Sleepwalkers' Glory

A Long Overdue Sayonara?

2006-07-12T11:31:00.000-07:00

Greetings, Any and All Who Are Left.

Recently, I was speaking with an acquaintance who mentioned that she had "googled" me and stumbled upon "a weird website that had your name on it and showed some stuff you've been reading. Is that you?" she asked. I played dumb (often easy for me ;) but it did give me a moment of pause because I was made aware of how far removed I've become from this creature. Call it writers' block or lack of inspiration or even a greater need for privacy, all of which I think I have already attempted to convey in the few last sporadic posts.

It was really interesting for me to go through the process of starting this thing up in very high-minded fashion and watch myself go through various machinations to establish a public voice that ended up saying things that were far from my original intention, i.e. my originally stated intention. And even now I am being wishy washy because I began this wanting only to say thanks and goodbye, while issuing an invitation to view my new baby monster, Medicine: A Soul Journey Home, but I see I'm not quite ready to give up the ghost.

Well, perhaps there will be new things here from time to time but no more promises of prolific regularity. Nor do I believe that Medicine will necessarily hold the same interest for the same people. In fact, unlike Sleepwalkers' Glory, Medicine is meant to be a quiet little spot to which I can retreat and that hopefully won't get ahead of me like this one did.

I think the real roadblock here came for me when my very good friend Brandon died earlier this year, quite unexpectedly. Already my energies in this direction had waned, but I remember that I felt this great, great need to write something about him and to write for him and even for his family. But I couldn't do it, and that kind of stunned me. Even now I feel sort of bad about it. Believe me Brando, I have many words for and about you. But I guess that was the beginning of this private thing and of me finding that there are actually some things I have to keep to myself.

I come from a background in which family business is family business. Our secrets are our own. While there's something to be said for not airing one's dirty laundry in public, as I got older, I became stiffled by that because I associated keeping quiet with feeling shame, and I didn't feel there was anything about which I would ever need to be ashamed. I'm not a total exhibitionist, but I do believe there is some power in being able to state your truth and not really give a damn who is listening.

I even had a friend comment that I should watch the things I say in this forum in case I ever decide to run for office. First of all, don't worry: I will never venture to be your ruler. Second, that was just sad to me because that's very close to the heart of what is wrong with politics in this country. We long ago ceased to select from falliable humans with all their foibles, now choosing to vote for shiny machines with broken parts. If I were ever to run for office, I could only run by admiting the whole of who I am so that in representing you, you, or you, all would know who I am. And that, my friends, is nothing but sheer idealist liberal gibberish at it's best. What day and age am I living in, right?

Then I started recounting some of my more or less charming escapades, and while that was enormous fun, even that came back to bite me on the ass. I went out on a date with a woman about whom I knew little more than her name, but she had also "googled me,"--in search engine fashion, not as a euphemism--and knew more about my dating forays than I found was probably ideal, especially because there's no way to take back any sort of poetic or literary license once it's been used.

And then my 9-to-5 life, which I'd voluntarily changed up, became severely detrimental to my physical and emotional well being ... and then Brandon passed away, and I found I had nothing left with which to defend the notion of sleepwalking. The glory was gone.

So anyway, I think I've said all this before, a few months ago and then a few months before that. I don't know how to end it. Breaking up is so very hard to do. I so much perfer leaving the door open rather than securing it firmly shut. But I do, as I said, invite you, to my new little blogspot. No promises, but I think it shall be nice.

Adieu. For now. And thanks for all of it.

-M

Midnight Confessions

2006-04-18T23:54:00.000-07:00

have you ever felt like you're going to crack but you know you won't? it's all so tedious sometimes. i start to get worked up and then i remember that ultimately it doesn't really matter. but lately, i've been confused about that because i used to think things don't matter in the long run because you die and then it's over. but lately i've been coming around to the belief that this is only part of our existence, like an extension of our real selves. if that's the case, and we're really here to experience some kind of growth that wouldn't otherwise occur in the "main" part of ourselves, then everything does matter. in fact it matters more than if you think this is just an isolated instance of consciousness. isn't that a bitch.

really though, i don't know what i'm talking about. i'm tired, it's late, i feel crushed by the weight of this stupid work shit. but if that wasn't the crush it'd be something else. but at the same time i'm very happy. i've got this nice thing going w/ this girl, spring is here, i've been financially stable for a while now (although this current crisis is a real threat), and my spirituality has been taking off exponentially. but the dichtomy between the happiness and the crush is exactly what has thrown me into the knowingness that this consciousness, this self that is writing this, is, in some ways less real than my dream selves and even less so than the selves of which this self is unaware.

this mind can barely grasp these concepts without also holding steadfastly to a belief in gravity. gravity must exist because if it stops ... well, i just can't picture it.

The Gift of Gab, or Attack of the Main Yak

2006-02-03T18:17:00.000-08:00

yak 1. congnac. as in the brandy. 2. cocaine. 3. to eject the stomach contents in a forcible manner. 4. a jewish fellow from a rich white community who gets no respect. 5. One's girlfriend or wife. Usually used as a casual term of affection 6. short for Yakuza (Japanese organized crime). 7. To talk most indefinitely. 8. The designation of plane types for the Yakovlev company, a Russian plane designer. 9. a long-haired humped domestic bovine found in Tibet and throughout the Himalayan region of south central Asia.

I rolled the dice, and it came up seven. So, why haven’t I addressed you, my audience of one, for oh-so-long? Yes, I’m talking to you: why oh ewe.

Just kidding, I’m not talking to anyone in particular—and that’s why I haven’t said anything worthwhile in such a long awhile. It got a bit weird. Writing and posting started to feel like exhibitionism, which in a sense, it is.

But that’s of no consequence now because even if I’d wanted to address you—and I did—I haven’t had the time. Can you believe it? It’s true.

Mpho at the beginning of 2006 is quite a different animal than the Mpho who, last year, began applying herself to bringing forth the glory of the sleepwalk. That Mpho had an epiphany of sorts (recall the magic circle; see "The Abracadabra of Silence" and "La Dolce Vita") in Fall of 2005. And now that Mpho has become this Mpho, who is only at the beginning.

Nah, that’s all bullshit. I stopped writing because it all became too personal, and I started to feel too exposed, and the exposure made me feel beyond buck naked, and I started not to like it. But now I’m ready to try again, although the exhibitionist in me is keeping her hood and sunglasses on. I’ll try again because I believe firmly, truly, deeply that there is nothing to hide. The hiding is only force of habit. Once that fear is overcome next comes transcendence. That’s a lot less risky than me packing a suitcase, leaving my tennies at the end of my bed and taking an overdose of bennies to await the little green mennies, isn’t it?

So where should I start? Don’t say at the beginning because every moment is a beginning and being so, every moment was an end. Thus, to be fair and do this right, I must start in the middle.

For those on patrol of my lovelife, I met a girl. One particularly auspicious weekend, I met a few girls actually … but I’ve honed in on one, letting the others fall by the wayside. Though probably if you asked them, they’re the ones who’ve bypassed me like drunken cardiac surgeons. This girl is not without her complications—what woman isn’t. But she’s the real deal. Still only time will tell. What I mean by that is when we look into eachother's eyes, it’s not a war of wills or will nots. It’s good. We’re just getting to know each other so no predictions can be made. I won’t even say, “if I were a bettin’ person….” All I’ll say is that what I know of her is pretty real, and pretty great, and pretty hot, and pretty exciting, and pretty caring, and pretty tender, and pretty diamond in the rough, and pretty in black, and pretty special—and I don’t, for once, mean like special ed. Perhaps more on all that later, perhaps not.

Or there’s my 9 to 5, which is currently an 8 to 4:45 or something like that. When last I wrote I was still living in a glass cubicle office with a bunch of aristocrats er I mean executive recruiters. It had its moments. It had its ups and downs. I was terribly excited by the fact that despite being in a fish bowl, I had a door. But then one day I was just kind of done. Like the three wise men, I saw a star and followed it. Just like the wise men, I got duped a little bit. They got duped ‘cause look at what the most visible Christians have done to the legacy of Christ. I got duped because despite all the lessons I’ve learned in the past several many years, I crossed my intuition. The star turned out to be a corporate logo not a celestial symbol, let alone a spiritual beacon, and now I’m re-living corporate hell in conglomerate style, complete with brimstone and a badge that must be (s)worn (at) at all times. But it’s okay. I’m learning from it and am making plans to overcome that part of my karma by finally learning the lesson. Probably more on that later. Probably.

More important than wealth is health, and mine is not bad per se but there has been an outstanding issue that may come to a head sooner rather than later. But as with the previous two big sectors in my life, there are challenges that if handled well, will set some long term positive change in motion. And I binge on health fanaticism, which might come in handy. It's the pendulum binging on unhealthiness that's the thing to keep an eye on. I think definitely more on this. We’ll see.

Next up in wealth, is the number and kind of a woman’s friends. I lost a good friend recently. All of 35, and his business on this plane of existence has been concluded. I'm debating, but probably there will be something about him here soon. For the friends still among us, there've been some seismic shifts in alliances and probably there will be aftershocks. Might decide to go there here. Or maybe not.

I’m not trying to be a kok (possibly more on that spelling later) tease; as I toss out the kindling, I want to see what catches a spark and what doesn’t. I want also to remind myself that I am not as bereft of writing material as I have been feeling. There is my spiritual growth to talk about, and there are always current events or the fact that I’m so out of the what's-going-on-in-the-world loop that it’s pitiable. I’d like to tell you why I’m so uninformed, and why I do think it’s pitiable. I take full responsibility on that one.

I’d like to give you status reports on all the projects I’m working on. I’d like to share my travel plans to see my dad for the first time since my mom passed. I’d like to tell you in depth why I find The Dears so dear, and why I’ve been collecting rain water, and what it felt like to take my bike for a spin after a long-overdue tune up, and what it was like to wind up at the ocean after much much too long an absence from it. I’d like to tell you how I wound up with fuzzy orange socks and what happens when you _________, and where ___________ and when the next astrological omen is due.

I left the blanks in for a reason, just to show that I have been bereft of words, not things to say. It’s true. I’m not gonna hide it. For some reason, in the past couple months every time that I’ve sat down to tell you something, I’ve encountered gaps. It’s been frustrating, ‘cause it’s not like I’ve nothing to say. Even when I was in the magic circle I had something to say. But these days, I start writing and then bam there’s a hole. I suppose it’s natural and nothing about which to be much concerned, but I guess it’s made me feel like I’m not really up to the task of keeping you informed or of spilling my guts, the former of which, let’s face it, is really more about me than it is about you. Am I an egomaniac or a plain maniac? Maybe I’ll work that out for you here too.

Thanks for listening, again.

What's So Dear about The Office

2005-12-05T22:54:00.000-08:00

"Life is just a series of peaks and troughs. And you don't know whether you're in a trough until you're climbing out or on a peak until you're coming down, and that's it, you know. You never know what's 'round the corner, but it's all good.... If you want the rainbow, you've got to get up with the rain. Do you know which "philosopher" said that? Dolly Parton. And people say she's just a big pair of tits."
—David Brent, Wernham Hogg Regional Manager

The Perverse Ganglia of Human Complication

2005-11-27T11:59:00.000-08:00

Let me be my own fool
of my own making, the sum of it
is equivocal

—Robert Creeley
“A Counterpoint”

“Today, everything in the landscape seemed in an act of relation, reflected in and reflecting. Shadows of trees dappled the water; the river, refracting sun, played on the tree trunks. The children were part of the pattern too, their eyes were on each other. And what, then, of me? Would there ever be a way to balance [us]?”

—Hettie Jones
How I Became Hettie Jones

Robert Creeley died this year. I didn’t know until just now, eight months later. He wasn’t a friend of mine or anything like that, but it strikes me nonetheless because I’m writing a play in which one of the characters is always mentioning well known people who’ve died earlier in the year, unbeknownst to her. She won’t be mentioning Creeley, but it would be just like her to do so.

Let me be my own fool, a counterpoint, if you will, to Sinatra’s “I did it my way.” Just what the hell any of us are doing is the question.

Earlier this year—August, I guess—I experienced the magic circle, certainly not the first time I’d ever done so, but it was the first time that I attempted to deconstruct the experience whilst in the midst of it, with the explicit purpose of creating a sort of standard operating procedure for future reference. Actually the singular procedure is as follows: leave it alone; or go with the flow; or ride, Sally, ride. They all equivicate.

There is no magic circle for me today, which is somewhat of a positive fortune, I think. No need to repeat that so soon. But there is another kind of geometry at work, and another kind of occult-ish phenomena. Refraction? Refarction? Go ahead, make words up.

Case in point: yesterday I went out on what would prove to be the last date of a short-lived liaison about which I myself was feeling ambivalent but not necessarily so ambivalent as to have closed the door on the situation that very day, particularly as just days earlier I had worked assiduously to extricate myself from a foot-in-mouth situation that threatened the very outcome that I had hoped to avoid—at least until I was certain of my own desired outcome. I was beaten to the punch, not in that I wasn’t the first to deliver the news (though I wasn’t), but in that I wasn’t the first to reach the foregone conclusion (which bums me out a little bit but only in an ego sense: if someone says to you “I’m not interested in you in that way” you wanna be able to say “well, I wasn’t interested in you in that way before you weren’t interested in me in that way” and not have it sound like the sour grapes that it is even if it isn’t. But I blew that and could only cover by offering a refreshment whilst hoping that she would decline because I didn’t really have anything in the house). Does it matter? Not really. That’s the nature of ambivalence after all. But in the awkward closing moments before she walked out the door, she asked, “so what are you gonna do tonight?” I hadn’t thought, let alone felt, that far in advance, having had it all backwards. (See Tsvetayeva: “It’s precisely for feeling that one needs time, and not for thought.”)

Rewind: Just as I was leaving the house for the date, I heard someone call out “Hey!,” and lo and behold, it was a woman I sort of know from around the way. She was getting into her car, and apparently was directing her shout out to another woman who took one vicious look at me and then drove off, kicking up a little dust. "Get in," she said as I sauntered over. She asked where I was headed, and I told her BART. She said she'd drive me, though she seemed peeved. "What's up?" I asked. Her reply: "I just got in a fight with my ex-girlfriend. She thinks I have a thing for you." Have you ever felt steel jaws clamping shut with the whole of you trapped between the metal plates? I had no choice but to chuckle. "Oh, great," I said. "What perfect timing." She turned and glowered at me. But really, how messed up was that to walk into the midst of someone else's angsty moment, completely unaware that you're the false heart of it, and then jump in the car for a ride to your own ill-fated moment?

These are my neighbors for fuck's sake. That minor exchange was the longest conversation we've ever had, and that's the whole of it. It didn't even occur to me to ask if she even does have a thing for me. Who cares? The truth becomes relative in those moments. Had I stuck by the notion that hay is for horses, I might not have even turned in her direction. I would have proceded along to BART on foot. Even if I am a suspected interloper, I could have remained in the dark about it. Filled with an unwittingly blissful ignorance, I might have gotten to the Ferry Building late instead of early. And if I'd have arrived a little late, I wouldn't have been waiting inside the building instead of outside as we'd agreed, and maybe we wouldn't have started off on ever so slightly a wrong foot, although there was nothing else in the course of the day spent together that foretold of the way the day would end. Except that I had my reservations.

Fast-forward: She leaves. I get a call from A., a lovely man who dangles music before me, which I accept, hook, line and sink her. We end up at a very happening, newish little spot in the Tenderloin called El 222 Club, which immediately becomes a placeholder for my unloved, wounded ego. I fall so in love w/ El 222 that I am jealous that it’s not in my neighborhood because it would easily become my home away from home… except that if it were in my neighborhood, it would immediately become overrun with urban hipsters, the lack of thereof being a large part of its appeal.

The hipster factor, at least last night, was like college hipster as opposed to urban hipster. College hipsters bear a subdued sort of intellect that has less to do with age and maturity—they’re actually quite mature, wearing it on their period piece, patch-covered elbows as they do—and more to do with the fact that they’re nerds who know how to live it up. Urban hipsters pander more to whatever movie scene they think they’re reading for. Anyway, I felt right at home in my past… could easily have been an undergrad evening spent at my grad school haven of choice, Ann Arbor’s sadly defunct Del Rio. And that was the beauty of it for me: I could have been in Michigan. For that matter, it could have been Portland. College hipsters transcend place like that. Urban hipsters, like the ones that overrun the Mission every weekend, are definitely a product of place. Poised side by side, New York hipsters have a look quite distinct from LA hipsters, and there’s likely no mistaking Chicago hipsters for San Franciscans.

Anyway, it was a good night. My friend’s roommate is part of a brother-sister act. Calling themselves The Culprits, they have been described as “accomplices in the dark art of black market beats and old timey torch songs.” Madeline, the sister, is a red-haired chanteuse who was clad that evening in a long black dress that upheld her classy jazz singer demeanor. Counter to that, brother Nick spends most of his time bobbing and bouncing like a sprung spring whilst manning the iBook that spits out their self-de-re-constructed beats—say for example, a lo-fi Duke Ellington breakdown that melded with this listener's own beating heart in a manner that whispered Lamb—which is a good thing in my book. When he sings, Nick’s voice reminds me of Arto Lindsay; when he moves, he reminds me of Danny Elfman's words "oingo boingo."

