Happy Birthday Roberta.
Woo! Hoo!
That is all.
Archive for Miscellany and Whatever
The hazards of buying old favorites
In the early seventies, there was a law that sensitive teenage girls had to be Joni Mitchell fans. And I’m nothing if not law-abiding. Actually, I’m many things if not law-abiding, but this was more like a law of nature. Like gravity or the phone ringing as soon as you sit down to eat.
Anyway, by the late seventies, Joni was changing her style and losing the top of her vocal range, and most of her fans were abandoning ship. 1976’s Hejira was the last album I heard get any radio play until the late nineties.
The turning point for me was Hejira; the first Joni Mitchell album I didn’t buy. A lot of fans jumped off one back, and didn’t buy Hissing of Summer Lawns, but not me, I loved that album. Loved it. Loved. It. There were songs I didn’t like as much as other songs, but I still played its little vinyl grooves to death.
So from time to time, I purchase old vinyl favorites on CD, and not long ago Hissing of Summer Lawns got the upgrade. Alas.
Listen, Don’t Interrupt The Sorrow is still a flippin’ great song. Great. But it’s early (track 4) and I’m listening to the whole CD while writing, and after a while I think “This is pretentious.” And then I think “This is way pretentious.” And then I think “This is shit.”
Ah, the heartbreak. I tell you, right now I am afraid to pull out any other old favorites.
(Cross-posted at If I Ran the Zoo. Just cuz.)
All in Good Time
I recently finished All in Good Time by Jonathan Schwartz. I have been listening to Schwartz on the radio all my life (quite literally, as my parents listened before I was old enough to remember) so the memoir interested me, and it didn’t disappoint.
This post, though, isn’t primarily a book recommendation. Reading All in Good Time brought me up short on the whole concept of the memoir. The book is raw and open. Not in the conventional, might-as-well-be-true manner of James Frey, but in a much more personal, much more revealing manner.
In a memoir, anyone can be honest about their alcoholism (and Schwartz definitely is). To reveal your first drink at age ten, to chronical checking into the Betty Ford Center in a moment of desperation, these are facile revelations that function as the memoirist’s stock in trade.
No, I’m talking about shame. Humiliation. Being a braggart and getting called on it. Hurting a friend with a casual lie and getting caught. Meeting your hero and sticking your foot all the way down your throat until you can kick yourself in the esophagus.
I was stunned by the honesty of these revelations, and moreover, by the absolute impossibility of me ever pulling off such a feat. I’m a very blunt person, the undisputed Queen of TMI. My role in life is to go there when people say “don’t go there.” But reading All in Good Time, I knew I could never be that honest in print, in public, with (as they say) God and everyone watching. Geez Pete, I’ve written five books, and even with the impersonal stuff of spells and elements, readers are happy, nay, gleeful, to rip you a new one. Tell them my mistakes? Oh the pain.
The. Real. Goddamn. Pain. I’ll tell you the truth right now: I could never write like that without cleaning up my act. Without tidying the messes, without making me look just a little bit better than I really was. I wouldn’t know how to bear the suffering of it otherwise, and I don’t know how anyone else does.
(Cross-posted at If I Ran the Zoo. Cuz Tom’s a fun guy.)
Author Patrick Califia could use our support
Via Jason, who got it from T. Thorn Coyle:
Sex educator, author, activist, and modern Pagan Patrick Califia has suffered a heart attack. Perhaps even more tragic than suffering a heart attack is the fact that he has no health insurance to obtain proper treatment.
Califia is one of my favorite authors. He blows me away with his forthright honesty about sex, desire, freedom, perversity, and pleasure. It ain’t easy earning your living as a writer. Me, I have a day job. I couldn’t tolerate the instability of being self-employed, and things like health insurance are a big part of that. But a lot of authors choose to go it the hard way, for a lot of very good reasons.
Thorn is urging donations, which I think is a good idea:
“I just received the news that Patrick Califia has had a heart attack. Like many people I know (including myself until very recently, when I decided I could afford to shell out for it every month) Patrick lives with out health insurance. If you are a writer, a queer, a tranny in any form, a proponant of free speech and hot sex, or all of the above – or if you know someone who fits into any of these categories – and have a few extra dollars floating around, please consider making a donation. You may also wish to go to your local independent bookseller and order some of his books. Patrick’s given us roses, let’s give him some bread.”
