Archive for January, 2010

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Start and finish in the same breath.

January 29, 2010

Moonrise vs sunset. I think it’s a tie.

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Topic of latitude

January 25, 2010

I have never read Henry Miller. I have always intended to, but it just hasn’t happened yet. I thought of him lots, mostly with regards to Anais Nin and their superfamous rampantly sexual goings ons. Though to be honest, I was never sure how much was written from the point of view of occurrence and how much was poetic license. They were writers, after all. I’ll grant that some of my best erotica is certainly stylized experience, but the fantastic will almost always be exactly that…

When I’ve pictured him in my mind, he’s kind of a cross between thompson and bukowski, with more emphasis on those things sensual. I imagined him with a cruel mouth, a sensualists mouth, a wry smile, a certain amount of impatience, both with himself and the world around him. I don’t know why I have this image. To this day, I cannot recall if I’ve ever seen a picture of him. I imagine, like Thompson, he’s an explorer of the spirit, of that beyond the veil of everyday existence. Slightly less illicit drug use? But an explorer nonetheless.  Like Bukowski, he strips it bare, he tears at truth until she is naked before us, shreds of illusion clasped to herself at some habitual attempt for modesty. We know all too well that modesty suits truth as well as vanity suits compassion.

(when I speak of compassion I am not speaking of interference, the kind of compassion that ‘god-minded’ folk tend to inflict on indigenous cultures. I’m speaking of the ability to empathize and act accordingly. Sometimes the most compassionate thing one can do is to walk away from someone. But this is a rant for another day. And don’t get me started on “altruism!”)

I’ve been compared to Henry Miller (no, not my hairline, though there was that period when I was 19 and my hair fell out in spots all over my head..33 spots by the end of it…it all grew back, so…) which made me feel kinda weird. I’ve never read the guy. He seems to inspire polarized opinion when it comes to his writing, personality and lifestyle. I’ve heard him described as the most overrated, overinflated asshole who ever called himself an “artist.” I’ve heard tell that he is a most underrated luminary and intellectual, one of the greatest of any time, much less his own. Surely there must be a middle ground here somewhere.
I admit, often I forget that not everyone is like me in that they are consistently seeking balance in all things. Perhaps he would be enamoured of this notion that he causes such controversy. Indeed, I believe he was no stranger to it within his lifetime, though I have no way of knowing how he actually felt about it. I have friends who thrive on drama, even while insisting they can’t stand it. It inspires them to tread carefully, this manic emotional juggling act. If that’s what works, why not?

So, for a long time, it’s been my intention to read Henry Miller. I have this very oldfashioned, slightly romantic tendency when it comes to books. Or, rather, when books come to me. If there is an author of some classic or pertinent import, someone I know that I should, will, want to read at some point, I won’t go looking for them. I’ll let them find me when the time is right. It doesn’t always happen that way, but when it does it’s always exactly right.

For instance, I read The Fountainhead at age 13 because it seemed a natural progression from the vapid self indulgence of Holden Caulfield at 11 and the embittered reclusiveness of Sylvia Plath at 12. Wrong. It was long and tedious, how I imagine a russian winter might be like (or northern ontario for that matter..) and hopelessly adult. After my youthful idealism had been righteously tromped on by cold hard reality and the dualism of man, my almost 14 year old self found respite and a kindred spirit in the character of Dean Moriarty. Where Howard Roark was a slave to his own ideals, striving to remain true to a self that couldn’t help but be limited by self imposed blinders as to the nature of man, Dean Moriarty was a freedom fighter. An unapologetic rogue, a rapscallion of the highest order, an empty vessel, seeking to be filled with life and all her richness, whether it take the form of gold, music or tears.

I started hitchhiking the summer I turned 14. Short trips, triangle mountain to thetis lake.  Metchosin to downtown victoria. Victoria to the ferry terminal. Vancouver to the kootenays…and beyond. Across countries,  continents, cultures. Jack Kerouac was where I was at when I was 14. I don’t remember how the book came to me, but it did. I’ve still got the same copy, all the significant passages underlined.

“Sal, we gotta go and never stop going till we get there.”
“Where we going, man?”
“I don’t know but we gotta go.” was one of my favorites, but the classic, the mantra, the one I’ve tended to live by

I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars….or something like that..

But I never wanted to be the shambler, I was always convinced that I would be Dean. Someone else would be Sal, would catalogue the mayhem, keep track of the chaos and I would merely dwell within, allowing it to carry me where it would.. “It’s an anywhere road for anybody anyhow.”

I’m older now. I’ve lived long enough that the epiphanies, the realizations, the gospel truths I became aware of when I was 23,  those things that I would carry with me forever! Because they were immutable, unshakeable, universal. Many of those things have fallen by the wayside. As concrete as they seemed at the time, there is always that one daisy who doesn’t give up and keeps pushing at the foundation until the stone cracks and the new ideas are allowed to grow.

So, the 13 year old who insisted she would never read Ayn Rand again grew to be a 30 year old, who came across Atlas Shrugged. Hesitant, yes, but open to the possibility that there could be something there for me. Oh my yes. There’s no way I could have read that book even at age 28 and felt the same way about it. Levels of self that I didn’t even know existed popped up and demanded not only recognition, but allegiance. Freaks. Who could have suspected that there was even one antisocialist bone in my delightfully bohemian body?