The preceding act Beatheart vs. Warmen Fussi was also ear-catching, with their “live hardware-based ambient tek-house cubase abuse.” I was particularly plussed by the moments that bespoke the influence of old school Detroit Techno. Yes, sonically and spatially it was a night that made me feel right at home in my metaphysical homelessness… except I couldn’t shake the feeling that my friend wanted to be more than friends….

Rewind: Aside from the fact that I’d been scratched off of one dance card only hours earlier, the immediate irony was that such attention would have been welcome oh about a year and a half ago, when I’d had a little crush of my own that seemed totally unconcerned that this friend is a guy. ‘Cause you know I don’t do that anymore. Eh, you snooze, you lose. Maybe that explains things: I slept ‘til 2:30pm on Thanksgiving Day.

Now: I can’t wait to go to Osento in a few hours and sweat away the sins of my foolish ganglia. Waiting to be released in the salt of my pores is a week’s worth of misnomers, misfires, misanthropies, and personal missile crises. I can give you an example of each. I spent my birthday and Thanksgiving with my ex-girlfriend (having turned down other gracious offers to have me) who has so thoroughly excised that part of our relationship that I am convinced that for her, it never even happened. Thus, even labeling her as an “ex-girlfriend” is a misnomer. Revisionism speaks, and when it does, it sayeth we’ve always just been pals. And good pals. I mean, were she to be reading this, I wouldn’t want to offend. It’s just that one of us lugs around the unexpurgated, people’s history version while the other one’s King James is a lot lighter in the binding, if you know what I mean. That said, she’s always been good company, for real, and that’s all that matters in a world that prefers reality television to reality.

For instance she insisted I do something for my birthday and the next day twisted my arm into doing a Thanksgiving, too. I’m not saying that either of these things were important or necessary to me within the isolated context of preordained dates on a calender, but I will say that they were enjoyable interludes for which I am grateful. I know it's a commercial but it's true: you can't put a price tag on memories. Certainly if I had stayed home alone as had been my plan, I would have been fine because I wouldn’t have known what I was missing, but the fact that I actually had a good time, nay a truly very lovely time, was a much grander vision than I had anticipated. Kudos to her.

Anticipation is what drives a misfire, i.e. the “failure of a model to make an official flight when its launch is attempted.” So there was this totally hot chick at Thanksgiving. She sat right next to me, exuding hotness. Then she shanghaied the entire table’s attention, holding court as it were, with what turned out to be a completely nonsensical spewing of nonsense. I think she went on for about 10 minutes, during which time I don’t think anybody knew what she was really going on about, though we all bore polite smiles on our faces in between forkfuls of grub. Occasionally, some one among the 10 or so of us women, would venture to ask a clarifying question that regardless of the words spoken actually translated to “what the hell are you talking about?” but her exasperated answers (“Rebel Without a Cause! I wrote it!) served to confuse us all more. I didn’t get it. And that’s when my friend J whispered to me “go for it.” Go for crazy? Thanks, already been there, with each and every one of you. Psst, there’s your misanthropy.

Which leaves the missile crisis. Enter the one whom, for the sake of this discussion, I shall refer to as The Scud. The Scud and J and I all met on the same night about a year ago. Apparently our tri-mutual friend had meant to set one of us up with her, and apparently J and I didn’t follow instructions, having gone home with each other. (I believe that account holds true in both the People's and in the King James). The Scud, by the way, is … you know … great ... owns her own business, owns her own look—no mistaking her in a crowd…. She cornered me in the kitchen and asked me what I was waiting for. I thought she meant which of the four mouth-watering desserts that lay unmolested on the table. No, silly. I thought it might be easier if I asked what she was waiting for, and she said, "the right woman." Even if she didn’t know it, I knew it wasn’t me. That’s when my stomach started cramping, and I got diarrhea. I think I ate some bad eggs earlier in the day. My many trips to the bathroom made her think I was avoiding her and my destiny as la numera una. It got to a point whereupon I did want to avoid her, but honestly, I was simply having gastro-intestinal issues. During a holiday party. At some else’s house. Oh the humanity.

Had I really answered the question of what I was waiting for I would have gotten into big trouble. I won't say it now either because I don’t know what eyes shall rest here. See there’s enough trouble in my love life or lovelorn(a)ness, defined as a persistant and pervasive lack of not love but something that's missing, for me to be cautious. I’m not trying to make myself seem like a loser. I haven’t run out of self-esteem, though I do, after these little bush forays (ha ha see I haven’t lost my sense of humor yah, these little bush skirmishes, bush runs, bush whackin’ yah all that…) I do run out of steam sometimes, and for one who is steam-driven (fire sign + water sign) that can be a matter of some concern. It’s like when a steam iron runs out of steam and things get fouled up. Turn the heat up and the iron starts melting and burning the cloth; turn it down, and the wrinkles get stubborn and refuse to lie flat.

So I called Shan, the mother of John's three kids and my dearheart, and she spoke a truth to me, the only one who would. "Come home," she said. I sighed, expelling what little store of hot air was left in me at that moment. Oh Christ. It comes to that, doesn’t it. I go back to Detroit and let them fawn all over me and get me all pumped up, and then return to Cali, get back in the ring, and I go down after a few blows to my emptiness.

But wait! All is not lost. For one thing, I have my increasing faith in the occult. Though as a rootin’ tootin’ American, in God I trust, I can’t put any faith in him nor in myself. But hoodoo, now that’s the ticket baby. They don’t call me Black Magic for nothin’. (See now this is when I knew that girl wasn’t right for me. I can’t even casually hang out w/ someone who doesn’t understand that the concept of blackness itself is vastly comedic when its source is someone like me. Even J. gave me a high five for that one. I mean c'mon!) Anyway, there’s a botanica at the end of my block (that’s why I love this neighborhood—Osento, the voodoo store, and overpriced produce all within one block), which is convenient for me since putting my faith in dripless wax figurines seems like less of a stretch than anything else these days. Besides, candle-burning is the most practiced and most simple of the magical arts.

Art, baby. Now we’re gettin’ somewhere. Like the another art that I believe in, astrology. You know what the skies portend this week? First off, New Moon in Sagittarius this Thursday, which means the opportunity for a fresh start every which way one can look. It’s not unlimited though. The waxing phase of the moon is only two weeks later, so there needs be an urgency to get a jump on any of these little projects I spin my wheels on day in and day out. Meanwhile, Mercury will turn direct on Saturday, ending the last retrograde of the year—another harbinger for cosmic relief. So maybe being written off by a singular audience of one girl yesterday was a blessing that I have failed thus far to acknowledge as such, lost as I am, in ungroundedness. Yes. I feel pretty good, actually. Cut the ballast. Move on. These are my true confessions for the moment, though they are subject to change.

Still Life

2005-11-23T08:22:00.000-08:00

“The womb bears all sorts of people, thieves and priests.”
—Chenjerai Hove: Marita
Bones

Today’s my birthday. A day I typically dread because what one can presume to be the good intentions of others often ends up making me feel trapped and hunted. But I can’t lay the blame elsewhere. My day of birth is also always a time of self-assessment, kind of like how New Year’s Day is for a lot of people, sans the resolutions. Even if I choose to grade myself on a lenient pass/fail scale, it’s a look backward that tends to worry me. Other people are giddy to have a day they can call all their own. For me, it’s just pressure.

I am always surprised, therefore, to remember that I arrived three weeks early even though I was also two years late, but this story is about what my day of birth means to me. It means that I have a purpose, a reason to exist. For 38 years now, I have been struggling to remember what it is, which means that the quest to remember is my current purpose. Nice that it works out that way.

I guess I don’t have anything else to say about it except that I’m neither a thief nor a priest. Yet.

Fall Back

2005-10-31T22:23:00.000-08:00

soft grass
drowning in pale light
remnants of a fierce glowing
beyond the kissable gloom

I miss the color change of a Midwestern autumn, though you can still tell it’s fall by the light, which takes on a nostalgic quality, puts on wistful hues. The clouds herringbone, like cotton candy dirgibles flocking for the winter journey south. Then comes the rain. I don’t miss being in the snow, though I miss the muffled sound and downy softness of a fresh snowfall. While I don’t care for the rain, I take it gladly over snow. If the rain were accompanied by a large thunderclap and a dance of jagged white light rising from the earth to the clouds, I might appreciate it or at least respect it. But the rain here, once it starts, never stops. It is cold and clammy, making one's clothes codependent as they cling for dear life. I tread water as it flows into my boots. But all that is yet to come. Now’s the time for lazy infielding, taking in whatever last days of regal rays existing. Fall finds me fondling trees and grass in the park and looking skyward always….

Ms. Rosa Parks (1913 - 2005)

2005-10-24T21:31:00.000-07:00

Miller: A lot of people don't realize what's really going on. They view life as a bunch of unconnected incidences and things. They don't realize that there's this like lattice of coincidence that layers on top of everything. Give you an example, I'll show you what I mean. Suppose you're thinking about a plate of shrimp. Suddenly somebody will say like "plate" or "shrimp" or "plate of shrimp" out of the blue no explanation. No point for looking for one either. It's all part of a cosmic unconsciousness.
Otto: You eat a lot of acid, Miller, back in the hippie days?
—from Repo Man

"I did not get on the bus to get arrested. I got on the bus to go home."
—Rosa Parks

"What a long strange trip it's been."
—The Grateful Dead

"If you don't stand up, I'm going to have you arrested," Blake warned me. "You can do that," I told him. Blake then parked the bus in front of the Empire Theater and telephoned his supervisor. "Did you warn her, Jim?" his boss asked. "I warned her," Blake said. "Well then, Jim, you do it; you got to exercise your powers and put her off, yuh hear?" Blake called the police, who arrived in a few minutes.
—from The Narrative of Rosa Park

The most mind-boggling thing to me about the Rosa Parks incident, if I may call it that, is contemplating who was that bus driver and who was waiting for her seat? It’s not that they are more relevant, but I’ve always felt like if it was such a strange fate to be the catalyst for a social movement, what must it felt like to be the other side of that? Did the bus driver [who died a few years ago] and/or the passenger to whom Parks was supposed to defer—did they proudly tell their children or grandchildren, “I was the one?” Did they later come to believe they had been in the wrong? Did they ever apologize to Parks, or did they feel wronged by her and by history? What must it have been like for any fo those who where there, in that time, in that place?

It's true that Rosa Parks wasn’t the first to be arrested for refusing to give up her seat on a bus, and some have claimed that Park's refusal was premeditated and dictated by civil rights strategists. But even if her feet weren't tired that day, she was tired—and she was the one. Most of us will never know what that kind of fate feels like. She changed the world. May she rest in well earned peace.

Small World, Big Music, Old Friends

2005-10-23T18:48:00.000-07:00

Nappy’s in town, ostensibly to help me out while recuperating from the now-postponed surgery that was schedule to take place on Thursday. When one door closes, another opens… I get to spend a week out in the world with an old friend instead of trapped in my dark studio recovering. One unexpected pleasure was scoring last minute tickets to see World Saxophone Quartet (WSQ) play Hendrix at the Great American Music Hall, San Francisco’s “oldest and grandest nightclub.”

I think I may have known about the show, but the date slipped my mind since I should have been in the hospital that night. By the time we had all our ducks in a row, even the tickets that were still available on the web despite “sold out” status for the 7:30pm show were gone. I didn’t relish the idea of a 10pm show, but I would have gone for it if all else failed.

Fortunately, the night was nothing but success-laden. Nappy came down to the Embarcadero and we caught the 38 to the ‘loin, hopping out right in front of the infamous Mitchell Brothers, where Behind the Green Door was made. We had a good laugh about my ridiculous evening there with Shan’s hubby, when he came to town last year—but that’s another story. Nappy and I headed to the box office to be told that we should try back later. This was an hour short of show time on what was a blustery sort of day, too cold to wait long in any sort of line. We decided to pop into the martini bar Olive for a spell.

While there, we reminisced about our first visit to San Francisco, back in the day. We stayed at the youth hostel in the Tenderloin, one of the city’s more notorious neighborhoods. The thing is, we didn’t realize it was supposed to be a bad neighborhood and coming from Detroit, it was a bit of a walk in the park. We thought the front staff were joking when they warned us to be careful going out our first night there. “This is a bad neighborhood? This?” We instantly fell in love with the city. Later we were serenaded at 4a.m. by a drunkard in the alley outside our window, two or three stories down. It seemed to be an Irish drinking song with a repetitive chorus punctuated by angry neighbors yelling “shut up” every time the song began again. It was about the fifth or sixth time that we realized that the Irish drinking song was actually Roberta Flack’s Killing Me Softly, slurred in a thick ale-laden brogue.

A few years later, when I had been ensconced in the city for a while, my friend Vani was dating the Ron, who lived at Leavenworth & O’Farrell while I was dating someone who lived at Hyde & O’Farrell, the upshot of which is that the much maligned Tenderloin holds a dear place in my heart, and I was happy, on the night of the concert, to be hanging there with an old friend. A chocolate martini (Nappy had a mojito) and appetizer plate later we went back to the box office where the security woman winked and gave us a thumbs up, pointing to a spot on the sidewalk where we should wait. We stood next to a young guy who struck up an odd but charming conversation that began with his embarrassment over having inadvertently matched his shoes and shirt and ended with his removing one of the said shoes to show me a scar on his foot. I found out he works at Golden Gate Park and I was immediately jealous until he said, “yah, everyone is but the pay is pretty low, and I don’t have health insurance.”

Our new friend, Thomas, had been first in line but his friends had pulled up, and he was throwing his backpack into the trunk when the ticket agent approached us. Then came a little bit of Abbott & Costello "Who’s on First," when the woman came and asked who needed tickets.

Me: Us (pointing to me and Nappy)
Nappy: Us two (speaking simultaneously)
Me: … and that guy
Thomas: (from the street) I need one
Ticket woman: You need two (to me)
Me: Three (including Thomas)
Thomas: Me too
Nappy: Us three (said while looking at the person in line behind her)
Me: We (pointing to Nappy). I mean one each
Thomas: Two (including me)
Ticket Agent: Two or too?
Etc.

After a few moments we got it all straightened out. Thomas disappeared ahead of us, and Nappy and I patrolled the layout determining that we might have gotten tickets but general admission meant that we appeared to be shit out of luck. We couldn’t find any seats that offered a view of the stage—until we saw Thomas waving us over. He’d managed to save two seats for us as well as seats for his friends. That’s why I love SF. The guy was definitely off-kilter, but he was good off-kilter, the perfect prelude to the free funk extravaganza about to unfold.

During his brief career, Hendrix relied increasingly on open-ended improv, a form that lends itself well to the blowout excursions characteristic of avant-garde jazz. Upon the release of WSQ’s Experience, All about Jazz interviewed David Murray (tenor sax) , who voiced his opinion that, “If there weren't so many people pulling on [Hendrix], I'm sure he would have certainly been some kind of jazz musician. His thing just attracted so many different styles of people that it was obvious that he had to be a rock musician during that time because he had all the ingredients. Jimi could have dropped in any era. If he came ten years from now and landed on our planet, this guy would be on the biggest stage, with the brightest light because he was the best guitar player. I think Jimi Hendrix could have played with anybody. I heard he was doing some stuff with Miles Davis up at Woodstock. He could have played with the Sun Ra Arkestra if he wanted to.” It was with that attitude of respect and reverence that the WSQ took the stage—but they weren’t afraid to make the music their own as Hendrix did with everything he touched.

They began by playing a “Freedom,” a funky little ditty that nobody in the audience seemed to recognize, though it was good and received ample applause. “If it’s Hendrix, I didn’t recognize it,” I told Nappy. She nodded; then Thomas leaned to me and said, “I feel dumb, but I’m not hearing the Hendrix.” So it was unanimous. They also played “Hear My Train A Comin’” before David Murray grabbed the mike and explained that 29 years ago, he and the other members of the New York Saxophone Quartet received a cease & desist letter from another group calling itself the New York Saxophone Quartet. Oliver Lake (alto and soprano sax) chimed in, “We gave them New York and became the World,” then launched into “Little Wing,” which we all picked up on. Their rendition reminded me somewhat of Sting’s version and a little less of Stevie Ray Vaughn’s. It’s a song that I like but have liked less and less over the years because it is easily rendered bombastic. While I appreciated their arrangement, I felt Lee Pearson’s drumming was overwhelming. Nappy laughed when I said, “He’s playing like he’s in Led Zeppelin.” Next came a dynamite version of “Hey Joe,” in fact, the best I’ve heard aside from the original. Since the departure and subsequent death of Julius Hemphill, the second alto chair has been a revolving door, but Bruce Williams, who plays on the album, was really jammin’ during the lurid tale of Joe’s crime passion. He’s a big guy in whose hand the alto and soprano saxophones looked like toys, but he was shakin’ like he was fornicating that sax. It was really spectacular. Hamiet Bluiett, baritone sax, really shined on “Machine Gun,” letting lose a cascade of startling soprano-pitched squonks, and “If 6 was 9” was a fantastic showcase for electric bassist Matthew Garrison, the son of long-time Coltrane bassist, Jimmy Garrison; they closed with a beautiful rendition of “The Wind Cries Mary” that began with a drone-like dirge, the melody carried Craig Harris, clad in a long skirt and mudcloth vest, on trombone.

