeroxes with poems and stories to pass out, a couple of tiny speakers and a portable CD player for writing warmups. The bag was huge and every day was dragged to another school in another borough—sometimes two locales in a day—and filled with ever-more stuff. When I spotted the Marc Jacobs advertisement, it was on a subway platform where, exhausted, I was waiting for a connecting train. It dawned on me that along with that purse i wanted a one-trick day. By shrinking my bag I would open up my life, have more freedom of movement...I dubbed this the search for the "little-purse job."

I did eventually get one job at one location at one magazine (with fierce sample sales, though the M.Jacobs bag was never in my universe), and carried one purse, which I still managed to cram full of stuff—for some reason it seems important to carry enough reading material to last me a month or so if I'm ever stuck in the subway. It also dawned on me around that time how disillusioned I was about what I needed, whether that was space, time or communication. For instance, I'd always use a post-it when what I really needed was a full-size (sometimes even poster-size) sheet of blank paper. This (and the bag) became a metaphor for my life. An example of how it didn't matter whether I had tons of room or a tiny amount, I was confused about how to manage any of it. I wondered how I could be more honest about what exactly I needed by taking my time and looking at what was around me. And then putting it in the proverbial bag if needed, putting it aside if not, and being forthright about using up as much space as necessary. I still find myself starting large on a small scrap, then cramping little words in the margin as I run out of space.

How to be bold about staying in that generous moment? being judicious, being patient. Using discretion with the who and what around me. And in so doing, allowing other people to have as much space as they need as well. I've felt challenged lately with time. feel my jaw clenching around wanting answers to things that i can't control, other people's actions that I can't have anything to do with. And i'm realizing that if i just slow down and see what i'm filling myself up with (emotionally speaking) that i'll have so much more room. I've been slower than ever in my studio movement, literally taking molasses-like moments to move my hand over my knee or peel off an item of clothing. I've kept my eyes open and watched the room around me and it's absolutely luxurious, but then suddenly it becomes excruciating and, without thinking, I spin out and roll away. the space feels too much, too raw with possibilities. A billboard-size opportunity to fill up (and i could), a perfect M.Jacobs bag to hold my stuff (and I would). And i will...keep trying.

catching air

*****

no control. taking chances. not knowing what's coming. all this enters my mind as I begin to fully realize that the people, places and things in my life will roll forward without my being able to control them one way or another. Of course, I realize it's up to me how I face these moments, how I take them in and what I do with them. That's my choice.

I used to spend a lot of time hyper-aware of tailoring the image of how others saw me. making sure i always did the right (or, more specifically, what i thought was the right) thing to do for the occasion. Tried hard not to disappoint, then would wonder why it was that i was exhausted and always felt like taking a nap. I remember learning a very valuable lesson regarding the real versus the manufactured after i left my job at Spin and started working at a record company. In retrospect, this lesson resonates now more than it did then.

When i was a journalist sort, it was contingent on the artists to be nice (or naughty, depending on their reputation) so that I (the writer) would put together a piece reflecting the message that they wanted telegraphed to the world. I was quite sure that Nirvana, the humans, wanted nothing more than to have me infiltrating the nooks and crannies of their personal lives stumbling upon potentially embarrassing details, the members of Pearl Jam were just thrilled that I was lurking around their stage with a polaroid camera occasionally tripping over a mike stand or some such (oops), the Metallica boys couldn't be happier seeing me prowl through their home recording studio asking questions of the gardener and so on. It was my job to uncover these bits and pieces, but what I didn't always get was the degree to which these scenarios were tailored and lived out. I was seeing and finding mostly what they wanted me to see and find. And usually I was met with nothing but acquiescence, yet what was going on inside their heads I really couldn't know—even if I pretended that I did.

Then the veil was pulled back. I defected to the business side, joined the camp of the suits—and actually started getting a decent paycheck. But here was some truth-telling, the artists got to be more honest—at least the ones whose careers were fairly established. No longer was there any subterfuge about what they liked and didn't like. And that was a wake-up call for me. The first time a singer who'd heretofore been nothing but smiles actually snarled at me when I ask him to be a part of a well-known cable channel's music-promotion charade, I was stopped in my tracks. Whaaaat? He used to be so, how you say, nice...what happened? That I don't think he even remembered that he'd met me before really rocked my world.