So there it is. Sometimes it takes a while, but when the time is right, the ideas convey that much more. Except when the reality doesn’t live up to the hype. I always wonder, in an instance like this, if in fact the literature speaks to me in a resonant way, is it because I look for something. I want to have synchronicity, connection, intellectual sensuality. Robert Anton Wilson makes my brain do back flips. He strokes my synaptic pathways in ways I never thought possible. I learned that when I was 19. I know that in that instance, it was the writing, there was no expectation of how I would react. Therein lies my hesitation. All this hype, years (since I was 17, when someone told me my writing reminded them of Miller. “Wasn’t he that guy who had sex with Maria de Madeiros and Uma Thurman in that movie about Paris in the 30’s?” “Um, yeah. Something like that. ” I’m suddenly very aware of perhaps why the books did not find their way to me after that exchange. For the trivia buffs, by the way, Uma Thurman and Maria de Madeiros went on to have roles in a movie together a few years later, though they never had even one scene together, much less a kissing session…) of anticipation, building up and so I decided, enough! This is the year I read Henry Miller!
For chrixtmix my folks bought me a gift certificate to a site that sells books (yay, books! I love books!) and I bought myself Tropic of Cancer and Tropic of  Capricorn. Then I bought myself Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett and Odd and the Frost Giants by Neil Gaiman and I acquired Artemis Fowl and some Richard Feynman (my favorite physicist!) and I even started into book five of the Malazan series!

I’m beginning to think that I’m scared. I can just imagine the places my brain would go if I let it.

“What if he sucks and since some dude who wanted to impress upon our 17 year old self how sexually liberated he was by comparing our teenage ramblings to that of an american who had extramarital affairs with a hot french woman in the 30’s told us we’re reminiscent of him then we must suck! For all time! Not just when we were 17 and were far too intelligent to be taken in by his attempts or far too ignorant of who Henry Miller was to realize there was a sexual angle being played there (yeah, unaware of boys and their ploys at 17…uh-huh..), but even if we were too smart to fall for his clumsy seduction that still means we’re comparable to someone who is overrated and boastful without any clout to back it up!”

or

“What if he’s awesome and that means that we are so much more talented than we originally thought and should move to Iceland and write our memoirs vaguely disguised as a novel until we get distracted by something shiny and end up following a guru who hugs people through India being completely sure that we are on the path to what it’s really all about without ever having to consider that we could have just as easily found that answer in Iceland if only we had sat still for longer than 12 seconds at a time!”

Unbridled madness. It’s just going to get kooky from here so I’ll quickly come around to the reason I started in the first place. After writing last night about validation I found it kind of cool that when I visited Gala Darlings’ site tonight, I found this quote by Mr. Miller.

“No man is great enough or wise enough for any of us to surrender our destiny to. The only way in which anyone can lead us is to restore to us the belief in our own guidance.” -Henry Miller

How absolutely marvelous, I thought. The man is channelling himself through a gorgeous and insightful sometimes pink haired ladyI happen to find delightful. Ok, perhaps it’s time. I’ll give him a whirl. I’ll read the book with callous disregard for any preconcieved notions I might have of his style, scope or content. Without any expectations of…ok..well, perhaps just one.

I mentioned earlier, how I had always felt I was destined to be Dean Moriarty, the lover of life, the dreamer of dreams. Later I came to realize that I felt quite intensely that I must be more of a Sal Paradise, the scribe, the shambler after the sparkly ones. I hated the idea of merely keeping track, doomed to history as the one outside of it.

But like I also mentioned earlier in this post, I aspire to balance in all things. So this shall be my one expectation of the writings of Henry Miller. That the life lived is worthy of celebration as expressly related by the one living it. If this expectation turns out to have a basis in reality, then perhaps the writings of Henry Miller and I are not so far removed from each other after all..

“The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware.”  -Henry Miller

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Validation

January 24, 2010

A consistent need for it. Never truly resolved. A rebellion, the self railing against the very idea, the notion that I require the opinion of any other being to vindicate those things I express.

Suggesting that one needs validation is a form of capitulation within one’s own mind. I need someone I feel has a sense of style to tell me I look good. Someone who has an intelligence I respect to tell me I write well. Someone who has inner strength and a sense of comfort with themselves to tell me I am good enough, I am worthy (of whatever it is exactly I’m needing at this moment.)

Where I fall short, in understanding, is when it comes to considering that all of those people are different. Not only individuals with opinions and notions of what works, but that they are all not me.

How could I possibly trust that someone has a better sense of style than I do when I know which colors I like and which fabrics feel cozy. Who better than I to know the thoughts in my head, how to express them in such a way that my ideals, my experiences are represented accurately. Who can have more of a sense of self than one’s self?

Advice is welcome (especially with regards to the style end of things, especially if you’re as someone as luscious as Mary, that girl has got it going on!) always,  and opinions are rarely ignored. My hesitation comes with the idea that the opinion is required. The action is only in response to the reaction is might get.

Ok, I know what you’re thinking (maybe). The action is consistently in response to a reaction that will come. A man buys a ring for a girl he expects will say yes in reaction. But I’m not speaking of actions that are reliant on others input to be fully formed, fully realized. I’m speaking of how we look, think and regard ourselves, not with ourselves in mind, but with the reactions of others. With a certain amount of exemption, most people don’t want to look stupid, they don’t want to stand out. The embarrassment someone suffers when a singer on stage singles them out, sings to them. It could be a moment of wow! Out of all these people, s/he noticed me! Typically the reaction tends more towards Oh my god, everyone here is looking at me, how embarrassing, I could die right now. After it’s over, the first question tends to be How did I look? A need for validation. You looked great! I can’t believe he sang to you. Then perhaps comes the exultation that they were special enough to be singled out. But why not the desire to be singled out all the time? Why not pride yourself on how good it feels to be you,  rather than how good it feels to fit it?