Mid-show Garrison had played a beautiful six-string-like intro, and Pearson had redeemed himself to my ears and eyes by throwing down an exciting, hypersonic solo starting with mallets in both hands, and then with no interruptions or breaks in the rhythm, he successively went to playing his kit with both hands, one stick in the right hand, switching the stick to his left hand, grabbing the other stick and playing all parts of the kit and the floor with both sticks. When he was done there was a split-second of stunned quiet from the audience before someone seated near us uttered a spellbound “gosh!” That one syllable cracked up everyone in the vicinity.

It was a totally great night. Nappy and I said goodbye to Thomas and his pals, who I believe were staying for the second show. Nappy wore a grin the entire way home and said she’d never seen anything quite like it. I was glad to have treated my pal to something that she’ll always remember. It was a nice homage to a friendship that back in the day included a lot of sharing of Hendrix's music: it was from her collection that I first heard Axis: Bold as Love. The next day, as I described the night to a coworker who had earlier disbelieved that anyone my age would have grown up with and appreciated the music of Hendrix, she determined that our friend Thomas is her brother. Small world made smaller by music. Right on!

Abbey Road

2005-10-18T22:47:00.000-07:00

the beauty of banter
was everything
to kiss by moonlight
or streetlight
a tonewood hum inviolate

Some nights ago I stumbled upon Abbey road after having gone to Mecca.

Earlier in the evening, a friend mentioned she was fasting. “For Ramadan?” I asked, but I said it all hipsterish, like I thought I was cool—because I did. “No, for Yom Kippur,” she replied. Truly surprised to be wrong yet totally tongue in cheek, I coolly said, “Oh. Am I being insulting?” “No,” she said, “just ignorant.” We both laughed, hearty-har.

When I say I went to Mecca, it’s not another religious crack, though I believe I mentioned a trio of miracle workers in an earlier post. Two of the three, Trish and Jane, were present at the pilgrimage, as was their friend Petey. Honestly, they are some of the best folks I’ve met in a genuinely long time: real people, few hang-ups (or least the decency to keep them under wraps), open, interested and interesting… it was really quite refreshing. They made my night; wrestling demons has never been so fun. Thanks girls and boy!

But no sooner than the next night, I bumped right up against it all again—that ever-present magic circle. I didn’t get sucked into it, but it’s essence trussed me up like a turkey for a few, long moments. I’d never noticed an Abbey street in San Francisco before, and I couldn’t help thinking how apt is was for me to be staggering down it, segueing in step with the end of the Beatles classic album. While innocently I sought “Golden Slumbers," the night reminded me that “Once there was a way to get back homeward / Once there was a way to get back home again”—and immediately comes the heads up: “Boy, you’re gonna carry that weight, carry that weight a long time.” It’s a yin yang world with comfortable unknowns and known discomforts.

For me it is often people. Some people are here to help, others to hurt. Take my office, which, of late, has turned into the Gulag. It’s so clear cut, who is on which side of the fence. But those of us who can actually read the fence are the ones most feared. We also often tend to be somewhat powerless in these contexts. I’m no superhero. Now that the spotlight is on me for associating with the one who has become the scapegoat, I’m bowing and pandering like the best of ‘em. I don’t have much a choice at this point except to bide my time. And maybe that’s one of the takeaways from my stint in the circle: you just gotta let shit play out however it may. That goes for all facets of life and all attachments.

Surviving the magic circle means that you’re on, like the curtain’s up and it’s showtime. So I put on the work show. I’m sure I’m not the best actress, but I’m creating the perception that I believe the organization to be of greater value than myself. My friend, the scapegoat, hadn’t learned yet that perception is everything. You can work your ass off, maintain the whole organization on your shoulders, but if the perception is otherwise, no manner of tangible results will work in your favor. If you sit around twiddling your thumbs all day while assuming the aura of someone who’s the most valuable employee of all, you’ll probably make the managerial fast track.

My friend was naïve. I warned her. I knew where the fence was. But people just don’t listen sometimes because they can’t. I don’t tend to listen either. But it’s really hard to watch someone on the take down and be 100 percent helpless to do anything. The only thing I can do is refuse to be bullied into ostracizing her along with most everyone else. She’s done nothing except refuse to wear the mask of pretense; she’s doing it now, but it’s too late. I’ve been standing my ground beside her, but there will be repercussions down the road, when they've succeeded in eating her alive. I know that. Those of us on our side of the fence all know that. It’s gotten so bad that we’ve taken to leaving through separate doors to create the illusion that we’re not going to lunch together or becoming adept enough to shift into client work jargon at the drop of a hat, which requires going from hurried, hushed conversation to purposely loud, go get ‘em tonalities. And are we really fooling anyone? It’s all about perception. Acting the fool is much better than being the fool. The office is simply a microcosm.

And in my personal life, I have suffered great betrayals of late. It’s another round of coming of age, I think. But everything actually is all right, in fact, so right because there is art in the world. There is the music that I love, there are the random, anonymous smiles of others and my own, there are moments of collective synergy in which everyone gathers at the same time—like the 31-hour grand re-opening of the De Young Museum inside Golden Gate Park. From noon on Saturday, October 15 until 5 p.m. on Sunday, October 16, the museum was open and free. Alex and I went on Saturday night, joining approximately 600 other people in long winding line. I guess there were that many because the official stat was that they were letting in 660 people per hour and it took us just under an hour to get into what is a magnificent space. More amazing still is that when we left at midnight, there were as many people waiting to get in as when we had been in line. As exhausted as I was from what was a very tiring weekend, I felt an immense pride in the city and in the miracle of people and art. Sure it was a “scene,” and I’m sure especially in the wee hours some of the twenty- and thirty-somethings were there simply to be seen, but a lot of people also brought their kids and a lot of people were older and seemed happily bewildered as if it’d been ages since they’d been out and about past seven o’clock at night. There were working stiffs and people dressed in brand new Armani. There were hordes of people, all drawn peacefully to a center of art. That just rocked my world.

And then I finished up the weekend in good company with a couple drinks and dinner and a splendid walk that ended underneath a streetlamp. I got to make art. The more I think about it, the only way to temper the 9 to 5 is to use the 5 to 9 for artful living and that includes more of the comfortable unknown.

La Dolce Vita

2005-10-09T18:15:00.000-07:00

Saturday a.m. I woke up still feeling what I will describe only as “the effects” of a party I went to the previous night, using such vague language a) so that you may use your imagination if you so desire and b) so as not to incriminate myself. An additional caveat: the party invitation made mention of “naked dancing girls,” of which I saw none, and suggested that one arrive wearing “ghetto boots,” a term which remains a mystery as everyone seemed to be wearing regular, every day, shoes unless I missed something. Lastly, I felt like my mojo, which has been on strike for a few months now, was acting like its carburetor’s been cleaned out (we’re talkin’ vintage 1967) and a new starter installed. I tried it out on three women and it was definitely a little rough, but later in the evening, when a fresh batch of women arrived, they got to experience a little bit of the well-tuned mojo on overdrive—and they loved it. Phone numbers were pressed into my hand as by turns they commented on how “cute,” “funny,” “fun,” “adorable,” “witty” my mojo is. I brag out of necessity. The return of the mojo was something I was beginning to doubt. Welcome back, friend.

I had a good night. Then, as stated, I woke up groggy, witless, with the certainty that I’d erred in partaking of certain party favors. But I wasn’t about to lose a whole Saturday to recuperation. Nope, I forced myself to run and run we did, getting lost somewhere between Land’s End and the Baker Beach stairs. Uh, yah. I’m not complaining. It’s just that I wasn’t really prepared for an eight mile run. Sure the fog in my brain cleared because it had to focus on the new stressors which I had chosen to introduce into the parameters of this American life, but when it was over with I had a new problem: how to make my seriously abused physical self feel wanted and loved. The solution: three-hours at Osento, mostly in the wet sauna … with brief interludes in the hot tub; a nude nap on the deck (warmed by the sun, cooled by the breeze); a frolic in the cold pool; a nap in the dry sauna….

And then I got a phone call from my Greek friend who was irate with me for not answering her calls earlier in the day. I explained that I’d been at the bathhouse. “For three hours?” she asked. “All the time you complain, complain, and you live la dolce vita!” I agreed to meet her, though by this time I was thoroughly exhausted. I tried defending myself when she found me at the bookstore with a copy of with an Edgar Cayce guide entitled Growing through Personal Crisis in my hands. I explained how I’d woken up stoned unimmaculate (your imagination has failed you so I’m helping you out now) and how I’d gone to the party without having dinner and I hadn’t had breakfast and I’d run for two hours nonstop because because because and she just repeated herself, “la dolce vita and all the time complaining.” The sweet life? Me? He he he.

Which brings me back to the circle thing from the previous post. See, what I’ve learned since then is that there IS a way out:

“When blocked, tap into the great block-busters: humor, friends, and nature. The specific preparations begin when I enter the temenos, the play space. In ancient Greek thought, the temenos is a magic circle, a delimited sacred space within which special rules apply and in which extraordinary events are free to occur. My studio, or whatever space I work in, is a laboratory in which I experiment with my own consciousness. To prepare the temenos—to clear it, rearrange it, take extraneous objects out—is to clean and clear mind and body…. When the demons of confusion and the sense of being overwhelmed strike, they can sometimes be cleared out by clearing the space.”
—Stephen Nachmanovitch / Free Play: Improvisation in Life and Art

Of course. Evidence #3 (see previous post for preceding evidences)

Last week at Osento, I found myself in the wet sauna with a 400 lb. mustached woman and a Latina elder. The latter revealed her age to be 81, as I helped pull her literally into the steaming barrel edifice. She told us that she’s been going there for 25 years and that now her son brings her twice a week. She hadn’t gone the week before, we were informed, because she’d been worried sick about her sister, who had been missing in New Orleans after the hurricane. The sister had finally resurfaced and is being taken care of. Meanwhile, one can only hope the big earthquake doesn’t strike us soon, she said. But who knows with God so angry about these gays.

I had been drifting in and out of conscious listening so I wasn’t sure whether I’d heard what I thought I heard, but one look at the other woman’s distorted face and I knew my full attention was now needed. Justine, as she later introduced herself, was clearly agitated but handled the situation with much aplomb. Calmly she said, “Ma’am, I am very offended by your views. You’ve stated them once, and we’ve heard them but now I would ask you to change the subject.” The older woman became offended in turn, stating that she hadn’t said anything wrong and was just telling the truth. Her sister had rented her apartment to “those gays” and look what happened. But not her; she had had her children the natural way and raised them too. Her son brought her to Osento twice a week. But God is angry about the gays and especially about gay marriage. It’s in the bible. If that happens, we’ll all die. I interjected that we all die, and we all die for lots of different reasons, adding, “you’ve had a long life, and when you die I doubt it will be because of gay people.” “I hope not,” she muttered. “Why? Do you plan on marrying a woman?” I asked, winking at Justine. Indignant, the woman spewed a vehement "no" and asked why I would even say such a thing. I said, “Well you seem to equate gay marriage with death so I thought maybe you were planning on marrying a woman if you’re not so sure that gays won’t be the death of you.” Nobody said a word for a few moments and the only sounds of which I was aware were at that time were of the heater crackling and the sweat dripping down the side of my face. She squinted at me and asked, “Are you … gay?” “Yes, actually I am,” I answered. “Well that’s your business!” she squawked, visibly upset. “I know it’s my business,” I responded quietly, “but you asked so I told you.” She got up and left, as rickety as when she’d entered.

Justine introduced herself and thanked me for piping in. I shrugged and said, “She’s 81. What are you gonna do?” Not long afterward, I noticed that our unexpected enemy had left her comb in the room. Grabbing it, I went to find her. She was sitting nearby and looked at me suspiciously as I approached. “Is this yours?” I inquired. She hesitated for a moment then accepted it from me with a reluctant thanks. I went back to the sauna. About 20 minutes later, she returned. This time, Justine was elsewhere but another woman was in the sauna. With a fresh audience, the older woman started talking about the hurricane again, except this time she pointed the finger at the government. She was shaking with anger as she railed against the president, wondering how they could “leave all the black people and poor people and old people out there to rot. What terrible prejudice there is in the world!” she exclaimed. I couldn’t believe my ears, and I sat there mulling it over, wondering how she could feel that way but just moments earlier have exhibited such horrible prejudices against about gays. But I didn’t bring it up. I let her have her say, and I really listened to her. The two of us sat side by side, completely naked and vulnerable, and I just listened. The heat got to both of us at the same time. I assisted her out and then stood for a moment trying to decide whether a dip the cold pool was warranted. Lost in my thoughts, I’d actually forgotten all about her, but she was still there; she turned to me and told me her name: Amika. She clutched at my shoulder and said, “I’m sorry if I said anything bad before.” Then she crept away.

I was completely shocked by the whole thing. I mean first of all, I know that there are those who think that God is punishing the world because of gays, but I didn’t really, truly, know that people think that you know? Second, those sorts of views are not typical of what one encounters on a daily basis in San Francisco. Third, to have recognized! I knew, in that moment, that she had had a change of heart, in part, because I’d returned her comb and because I had helped her before either of us knew anything about the other. It was probably easy to assume that Justine is a “deviant,” if that's the way one's mind works, but clothing off, she couldn’t tell anything about me other than that I’m black and in this case, it wasn’t a liability. The entire episode filled me with a sort of wonder I haven’t experienced in a long time.

I also thought about my own prejudices. I have to admit that under regular circumstances, I probably would not willingly identify with an excessively obese woman sporting facial hair. I don’t like admitting it, but it’s the truth. But my own prejudice was easy enough overcome in that moment and in that small space, out of which came a new friend. Maybe two.

The magic circle, then, is all about transformation. It’s a locale which one enters, usually unwittingly. Often it feels quite comfortable until you realize that it’s like being in a tiny, invisible bubble that others can’t see or recognize. To them you’re acting strange for no apparent reason. Meanwhile, you’re trying to explain that you’re not acting strange given that you’re enclosed and cut off from the normal, every day channels of communication. Things happen in the circle that can’t really be expressed properly to others, though they are things you will want to shout about because they seem—are—so meaningful. It’s like trying to describe a dream and knowing that most all of it is lost in the translation. Thus being inside the circle can be terrifying especially if you try to fight it because to everyone outside the circle you seem engaged in pointless shadow boxing. They don’t understand you’re fighting for your life. However, eventually you will tire, like a baby crying herself to the point of sleep. It is exactly when you’re bereft of fight that you will begin to accept that you have been encircled, and, by default, begin finding your place within it, by finding your Self, extraneous to shared reality. Though you are surrounded by and seem to be in the midst of the life that everyone else is living, you’re not.

The secret of the circle is that everything that you think is real—that stuff beyond the circle—is the illusion. Your perceptions of what you need, who you are shift radically. And don’t bother telling anyone that you’re in the real, and they are not because they will just think you’re crazy or selfish with all your "help me, I’m drowning, not waving" antics. They won’t believe you, but you best believe yourself because you have been tasked with finding your peace within the circle of enlightenment regardless of what others say or do. Pascal wrote: “It is your own assent to yourself and the constant voice of your own reason and not of others that should make you believe.” Only then will you find your true self back on the other side of it again, which is when you'll long for what you'll realize was a private world of tranquility and timelessness, a refuge from the true madnesses of life outside the magic circle.

This is an age old cycle. Among Japanese Zen Buddhists, there is a single brush stroke symbol drawn by meditating monks called the enso. “Most say that the enso is the all, the void and enlightenment itself. Some say the enso has no fixed, finite or static meaning. Some have said that the enso represents a continuing action through time. When the painting [a circle] is seen it communicates at various levels of understanding depending on the viewer.” Additionally, “as a symbol of the absolute, the true nature of existence and enlightenment … it is a symbol that combines the visible and the hidden, the simple and the profound, the empty and the full.” That said, ensos often have a slight opening.

I can feed you all the evidence I have accumulated, and you will not believe me nor will I succeed in extricating myself in such a manner. Conscious evolution is a very personal thing, embracing the tension between indestructible spirit and the death of ego. It is about transformation, constant, never-ending, sometimes taking place at a snail’s pace and other times occurring in nanoseconds that encompass the rise and fall of entire inner worlds. But coping with the chaos or otherwise unfavorable conditions ignites our creativity and in creating, we forgo a crippling sense of powerlessness that has previously prevented us from bypassing self-imposed obstacles. I have been in a magic circle. I don’t care if you believe me.