But even more telling (and valuable) was that I was invited to stop being so agreeable. The fact that I didn't actually know how to do that was a big reason that my career at said record company ended pretty soon after it began. I couldn't come to grips with that concept. To say what I wanted when I felt it. To not be afraid to disappoint someone when I said No. To call it like I saw it. All very foreign concepts for me. But now I'm actually getting what a useful way of living that is. I realize there need to be filters, otherwise we could all end up like four year olds, just saying out loud what we want and see (which actually might be refreshing, but could also make for some really uncomfortable subway experiences and business meetings). Mostly though, as it really dawns on me that I have no control over what people think of me, and I acknowledge once I get out of my own self and realize it's not usually about me, but instead that there are myriad of other things going on in people's heads and hearts that could direct the conversation, I find that there's more air to breathe. It's kind of a relief if I can remember it. Remember to let it all go. Let it all fall where it may.

In an intimate setting, during a smaller than usual class, I found myself moving inside the notes of a song with no words. A tune with a lot of space inside it, but also some sharp edges that I let myself fall into. Into a place where I didn't want to control anything. And apparently that included the sounds coming out of my mouth, which took on a Venus-Williams-down-to-her-final-set-at-Wimbledon kind of noise, but afterward I felt completely emptied out in a really good way. I realized that for those moments, I didn't seem to give a fCK-all about how I was being seen (keeping in mind that I'm among a group of women where I feel really safe). And I looked at the places in my life where I let myself go honestly with no desire to control. There aren't as many as there could be—especially branching out into the places where I don't have the support of friends/lover, but I intend to find more bravery in order to let myself and others catch a bit more air. Let them be masters of their own thoughts and I of mine. It's inevitable that I'm going to disappoint people, and they me. Where I'm going to please people, and they me. And that's rather thrilling!

*****(about the photo) and again I find the Ballerina Project speaking to my aesthetic sense. this brave (not least for the reason that she's laying her body on the ground of a subway platform....eeek) photo was taken at the station across from my apartment. Clearly not shot during rush hour. see (&buy if you're inclined) their work here.

bound

held. hostage. resistance. those themes are running like a thread through my thoughts and my life right now. i wonder sometimes about the way seemingly disparate moments connect; how world's collide even when each mental continent seems to be sitting alone in its own time zone.

I'm working on a book proposal right now that has to do with corsets: the way they held/hold a woman's life in ways beyond just the physical. As I'm researching and reading (a process i enjoy so much that i could disappear down the rabbit hole and do that only...oops, time to take what I've found and write), I'm fascinated by the emotional binding that goes hand in hand with the physical lacing. The impression that, while often uncomfortable, the feel of being held tightly (even if it was just in the way of a silk, whaleboned encasement) was desired, sought after. How woman after woman talks about her sense of safety inside the constriction, the feeling of control even with diminished ability for movement.

I've been thinking about how it is that what is perceived one way is really experienced in a whole other manner. What is assumed to be a hindrance or hardship can be[is?] an actual lifeline. it's got me investigating the ways in which i bind myself to certain thoughts and patterns that are oftentimes too tightly laced for me to have free movement. But i still feel safe there and pause around loosening the stays and breathing deeper. i notice things from this perspective and realize that it's a gradual easing of those binds. sometimes i take myself hostage, metaphorically speaking, keep myself in a small area though i hear voices coming from the other room; and this then has me eye-spying a crawl space large enough to escape. but there are times i just want to know the way out is there, i don't actually want to use it...yet. I understand the psychological hold that feeling bound can have and for the longest time in class i wanted (and did to some degree) explore that. The space is as large (or small) as i want to make it, and somehow knowing that allows me to take my time unlacing my fears and joys, even with real and self-imposed deadlines.

so of course i had an opportunity with a recent assignment in class to play with the physical and emotional places hostage taking and resistance take me. i wore my corset (the real one that lives in my drawer) and explored the give and take of how it let me move. I gave in to it sometimes and other times railed against it. i forgot it was there for a minute, got tangled up in the laces (while trying to take it off, which was unsuccessful) and finally gave myself completely away to the feeling of its encasement, learned how to breathe in it and resisted it taking me over. and in the end i embraced it, realizing that no matter how i constrict myself, i still know how to untie the knot, pull the end of the string and take in air a little deeper. I can play with the resistance so as to be both challenged and held. the possibilities abound.

suspension

something interesting I'm discovering: you don't need to know where your feet are going to land in order to make a leap. In fact, it seems near-on impossible to know where one will end up after launching into the mid-air of life. While I enjoy a nice intention just like the next person, and do sense that they keep me on track (in fact deadlines, as discussed in previous posts, are almost like lifelines to me; hence my choice of professions), I'm certainly finding that no matter the situation I'm going toward, it seems to work better if i can suspend fear and just go. This comes front and center for me right now on the instance of an emotional opening (my heart, which has grown shiny in the love department), a cosmetic alteration (my hair, which has freed me up in the how-I-move-in-the-world space), and now a creative opportunity rises up in front of me (a writing project about something near and dear to me). Out of those three situations, only one does not strike a particular terror of expectation in my heart. (Hint: it's the one that has only to do with me-myself&the hairdresser.)