I’m all for belonging, I like the idea of common unity (I also like the idea of common sense!) of having enough of a sense of those around you to want to benefit them, and vice versa. Not I am my brother’s keeper shite, I am my own damn keeper, but having a sense of the world outside the personal space to respect those around you. I’m talking to you…dudes who don’t notice there’s someone in the lane next to you who just needs you to move forward an inch so they can make that right hand turn before the light changes and they’re caught..pedestrians who don’t think to be aware of the fact that if you let that car through before crossing they’ll be able to make it through the light a the next intersection and feel like a rock star…but I’ll save reality bubblers for another time…

We don’t live in a world where people are celebrated for being individuals. We wouldn’t need trend watchers, gossip columnists, disrespectfully psychotic photographers if people were less concerned with external satisfaction.

I write a lot. Most of it ends up stored in a file, or in a book at the bottom of a drawer. Some of it is really good. Incredibly so. Not to the extent that it should be published, I don’t necessarily think it’s wildly insightful for anyone but me. I don’t feel the need to show it to anyone, though if anyone wanted to read it, I have no problem with that. But I don’t need anyone to tell me it’s good, to know that it is. Compliments are nice, don’t get me wrong. I have an ego just as much as anyone who ‘thinks, feels, wills and distinguishes themselves from the selves of others and from objects of their thoughts.’ (loves me some online dictionaries!) But I don’t require external opinion with regards to my rantings.

Is it because I don’t want them that I don’t seek them out? Because deep down I’m terrified that the response will be unfavorable? Is that the same reason why I never bother to tag key words for this blahg and attempt to have it circulate a wider audience? Perhaps. Maybe I’m so far in denial about needing the proverbial thumbs up that I’ve created this belief that I don’t rely on anyone’s opinion to value myself. But maybe not.

Of course there are opinions I care about. If someone whose opinion I truly valued told me that I was a colossal fuck up, I’d likely listen because I know that there’s no bullshit there. This isn’t lip service. And so often, that’s all opinions are. The sales clerk who works on commission who tells you that gold lame empirewaist dress looks amazing on you. Dude, it was bullshit and we both knew it. But there was a part of me that wanted to believe her. (A small part that was dragged out back and shitkicked by the section of my brain responsible for logic and reason.) That part who feels insecure about her lack of fashion “sense” and desperately wants to feel validated in her choices. In the end, I knew myself well enough to say, no. This is definitely not for me. She instantly agreed. I thought, where was that conviction when I was hemming and hawing about it in the first place? I think it likely that she felt just as unsure as I did, and so went with the affirmative. If I liked it and she told me noooooooo (which she should have) I might be offended and leave. Wheras when I came to my senses and decided against it, she instantly concurred.  Though using someone in the service industry is probably not the best example of a time when an honest opinion is required. I have such a hard time going shopping because of my reluctance to put my sense of style to the test. But relying on others to validate how I feel when I try on clothes does not help me to get better at it. It just makes me dependent. The countless times I’ve bought something I wasn’t totally sure of because I was assured it was perfect, now, hip, flattering, stylish and then never wore. Seriously, never wore. Because I didn’t really like it. But I didn’t trust that aspect of myself to know better. I rationed that she works in a clothing store because she knows clothing. She knows style, fashion, whatever.

But she doesn’t know me.

I do. So why would I hand over myself to some for justification that I’m worthy of whatever? It’s so easy to say, well, I wouldn’t. But we do. All the time. Not with everything, certainly. But enough. Less as we get older I think, but every so often.

There are some traits that one can chalk up to being human traits. Certain species wide foibles. I don’t think this is one of them, I think it’s been learned over the centuries and now it’s far more pertinent because of the widespread mania of advertising. How often do we notice commercials, ads on the street, jingles in our heads, signs and flashing lights? How many people throw up upons seeing times square for the first time? (That’s one of my dreams) It’s insidious and we’re apathetic towards it. The idea that a soft drink company can trademark a particular shade of blue? We’re constantly dictated to about how we should dress and feel and it’s so far outside of ourselves that it’s no wonder we seek out external encouragement. I know it’s not just that. There’s more to it, I’m sure. But tonights not the night for me to expound on this any more. It’s time for me to settle in with a good movie, a cup of tea and some furious knitting activity.

Yes, I am a furious knitter. I really want to learn to make legwarmers (they are a passion, I have a drawer dedicated to legwarmers and long socks alone!) but when I started making a pair, I went too far and so decided I must be making a scarf and since I was using a gihusen ball of wool, the scarf is quite long now, with no feasible end in sight. I should be done by the time the snow melts, which means I will have a 12 foot long scarf for winter next year! Though I’m pretty sure that I won’t be living anywhere quite as cold as it is here. And with that statement I’ve likely ensured that next winter I’ll be chilling in Reyjavik. Literally. I hear the fjords are beautiful this time of year. Actually, every time of year. For those new to reading my rambly ranty remarkings, Iceland is most certainly on my list of places to see, so any hesitation I might express at the thought of being there is most definitely in jest. Of course, being a total cold sissy, I’d much rather visit in the summer.

And so darlings, I wish you warmth, the kind afforded by 12 foot long scarves around your luscious little hearts and minds. And remember, I believe that you are worthy, not that you need me or anyone else to validate how completely awesome you are.

Bisous.