The Abracadabra of Silence

2005-10-04T22:19:00.000-07:00

“There’s no illness at all, I simply got into a magic circle that I can’t get out of. It makes no difference to me. I’m ready for everything. I got into a magic circle. Now everything, even the genuine sympathy of my friends, leads to one thing—my perdition. I’m perishing and I have enough courage to realize it.”
“You’ll get well my friend.”
“Why say that?” Andrei Yefimych said vexedly. “It’s a rare man who doesn’t experience the same thing towards the end of his life as I am experiencing now. When you’re told that you have something like a bad kidney or an enlarged heart, and you start getting treated, or that you’re a madman or a criminal, that is, in short, when people suddenly pay attention to you, then you should know that you’ve gotten into a magic circle and you’ll never get out of it. If you try to get out, you’ll get more lost. Give up, because no human effort can save you. So it seems to me.”
—“Ward No. 6” / Anton Chekhov

No, I’m not dying though I’ve felt a bit like I am, and I haven’t been too criminal as of late, but in case you’re wondering, yes, I’ve been in a magic circle. Not a hula hoop despite a burgeoning underground hula hoop community, but definitely a magic circle. I might still be in it, but I feel like the way out might be just around the bend. Notice I used the word bend not corner, for indeed it is circular, whatever this is. For weeks now, if you were to ask me what day it is, I’d have no friggin’ clue. I’ve been marking post-hurricane time by which episode of which season of the Sopranos I’m on. I am keeping a brave face thanks to Netflix and the anxiety of a fictional middle-aged mobster.

Steve, a good friend and mentor recently observed “your last postings seem tortured and full of Kierkegaardian angst.” Of course I was flattered in some pathetically silly way, given that Kierkegaard, my patron saint of irreverence, struck such a fine balance between the absurdly serious and the seriously absurd. Yet I recognize that this particular balancing act I’ve been attempting to perform, and which has more teeter in it than it should, is merely symptomatic of spiritual crisis.

I have lost my voice inside that circle. I’ve had so many things to say and nothing to say at all, so I hope you won’t mind if I borrow the words of others to prove the existence of said magic circle.
Evidence #1. Steve, for example, was writing to share his and his wife’s experiences as an American Red Cross volunteer deployed to Baton Rouge:

We went down to work the shelters but were assigned as couriers taking supplies and correspondence to the numerous Red Cross and community shelters strewn in the areas surrounding the main hit. We were stationed in the gym of a Baptist Church on the west end Baton Rouge, and our routes covered about 250-300 miles a day. Nancy's route went as far west as Lake Charles (where Rita made a somewhat direct hit), and my route was southwest, closer to the towns along the Gulf—places like New Iberia, Erath, and Abbeville—all evacuated for Rita. We sat out Rita at the gym. About 100 of us were sheltered there, and because Baton Rouge was on the eastern edge of the counterclockwise rotation of the storm, several tornados touched down. It knocked out the power. We assigned each person a secure place in a bathroom or the kitchen, because it appeared the roof would not make it. It did. The place smelled like a goatbarn. We were to return home Sunday from New Orleans, but the highway was flooded. We were finally able to get on a flight out of Baton Rouge to Houston. In Houston we were able to get on a flight to Detroit. Ironically seats were available because of the evacuation of Houston days earlier.

I have many thoughts on the failure of government and the Red Cross, and of rampant racism and classism and wish we could discuss them face-to-face. But I will leave this for another time. l wish I could tell you about each photo. They are places on our routes and from a day trip we made into Biloxi, Gulfport, and Wavelan, which took a direct hit from Katrina. You might not understand the details in the photos unless pointed out—the places where houses used to be, the railroad tracks suspended in air where the gravel berm washed out, the roofs sitting all over after being frisbeed off the houses, the plastic bags hanging in symmetry about eight feet off the ground in the trees—the receeding water line way inland. We will talk.

In the meantime, your last postings seem tortured and full of Kirkegaardian angst. Know you have family. A lady I was talking to, after having related burying a friend the day before, the loss of her home, and many other travails, ended the conversation by looking at me, and very sincerely said, "... but it’s all good, Shugah."

Be well,
Steve

Now if that’s not heartening and disheartening, I don’t know what is. What I found particularly inspiring and would like very much to appropriate is the “but it’s all good, Shugah,” but I doubt I can pull it off.

Evidence #2. Last Thursday I went to a dinner party where I knew only the hostess and the person who had invited me. One of the other guests was a woman from Germany who looked as if she’d stepped off the pages of a 1950s English novel. Her husband reminded me of my days in undergrad, which is not to say that he was immature, but he exuded a certain off-kilter zest that reminisced of the days when you’re young and less stuck on particular ideas about yourself and the rest of the world, largely because post-infancy, you do realize you exist and the world exists, but pre-mid-life crisis, you don’t yet realize that you and the world exist together, symbiotically. There was also New Zealander with the kind of face that could make a soft porn casting director weep. There was a gay Mayflower descendent and his boyfriend, a guy notorious for his mushroom tea parties. The friend who’d invited me has been battling the urge not to quit her current job; if she doesn’t quit, it will be the first job she’s held for more than a year in more than ten years. And the hostess, a masseuse by trade, had decided to pit her own vegetarian lasagna recipe against her own rendition of a Cook's Illustrated–inspired meat lasagna recipe, though she’s not a meat eater. In other words it was an eclectic group that actually gelled pretty well.

What was most striking to me about the evening was a pair of conversations. In one, the woman from New Zealand started waxing poetic about Burning Man. She was enthused in that Burning Man crowd sort of way—emboldened, starry-eyed, agog. I bristled next to her. Having little tolerance for what seemed to me an overly optimistic and naïve insistence that Burning Man will save the world, I felt compelled nay forced to explain that while it’s really great that 30,000 mostly white folks get together to do drugs and explore art in the desert, it’s not exactly the salve this world needs. She argued that each person can make a difference to which I replied, “Yah, whatever… I know that when a butterfly flaps its wings in the Amazon jungle, shit happens, but whenever shit happens, it stinks.”

Needless to say I wasn’t necessarily a hit at this party. Then again, I wouldn’t say I wasn’t. Some of the partygoers didn’t believe me when I opined that most people in this country probably don't even know what Burning Man is, and if you were to explain it they'd think it's bloody strange and possibly dangerous and definitely stupid and wrong. Then she started talking about how diverse the festival is. Diverse my ass. I asked her what she thinks would happen if 30,000 Arabs, or Blacks, or Latinos or Native Americans decided to convene in the desert for a week of debauched art, rave music, psychedelic drugs, etc. She replied that it would be, and I quote, "lovely." to my surprise, half the guests sided with her. I felt like jumping up on the table and bellowing, "Did Katrina not just happen?"

I did disclose that I’ve never been to Burning Man and not necessarily from lack of wanting to go. Nor would I seek to disparage the ideals of the present day vehicle of “counterculture,” bound as it is by it’s very nature to spread love and joy throughout the world. I’m all for a consensual group grope if that’s what floats people’s desert chariots. But it just doesn’t translate to the Heartland. I know because I’m from the Midwest and for as open as I think I am, some of it doesn’t translate to me. I found it hard to translate that sense of "doesn't compute" to my dinnermate, who I later learned is landed gentry with horses and such to eventually get back to should she get tired of water that flushes opposite of what she's been conditioned to experience.

No need to be snotty, I agree. I also agree that the world needs saving. Like my sparring partner who so clearly put the zeal in Zealand, I hope there is a salve for this wounded world, but Burning Man—the movement as spotlighted by the annual event—ain’t it. A bunch of dusty group hugs accompanied by trance music is not enough. But it’s hard, when you’re in the magic circle, to communicate with others who espouse viewpoints that aren’t just seriously absurd, but are, in fact, Absurd. "I’M SORRY," I said and returned to noshing politely until the gay folk in the room began arguing about whether gay pride is a valid notion. Why not just be proud of being human, one asked. "Turn on the news," I suggested. "We’ll find plenty of reasons to forgo pride on any level there."

To be continued.

Incomplete Strangers: May 10, 2001

2005-09-18T21:35:00.000-07:00

On May 10th, 2001, my head was aswirl with all kinds of meaningless shit. I hadn't written anything worthwhile in a long time, other than meditations, which weren't original. During that time I wrote: "I look back at these past four months of joblessness and think about all the time I've wasted, chasing love to no avail and to no sense of accomplishment other than destitution. That's what happens when you flirt too seriously: you can't stop, and you flirt with everything, even destitution.

Today I experienced the fear of God again. Standing on the platform waiting for the underground train and trying desperately to shake the feeling of life vs. death, me at that [temp job] that is just like Scient. God, no. Let me be employed, yes, let me earn a living; yes, but not in that environment. I don't know what I'd do.

Meanwhile, I sleep, and I sleep, and I sleep at odd hours. Crashing out in 2-3 hr. naps. I'm not a napper. Am I depressed? I dunno. I want to say no, but I know what J. meant when, describing his adverse reaction to cocaine, his self-propelled toxicity, that he feels 'it' lurking. I feel it too. All I want—and i've said it once and say it always—is a woman and a job. Proof evident that my priorities are fucked up. Shouldn't it be job first? Call me crazy because I am. I wanna be in love. 'Don't be like me, kid.' That's all I ever see myself saying in the future. 'I had a shot at great things, but I blew it.' And with that, I smile and go to sleep.

Afterthought: what I want to be in love with is my life.

1. i feel like a rat in a hole

2. sometimes when we unravel it's the most beautiful thing

3. and you recognize that her beauty is not the thing that's keeping you going after all

4. transfers are only issued at the time fares are paid

5. i feel like a rat in a hole.

this is the story of me and some of my friends and what happened to us all in the pursuit of life. there's a song by the pixies, frank black singing if man is five well then the devil is six and if the devil is six then god is seven and sometimes i just wanna bellow that from the rafters like jimmy cagney shoutin' 'top of the world ma, top of the world!' but i had this conversation w/ myself about it once, arguing that there's a fundamental flaw in the song's theory if you don't believe in the devil—let alone god.

we all believe in man, right? not all of us, i said to myself, no. but we wake up, look in the mirror, walk around, answer the phone, stand in line next to one another. IS THIS NOT EVIDENCE OF FIVE? the existentialists were never that convincing i insisted. then i decided to play devil's advocate with myself. aha—if i'm the advocate, evil must exist. i don't want to confirm the horned one's existence but i do as i sit in the station talking to myself in my rock and roll outfit. look the part, play it. that's right, i'm an actress. studying for the role of a crazy woman, in which i play myself: the crazy that was cured upon realizing that the devil is merely ignorance and god is indeed seven, thebiggestofthemall, because seven ate nine."

On this evening, September the 18th of 2005, not much has changed except that I've lost the playfulness. That was also pre-9/11, though. Our civilization has begun the great descent. We're at the point where the downward momentum is steady but unstoppable. Rock bottom is still a ways in the distance, but we're definitely making our way there. Events like 9/11 and Katrina will later serve as mile markers.

Meanwhile, people like me still want to carve our little slice of the American dream, which is really the world's dream. We think we're humble enough that our wishes should be granted, and we become outraged in being denied. Then someone like me picks up the paper and sees yet another picture of another person whose life has been uprooted by natural disaster or human violence or just dumb luck ... and that someone like me realizes there's no humble pie big enough on which to gorge herself. And yet, and yet, and yet, I still want what I want.

Waterworld: What'll Go Down the Drain?

2005-09-04T22:35:00.000-07:00

“The psychological rule says that when an inner situation is not made conscious, it happens outside as fate. That is to say, when the individual remains undivided and does not become conscious of his inner opposite, the world must perforce act out the conflict and be torn into opposing halves." —Carl Jung

Friday night a friend urged me to get myself in front of a television set. She said that she had never seen the media reacting as emotionally as it was that night, which was five days into the aftermath of Katrina. She described the on-air behavior of various broadcasters and insisted that I see for myself. She said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a race war.”

Well, I don’t have a tv, so I missed all of that, but I have caught sound bytes from various radio pundits and shows, and I’ve read Michael Moore’s open letter to Bush, Molly Ivins' much-read piece, etc. I’ve been voyeur, listening in on the conversations of other commuters, shoppers, library patrons and other people who've been places I've gone. I’ve talked to coworkers, my dad, a Nigerian cab driver who dropped me off at a friend’s place.

Basically, everybody’s talking about what’s going on in New Orleans. Everyone is talking about race, poverty, the Iraqi war, and President (whether you like it or not) Bush in ways that aren't usually so public or so consuming. I have been asked to share my opinion, but I haven’t been forthcoming because while I have an opinion, it’s imprecise. Still, I suppose it’s worth stating aloud.

For me, there are two emotions running at hand: hope and fear. My hope is that regardless of which side you’re on, regardless of who’s to blame for what, regardless of what could have or should have happened or been avoided, people will keep on talking and talking and talking and talking it out. My fear is that like HealthSouth (Scrushy who?) and Enron, the Florida and Ohio counts, and about a gazillion other situations and events that tarnish and diminish the good of this country, we’ll forget.

Let’s face it, we’ve got attention spans so short that collectively speaking, the national consciousness is a lot like that of the main character in Memento, who: “lives in the present tense. Unable to create new memories after suffering a head injury, he's left with fading images of his life before that point in time, and scrambles to make sense of events as they happen to him, moment by moment. Because he can't keep an idea in his head for more than a couple of minutes, Leonard writes notes … in hopes that when he looks at them, he'll know what he was telling himself. Trouble is, he tends not to remember what all these notes mean.”

This country has suffered a flurry of head injuries. 9/11 was a head injury, but Bush was already in office. I can see considering Election 2000 as a head injury, but that felt more like a blow below the belt. Besides, were things really so different before Bush landed in the White House? On the surface yes, but dig even a little bit deeper, and it’s not like Al-Queda only began playa hatin’ us in 2000. It’s not within the past five years only that minorities in this country have felt disenfranchised too.

I think we might be punch drunk from the assassinations of Medgar Evers, the Kennedy Brothers, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Malcolm X right on through the trial and ridiculous verdict of O. J. Simpson; Watergate was one smack down, the events leading to the Star report was another. The imprisionment of Mumia and Leonard. Waco and Oklahoma City. The Patriot Act.

It’s been blow after blow for a really long time, and that’s just stuff we’ve delivered unto ourselves, though there are those who claim that Pearl Harbor and 9/11 were self-inflicted too. What better way to buy national buy-in and distraction than to take a near knock-out punch on the chin every now and then. Americans are infamously easy to rally once everyone’s on the same page, even if some people, like the Japs, Indians, or niggers have to be herded into internment camps, reservations, housing projects or jails, respectively. Or ignored altogether, like the 9/11 families or the Cindy Sheehans.

Go back to Memento and how the guy wrote notes to himself to try to retain facts. We’ve got media and art for that. The countless headlines and opinion pieces and captioned photos and broadcast archives. The artistic statements from flags in toilets and talking vaginas to the Vietnam Wall and Hollywood movies. Assuming they’re ever accurate, after time passes what do they all mean when taken out of the context of conception and restored in an altogether different context?

In her great review of the film, PopMatters Film and TV Editor Cynthia Fuchs writes, “The relationship between meaning and memory is a complex one that most of us take for granted—when you remember something, like a face or an event, you also have for it a context and a sense of how it connects to other faces and events in your past experience. But what if you didn't have that context? How would you know which face is relevant to you? Which event has consequences? … The most unnerving effect of Memento's fragmentations and dislocations is [a] sense of doubt. At first, you're putting the narrative together… but then you realize that you can't trust your own assumptions or reading abilities….”

If you can’t trust your government (human-machine hybrid), who can you trust? We can’t even trust the ballot chads, and Soylent Green is people.

This is my fear. If we don’t keep this level of awareness, things will blow over because they always do. Whether the governmental response to a particularly destructive weather pattern that has forced us into deconstructing the origins of and validity of claims of racism or classism or heartlessness or political payback or opportunism or simply a major major fuck up, the undercurrent that’s been exposed is old. Real old. The New Deal gave way to the criminalization of proverty even before Bush claimed the throne, even before The Clash offered their public service announcement (with guitar) more than 20 years ago:

Know your rights all three of them

Number 1
You have the right not to be killed
Murder is a crime!
Unless it was done by a
Policeman or aristocrat
Know your rights

And number 2
You have the right to food money
Providing of course you
Don’t mind a little
Investigation, humiliation
And if you cross your fingers
Rehabilitation

Know your rights
These are your rights

Number 3
You have the right to free
Speech as long as you’re not
Dumb enough to actually try it.

There are those who subscribe to a three-world model, of which we usually only talk about the First World (us) and the Third World (them). But we rarely consider the two Americas. The shadow America (as I tend to think of it with a purposefully Jungian nuance) seems to exist within the denial of the empire America. Yet, when Bush said, “We face a dangerous enemy who wants to harm our people and our way of life,” he, representing the haves, was referring to the shadow self. I say that because the poor of this country, unbeknownst to themselves, share a socio-cultural identity (of poverty) that transcends nation-state boundaries in a very Fourth World way that belies the sharing of ethno-indigenous traits to create the sort of one-ness that might save the world.