Here is the contact information:
Checks or money orders in US funds can be sent to:
Patrick Califia
2215R Market Street, No. 261
San Francisco, CA 94114For charges and non-US funds, Patrick has a PayPal account under patcalifia@aol.com.
Speaking of weird searches
I got a couple of hits on “night hares feri”.
Go know.
Spring
I love this time of year. I was just out, running a long, annoying errand, and I got such a thrill from it.
First you get the crocuses. You see a robin. But the trees are bare and the weather sucks. Then there’s a warm day, and on the second warm day I took my rosemary plant outside. Then it dropped to 35° and I hope m’darling rosemary survives.
Then you see some buds. Then some more buds. You start to hope.
Then there’s a day like today. Suddenly, there’s forsythia everywhere, furious with yellow. There’s white dogwood and bright flashes of pink cherry blossom and crabapples. Everywhere you look, there’s blossom.
And you look at the other trees, about half of them still, bare and wintery, and you think “It’ll happen. It’ll come.”
I got tagged with the Pivot meme
Tom done gone and tagged me with the Bernard Pivot/James Lipton/Actor’s Studio questions meme.
What is your favorite word? Serendipity.
What is your least favorite word? Screw-head. I used to have a different least-favorite word. Then I went to the orthopedic surgeon and asked him about pain and swelling in my knee and he said it was because that was the spot where the screw-heads poked out a little. Instant new least-favorite word.
What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? Passion and arrogance. I am excited by those who care deeply about something, and have a glorious self-confidence that they are right.
What turns you off? Bad breath. The ultimate dealbreaker.
What is your favorite curse word? Rat bastard. You have to say it right, though.
What sound or noise do you love? When Arthur was small, his laughter was the greatest joy of my life. I would stand outside the living room to listen to him laugh while he watched TV or read.
What sound or noise do you hate? Screaming babies.
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? You mean, other than Personal Assistant to Mr. Banderas?
What profession would you not like to do? You know what a honey-dipper is? It’s what they call the guys who empty Porta-potties.
If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? “There’s someone who’s been waiting for you.”
Update: I’m tagging Arthur, since he says he can’t think what to blog about.
Girly Girls
In a post that is not about girliness, Shakespeare’s Sister describes why she isn’t girly:
I have a filthy mouth, a dirty sense of humor, an aesthetic lack of girliness (as in no make-up, no skirts, and perpetually untidy hair), and a collection of attributes which men and women alike deem “boyish???—namely, a fondness for Star Wars and Lord of the Rings, video game junkitude, the ability to correctly distinguish between DC and Marvel superheroes, and a pathological aversion to shopping.
I thought that was interesting. I have some of her “boy” characteristics, and some of her “girl” characteristics.
When I was younger, I thought I wasn’t girly because I’m loud, awkward, and socially agressive. I liked hanging out with the guys. I thought makeup was boring (I do wear makeup sometimes, not daily, but I find talking about makeup excruciating). Feminists talked about how men dominated conversations and silenced women in mixed groups, and I thought, uh oh, I guess I’m not very female, because that never happens to me. I prefered boisterous man-talk to retiring to the kitchen with the ladies and the babies. I forget to look in the mirror so if my lipstick goes haywire or my hair stands straight up, hours could pass before I notice. I sit large and have never managed any sort of ladylike posture. And yes, I like science fiction and Star Trek and men just cannot believe they are meeting a woman who loves James Bond.
But then some people in my life started telling me I was very girly. Very. I couldn’t understand that at first. Ultimately I could come up with a list of girl characteristics: I love to shop. I love pretty colors and pretty things and I like to wear pink. I like fairies and flowers (my tattoos are ultra-fem). My flirtation style is coy and girly. I blush. I like girl-chores better than boy-chores, and would much rather clean the kitchen than take out the garbage. I am confused by hardware and I think cars and electronics are extremely dull (Unless James Bond is operating them). Duller even than makeup.