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Predictable

January 21, 2010

Ok, so I put about as much stock into horoscopes as the next dreamy romantic frivolous hulaloopy mystical witchy type barefoot freaky girly girl, which is to say, any time it suits me to do so…I find the daily in the newspaper blurby action to be generic, boring and way too vague to even comprehend, much less attribute any form of truth to. Plus there is the notion that there are people who share the same birthday as me that I don’t feel as though I ressemble in any way. Ok, we were born at different times, in different places, under different circumstances but reallly…And yes, there are certain characteristics of being my particular astrological sign that I find reflects well and accurately on myself, but wouldn’t I feel the same way if I was born under a different sign? Would I find that hmm, I do feel a certain affinity towards the color my sign is most prone to liking/wearing/seeking out at a fruit stand…but really, who knows. This is who I am, this is when I was born, this is the personality I’ve carved for myself out of the marble block of my existence. Unless one believes in the school of thought that the form was already there and I am in the act of stripping away all the parts that don’t belong in order to have a perfect finished product…

At any rate, there are a few websites I keep tabs on, people who interest me that I know, or don’t know, this part is immaterial. The meaningful part is the one where I feel a certain affinity for what this person has to express. Sometimes I’ll not visit their site for a time because of some ounce of jealousy that they are more insightful than I am. Why didn’t I come up with that? Why can’t I live my life so freely? Why can’t I look as good in the color pink? It’s a silly place I know. It’s the same reason I get depressed when I read books by Neil Gaiman, Steven Erikson, Neal Stephenson. They are so good that I upset that I don’t write that well. I’ll read it, thinking the whole time, godDAMN! I wish I had ideas that flourish and take shape and become as solid and real as these do. Perhaps one day I will, I haven’t discounted the notion by a long shot.

I’m getting far far away from where I started though. It started with one of these sites. I haven’t visited for a time because, irrationally, I was kind of mad at her for being so cool, and not being my friend. Though I’ve never made an effort to visit or contact or anything like that, so how would she know I exist? Well, yeah, she wouldn’t. And that’s okay! She reminds me a little of Sark. Sark is fun and colorful and always seems to know just what to say in an innovative and entertaining way. I thought for sure, I wanna be just like Sark when I grow up. But then I wouldn’t be Trish. And that’s just as important.

I do spend a lot of time digressing, yes? If only I could blahg as quickly and as coherently as my devilishly mad mind could wander through it’s nonsensically logical paths, what a place this would be…The point? Horoscopes. The horoscope in particular? The yearly outlet for Aries (c’est moi, évidemment). The site I found it, and loove to visit because I find the content delightful, the sentiment inspirational and the scribe to be kindred until I take a break because I become sad that I do not more emulate the way she balances chic stylishness and eccentric flair with ease? Icing by one Gala Darling. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I want to be like her, but I sometimes find my own lack of fashion sense to be frustrating at times, regardless of the fact that I have been assured that my utter fashion senselessness has a kind of  charm to it. I have a certain admiration for things that are well put together, be they stories, puzzles or ensembles…

The horoscope in question I found on her site from one Mystic Medusa perhaps I found to be pertinent because of how I had already kind of imagined my year would play out to a certain extent.

But let me show.. I don’t actually know if I’m allowed to do this, but…


Aries 2010

Style: Always the Alpha-Girl, you’re about to reinvent yourself yet again. An innovative new era starts in June. For the first time in 80 years, rad planet Uranus will be in Aries. Let your look lead the way via a make-over. Scheme for a mid-year relaunch: Honed bod from mega-fitness, scarlet, diamonds, tan, clean, eco, sporty & a sci-fi style scent concocted with ground-breaking technology. Nothing naff, chintzy nor old-school and the same with accessories.

Ok, so I’m obviously not great with style makeover talk. It scares me a little. But the fact that she suggests it won’t happen until June makes a certain amount of sense. This is why. I’m working on a farm in northern ontario until mid may. I’ll head to the kootenays where all the stuff I didn’t ditch before travelling was stored. I’ll pack that stuff and head to Vancouver, where I’ll be moving back into my apartment. The things I got rid of before I left most easily? My clothes. Of course, there’s no point in owning and wearing anything too fancy or stylish while working on a farm, so I had imagined that there would be a certain amount of acquiring of new(ish, I love me the vintagey thrift store scene) clothes. Perhaps a style makeover is in order…but that’s not for a while yet, so we’ll see.

And so to..

Happiness: June to September sees you blissing out with Jupiter, the luckiest planet of all. Anticipate peak experiences as you assert yourself more stylishly. You’re soul-mining until March 11, as Mars Retrograde hypes spiritual life. Yoga, retreats & spa hols do brilliant work. Your professional life needs to be approached as a non-stop transformational junket. You’re incapable of stagnation there and things screw up fast if you try to go it in slo-mo.

Okay, so again, I’ll be back in the city, looking for something new as of June. Soundwave starts up right around then and there’s all the bliss and joy that goes with that. Soul mining until march 11. As far as it goes, the main occupations of my brain other than day to day work are self reflection, introspection, future projection, etc…So the soul mining comment makes sense. Plus, for some of that time I’ll be with my sis in Costa Rica, where I’ll have the leisure to relax on the beach and think about, well, self reflection, introspection, future projection, etc…And since a major part of choosing Costa Rica is due to exploration of yoga retreats, spas etc, it seems as though her suggestion that yoga, retreats and spa holidays could be a good one…Plus, since I will have no job once I leave here, no real desire to back and fix boats full time for the bourgeoisie, no ambition to be a lighting director, or electrician, I’ll be rethinking my professional options. Who knows what careening career path I’ll take next. I’ll let things unfold as they will, excitably, unpredictibly, inevitably.

Love: After April, you’re compelled to set better relationship boundaries. An uncertain phase lingering since October 2009 ends in July and serious deepening of commitments is on your agenda: Marriage, children, a business together or a casual flirtation ramping up into more passionate scenarios. However, you’re not in the mood for immature game-playing. If necessary, you’ll ditch scrappy love affairs and set off to seek something more sophisticated.