Fuchs says, in the end, “Memento isn't about character development or change—Leonard is incapable of either. Losing meaning is a frightening experience, because you're so used to thinking you have it, that your identity remains constant from moment to moment, that your memory is who you are. If you have no memory, then who are you?” Who are we as a nation, and who will we be once the water has receded?

Summer Solstice

2005-08-31T21:50:00.000-07:00

eyelashes flutter against the single pane
like determined moths convinced they can penetrate
edison’s invention, confusing filament with fulfillment
just like I confused your presence with present tense
expecting you here now but you’ve gone
leaving only traces of yourself
tiny hairs on the pillows
stains on the sheets

thoughts race quicker than the fog rolling in
water vapor's smoky irridescence spaning the sky
lights and darks jumbled reminiscent
of unsorted laundry, your clothes in a heap
memories of a long, sensuous night
summer light puts on a winter pageant
special guest, I’m improperly attired
my shirt’s off as i press against the cold glass
and my nipples remain supple
awaiting your caress

ahhhhhhhhh
chill warmth of desire
your steps on the stairs
on what has been the longest day of a year
of waiting

Vacation's all i ever wanted...

2005-08-30T19:54:00.000-07:00

June Lake, California

Me and the Herman Boys II Men

Mammoth Hot Springs, California

Hot Sprung

The Truly Great Outdoors

Cap'n Homey

Candid Camper Camera

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

2005-08-29T19:20:00.000-07:00

So I finally did it—took the plunge and left the city for a spell. Headed out on that highway, looking for adventure with the Herman brothers. Before I left, a coworker, a friend, another friend, and a stranger—all women—suggested that maybe it wouldn’t be wise for me to head into the wilderness "alone," i.e. alone with men. In other words, the speculation was that some harm might befall me, a solitary woman, in the company of unchaperoned men. In fact, I’m putting it in much nicer terms than the cautionary comments that were levied my way, including the very blunt, “You’re gonna get raped.” I have to say I found these well meaning reactions to be very bizarre and … well… quaint. I’ve known the older Herman brother for five years now. We’re buddies. The other brother I’d only met once before, but we got along right well. It never for a moment crossed my mind that I might be endangering myself by agreeing to drive to Central California with friends.

Anyway, I wasn’t worried and given that I’m back in one piece, well, hey. Women and men can be friends without anything untoward happening. The only injury I did receive occurred on the first day of our trip, when I sliced my hand open right nicely, while trying to shove a pinecone up Soyboy’s ass. He was bent over, stretching or some such. I saw a pinecone nearby and couldn’t resist. I charged him as perhaps my reproving women friends thought might happen to me. He batted it away in such a way that the edge ripped into my hand. But what’s a little bloodletting among friends? The next day, from a distance of about 30 feet, I lobbed a desiccated mushroom at him, nailing him right in the back of the head. I was rewarded with sound of it striking a hollow gourd. Violence doesn’t stem only from men; musta been all that fresh air.

The trip itself was grand in its own way. We spent the first two nights in a tent cabin in Mid Pines, about half an hour outside of Yosemite and the third night at a tent cabin in Curry Village, at the heart of the Yosemite Valley. During the days we explored the Wawona area, Lemke and Pothole Domes, Lukens Lake, Dog Lake, the Merced Grove and Tuolumene Meadow. On Day Four we drove to June Lake and pitched proper tents for a couple days of more "primitive"-style camping.

The trip actually began on Monday evening. Marc had arrived earlier in the day, flying in from Ft. Lauderdale. That night he and I met at Azie, the French-Asian fusion restaurant where Soyboy dallies as a sous chef. We had a number of tasty treats as well as the treat of watching Soyboy in action. Highlights there included some damn fine short ribs; duck w/ mashed edamame and stewed cherries; heirloom tomatos, goat cheese, and bacon; oysters w/ wasabi tabiko; and cinnamon rubarb gelato. Marc and I also had the chance to interact a bit more than we had during his previous visit. After dinner, he and I left Soyboy to his work. During the walk to our respective homes, Marc recounted a recent trip he’d taken with his brother and his brother’s friend. Apparently this woman and Marc didn’t quite hit it off so well. Interesting as it was, I wanted to know why he felt compelled to share that with me. That’s when he point blank asked me if I was going to be a bummer during the trip. I told him I couldn’t make any promises….

The funny thing about his question is that for possibly the first time in my life, I had difficulty slipping into vacation mode. I was a bit stressed out for the first couple days, and while Marc’s question probably helped me keep it under wraps more than I might have, holding it in probably didn’t help me feel better. Still, I really can’t blame him. Vacation is sacred.

The truth is, I’ve really needed a real vacation, and it’s simply been too long, especially under high stress conditions. The first couple days I worried about everything it was possible to worry about, mostly cash flow and how to resolve or learn to accept some situations at home. The other factor is that I was extremely ill-prepared for the trip, which is not my typical vacation m.o. I even had to stop and get trail shoes immediately after the guys came to get me, and many items that I'd had in my hands somehow never made it into my bag, including my camera. Fortunately, the tenor of the trip was that we were flying by the seat of our pants the entire time, which was part of the adventure. We didn't have any firm plans or ideas about where/how we'd be staying except for the last couple nights when we'd be meeting up with a group of Marc's friends from L.A.

I’m surprised I didn’t loosen up right from the get go, when the boys arrived with the rental: a PT Cruiser. When Soyboy called and sheepishly said, “I just picked up the car. You’re not gonna believe what they gave us,” I knew from the tone of his voice that it had to something ridiculous, and I was right. There’s hardly anything more ridiculous than driving to Yosemite in a gold PT Cruiser. The car actually handles pretty well, considering that it’s a glorified Neon. It got pretty decent mileage, which was particularly helpful given gas prices these days. We did have to fill up at one pump that was going for a very painful $3.50/gallon. But overall it proved to be a worthy, if utterly silly, vehicle. We had fun making fun of ourselves in it.

The first two nights we ended up at The Yosemite Bug Lodge, Hostel & Campgrounds, located in Mid Pines, which is 25 miles from Yosemite Valley. We wound up in a decent tent cabin—a canvas tent set upon a wooden frame—surrounded by a lot of pine trees and oaks, which we explored in the dark the first night we arrived. After congratulating ourselves with a bottle of Jack Daniels, we scrambled up a series of boulders until we reached a plateau upon which we laid ourselves out, beneath the canopy of stars and a textbook Milky Way.

The next day, we criss-crossed the park, hiking in and around as many spots as possible, and as sunset neared we scampered up some rocky explosions to watch the sun take a dive, its fiery light cast upon the Sierra Nevadas as if it were a real-time film projected on granite. We toasted the occasion with Tecates and burning sage.

My fear of heights and subsequent vertigo kicked into gear more than I would have liked on the trip, but for the most part it didn’t keep me out of the game. There were moments, for example at Lemke Dome, where I simply got to a point where I wasn’t willing to ascend any further, but I told the boys to continue onward and they did, waving to me from the top. Meanwhile, I discovered that I was sharing my resting place with a rattler that I heard but never saw thanks to a highly motivated rapid descent on my part. I also experienced pretty acute vertigo while steering the Cruiser through the Tioga Pass with both boys napping soundly. After that, I refused to take the wheel for the rest of that day.

We never saw any black bears, although we heard plenty of tales and received several warnings. On one road, bear lockers were strategically positioned next to a turn off, and at Curry Village, we were told the next day that bears had ripped into a couple cars in the parking lot. Not our little Cruiser, though; no, our car was attacked by crab apples from the tree we’d unwittingly parked beneath, having arrived at our overnight home in the middle of the night. That morning as we were packing up to leave, several deer came into the vicinity, absolutely fearless. It was kind of sad, actually to see these wild creatures completely turned onto human ways: raccoons climbing on picnic tables, chipmunks and ducks willing to be hand fed.

While we were in Merced Grove, the least oft visited of the Park’s three giant sequoia groves, I thought about how on the one hand, environmentalists and conservationists such as John Muir, have done an amazing thing, preserving all these natural resources. But I also thought that if a Native American from way back were brought to this day and age via a time machine, he or she would surely cry for what we have done.

At June Lake, we met up with a group of Marc’s friends—Ed, his girlfriend My and her 14-yr-old sister Christine, Brian and May, Tim, and Rachel. The group of us had three campsites and pitched our tents in proximity of one another. There were plenty of shenanigans punctuated by microbrews and a variety of sakes and wine, distributed amongst the large group. We also had many fine sober moments of boating and troll fishing on the lake and an excursion to nearby hot springs. The last night was filled with star-gazing and a campfire joke-off between Marc and Ed. Then came morning goodbyes and the long drive home.

And that was my summer vacation: granite peaks, glacially carved valleys, meandering meadows and glittering lakes. I don’t know how I’m gonna swing it, but going away made me realize I must manage to do it more often.

Doldrums

2005-08-22T23:20:00.000-07:00

How soon things change. A few weeks ago I was high on the golden hog, and now it’s a struggle just to keep my eyes open amongst all the chill and gloom of August. If you're living in the United States, you probably have no idea what I mean unless you live in Alaska. Or San Francisco. Believe it or not, last week it was even colder here in SF than it was in Anchorage. The culprit: fog.

Sure, there is a certain beauty to the vaporous gatherings of the marine layer. The San Francisco Chronicle recounted environmentalist Harold Gilliam's picturesqe depiction of the many variations of Bay Area fog, including “wreaths and domes over Alcatraz; arches over the Golden Gate Bridge; eddies and fog falls that look like cascades over Twin Peaks in San Francisco and the Sausalito hills; surges and combers over the Peninsula and past the top of the hill in Daly City; rivers of fog at places like Candlestick Park; and the so-called fog decks, where fingers of fog skip over the bay and into Berkeley.” I’m certainly down with all of that. But that’s just it. I’m down!

Generally speaking, I’ve acclimated to the weather here more than I would have thought possible upon my initial arrival five years ago. I landed here in a July and spent the first six weeks in Pleasanton, across the Bay. The entire time I had to re-live the daily shock of leaving the house in the morning, say around 90°F and emerging from my 40-minute journey on the Bart to low 60s of San Francisco’s Financial District. It only got worse when I moved to the Oceanview and Richmond districts, where it was usually in the high 50s. I don’t think I saw the sun more than 10 days out of the six months each that I lived in those neighborhoods. In particular, mentioning the Richmond always makes people smile as they wax poetic about the bustle of Clement St. with its Asian and Russian vibes and about the proximity of Golden Gate Park. As charming as they are, those elements were not enough to keep me in what felt like a perpetual deep freeze. I maneuvered from living situation to living situation until I finally ensconced myself in the Mission and don’t think it was an accident. The Mission is one of the sunniest, warmest neighborhoods in the city, thanks to Twin Peaks, which serves as a kind of natural fence that the fog tends not to breach. But even here, we’ve been hard pressed to see the sun lately.

Of course fog forms in other parts of the country, and, in fact, the absolute foggiest spot in the nation, says the Chronicle, is “the aptly named Cape Disappointment at the mouth of the Columbia River in Washington state.” But San Francisco isn’t called “Fog City” for nothing. There’s some kind of science behind it, my understanding of which goes something like this: as the summer heat settles in the nearby Sacramento and San Joaquin valleys, the warm air rises, creating changes in the atmospheric pressure. This produces winds, which push the warm air over the much cooler temperatures of the ocean surface and voila—fog. Maybe I only get partial credit on that answer. The important thing, as meteorologist Jan Null says, is that "you have to think of the air as a fluid, and that means it takes the path of least resistance.''

Gilliam again provides an apt description of the end results: “Fantastic fog forms may develop as the advancing white mass encounters obstacles. It may come in surges like a slow-motion surf, exploding into spray on the ridge at the north end of the Golden Gate Bridge, forming a standing wave over Sausalito, whirling horizontally in eddies around promontories, and pouring over Twin Peaks and the Peninsula hills, where it forms fog falls and fog cascades down the leeward slopes. If it comes in low on the Bay surface, it is likely to billow in domes over Alcatraz and Angel islands. At times a fog deck will appear part way up the Berkeley Hills and build out toward the Bay."

With this river of fluid air weaving its way through and around all the 43 hills and valleys of a city surrounded by the bay on three sides, we’ve got microclimates up the wazoo. Even on the mornings where I’ve been lucky enough to see a hint of sunrise, by the time I travel to work in the Financial District, fuhgetaboutit. Sometimes we get a little burn off in the blocks around my office, but it remains nearly impossible to see the East Bay, which is ironic, because the sun is probably blazing there. On the reverse trip, I know I’ll see the sun for an hour or two, but by then who cares? I’ll be inside rustling up dinner or trying to decompress and by the time I get my druthers up to go back out, the grey will have us back in lock down.

Of course some people actually like the cool mist, or at least see some humor in it. Me, I’m just ready for the fog machine to wear itself out so I can quit having to wear garments that 30 years of living in Michigan has convinced me are only meant for winter. Groaan, this fog. God knows it can be beautiful, sweeping across the city like a ballerina with nimble feet, but that’s mostly when it’s in the distance. When it descends like a vulture and just sits there, I start to feel claustrophobic, like I’m one of Camus’s ill-fated characters. I notice I've been wringing my hands a lot lately and listening to melancholic "AM Gold" music, like Glen Campbell’s version of “The Wichita Lineman” and The Kink’s “Young and Innocent Days,” while having flashbacks to several of Andrei Tarkovsky’s pictures. I keep thinking about The Stalker, which I only saw once but which has stuck with me, lines like "My conscience wants vegetarianism to win over the world. And my subconscious is yearning for a piece of juicy meat. But what do I want?," sneaking up on me under cover of this pea soup weather. My mind likes especially to recall a poem used in The Stalker, one that Tarkovsky’s father wrote, of which I found a translation by Maria Pearse:

Now summer has passed,
As if it had never been.
It is warm in the sun.
But this isn’t enough.

All that might have been,
Like a five-cornered leaf
Fell right into my hands,
But this isn’t enough.

Neither evil nor good
Had vanished in vain,
It all burnt with white light,
But this isn’t enough.

Life took me under it’s wing.
Preserved and protected.
Indeed I have been lucky.
But this isn’t enough

Not a leaf had been scorched,
Not a branch broken off…
The day wiped clean as clear glass,
But this isn’t enough.

Not exactly uplifting I know. That’s just it: Like a friend who overstays the welcome, the fog discomfits me. I feel nostalgic, burnished (having recently lived golden) but burnt. It’s as if I have cotton between my ears and rustling tin cans where my heart should be. I alternate between feeling clammy or raw, and I can do nothing but retreat into my dreams. I fantasize about a different life, a life of sun and girls and evergreen nature. I spend more time in The Other World and consequently am easily startled out of a reverie madness into another of horns blaring, doors shuddering, pigeons fluttering too close, homeless people shouting at invisible enemies. The noise—everything hovers too close. I just wanna put on my chamois shirt w/ the hoody, retreat into myself, and come back out when the fog is elsewhere, where I can point to it in awe of Mother Nature’s artistic talents. That’s why I’m getting’ the hell out for a few days. Yosemite take me away! When I come back, either the fog will have dispensed or if not, perhaps I'll have refreshed my capacity to live amidst it and not be afraid.

Then again to human is to be fickle. I actually love the fog. It’s just that I’m satiated. Feast or famine. Always feast or famine.

That Which By Any Other Name

2005-08-12T13:28:00.000-07:00

Genghis Khan - Fashion Statement

I have been restless lately, and in my restlessness, I have pictured myself in far-flung places. Like Mongolia. Last summer an amazing cultural event took place there, one that hardly made a splash in the news in the U.S., but that I haven’t been able to get out of my head: everybody named themselves. What a powerful thing it must have been to label oneself, a pronouncement of who you are condensed into a few syllables or less, and to do so en masse.

The facet of language constituted by names is fascinating. In my own heritage names are very convoluted. For one thing, my mother’s maiden name turns out to be my grandfather’s mother's name, not his true patronymic surname as was used by his brothers. Meanwhile, all of my dad's male siblings share one last name, the same one that I bear, but his sisters all claim and share as their maiden name one that is different than their brothers’ surname. The boys were long on grudges and refused to carry a name of Portuguese origin that is too much a reminder of colonialism.

I was shocked some years ago when my Portuguese cousin Montezuma (who, after spending a few years in England now goes by Monte, pronounced "Monty"), told me that in Portugal, parents must choose names for their children from an official list of government-sanctioned first names. In other words, in Portugal it's possible to have an illegal first name. This new knowledge put his first name in a whole new perspective, not to mention those of his siblings, Anastasia and Boaventura.