In the heart department, the rhythm is being found nicely in all kinds of ways—even when I can't quite find words for the feelings—and that's good, humbling and exhilarating all at once. It's the creative space where doing something I adore and having it well received (or even just received at all) is causing me to hatch all kinds of escape plans. It's interesting to watch while I attempt to run from something that promises to be fun, challenging and, ultimately, incredibly important for my growth. Although I'm not certain I was that much more fearless when I was younger, I do feel as if I had a kind of blind faith that wherever I landed would be interesting, whatever I said yes to I could handle. There's a majority of me that still feels that way, yet an extra layer's been scooped on top regarding the not doing it at all...would it really matter? Of course not in the very much larger picture, but absolutely yes in the sense-of-self arena.

When I got the job at Spin, I knew, the person who recommended me knew, even the guy hiring me had an inkling that this position was a bit above my head. I remember standing in the executive editor's office as it was offered thinking, Really? Can I do this? while out of my mouth came the words, Absolutely I can do this! I'll take it. It was a great day and a fabulously frightening moment. There was no backing down. And I did do it, even when I felt like i was drowning I did it and not altogether badly, either. That the end of that particular adventure came because I didn't stick up for myself enough, hadn't quite gotten over the sense that I never really deserved to be there, is a situation I continue to try and learn from.

Lately, dancing in the studio, I've been told to stay in my power. I'm succeeding in that much more and with incredibly satisfying results. I leave feeling as if I could wrap myself around anything and it wouldn't matter whether it went the way I thought it would or not, I'd still be standing. This is the sense of power that I want (in fact need) to bring to my writing life. No good living in the space of Oh well, why try? Instead: Hell yes, I can step into this. And of course I can. Much like a marathon, it's one mile at a time. Then the line is crossed, whether it's the finish line or a line of our own making. No predicting what the ground will look like underneath. I'm going to attempt to heed the words of tightrope walkers and action heroes the world over: Don't look down. Keep your eyes forward. You'll be just fine.

This radio lab is amazing and on topic. How we ask for help and bring the muse!
also, the photos I use of dancers (not me) are part of the amazing Ballerina Project, which uses NYC as a backdrop for beautiful juxtaposed moments of dance and city. click on to find out more!

the big reveal

I just finished the biography of Gypsy Rose Lee and what really struck me (next to her incredibly—for lack of a better word—complicated upbringing) was the concept of the reveal. Taking time to be seen and peeling back the layers with absolute confidence and power while staying with the moment. (“If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing slowly . . .very slowly,” says she.) This strikes me as apt right now because I'm in the process of a few reveals myself. One being, my face. Well, sure, I've most-of-the-time had my face out there for all to see, but for a lot of my life I've had a veil of long hair somewhat obscuring it. I'd always been a girl with bangs (see below for earliest example of that look), and then, except for a brief flirtation with an unfortunate flock-of-seagulls look (so, so very unfortunate, but it was the 80's, it's what the kids were doing), I became a rock chick (long hair with which to, er, whip around!?!*). I was also a bit of a hippie and had thoughts that I'd someday become one of those old ladies with the long gray braid down her back, which could still happen.

Anyway, this week I came out from behind the veil. I cut my hair so all I feel is it brushing the tops of my shoulders, instead of it rolling down my back. And my face is right out there with no bangs obscuring my eyes. It feels amazing! But I realize I had to be ready for it. This reveal comes along with my realization that I'd always equated the length of my hair with my ability to Peter-Pan myself into not growing up. well, guess what? i grew up anyway. And although I still often feel like i'm 15 years old, the amount of experiences I can call upon are varied and (mostly) excellent and all necessary (whether I remember them accurately or have embellished).