I spent some time hanging out with someone last year that kind of convinced me I might be in a bit of a headspace that seemed to focus on old habits. At least when it comes to being attracted to good people who are not great for me. Does that make sense? As a person, as someone to spend time with, as someone to be enamoured of, it’s fun, it’s charming, it’s invigorating. But it’s not necessarily healthy. I have a habit of being attracted to broken things. Sometimes just slightly, sometimes irreparably. I think it’s common, it keeps one from having to examine one’s own flaws to closely if there is someone else’s to concentrate on. Especially if it is someone you care about. Why wouldn’t you want to help someone you love grow and evolve, regardless of how it might hinder one’s own forward movement. Not that I ever notice at the time, so wrapped up in the moment, in being around someone whose company I enjoy. But there are signs, there are red flags, eventually the bliss fades and gives way to a cool reality where it becomes apparent that the gold covering everything is just paint. The only time I can think of where the paint peeled, I saw how it really was and still was completely enamoured? Paris. Which is why I’ll go back and live there someday, because I can live with her flaws and she doesn’t mind mine. But people are a little tougher.

Since it is suggested that this pattern (of me blaming myself for having the same relationship over and over again!) that I became aware of in October will end in July, i can only imagine that means that I will be lusciously distracted when soundwave comes to town. This will be my 10th soundwave. I have yet to have even one blissful soundwave distraction. Perhaps this is the year. I’ll do my best to have no expectations of this, as it’s sure to lead to disappointment. Her suggestion that I will feel compelled to ditch casual, immature game playing and seek something more sophisticated in my mind can only mean that I’ll finally be heading to Buenos Aires next winter. Perhaps back to Paris soon after.

Buenos Aires comes up frequently in my mind. I want to travel many places, I dream of it, but there are some places that are certainties, in my mind. Buenos Aires is one of these. In fact, one of the deciding factors for the move back to Vancouver has everything to do with tango. As fun as it was to take tango lessons in almost every country I visited in Europe last year, it will be nice to be in one place for a time so I can take advantage of a tango community, as well as lessons from one teacher. Having different teachers is good in some ways, but sometimes the different styles clash a little too much.

So this seems to be one of those times when I’ll take my horoscope as having some bearing on how my year might play out. Yes, I’m sure I could have found corresponding factors if she had written something different. But she wrote this. It remains to be seen whether how I interpreted my year will look anything like how Chaka Kahn, Colin Powell, Chuck Norris, Gloria Steinem, Kofi Annan and Nikita Khrushchev interpret theirs. Being that they’re born under the same sign as me.  Ravi Shankar, Billie Holiday, Jackie Chan, Francis Ford Coppola and Russell Crowe on the same day.

Expecting that people who were born on the same day as me would act anything like me is folly. Even if we were raised in the same country, town, age by the same parents, teachers, friends, we would still be different. That is human nature. It could be argued that synchronicity is sought out coincidence. I think that Jung argued that synchronicity can only be meaningful subjectively. So really, in my little sphere of things, it doesn’t matter how that horoscope affects those other people born on my birthday. I don’t need the stars to line up for them in order to justify whether or not I’m going to let them align for me, if in fact that’s what they do. Plus, whether they do or not, I’ll still be here, doing my thing.

I’m okay with that.

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Reiterations and predilections

January 18, 2010

It seems as though thought goes in cycles. About a year or so, the same ideas and notions seem to enter into my brain. It would likely help if I were to write things, if not here, then somewhere, as often as possible. Eventually the pattern would start to show itself.

I only mention this because I was perusing this space from last year, just before I was getting ready to leave for Europe. And I had a rant about people having this need to hook up and have babies without considering the consequences of their actions. Which is essentially exactly what I wrote about 3 days ago, while planning a trip I will take in about a month to central America. Does central America count as a different continent from the one I am on? Same time zone, same electrical outlets. I’m not sure if it counts. At any rate, I find it more than a little distressing that I might be predictable when it comes to what I tend to do year after year. Where’s the growth in that?

I also find it kind of depressing that in over a year I haven’t found anything new to rant about.  Though perhaps I feel comfortable in this rant because it’s something I can be assured is not going to go out of style, or cause a revolution. People will continue to procreate, no matter how I feel about it, as a result, I’ll have something to complain about. It’s far more interesting than complaining about the weather after all. Far less common as well.

Perhaps the reason I come back to this rant is because of some deep seated desire I have (being a woman in her early 30s) to become impregnated myself. I rail against the idea perhaps because of some insecurity with regards to nature finding me worthy of implanting. Perhaps I am barren, infertile, realize this at some core level and so plant the seed (as it were) that I never wanted children anyway! It’s an old defence mechanism, but it’s still gold. I don’t actually believe that, but it’s certainly a possibility that has entered my mind.

The more curious thing I find, more so than raving about the same things over and over (like humans do) is that it seems to pop up just before I’ve decided it’s time to go travelling yet again. Not that it didn’t pop up at some other time, I just wasn’t as aware of it. It’s a very common rant for me. I’m pretty sure it’s typically the thing that inspires most guys who might be interested in me to run far, far away.  Guys are funny that way, they always proclaim that they want to meet a girl who won’t put any pressure on them to get married and have babies but when they do, they suddenly change their story. ‘I meant someone who wouldn’t pressure me to get married and have babies right now. I mean, later, I might, I don’t know…” Bitches.
And I digress yet again!

Perhaps the reason I seem to end up here before I travel is either

a) because on some level I feel as though I’m being silly galavanting off to other countries when I should be settling down and finding myself  a nice mate to move in with before we start buying furniture together and learning each others quirks and working out a schedule for who makes breakfast on the weekends and how we’ll divide up the use of the car because it doesn’t make sense to have more than one car if we’re going to live in the city, and (…ew…wait wasn’t I the one who had the gall to suggest that I’m nowhere near cynical towards relationships? Perhaps I should rethink that.) perhaps we should live in the country and have dogs and goats and chickens and perhaps a little baby or two with good practical names like Tesla and Wilhemina, but we’ll call her Billie for short. Um. Yeah.

or b) perhaps I feel the need to reiterate how I feel with more than just thoughts because once something is written it’s much more real in my opinion, and my brain doesn’t want me going off to some foreign country and falling in love with the culture, the language, the food, the color, the dancing, the customs, the locals (or at least one in particular) and ending up doing my part to make the world smaller by contributing to making multiculturalism a reality!

or c) the fact that I am wildly intelligent and unbelievably interesting is a illusion I have maintained for a good long time now, but the facade is crumbling, disintegrating into a feckless expression of recycled vanity with no hope for cohesive reconditioning.