The cultural significance of names cannot be understated. MAR (Minorities at Risk) "tracks 284 politically-active ethnic groups throughout the world from 1945 to the present—identifying where they are, what they do, and what happens to them. MAR focuses specifically on ethnopolitical groups, non-state communal groups that have 'political significance' in the contemporary world because of their status and political actions. Political significance is determined by the following two criteria:

The group collectively suffers, or benefits from, systematic discriminatory treatment vis-a-vis other groups in a society

The group is the basis for political mobilization and collective action in defense or promotion of its self-defined interests."

For example, though Chinese have been in Indonesia for centuries before the Dutch colonialism of the 1800s, "the group has been compelled to abandon their Chinese names and adopt Indonesian-sounding names in order to acquire [Indonesian] citizenship. Since 1966 Chinese language schools and the use of Chinese language are prohibited." Surnames have such significance in China that a Tenth Century document entitled "The Hundred Surnames" has survived the ages and is still in use. The ancient work is written in poetic form to aid memorization by school children. The 438 names contained therein, "still account for 90% of all Chinese surnames in use. In fact, the top ten surnames account for 40% of the population," with Zhao the most popular.

One name that is easy to remember is that of Malcolm X, the "X" symbolizing among other things, his rejection of his birth name "Little," which he regarded as a legacy of slavery. Black Americans have suffered much owing the loss of the names. Daniel Atkinson, in the liner notes to the Howard Wiley Trio’s Twentyfirstcentury Negro, comments on the process by which “we as blacks have been painted into a social, economic, and cultural corner.” Amongst the few weapons of slavery he lists is “changing our names and destroying our languages.”

In 1920s Mongolia, a Communist effort to eradicate the clan system, class structure, and hereditary aristocracy, led to the abolition of all family names. Gradually, over decades of existing only on a first-name basis, the majority of Mongolians all but forgot their ancestral names. As Gordon York noted in a Globe and Mail article, it was “a system that eventually became confusing when 9,000 women ended up with the same name, Altantseteg, meaning ‘golden flower.'” Don’t laugh. I read elsewhere that in some areas of Germany, it’s not uncommon within a family for all the sons or all the daughters to bear the same first name, most typically Johann for the boys and Anna for the girls.

However, as far last names go, genealogist Rhonda R. McClure states that surnames are a “modern contrivance.” The Romans were the first to use cognomina, or family names, but the concept didn’t really catch on in Europe until the 13th and 14th centuries, tracking the development of commerce. Countries and regions known for trade adopted the institution of surnames more quickly than in places that were primarily agricultural or pre-modern. More modern yet then is Mongolia.

After Mongolian democracy was reestablished in the 1990s, a law was enacted in 1997, requiring the people to take on surnames. However, the changeover was not immediately embraced. The majority of Altantsetegs and everyone else only got on board with the new ordinance when a system of mandatory citizenship cards was instituted. Still, by last year more than 10,000 of the country’s 2.5 million people had not yet complied, despite compelling reasons to do so. York noted, “One name might be enough when most people were nomadic herdsmen in remote pastures, but now the country was urbanizing. The one-name system was so confusing that some people were marrying without realizing they were relatives.”

It makes me wonder what other names were in vogue for girls besides “Golden Flower.” For instance Donna Przecha’s “The Importance of Given Names” affirms comically that some of the virtue names of Victorian-era New England—names like Prudence and Charity and Patience—“appear quite strange to modern ears. In view of 20th century meaning, ‘Freelove’ does not seem to be an appropriate name for a daughter!” I’ll say! A name like that would definitely have caused confusion in San Francisco, let alone Mongolia.

But it’s usually surnames that identify familial relationships. Last summer, the Mongolian government cracked down, fining anyone failing to get a citizenship card before the national election in June. Virtually overnight, civil registration offices were flooded with those eagerly or reluctantly awaiting the opportunity to legalize their last names.

How cool is that? It's like birth of a nation’s collective consciousness, with thousands of people simultaneously transitioning into a different order of metaphysical significance. That may sound melodramatic, but names are wrought with many things that affect us, even subconsciously, and don’t think the Mongolian’s didn’t know that.

Many chose carefully. The director of Mongolia’s Central State Library, Serjee Besud, published Advice on Mongolian Surnames with maps and lists of regionally historical names. In addition to suggesting that some choose the name of a mountain or river in their ancestral region, York paraphrased Besud’s comments that “others prefer the name of an ancestral occupation: Blacksmith, Herdsman or Writer. Some names are linked to clans: White Camel or Black-and-White Horse. And some names have more obscure origins. One surname in the book … is Seven Drunk Men.”

Elsdon C. Smith reports that in the United States, 43 percent of surnames are based on a location with most of the remaining names being either from the father’s name (patronymics), reflective of a job or occupation, or derived from some kind of action—like seven men sittin’ around gettin’ smashed.

The most popular name chosen by these modern Mongols turned out to be Borjigin, meaning “master of the blue wolf.” A reference to Mongolia’s creation myth, Borjigin is also the tribal name of Chingis or Genghis Khan. Said Besud, “It’s like fashion. But it has no meaning if everyone has the same name. It’s like having no name at all.” A factory payroll manager whom York interviewed said, “I don’t like [ the idea of appropriating the Genghis Khan name]. You should have your original name. If you use a different name, it means you have different blood.”

His comment reminds me of the institution of women changing their names when they marry. I’m not saying that it’s wrong or bad, but I don’t think I could do it. I always think, how could I be one person my whole life and then suddenly become someone else?” because that’s how I’d see it. Other’s clearly don’t view it that way, or, if they do, they are happy to become this new someone. One friend of mine changed her name when she married and almost immediately she became a more confident person. She was able to leave a lot of baggage behind by shedding the name associated with her childhood self.

In The Healing Wisdom of Africa, Malidoma Somé writes, “A person’s purpose is … embodied in their name, thus constituting an inseparable reminder of why the person walks here with us in this world.” I suspect he was referring more to given, or first names, but a similar degree of importance attached to names is present in many Native American belief systems as noted in the Sacred Formulas of the Cherokees:

“The Indian regards his name, not as a mere label, but as a distinct part of his personality … and believes that injury will result as surely from the malicious handling of his name as from a wound inflicted on any part of his physical organism. This belief was found among the various tribes from the Atlantic to the Pacific and has occasioned a number of curious regulations in regard to the concealment and change of names. It may be on this account that both Powhatan and Pocahontas are known in history under assumed appellations, their true names having been concealed from the whites until the pseudonyms were too firmly established to be supplanted. Should his prayers have no apparent effect when treating a patient for some serious illness, the shaman sometimes concludes that the name is affected, and accordingly goes to water, with appropriate ceremonies, and christens the patient with a new name….”

Maybe that’s why an unasked for nickname can rub the wrong way: you neither want to admit that you are what others see reflected in you or you don’t want to become that which others ascribe to you. Canadian Albert J. Parker, founded The Kabalarian Philosophy in 1930. Followers adhere to "a logical explanation of mind and its relationship to mathematics, language, and consciousness," which extends to names. A brief analysis of my first names (I consider myself to have two) was most interesting in that the names couldn't be more different from one another and yet, the traits attributed to both of them are pretty similar and do seem to be representative of me. I'll leave you in suspense on that one. Try your own name out though. Also keep in mind that in the Kabalarian belief system, one's birthdate and the family surname must be considered together to present an accurate picture.

During the same reverie that got me down this trail, I thought changing my name to Genghis. Then I found about that by Kabalarian definition, the name indicates: "You could organize the work of others, though in your impatience to see the job done efficiently, you would likely step right in and do it yourself." Genghis doesn't seem like the the right type of name for someone who is most naturally suited to living a life of leisure. Maybe I'll put Mongolia and the name change on the backburner.

Living My Life Like It’s Golden, Pt. III: My Inner Baby

2005-07-30T11:37:00.000-07:00

The next morning I awoke fresh as the morning dew, sparkly as the sun alit upon the anticipated opening of new bud. I got the urge immediately to prowl, so I suited up and inserted myself into the day. I hadn’t walked more than 100 yards before bumping into a ritualist trio of Water Clan ilk—Steve, the teacher from Virginia; Matt the children’s author and his teen son Gabe—plus one of the Stones and Bones people.

The five us explored the paths that led through the Green Gulch organic farm and gardens, past the horse corral and the gorgeous Pelican Inn, connecting to the fire lane and pristine wilderness, a path leading all the way to Muir Beach. Along the way we found and picked fresh berries and cherries that weren’t quite ripe yet, a creek with several inlets, and more nature than I’ve had the pleasure of being surrounded by in quite some time. The grounds are a natural habitat for quail, the male of which is blue feathered, and I found a black salamander wi th an orange belly. The beach was fantastic, reminding me a page from John Calvin Batchelor ’s The Birth of the People’s Republic of Antarctica. The entire time I felt transported; I wasn’t far from the city but it felt like the other side of the world. The water people kept scouting for locations. They seemed further along than in the process than I was. The night hadn’t brought me anything other than a good sleep.

After dallying a bit we headed back. I was pleased to discover very hot water and impressive water pressure. The gong sounded, a cattle call for food. I loaded up on steel-cut oats, eggs and bacon, then headed to the yurt.

Inside was a free-for-all, people mingling and talking out of clan. Once Somé appeared on the scene, it was time to get down to brass tacks. He began by asking each clan to share their ideas with the group, and of course he started with the Fire people. We really hadn’t gotten that far, and I don’t know about the others, but I hadn’t the foggiest notion of what was going on. That was the funny thing about it. I was absolutely clueless. Someone from our group mentioned the embryo of an idea that had been suggested, something about dancing to represent the kinetic movement of flames. Somé wasn’t too jiggy with the Fire Clan's lack of preparation, and the other clans had better developed plans. For example, the Water Clan wanted to anoint everyone. But generally speaking it was clear that none of us knew what the day would bring. Because we had to adhere to the Zen Center’s meal schedule, we had to work quickly to come to consensus. What we arrived at was that Fire, Water, and Earth seemed like a natural grouping and Nature and Minerals seemed like a separate pairing. We also decided to hold our rituals in a clearing adjacent to the yurt, rather than elsewhere in the Zen acreage. With that, we were set in motion. Therefore, I don’t really know how it happened, but we, the Fire Clan, actually came up with a ritual.

I think the pressure of being least ready kind of propelled us into whipping up something appropriate right on the spot. We decided to set up a small fire at the farthest end of the field, bounded by eucalyptus trees on three sides. Tino had ceremonial tobacco and a portable charcoal burner. We decorated the area with various pieces of red cloth and fabric that people had or that we found in the yurt. A few people had brought candles. When I thought I had nothing to contribute, someone pointed to the memory wire necklace I wear almost every day, comprised mainly of red beads. Another enterprising someone had cayenne pepper and a couple people had brought ceremonial sage.

I shouldn’t and won't reveal the intricacies of our ritual but essentially, we created a space for people to enter individually, a place in which to reach some clarity about what each person would like to release or let go and what they would like to ignite within themselves. Each person was allowed as much time as necessary in front of the flames, a place for meditation, self-confrontation, and for asking for ancestral guidance.

After going through the fire ritual, participants next partook of the water ritual, which involved being led blindly to bank of a stream and doused with shockingly cold water. The Earth people created a ritual that reacquainted one with the feeling of being a child and touching the earth with that first awareness of grass under one’s feet or soil between one’s fingers. The yurt served as a village, replete with drummers—mostly djembe, and a set of djun djun.

Once each of the ritual spaces was ready, we gathered at the yurt to learn a song inviting our female and male ancestors to be with us. One by one, we led one another through each of the rituals. I was able to watch the first several people go through our ritual before I led them to the Water Clan spot, which was my Fire Clan post. People seemed really excited and eager to welcome whatever experiences were about to unfold.

I was surprised that some people took a lot of time before the fire. That was my first inkling that ritual is almost more about you put into it—the mindset with which you enter into it—than about structure. When folks emerged from the Fire ritual, you could sense a change. If they had meant to let go of something, they had. If they had meant to kick start something within themselves, they did. But I still hadn’t experienced it first hand, so I remained open yet puzzled. How did it all work? So you did a fire walk (w/ cayenne as a substitute for fire) and sat in front of a little Weber grill. How or why could that initiate change?

I didn’t really understand it all until it was my turn. After about 10 or 15 had gone through, initiates, I was relieved of my station so I could be a stand-in at “the Village.” Those who had cycled through the three rituals were led back to the yurt, where the song continued to be sung and beaten out on the drums. Meanwhile, those of us who had either already gone through or who were waiting our turn—we, were there to cheer those returning from their journey. I noticed that without fail, the returnees were utterly transformed—jubilant, radiant, exhibiting a lightness of being, glowing. I didn’t get it. For one moment I thought to myself, “eh, a bunch of hippies.” I mean this is the stuff of cults, right?

Then it was my turn. Claudia, walked me down the valley at wedding march pace. She asked me if I was ready, and I felt that I was. I also felt a little odd being walked like an old lady or an infirm person, but it was nice too. It felt … different. Because I was part of the Fire Clan, I knew what to expect. Or so I thought. I was asked if I was ready, if I had clarity of intention. Sure I did. I did the fire walk. I sat on my knees before the fire. I closed my eyes. And I don’t know why, but I was there for what seemed like an extraordinarily long time. In fact, it seemed like all time stopped and it was just me and … not thoughts, not feelings, just simply being. I thought about my mom and the ancestors whom I could name and those who I couldn’t. I thought about things that I have allowed to hold me back in this life. I thought about the things I’d like to accomplish. I say “I thought” but it was more like images parading before me at a less frenetic pace than the aversion therapy scene in A Clockwork Orange, though it was a much more pleasant sensation. When I passed what had been my station and was handed over to the Water Clan, I already felt like “huh” or “hmm.” Questioning but not really questioning what had just happened.

Then I was blindfolded and led down a small path where I could hear water babbling and smell it too. And that was a thing in itself—remembering that water has a water smell. Like the trust fall used in team-building programs, the inability to see did require surrender. In the dark, I was folded into a seated position and asked to think about purity of mind. Just as I began, I was shocked by a shivering cold trickle of water that became a thorough dousing. I felt like I’d plunged into a river, embarking on an under water swim. Then I was led to the Earth clan, where I was invited to dig my hands in a mound of freshly dug soil, to experience it like I had as a child.

All of this sounds innocuous, perhaps childish or silly, certainly not potent. I can’t explain to you how it very much was. It just was. But even I didn’t realize the extent to which it was until I was led back to the village. As I walked up the stairs to the yurt, those at the village clapped and cheered and as soon as I reached them, I felt arms wrap around me as we hugged and clasped one another. If you know me, you know that isn’t my thing, but the feeling was indescribable. I knew I had that same triumphal glow that the others had. I don’t know what others experienced but for me I felt like this is what happens when you die. You crossover from one existence to another and there are people or entities on the other side to welcome you back and they’re so excited to see you and you them because it’s a true homecoming. And I knew that that was what my mom experienced.

Now, ask me what my beliefs about death, dying, and the existence of an afterlife were prior to that moment. I hadn’t any. Certainly nothing succinct like that. Nothing that was a knowing. It didn’t faze me a bit. I basically had a dry run at passing out of this life into another. I’ll say it again, I can’t really explain it. If you were to tell me that I would sit in front of grill, get water poured on me and get some dirt beneath my nails and that afterwards I would feel profoundly different, I would have told you to go smoke some more crack. Even if you’re not entirely skeptical, it’s hard to swallow. All I know is that something changed in me, and that was just part one.

Later, when everyone had gone through the first set of rituals, we gathered together to do the remaining two rituals—Minerals and Nature—as a group. Mainly we banged rocks together. Seriously. We banged rocks and some things were said. The analogy of a butterfly was used. Then we danced. We were all giddy. It was great. It was so good.

* * *

Then we cleaned up, packed up, and went home and for days afterward I was quite spacey and not entirely in my body. Several days after the workshop, I was with Six whenI mentioned how I was still feeling like I wasn’t quite on this plane of existence. A little disturbed she said, “You know, I didn’t want to say anything, but you look weird! You look really different. Something definitely happened to you.” During that period coworkers commented on how unusually calm I seemed, like a “refuge,” one said, in the midst of chaos. I’d go running in the morning, and it felt like nothing. Not effortless, per se, but almost as if I was numb to it. I wasn’t in my body at all. It was a lingering after-effect that for the most part was more than welcome until almost a week had gone by. The lightness started to freak me out a little and to make matters worse I stayed up much too late one night, getting exactly two hours of sleep. The next day I started to feel anxious and the anxiety built all through the weekend. Whatever I’d done at Green Gulch seemed undone or as if it was becoming my undoing.

The ritual weekend made me vulnerable in a certain way. The mundane seemed dangerous and taxing. I couldn’t filter stimuli. But it did contribute to the finding of my inner baby. My senses were quite keen. The day after I got back from Green Gulch, Shez and co. invited me to Russian River. We went in Sharon’s camper, which was great for me. It meant I could lollygag in the back, be the spacy-invader without consequence. In Guerneville, we parked the camper in a supermarket parking lot. Shez and I were talking about race relations among other things when of the sudden I stopped and looked straight down. There, at my feet, was a tiny black infant, I’d say about the size of my thumbnail. She was tiny. It’s not like I was down near the ground tying my shoe. This was a tiny speck of child, dark brown against the black top, and I stopped at her like a buick stopping on a dime.