Then, last summer, talking with some female friends, I discovered we all had, at some points, doubts about whether we were “real girls.”
I am gradually getting it through my head that I am girly because I am a girl. Womanly because I am a woman. Feminine because I am female. There doesn’t need to be any other test.
So ‘fess up. In what ways are you, and are you not, typical of your gender? What characteristics caused you to doubt yourself? What affirmed you? What’s your list?
Question for Bloggers and Blog Readers
For Bloggers: Do you ration posts? If you have a really kickass day of writing, with like six or more posts, do you save some for light writing days (excepting those that are time-bound)? Do you have a rule about minimum and maximum posts per day?
For Readers: Do you have a maximum you’re going to read at a blog on a given day? If you visit a site and find ten new posts, will you read the top three and then move on? Contrarily, how long will you forgive a blog for light posting before giving up and moving out?
One day last June
Here’s what happened to me one day last June. I’ve told this story a lot. It’s time to write it down.
The setting is a Pagan festival. Some of you will know some or all of the people and places, but names have been changed. Suffice it to say there’s a lot of history, a lot of people who’ve known each other for a lot of years, and it’s a very special and magical place to be.
It begins with a full body massage around 11 a.m. This is a very powerful way to start the day. After that I taught two classes back-to-back. So I’m in this very shifting state; the deep relaxation and healing of massage, followed by a whoosh into teaching focusing reciting engaging being in the right place on time. Plus, teaching’s always a little dehydrating, all that talk talk talk. Never ideal after a massage. But anyway.
Now comes my friend “Alice.” (Don’t those quotes make me look like Ann Landers?) Alice is dying. This festival is where I met her, some fourteen years before. She used to come every year. Now she has cancer and wants to come to Festival one last time. I haven’t seen her in two years. Her sister is picking her up at the hospice and is bringing her to the festival. She is expected to arrive around 5 p.m. Alice’s ex-husband is also at the festival, and she doesn’t want to see him, or indeed for him to know she’s there. So there’s a certain amount of sneaking around involved in seeing her. So my inner energy flow now looks like: Healing-rushing-focusing-grieving-sneaking. Which is a little unmanageable.
So I find Alice and we hang out and we talk and hug and she wants my shirt. Demands my shirt. And I think I can give it to her, and then I think “Her sister will give it back to me soon, anyway.” That’s a hateful thought. I can’t bear that I thought it. To avoid acknowledging the thought, I refuse to give her the shirt.
I go back to camp for dinner, but no one is there, because everyone is at the tattoo ritual. One of our clan is getting a big piece on his chest, a beautiful Ganesha. I walk to the tattoo booth, and from a distance I can hear the chanting. There are a dozen or more people gathered around, giving energy to the tattooing, chanting
Jai Ganesha, Jai Ganesha, Jai Ganesha, Pahiman
Sri Ganesha, Sri Ganesha, Sri Ganesha, Rakshaman
As I arrive, the wife of the guy getting tattooed has just gotten up from her seat next to her husband, in the center of this wall of sound (she later told me it was becoming overwhelming for her). So the seat is empty, I walk up, and Being Tattooed Guy beckons me right into the center. Another whoosh, from Alice to this deep, vibrant, sacred space. I am there, chanting, in the center of it all, for maybe forty-five minutes. The artist finishes by coloring the Om in the center of Ganesha’s forehead, and we change the chant to Om.
The artist begins to clean up. People get up to leave. All at once, I just burst into tears, and sob and sob with big heaving gulping deep-belly sobs. Then it passes. (The people who held me while I sobbed had no idea what my day had been. They were just there for me. I explained much later.)
I walk back to camp. Now I’m really DAMN hungry. The path from tattoo place to camp place has merchants. I see Alice and her sisters at the bookseller’s. They’re buying The Way of Four. I go in to talk with them. Alice demands an autograph. Then she demands my shirt. Now she’s actually tugging at it, which would be weird from some people, but is not unlike Alice. So I take it off and give it to her, and walk back to camp topless.
Coda: Alice died in October, and her ashes were scattered at the festival site, at the big tree where she always camped. Her sister says she wore my shirt constantly for all her remaining days. I’m getting the shirt back in June.