Or perhaps I’m making too much out of something that’s really not a big deal. I tend to do that exact thing. All right then, that likely means it’s time to find something new to rant about (until next year, when the kid thing will probably come up again) or just write about something that’s actually interesting. It won’t happen every day. I wonder how many every days it took John Steinbeck to come up with interesting. Apparently he treated writing like an actual job. Got up in the morning, sat down at his desk, wrote from 9-5. I know he wrote many things, many characters that had a sense of realism to them, but after I’ve read one of his books I always feel a little bit like I’ve just watched the news. Slightly depressed and not sure if I learned anything I wanted to take with me. That doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s a great writer. I especially like the wayward bus. Mostly cuz there’s a bus in it. I loves buses muchly.

Ok, enough for now. A la prochain…

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Introverted extrovertist.

January 15, 2010

Ok, so I’ve been having a dispute with a friend lately, where I insist that I am a shy introvert who is not a performer. She insists that I am not shy, definitely not an introvert and most certainly a performer.

She’s totally wrong.

I know that it might seem to some I am not shy, or even predisposed to inwardness. Also, anyone who owns more than 30 wigs and a dozen tutus cannot possibly suggest that they are not a performer in some way.

Well, in some way I am. But it’s not in the way that one would expect. I don’t perform for the satisfaction of putting on a show, of having an audience acknowledge that I am indeed there to entertain, amuse, invigorate them in some way. I have plenty of friends who would fall into this category and enamoured of them am I and not just for having the courage to step into the spotlight, though that is a part of it certainly.

Yes, I own tutus and wigs and dressup clothing and firetoys and hulahoops and funny shoes and hmm..not as many hats as I’d like. More hats please. Good hats though, not baseball hats with every different kind of alcohol or farm implement sold in the northwest region. I’m talking bowlers and porkpies and fedoras and trilbys and panamas and fezs and pilot hats and greek fisherman hats and yellow hats..but enough of that..for now…

As I figured it the difference between me and a performer is this. A performer will put on a show. I will put on a tutu. A performer will use a wig to become a new character. I will use a wig to keep my head warm, while enabling myself to see what I look like with an afro. A performer will hula where a crowd can easily see her, be amazed by her prowess, applaud her efforts, marvel at her well put together costume and gladly accept kudos and congrats when she has finished. I will hula in a corner, where few are even aware that I am hulahooping, where they can’t tell that I have to pull my pants up every 5th rotation or so because I forgot to put on a belt, and I will become incessantly distracted if someone calls attention to my “performance”  during or after I am finished. Maybe it’s selfish, but I don’t like it when people insist on stopping me from hulahooping to tell me how good I am at it. I know how good I am. If they do manage to get my attention and distract me from the activity, the odds that I’ll be able to resume where I left off are slim and none..and slim has usually just left town. As I see it, the difference between me and a performer is, if the crowd wasn’t there, I’d still be hulahooping. In a wig. I wear wigs because it’s monday.

Ok, so if wearing a tutu while grocery shopping or doing the dishes could be considered a performance then certainly, I am a performer. I’m not doing it for you though. I’m doing it because I loooove the way it feels to have a super swishy multilayered bright red or blue skirt on. I love walking past a window and catching a glimpse of myself looking almost a foot taller because of the stripey goth cheerleader hair I have on. Does this define a performer? I’m totally not sure. It could be that I’m getting way too hung up on one definition of a word which likely has many. So I’ll leave that one for now.

As to introvert vs. extrovert. Well that one seems a little easier. An introvert, as I reconnoiter it, is someone more concerned with what’s going on in their own heads than the outside world. I like how wikipedia puts it  ‘Introverts are less likely to seek stimulation from others because their own thoughts and imagination are stimulating enough. A common misconception is that all introverts suffer from social anxiety or shyness. Introversion does not describe social discomfort but rather social preference.’ I can think of many times in my life where I have been referred to as cold, snobbish, stuck up,  a loner, etc. When I tried to explain to people that I’m just an introvert (standing there in a tutu, wig and ernie from sesame street shag rug halter top <-this latter has to be seen to be understood, trust me) they shake their heads and say, yeah, right.

It’s not even that I feel like I’m better than other people. (well, some people obviously) It’s also not that I don’t feel like people have nothing to say to me that I might learn or benefit from. Most of the time I just like being alone. Not all the time. I have plenty of friends and family and I love to see them now and again. I understand that humans are social animals, look at how quickly and willingly humans in general jump in line, whether it be for trendy clothes or a favorite tv show or a public stoning. If I was a wildebeest, I’m sure I would have been eaten by lions years ago. But being  a human, it’s okay if the company I prefer most is my own. Isn’t it? I know there are people who don’t understand it, that’s okay. And there are people who will see my outward silliness and insist that I am an extroverted attention seeker rather than an introverted girl who just likes to play dressup to distract from the fact that inside she’s crying. All the time.