Finding her was really odd and bizarre and par for the course; I haven't figured out what to with her yet, but she has permanent resident on my shrine. And so back to the question, "how can we do, if we don't know what it is we're supposed to do?" The biggest thing learning I had was the answer to that question. Ritual is like life. The whole of it is about doing, most of the time not knowing what it is that we're doing. Sometimes not even knowing why we're doing it. Like we get up each morning and breathe, just because. Doesn't matter if we like it or don't like it, doesn't matter if we want to or don't want to. It just happens. The years stack up, and we end up with a life to look back upon. We didn't have a road map or an instruction manual or a blueprint. While we're looking back, it so happens that we still in the midst of living. Of figuring out by doing. As a corollary, therefore, a lot of life is ritual. After that weekend, I realized I am involved in numerous rituals, some daily, some monthly, some annually, some irregularly. But ritual is life, living is ritual with intention.

My intention from here on out? Let's just say it's a work in progress.

Living My Life Like It's Golden, Pt II: Sacred Ritual

2005-07-24T21:32:00.000-07:00

But I left off talkin' 'bout how I've been living my life golden. Yah. So two weekends ago, I went to a weekend workshop on Ritual and Sacredness. I had no idea what to expect other than the description provided by the course sponsor, the Institute for Health and Healing (IHH):

In the indigenous world, ritual based on the magic of Nature plays an essential role in village life. Many people find that African healer Malidoma Somé helps them reconnect to the natural, old instincts of their souls in ways that strengthen their own beliefs and self-understanding. Experience earth-based ritual and teachings as a doorway to self-discovery and community-building.

The only preparation I had was the self-imposed reading of Somé's autobiography, Of Water and the Spirit: Ritual, Magic, and Initiation in the Life of an African Shaman. In it, he desribes several rituals performed during his initiation. Whether the described events were literal or figurative, I knew that some serious shit was gonna happen.

That Friday, I had an ultrasound in the morning, and while the technician couldn't give me any diagnosis, I knew she'd found something. Meanwhile, I still had to figure out how I was getting up to Green Gulch. The sun was hot and bright, and I had the day off with no schedule to adhere to. I decided to eat first and figure out the travel logistics later. I took a leisurely stroll to way to the vegan stylings of Cafe Gratitude. Sitting in the sun at a sidewalk table I enjoyed a cup of "I Am Grateful" (Cat's Claw tea) and a bowl of "I Am Luscious" (live wheat with young coconut juice). I know, I know, it's hippie dippie, but I had to get in the zone.

Once fed, I called Golden Gate Transit and found out how a couple of buses could get me most of the way there, so I threw together a bag and hightailed it to Civic Center. Once boarded, I resumed Of Water and the Spirit, though part of me felt like reading it was cheating. Instead, I let the hum of the tires lure me into sleep. I awoke when the bus pulled into Mazanita, across from the Buckeye Roadhouse. I couldn't resist; the vegan was tasty but not quite filling. I parked myself in a booth and enjoyed pan roasted artichoke with creamy tarragon dip and grilled ahi tuna with wasabi cream and pickled ginger.

I'm relaying all these seemingly mundane details in an effort to convey my mindset, which was that I was very open to simply enjoying life, taking things in stride and living in the moment. Yet, I also wanted to work through some things. In my bag, alongside Somé's book, I had some letters from my mom, a journal, and a pen. A cab carried me and my belongings the rest of the way to the Zen Center, where I found a delightfully austere room with my name on the door.

After a quick self-tour of the grounds, I unpacked my bag, fixed my mother's picture so it was overlooking me from the headboard, and settled down to finish the last 20 pages of Of the Water before the workshop began at 7pm. Those are the pages in which he conveys the outcome of his initiation, and I felt they might give me some clues in what to expect, which is why I sort of felt like it was cheating. In his telling, he notes how the elders insisted that the less he know about what might happen to him, the more effective—and less dangerous—the process would be. Too much knowing ahead of time engages the analytical brain instead of the instinctive center of wisdom, i.e. working intuitively from within. Part of me wanted to go into the weekend oblivious to the possibilities and part of me wanted to be as prepared as possible. I went for my comfort zone—preparation.

The evening was quite chill. I threw on a sweater and hopped into the bed, settling down to finish Somé's story. That's when I discovered that the book had vanished. Disappeared. Some might call it "lost," though when's the last time I've lost a book? I thought back on the day—Gratitude, my apt., the bus, Buckeye. At each, I'd had the book. I'm certain of it. But somehow it was gone, and appropriately so. So began the unknown. Shocked but not shocked, I fell asleep again.

I dreamt strange dreams before awaking to the clanging gong that announced meal service. The dining hall was just across the way. There I made first contacts with some of the other participants as well as mixing with the Zen temple residents. Silence is observed for the first ten minutes. We newbies tried to be respectful, but I spied whisperers and twiterers scattered about the room and knew they were my fellow initiates. We introduced ourselves and surrepticiously sized one another up. At my table was Steve, a teacher from Virginia. I believe he came the furthest though later I met a children's author and his teenage son, both from Royal Oak, Michigan. I sat next to a woman who is a healer who works with the homeless population and across from a woman with spiritual beliefs that led her to the workshop.

The workshop was held in a yurt on the Zen Center's grounds. About 30 people were signed up, of which a handful were men. The youngest participant was the aforementioned teen, but I'd guess most people ranged from late 20s to early 60s. I may be being slightly too generous on both ends of those numbers. I don't believe I saw any Asians, one or two Latinos, and I was one of four blacks (three women including myself and one man). Many of the participants, but certainly not all, were affilitated with IHH, meaning that many are healing arts practitioners such as masseuses or accupuncturists or Western medical professionals with an interest in integrative medicine. The IHH librarian was there as well.

We got seated in the yurt, some on chairs, others like myself on zafu, or meditation pillows. Upon entering the space, I made a beeline for the coal-burning stove, next to which was a mudcloth-like rug and two chairs. When I announced my intention to take one of the seats, Toni, a participant and facilitator shook her head, saying "there's where Malidoma is sitting." I'd figured as much, but hey it was worth a shot. I grabbed a cushion and parked my bad ass on the floor with everyone else. One thing I noticed from that vantage is that the law of nakedness extends to feet. At nude beaches and other venues, it's always the people that you don't want to see naked who are always the first to strip down. Shoes had to remain off and outside of all the Zen Center structures, even the rooms for overnight guests. But that didn't mean you couldn't wear socks. I saw some ugly toes that night, real ugly. Woof.

Across the way from me were a few drummers. Again, some were participants who'd brought their drums and others were there specifically to drum, particularly the next day. Drums figured prominently in the events that were to take place and eventually led to my newest acquisition—a djembe—but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Malidoma and the woman who was introduced as his partner, sat front and center, or at least what goes for front and center in a round space. For an hour or so he regaled us with his unique blend of sagacious knowledge and irreverent humor. He is softspoken but in a way that allows his speech sound like it's directed intimately to you rather than simply being difficult to hear. He made some general comments, similar to the one's I'd heard from his mouth this past March. I received his words differently though. A relaxed yet simmering excitement was present that was different from the delight I'd experienced hearing him speak in a Jewish Temple, with a couple hundred people seated in pews. His talk then was also more structured: during the temple lecture, Somé had been "the respected indigenous healer" who came to deliver an interesting talk about theoretical ideas, i.e. the kind that you think about and possibly internalize. In the yurt, Somé came across more as an older brother with thoughts to share about actionable ideas, i.e. tips and suggestions culled from personal experience that might come in handy but hey it's up to you, take 'em or leave 'em, I mean who am I to tell you what to do? It's your experience. The effect was both daunting and comforting. He was telling us that he couldn't tell us what we would experience because we would make the experience. He told us that he wouldn't tell us how to the make the experience because the experience would be made and only then would we know how it had occurred. I thought, "what the fuck is he talking about? what is he doing? correction, what are we going to do? how can we do anything if we don't know what it is we're supposed to do?" Hold that last question.

The questions were free floating in my mind, rather than barrage style. I wasn't stressed out about it. I was simply confused. Maybe a little anxious, like when you can't wait to turn the page in a book or see the next scene of a movie 'cause something is gonna happen, it's gotta, but what? It was fun. Like an amusement ride but a mild one, something better than a ferris wheel but just as gentle. Using the last number in the year of our birth, we were divided into clans. The Fire clan. The Water clan. The Earth clan. The Mineral ("stones and bones") clan. The Nature ("witches") Clan. Each clan was given the same mandate: devise a ritual for that element. That was it. During his "sibling chat," we'd touched upon these elements and some of their potential meanings, but we'd done so in the larger context of what is this crazy life about? There were no hints of "this is what you should take from this" or "listen closely to the next clue" or any kind of instruction. We didn't know anything. We didn't even know we'd be divided into clans, let alone expected to create ritual.

To do so, we began with community. Getting to know our clan selves. I was/am Fire Clan. We flamers gathered together and made sparks, introducing ourselves and sharing our ideas about fire. In my group were two French women, one from IHH and another, Natalie, who was there in part because her brother had died in Togo ten years ago under mysterious circumstances and she wanted to make peace with it, with her ancestors. We had Tino, a facilitator who has been working with Some for years. We had Christy and Kit, also from IHH. We had a woman who is some kind of spiritual leader, I can't recall now of what denomination; I believe of an eastern sort of religion. And we had me, also there seeking ancestral connection following a death in Africa.

We talked about fire—its power, its danger, its usefulness. How it's a force of change, how it transforms whatever it touches. We talked about it in the negative and in the positive. Fire as the igniter of passion, I said, and compassion, Tino added. Before we'd had much chance to delve into this ritual business, however, it was time to get some shut-eye.

We wrapped up around 9:30. Leaving the yurt was tricky business; night is pitch black out in that zen wilderness, despite torch lit paths. I wasn't surprised to quickly find myself off the path without having noticed; it was only when someone called to me that I realized I'd kind of tranced out on the crunch of the wood chips underfoot. I had lost my sense of time and place already; I was on fire, thinking how funny it was that just a day earlier Juju and I had debated my astrological fire/water conundrum and how she'd be tickled to know I'd been dubbed fire through and through.

Called back, I fumbled my way to my door and entered my temporary home sweet home. Out there in the woods, I worried that I might discover other little roommates of furry, winged, or crawling kind, but there was nothing for which I was grateful. Then I washed up and got back in bed, thankful that it had actually gotten a bit warmer, as often happens with kooky Bay Area weather. I was able, thus, to hunker down with my mom's missive, something she'd given me before I'd even left Ann Arbor, something I'd never been able to read all the way through. But that night she was in the room with me, and I felt oh so empowered. Tino suggested each of us see what the night's dreams might bring us in terms of ritual. I slept eager to see if Doris would plant any seeds in my head.

to be continued...

Gay Heaven

2005-07-23T11:30:00.000-07:00

I'll admit it. I was trolling Craigslist: looking at apt. listings, jobs, and not looking for chicks, per se, but I did want to know if Mango, the infamous girlie "tea dance," i.e. afternoon party, was going on, and where better to find out than the "women seeking women section." That's where I stumbled across the following anonymous posting in response to someone who had written, "WOW! when i moved here i thought i would be in gay heaven. but i was very wrong. i moved here from an area in america where there are no open homos. i am from the upper midwest. i came here expecting something better than where i left."

While I can sympathize with the gal I've dubbed, "Disappointed from Dubuque," my beliefs are more in line with this savvy someone's response:

First of all, SF hasn't been "gay heaven" for a long time. Basically since the dot-commers chased a lot of community out. It's still more of a mecca for gay white men, but a lot of women and men of color couldn't afford to stay here. Some of us have been here long enough that we're either in rent controlled apts. or have had time to establish ourseleves in business, careers, or whatever.
Secondly, I've been here almost 20 years, but I grew up in a small town in the midwest also. I think what you desire out of the community is an unrealistic, idealistic fantasy. It sounds great, however, the fact is, we DO come from different backgrounds, religious beliefs (or non-beliefs), education levels, socio-economic classes, cultures, political backgrounds. We DO have different morals, standards, goals, and desires.
Not all of us think the gay marriage issue is the most important issue in the world right now. Some of us don't want to emulate heterosexual marriage. Some of us would rather put our energy and resources into other things going on in the world like all the innocent people being killed, and who we put into office, and AIDS in Africa, and alternative fuel sources etc. Some of our community are actually Republicans, and I for one, will never see eye-to-eye with them and have no desire to stand next to them in the fight for them to get married when I can't stand anything they represent.
There are thousands of "straight" bars in this City and people can choose where they want to hang out based on whether they are with like-minded people, the kind of music they play there, the dress, the bartenders etc. We, lesbians, [however] have limited places to go, and sometimes it's difficult because the minute you start talking to someone you realize you have absolutely nothing in common other than you're both homosexual. She starts talking about some kind of music you've never heard of, the latest reality show, the latest pop idol etc., but has no clue as to who Karl Rove is and doesn't care. Maybe all she's interested in is what kind of car you drive and when you tell her you got rid of your car and bike/walk everywhere in the City, she doesn't understand that it has nothing to do with your income level and rolls her eyes. Do I have to like that person? Do I have to support her?
Do I have to support the Republican woman who voted for the Governator and wants to cut back education, police and fire-fighter funding? Do I have to support the woman who can't hold down a job, has two kids at home but is out drinking and doing lines in the bathroom? (nothing against drinking and doing lines). Do I have to support the ftm who hits on my girlfriend and grabs her ass and acts more misogynistic than any of our straight male friends? Do I have to support the woman who approaches me and tells me her boyfriend is at home and wants her to pick up a woman so he can watch us? (unless you're into that).
Basically, I do not like all the lesbians or gay men in this City and don't feel any connection to them. I hate the Castro with all its homogenized shallowness. I love this City and have a lot of friends of all sexual identities, ages, races, and sexes, and we support each other in our goals and dreams and day-to-day troubles because we share the same ones. I do not share the same everything with the entire lesbian community so I cannot support the entire lesbian community. So ... that's my rant for today and now I'm going out to enjoy this gorgeous weather with the people—straight, bi, and gay—in my life. Hopefully you will find your group of peeps.

He he he. I'm so glad I'm not the only disgruntled dyke in town. : )

On the subject of gay marriage, I'm all for it ... but it's a mixed bag. I have concluded that for gay people of my generation and younger, it's not something we were pre-disposed to think about as a realistic possibility, and so we're not trained in the longevity department, i.e. we don't necessarily have the "'til death do us part" mentality. Sure, I know all about the divorce rate in this country, and yes, I know there are plenty of gay couples who have been together for years and years, but my personal experiences in SF lead me to believe that we homos are time bombs ready to go off at the slightest trigger when it comes to commitment.

I will allow for the fact that quite possibly it's just me. I haven't made it more than six months with anyone out here, with the average being about six to eight weeks. The one woman with whom I really thought and felt I could and would want to be with—we lasted about four months. When I relay these facts, people often say "well, you must be a commitment-phobe." Usually, they don't know that I had much longer relationships in my 20s. Years not months, i.e. real relationships. I don't know what the hell to call my experiences these days; to use the term "relationships" to describe my SF liasions would be stretching things wider than the elastic on Fat Albert's pants.

I also like the part Miss Anon wrote about how "maybe all she's interested in is what kind of car you drive and when you tell her you got rid of your car and bike/walk everywhere in the City, she doesn't understand that it has nothing to do with your income level and rolls her eyes." I recently was on the 5th or 6th date with a girl who seemed simpatico until I "forced" her to walk from 14th & Market to my place in the Mission—about 10 blocks. She got pissed, and whined the whole time, telling me I need to get a car. Then she exclaimed, "Walking reminds me of when I was 15 and didn't have a car." I responded, "Walking reminds me of the 15 years my mother slowly lost the ability to walk—before she died last year." You like that? I got plenty of 'em. War stories.