I've been working on letting myself be seen for quite awhile now. Not in the quick-fire, flash way I used to (see: hair-whipping, rock chick reference), but rather in the slow and brave reveal of emotions. Naturally I attribute the studio to this territorial shift, but really that's just the space I've created to try it out and express it through movement. Truth be told, I've been ready on the inside to see what would happen when I felt confident enough to give what I can, hold on to what I need and ask for what I want. It's a work in progress. But slowly, slowly, and well worth doing, I'm opening my eyes to the possibilities. And boy was I surprised when last week, upon opening them during class, I could actually see (amazingly, the first time in 3+ years in the studio that that's happened). There was nothing in the way. No sheet of hair falling between myself and the people watching me. No hiding what emotions were moving across my face, which I think varied from shock (there are people out there looking at me), to fear (there are people out there looking at me), to total happiness (geeky smile for the people out there looking at me while i stay with whatever moment i'm in). It also marks a sea-change in my relationship not only to self, but others. While i cared very much what my honey might think (in fact, happily he had a lot to do with me making the change, which was a polar opposite from relationships where i think the guy was mainly dating my hair), I also found that I didn't use reactions from others as a meter regarding how they felt about me. In fact, a lot of the time people I see every day have looked a little longer and then said things like "Are you wearing makeup?" The fact that about a foot of hair was removed from my head doesn't seem to really register. And this reminds me that I am often incredibly oblivious to what's around me as well. So, slowly slowly I realize that the view's so much better now. All I need to do is keep my eyes open.

(tho i appear to be smirking in this photo, it's only because i'm not actually sure how to take a picture of myself and smile at the same time)

(the beginning: bangs)

*Quick digression about that: when I was in the music biz, I was at a metal (the musical stylings of) convention in LA. The hotel posted signs in the lobby appealing the guests attending to please try not to clog the drains with hair...because there was so much of it in attendance. This, to me, seemed both comical and embarrassing.

space

First of all, it's hard to imagine a time when the city of NewYork is ever as empty as the picture above portrays (and certainly outside of the realm to see a ballerina in tutu and toe shoes commanding an empty intersection—though that's something I'd love to see). Instead the rhythm of this city is dictated by ebb&flow and a kind of precise choreography that keeps pedestrians and all things with wheels in a constant motion, and with a lot less bangs, bumps and bruises than i would ever think possible. What I've learned from all this is how necessary it is to give in to the movement. Fighting it—whether physically or mentally—does no good whatsoever. This acceptance has been put to the test for me this week as every single subway ride i've taken to and from work and other locales has been slowed, stopped or stymied in some way or another (and it's only wednesday). So i've been faced with the question: what do I do when I'm stopped? There are many sayings&quotes from wise people observing in one way or another how it's the journey not the destination/that the grace by which you get there says everything, etc. etc. And while I most of the time believe that's true, my challenge comes with what goes on in the space of actual stoppage...not the movement itself, but the stock-stillness.

Back in the early-nineties, at a time when a musical form called grunge was about to rule the soundscape, I was in London to interview a band named Pearl Jam (old stories abound this week as my go-to place while staring at the back of a fellow commuter's head on a stalled A train is to put my iPod on shuffle, and, who-knew? the needle seems to be landing on many of my early musical interview subjects, which naturally brings stories to the surface). The group's publicist thought it would be an interesting juxtaposition to have me sit down and talk to them over tea at Harrods department store, an impossibly haughty place that served high tea every afternoon at two, complete with crustless cucumber sandwiches and freshly baked scones. Flannel meet frippery. As we rolled through the revolving door on our way into this rarefied atmosphere, we were stopped on the other side by a man wearing a red cape, a black top hat and a beautifully cut black suit who informed us less-ostentatiously dressed (well, at the very least we didn't have a top hat among us) that we'd need to leave the store for lack of acceptable attire. Turns out this caped crusader was the doorman...because that's a necessary human to have at a department store. The offer by the singer to buy a suit did not gain us admission. we were stopped, our (actually the publicist's) plan thwarted. What to do? we stood on the sidewalk motionless for a minute, then went down the street to a local pub, played a game of darts, had a few pints, and the stoppage became a great story told, the lead of my article and, eventually, a lyric written into one of their songs.

stasis. stucked-ness. sometimes imposed from without, sometimes imposed from within. the question: How can it make me stronger? I've stopped myself in all kinds of random ways in my head&heart. stopped believing i was strong enough. didn't think i was experienced enough. convinced i hadn't what it takes. And, rather than just standing still and noticing, i'd find myself tucking into a little tight ball and rolling into the corner, which affected my bed, my bank account, my book-writing. I aim to overcome this. As to the first mention on that list (somewhat metaphorically speaking, since that piece of furniture is a stand-in for the larger sense of my heart), I'm finally believing in my strength to receive and give to someone who I can be absolutely myself with. As to the second and third items, I'm putting extra attention toward taking myself seriously enough that they are satisfied as well.

I realized this week, after taking a class that pushed me hard to recover some strength I'd thought i'd lost, when i stop thinking i can't and just do, even knowing that i'll retain some bruises in the doing, that the pride that comes propels me forward. And naturally, because it never looks like I think it will, I'm surprised by the space that opens up inside of me to allow for more movement. to stop the traffic in my head, breathe the rarified air of my own opportunities, maybe even get the trains moving again...those would be the ones in my imagination.