I’m kidding. I cry on the outside, when it’s required. That’s the thing. What I’m doing on the outside is generally how I feel on the inside. There is rarely a discrepancy. Contrary to those Sylvia Plath types who are smiling Betty Crocker goodness on the outside and screaming for release on the inside until it culminates in a nice dish of almond chicken, heavy on the arsenic…Or the worker who suddenly ‘goes postal’ because the outside and the inside don’t jive anymore. The fact that this level of madness happens often enough that there’s a phrase for it should signify what messed up headspaces we live in a lot of the time. Perhaps that’s the trouble. The headspace is too far removed from the head. People spend all this time living outwardly so that when, every so often, they do spend time by themselves, they aren’t necessarily spending time with themselves. And when they are sad, they don’t allow themselves to explore it.

Balance in all things darlings. When I’m blue, I wallow. I cry. I watch movies that I know will make me sad. I revel in my deep down in the blues so far that it’s going to take a whole lot of pie and tea and blues singing ladies identifying with where I’m at before I can even imagine that I’m in a tunnel much less that there’s a light at the end of it. And people telling me, ‘don’t be sad, turn that frown upside-‘ your fuckin head if you continue in this vein..

Granted, I’m fortunate in that when I “suffer” from melancholy or sadness, I know that it will pass. That’s not the way for everyone. For some people I guess it’s an addiction of the nth calibre, the way opiates or alcoholism or sugar are for others. I can be sad and I can enjoy it because I know that even if it lasts for a few days, a week, at some point, I’ll get sick of the takeout boxes piling up, the dustbunnies amassing to the extent that they can start doing the laundry that’s getting a little out of control. The cookie crumbs in my bed because…well, not everything needs explaining.

At some point, I’ll get up, I’ll find something downtempo but upbeat to listen to. I’ll make myself a cup of dark hot chocolate with chili peppers and drag out the vacuum, organize the dishes, take out the garbage, bust out the hulahoop. And I’ll probably do all this, while wearing a tutu.

Ok, compromise. I’m a damn ambivert. There. Oh! Yesterday I really intended to go off about Tesla, because that guy needs all the airtime he can get. Especially since there are people who still think that Edison was a pretty righteous guy. (He was not.) Instead of doing so, I fell asleep around 6 pm and woke up early this morning. Leave it to one’s body to let you know that yes, you, right now, 15 hours sleep, let’s go! Since I try my best to always do the things I say I will do, here is someone else’s point of view about Nikola Tesla, plus a list of everything he’s inspired though they left out that Alan Moore named Tom Strong’s daughter after him in the comic. Also, I would like it known that I intended to name my first daughter (who may or may not ever exist) Tesla well before I read the Great and Secret Show by Clive Barker or the Tom Strong comics. I am sure there is at least one person in existence who remembers me stating back in 1992 that Tesla is my favorite scientist and I would love to name my first daughter after him as tribute. I don’t care that the Great and Secret Show was published in 1990, I didn’t read it until 1993.

Now darlings,  I vant to be left alone.

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Relationship angst.

January 14, 2010

I am completely bewildered by the human need to constantly be involved with a significant other. What makes another significant? Their ability to find perfection in your flaws? Their ability to find flaws in your perfection? And love you anyway? I have plenty of significant others in my life, past, present and future. Some more so than others. Some came to me for purely physical reasons, fulfilling a significant need in that moment. Some I have never had a physical relationship with and that’s who we are to each other. We are close, we are able to be free with one another because we have meaning for one another. We are significant. We don’t exist for each other, but we certainly find existence a little more fun because the other is around. Ok, that was way too many times using the word other, I’ll switch it up a bit.

I think often people consider that there is only one significant lover type person who will come into their lives. Everyone else is practice for that one. If they are fortunate, it happens early and they can spend the rest of their lives actually living them. Instead of attempting to live while searching for a soul mate who suits the lifestyle they’ve worked so hard to create while waiting for that one special. Perhaps they date, perhaps not. But there always seems to be an expectation that ‘the one’ will be waiting just around the corner and one day, when they are ready, the orchestral music will swell, the bus will come careening towards, is this the end? And suddenly, rescued! By blue eyes and biceps. Or whatever. I think this is absolutely crazy.

Don’t get me wrong, I am nowhere near a cynic. I am a hopeful romantic of the highest order. I’m a practical romantic, at least when it comes to myself. That’s the thing, I can’t actually ever hope to speak for the views or experiences of anyone else. If your belief is in a one true prince charming, then yay. Mine is not. I don’t believe that humans are naturally monogamous. I used to think that people cheat because of the times we live in. We are the distractable generation. We like shiny, we like new, we like feeling as though we’re ‘in the moment.’ (I’ve got rants about that one too) Sometimes the moment carries us away into extracurricular activities we weren’t necessarily planning to get involved in. We cheat, we’re jerks, it’s true. Adultery is nothing new. Ok, so we’ve been cheating jerks throughout history. Am I speaking of walking down the street and being taken by a stunning human walking the other way? Hell, no. Even to the extent of sharing a flirtatious smile or wink..human is human. Pheromones, biological imperative, etc are tough things to subvert. There is nothing wrong with stopping to smell the roses. It’s the desire and of the act of picking them that tends to get one into trouble.

I am not morally opposed to dalliances. It could be that there is a connection of strong physical/emotional/spiritual whatever with one person that maintains one’s existence, but every so often, you meet someone who’s just supercool, sexy, fun. Not someone you’d want to spend eternity with, but perhaps the weekend. Where’s the harm? Because of the guilt suffered as a result of a percieved commitment to someone else. Because of the heartbreak suffered by the one who feels betrayed by the contract breaker. I often wonder how many couples actually sit down and have a discussion about those things they consider deal breakers. Don’t have sex with my friends, or relatives. Don’t leave the cap off the toothpaste. Don’t put the juice jug back in the fridge empty. Likely very few, because somethings are just expected to be followed through on. Expectations lead to…disappointment.

I try not to have expectations of anyone I get involved with. (Yeah, good luck with that.) I like to think that I’m not prone to jealousy, my only request is that you not bring home anything you wouldn’t want to share. Like herpes. While I am not opposed to indulgences, I will never knowingly get involved with someone who is already involved. One time I’m pretty sure I was the other woman. It wasn’t fun. Mostly because of the guilt involved and the fact that he found it so easy to lie to someone he professed to love. What?  It’s just so crazy to me. I prefer, most of the time, to opt out. I think I’m kind of unique in this. I like living alone. I like being alone. I also like being with other people, both on a social and intimate level. Balance. I don’t want to get married, except for the obvious reason of a european/argentinian/australian/wherever I feel like living at this moment passport.. ok if I ever get married, I hope the agents investigating my love filled marriage of convenience don’t read this. I don’t want children. (A woman in her early 30’s who doesn’t want children? WTF??? How does that even happen? She must have a shortage of them girly hormones..or an excess of sense, how about that?) I don’t feel compelled to be with someone in order to justify my ability to love and be loved. I can get a dog for that. If I have physical need, there are humans aplenty who are single and more or less willing. If I need emotional support, I have Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, 72 different varieties of tea, one biological sister and dozens of others. Not to mention hulahoops.

I’m not opposed to dating. Well, actually kind of. It’s very strange to me to go out with someone all dressed up, spend the evening evaluating one another and trying to hide your own flaws, while striving to seem like someone you may or may not be in reality, all in the hope that they’ll be adequate and you won’t have to do this again. I like food. I like music. I like watching movies. So, if that’s the requirement then I have no opposition to dating. Except for the awkwardness of it all.

Ok, so why am I ranting about this? This is nothing new for me, most who know me are well aware of how I feel about this kind of thing, especially the marriage and babies. I guess it’s because the other night, while innocently playing video games, there was a particularly long cut scene. So, being interested in distractably shiny things in the moment, I flipped the input over to the television while the cutscene played out. I should have left it. There was a movie on. It’s newish, I think, I’ve never seen it or heard of it really, which doesn’t make me sad after watching about 10 minutes of it. Within that span of time, I was introduced to one character who was going to break up with her commited and loving long term boyfriend because he wouldn’t marry her. And another character who met a boy she was pretty sure might kind of like her, so immediately started imagining what their wedding would be like. And a third (who might have been the only one actually married) who spent the 30 seconds she was onscreen finding out that her husband was not actually commited or faithful. I turned it off in disgust by this point, fairly sure that the lesson there was not that marriage equals people instantly becoming disloyal and untrustworthy.

I’m actually amazed that I discovered as much as I did within that short space of time. It could be that there was something insightful about human relationships within the film, but I can’t get past this insane obssession to be paired up! Do I sound bitter, could it be that I am just jealous of people in relationships because I am alone? Dreadfully, pitifully, pathetically alone?  Yes, of course that’s it. I must be ovulating as well. Since my body knows that because I am alone it won’t become infected with parasitic seed which will blossom into progeny that will make me immortal in a sense, even as it steals my youth and vitality for it’s own desperately helpless lifeforce…yes, I can see how that could make me sad.

I acknowledge the allure of  this silver screen ideal of romantic love, a love that will swoop in and carry us away from our humdrum day to day. That moment at a party when some hoopy frood walks up to you and says, you wanna get out of here? You better damn well say yes! And don’t even think of asking him to wait while you get your purse. In my movie, it’s  Callum Keith Rennie and he’s driving a shiny black 69 chevelle. Mmm…bad boys and muscle cars…but I digress..

I don’t deny that being genetically encoded to want to propagate the species is a natural thing. I don’t deny that the idea that something that starts off as a single cell grows to become a complex multifaceted organism capable of rational thought is utterly astounding.

What upsets me is that rational thought and responsibility towards a healthy humanity seems to be the rarity, wheras demented ideas of selfworth and irresponsible proliferation of  bad spellers with no immunity to dirt and falling down without deciding someone needs to be sued are commonplace. This is nothing new, but I was feeling a little ranty and it seemed appropriate. Lesson learned though, from now on I’ll stick to the cutscenes on my super violent video games which rock because they are completely devoid of women who want to get married and have babies and never once stop to wonder if that is a good idea. It doesn’t have to be a good idea, it’s just what we do.

Now, that said, I love the idea of women who stop to wonder about it, and decide that yes, it is a good idea. This is something that could work for them. And they go about it eyes open. I’m not asking anyone to stop getting married and having babies and obssessing over why they aren’t in fulfilling relationships and whether their fat ass makes their ass look fat and wearing uncomfortable shoes because they’re pretty sure he’s looking at their feet (uh-huh). I’m not asking anyone to do anything. Most of the time, I’m really not very concerned with what’s going on for other people. Like most people.

(I must admit, at this moment, I’m spending a lot of time thinking about peeps in Haiti and how much it must suck for them right now.)

But it would be nice if people would think about what their biological imperative is always pushing them to do.

At any rate, I think it was Olin Miller who suggested that “people would worry less what others thought of them, if they realized how seldom they did.” That seems as good a place as any to end this rambly rant. Like most times, I think I started out with a point, somewhere along the way… It’s always nice when there’s a point to be made and somehow I inadvertently come to it. Fortunately that happens rarely enough that when I do have a moment like that, it almost feels cosmic. Otherwise it would just be a standard day to day occurrence And who wants that? Variety is the spice of..hmm..moussaka? Quiche? Oh, no, that’s right, variety is the spice of life! All of it! Not just the shiny parts.

If you want something silly for distraction from the day to day? This Dude. I’m glad that people like him have time for daily cleverness such as he does, because I know I don’t. Plus he thinks Tesla is pretty cool, which denotes an fair amount of intelligence. Tesla needs more airtime. Perhaps I shall rant about him tomorrow.

Bon nuit.

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