Sigh. Gay heaven. I don't know about that. Though, like Anon, I also despise the Castro, I'd much rather it exist than not. Put it this way: We have our freedoms in SF, that's for sure. I don't take them for granted, but they come with a high price as do most things in this city. I may sound bitter about it, and sometimes I am, but lately I've just been working on accepting the situation as it is and taking it from there. In other words, I'm working at making my peace with it: the courage to change the things I can, the serenity to accept the things I can't, and the wisdom to know the difference as they say. I hope "Disappointed" is able to make her peace with things here. I'll be rooting for her. Hell, I'm rooting for myself:

"One wonders. One doesn't quite understand. But the truth is that the intimacy and closeness was all an intricate hoax, an ingenious dream, a subtle but half-hearted mirage. That is what I thought once I'd entered the city. And so I concluded: don't be strong; don't be alone; don't be proud; it's your only chance ever to understand anything at all. Be fragile, be tender, humiliate yourself, and let the discoloration of dream close in on you. Do that, and oddly enough you'll remain healthy; you'll be yourself; you'll discover the best way to live in this particular most fruitless and tantalizing of possible worlds. The reality becomes a cruel dream while the dream fades into a tender man-made reality."
—Frederic Prokosch
The Asiatics

And Now an Announcement from Our Sponsor

2005-07-21T01:07:00.000-07:00

I wanna tell you why my life is golden, really I do, but before I get back to the previous mental travelogue I've gotta make a pitstop, which may, without my telling you so, be confused with the previous steam of consciousness. Whichever way you decide to call it, here's the deal: tonight is not only a full moon, but it's the most powerful full moon of the year. In Hindu, it's called Guru Purnima, guru meaning "one who dispels the darkness of ignorance"and purnima meaning "full moon." This is the full moon for thanking one's teachers whether affectionate and loving or dispensers of harsh learnings. Having experienced the benefits of ritual firsthand, I am eager to partake. I was going to cut my hair [see previous posts], but I've decided to postpone. It's enough, for now, to very publically, and I hope graciously acknowledge some of my teachers. To each and every one of you, I owe much of who I am.

There are people I like, many people I love, and a few I hope to never have to cross paths with again. But they've all taught me things about myself and about the world at large. Even this process of identifying my teachers has taught me something: of all the people I've known, only a handful of you on this list are truly assholes. Cynical me, I thought there were more than a few. Glad to be wrong ... for once. Ha!

Living My Life Like It's Golden, Part I

2005-07-19T21:28:00.000-07:00

I finally got my hands on the “new” Jill Scott. I used the quotation marks because it came out so long ago that it’s practically a museum piece. Anyway, I was absolutely thrilled to give it a spin, but after a listen I realized I’d set myself up. I mean it’s aiiight. It doesn’t do me like the first one got me done. But, one track has been lodged in my brain for a few days now as it’s the perfect description of how I’ve been feeling the past several days, particularly the line, “I'm livin' my life like it's golden, golden, golden, golden, golden, golden.”

Yah. I got a little derailed at the end of last month, but a lightness has come upon me. I should add that it’s not yet a steady as she blows kind of lightness. For one thing there’s no particular “she” involved. But the overall effect of these mostly ups with a few intermittent downs, is one of buoyancy. A bobbing along, like I’ve been uncorked and the cork is making its way into some exotic somewhere. That said, let’s consider the following rambles to be part of a travelogue of sorts.

I’ll start with some astrology—always good to check in with that. Saturn entered Leo last week. Bully for me! Saturn’s been like a straight jacket on my karma for the past couple of years; I couldn’t be happier that it’s moved on. I’m sure it accounts for a great deal of this lightness I’ve been feeling. But Saturn in Leo, if you believe in all this stuff, has some potentially ominous learnings for mankind at large. I encourage getting familiar with it because according to astrologer Lisa Dale Miller, the next two years could be a doozy for some of us. She writes, “Humanity stands on the threshold of Saturn in Leo, having rejected mastery of the compassionate, loving action of the heart; the highest lesson taught by Saturn in Cancer. Though I have never been one to tout doomsday scenarios, based upon how poorly our species navigated Saturn in Cancer, my assessment of Saturn in Leo is bleak at best.” Those of you who know me, know that I’ve always been one to tout doomsday scenarios, so I didn’t need her to lay out her case, but she did, and it’s worth reading even if you find it all to be mumbo jumbo.

Even I admit that “the-sky-is-falling” tone Miller takes is a bit much. For example, I do heartily love this sentence: “America's vision of itself as the 'superpower' will be threatened during this next two years. Seems the time may not be too far off when we may have to cede this title to China.” You know, I’ve always wondered about China. Since about 1985, in fact. That was when David Thornbury, arguably my first boyfriend, started taking Chinese in college, which was a pretty odd thing to do in Michigan in the mid-1980s. But he had this whole thing about the Chinese having their day one day and how he would be one of the few prepared, which basically was a function less of his political savvy and more of his megalomaniacal opportunism. Some might argue that the political savvy and megolomaniacal opportunism are the same thing, but there’s a slightly different nuance between them.

Anyway, it was only days after reading Miller’s prediction that Six told me about the nuclear warnings made by a China’s General Zhu Chenghu, should the U.S. interfere in China’s dealings with Taiwan. He even went so far as to declare "We . . . will prepare ourselves for the destruction of all of the cities east of Xian. Of course the Americans will have to be prepared that hundreds . . . of cities will be destroyed by the Chinese." I mean that’s pretty hardcore.

Now, before I get people screaming at me, this does not make me happy in the slightest. But this is the kind of stuff that pushes me from merely surviving to thriving. Danger has a way of making one feel really, truly alive, abuzz. Sure I’d rather be safe than sorry, but I had to let my mind wander to the dark places so I did, and I took Six with me. One recent twilight we talked about this stuff. First she wanted to know how many military soldiers the U.S. has. We spent some time doing the math: total number of US soldiers (Army, Air Force, Marines, and Armed Reserves) vs. total number of North Korean soldiers vs. total number of Chinese soldiers. You don’t need me to tell you how lopsided it is. Actually, I would love to tell you exactly how lopsided it is, but I got the info last week from some pages on The Federation of Scientist’s (FAS) web site and guess what? Tonight I get “This resource is no longer available on the FAS web site.” How’s that for paranoia-making?

The FAS, by the way, is "a nonprofit, tax-exempt, 501c3 organization founded in 1945 as the Federation of Atomic Scientists. Our founders were members of the Manhattan Project, creators of the atom bomb and deeply concerned about the implications of its use for the future of humankind. FAS is the oldest organization dedicated to ending the worldwide arms race and avoiding the use of nuclear weapons for any purpose." There's a project worthy of support.

Meanwhile, I don’t have the gumption to dig up the actual raw numbers again, but we concluded that given the state of things, nuclear weapons are the only resort. I mean if there are only say 500,000 American soldiers and triple that everywhere else and everybody hates us, what else can we do? Again, I am not pro-war, and I’m certainly not advocating the nuclear alternative. I’m just looking at some stark realities. If you’re interested in some other ones, check out the FAS’s Nuclear Bomb Blast Calculator, an “interactive tool [that] illustrates the devastating effects of a nuclear weapon detonation in selected U.S. cities. Follow up with The Fallout Calculator, which“demonstrates the profound range of fallout from a potential nuclear bomb detonation in various inhabited regions of the earth.” Yah, it's pretty trippy. Then jump on over to Global Security.org, poke around and get completely depressed.

Their somewhat convoluted mission is as follows: "GlobalSecurity.org is focused on innovative approaches to the emerging security challenges of the new millennium The organization seeks to reduce reliance on nuclear weapons and the risk of their use—both by existing nuclear weapons states and those states seeking to acquire such capabilities. GlobalSecurity.org aims to shift American conventional military forces towards new capabilities aligned with the post-Cold War security environment, and to reduce the worldwide incidence of deadly conflict. The organization is working to improve the capabilities of the American intelligence community to respond to new and emerging threats, reducing the need to resort to the use of force, while enhancing the effectiveness of military forces when needed. GlobalSecurity.org also supports new initiatives utilizing space technology to enhance international peace and security."

Then jump back to Lisa Dale Miller. Remember the cork bobbing up and down? We’ve just taken a nasty post-cold war plunge, but I have promised lightness and it's coming. Miller reminds us that art is one of the many counter-weapons we have at our disposal. Indeed, “a discussion of Leo is not complete without calling up the artist. Leo rules creative self-expression. That means expression of a creative gift that is uniquely yours. There is after all only one you." Yet, don't pat yourself on the back just yet. She also notes that "Saturn in Leo could be a very dry time for many creative people who don't take their craft very seriously. Frankly there is an epidemic of mediocrity in movies, music, visual art, dance and theatre; fueled primarily by a growing fear of telling the truth. We have become addicted to denial as a means to explaining why we do terrible things. If we are lucky, the art world might recognize its tremendous power to influence, and become more responsible about the tenor and quality of the work it produces.”

Ah yes, art. Yes, that’s an upward bob. What else? Ritual, community, nature … shamanism. Last weekend, I went up to Green Gulch for a spell, no pun intended. Green Gulch is a part of the San Francisco Zen Center, Soto lineage, if you’re in the know. Nestled on land that lays between Muir Woods and Sausalito, it is gorgeous and peaceful and was the perfect setting for a day-and-a-half long Ritual and Sacredness workshop with Malidoma Patrice Somé, whom I wrote about back in March. Sponsored by the Institute for Health and Healing, Somé led some 30 of us through self-community-created fire, water, earth, minerals (“stones and bones”) and nature rituals.

Lemme say a few things about it because most of it I actually can’t share for reasons ranging from too personal to too indescribable to the warning that Somé gave us that in being disclosed some of the magic will lose its power. So a few things. One is that I have never felt closer to complete strangers and though it was not necessarily a lasting effect, I have come to understand that we are all one and it’s quite possible for humans to experience the one-ness of all things.

Another is that the importance of getting back to nature as often as possible cannot be understated. Even if the only bit of nature accessible to you is the tuft of grass growing between the sidewalk in front of your house, nurture it. But if that’s all you have, it’s worth considering the impact of a dearth of nature on your life. I thought my once or twice a week ride to the ocean was enough, but a day in the woods, a half hour with sand or grass beneath your feet every single day, a nightly gaze at the stars … those moments will erase everything untoward in your life and prepare you to “step into your individual responsibility to actively heal the pain and problems of this world,” as Miller suggests.

Lastly—and this merits some serious consideration—prior to this weekend, I thought it was just the gay guys who are having sex, but I think probably the hippies are doin’ it all the time too. Free love never really died for them, that’s why they’re always twirling around and being looking upon each other with doe-eyed looks and really feeling and touching each other and everybody. They can’t keep their hands to themselves. That’s another thought that made me buoyant. And made me feel like I should become a hippie.

I have reverted to irreverence, my comfort zone. I would apologize for the disjointed nature of this, but I’m not going to because I am disjointed and I’m golden, too. And I have so much things to say, but I’ve had technical difficulties of myriad sorts. But I’m still golden. Do you know what it feels like to be golden? I will try to tell you.

Next: How I found my inner baby.

The Last Pot of Nineteen Fifty Pu-erh

2005-07-11T21:10:00.000-07:00

Halleluiah, I'm back. At least for now. No, I haven't abandoned you, but I have suffered a technology mutiny. My wireless connection at home is no more. If you own Jane Addiction's "Been Caught Stealin'," nows a good time to give it a listen.

But more importantly, Vani and The Ron will be in Israel for the next coupla weeks, during which time I've agreed to take care of Sampson aka Sammy aka Rudy aka Rude Boy Tabby, and what better way for me and him to bond then for me to do my thing with the blog. So, matzoltov to Tel Aviv, catnip to Sammy, and well, fuck, I don't need any special cheer.

I might need some special cheering up, but I'll save that for later. Just know that though women are trecherous, my madness for them rarely stops (in time). That said, Sammy is much worse shape than I am. That is one sad pussy. But me, I've always got more than one game going at a time, so if one goes tilt it's nothin' but a little eggggo, know what I'm sayin'?

Yes, this particular entry is just me stroking myself in public. Hey, somebody's gotta do it, little goat that I am. Chuckle. Ah, that did make me smile. Women still suck though. But before I grouse all night about that, and believe me I can, here are wiser words than I can craft at the moment. And yes, they're from a chick (no, not the tea house girl, but from a paisan in the land of the lost whose compass works better than mine) received a few weeks ago, but they never fail to remind me that all is well:

Last night after I saw you I went to my meeting. It is a meeting where we write for 25 minutes then share about what we wrote or just get current on what’s happening for us today. During the writing I hit upon the root of a tree that I thought I had yanked out years ago, and it sent me into such emotional upheaval that I had to leave the room for a few minutes to cry heavily.

I already had an appointment scheduled afterwards, and we had agreed to meet at Samovar. I arrived 30 minutes early, dazed and still teary eyed. I ordered a tea soup and white tea. Of course, I couldn’t help looking at the pu-erhs. On the 1950, it was noted that "this is the last batch," and I noticed that the price had jumped significantly. I decided to practice shopping therapy and asked to purchase a quantity. Have you noticed the price for 150g of 1950? Yeah, I was willing to spend. I was feeling QUITE emotional!

After Rick called a manager, who informed him that there was no more that could be sold (NO MORE!?!), he brought out the last pot of 1950 and placed it before me.

THE LAST POT OF NINETEEN FIFTY PU-ERH.

I saved the leaves and will enjoy them again for breakfast. I have brought with me to work my tiny elephant tea pot. I have brought my camera to take pictures that will be attached next time. I have also brought one of the pu-erh cups you gave me for my birthday. What else can hold this magnificent elixir? What present is more appropriate? Whose cup more worthy?

This morning, Lorna Mabunda, I share with you the last infusions of 1950 Vintage Extra Aged Pu-erh.

Aw shucks. Just when I think I'm out, they pull me back in. I love wenches er women. Meanwhile, stay tuned for comments on trannies, my prediction for the next superpower contender, a meditation on my new found personal life optimism (yes, I said optimism and I've got a whole box load of it though I'm not quite sure where I set it down), a grouse about the workplace, and all the usual shenanigans.

Gay Pride = Gay Fried (Over the Rainbow)

2005-06-26T02:23:00.000-07:00

"I am woman, hear me roar
In numbers too big to ignore"
—Helen Reddy

Yes I'm over the rainbow, but don't get me wrong, being Gay Fried is a good thing. Gay Fried means that the "high holidays" of gaydom have arrived and that one has participated, not necessarily to the full extent of what is available but certainly to the full extent that one can, given any array of factors from emotional stability to pure, physical & mental stamina. Taking pride is hard but good work, manifesting in a process that is both to be indulged and endured, particularly if one lives in what is generally recognized as the Gay capital of the world.

Each year as Pride weekend approaches, my optimism soars to record levels as a month's worth of events and celebrations loosen everyone's reserves and help shake the residue of any leftover winter blahs or spring blases. Then in the last days preceeding the main weekend, my insecurities breakout like a case of severe hives. I get the heebie-jeebies and start testing out all the excuses with which I can come up, in hopes of avoiding the whole thing. I even make half baked plans to avoid it all by gettin' out of town. But the word "avoid" leaves me with an unsettled feeling that impresses upon me the fact that I will stay, I will take pride, and I will enjoy it. And mostly, that is what has happened, four years in a row now.

I still remember my first June in San Francisco. In my mind, I hadn't moved here because I'm gay, though above all else it is one of the reasons I stay. Regardless, at that time I had zero desire to attend the Dyke March, but a friend of mine was one of the key perpetrators of the event, and Six encouraged me, so I went, as with most things, with my expectations set pretty low. Community shummunity. Dykes and women with a "y." What need could I have that? I mean why? Moments after the march kick-off provided by hundreds of dykes on bikes, I knew why. The sound of all those engines turning over, each mounted by females of my persuasion? Oh, my god—I'd just done my first line of crack. Forever since, the Dykes on Bikes have been my touchstone of Gay Pride weekend. I don't care about any of the other organized events; it's the chicks on steel steeds that really turn me on in every way possible.

That 10 to 15 minutes of every kind of woman—femme, butch, androgenous, short, tall, significantly overweight or thin as a rail, every ethnic persuasion, from dyke babies to wizened sages, the helmeted and the helmet-free riding everything from Harleys and Ducatis to home-built machines of every size, shape and color—choppers, crotch rockets, dirt bikes, you name it—not to mention the scooter contingent and the plucky few bicyclists who tack themselves on to the fringe—to see and to hear and to witness women in their full (wo)mannliness—I mean, it's everything I feel about being a gay female played out as a Chinese opera. Simply put, I love it. After that, everything is icing on the cake. Provided that one's expectations of the weekend are within the parameters of what actually transpires. It's the managing of those expectatons that lays at the heart of the taking, the heart of darkness and light, humility, desire, gratitude.

"Oh yes I am wise
But it's wisdom born of pain
Yes, I've paid the price
But look how much I gained"

Having had a few tours of duty under my belt, I was well prepared for this go-round. The smartest thing I've learned is to make as few plans as possible with as few people as possible, letting the day(s) and night(s) dictate themselves. It's an abolute curse to make commitments to anybody, including oneself. Going with the flow this year got me on the lead truck, from which the sound system and a bounty of women sprung forth to introduce an endless parade of goddesses. Going with the flow last year led to a tete-a-tete that need not be described in detail other than to say, well look what the cat dragged in ; ) Other years, going with the flow led to feelings being crushed or squashed, for example, kicking it with a lovely Latina lady who, at the end of the night, mentioned her boyfriend; out of 60,000 women, I had to choose the straight one.

Every year is different. Sometimes you're with someone new, sometimes you're alone, sometimes you're with friends. Actually, always you're among friends. It's the one day of the year that lesbians are nice to each other, and the gay guys show their appreciation for us ladies. It's a love fest, a spilling out of pent up sister- and brotherhood.

"I am woman watch me grow
See me standing toe to toe
As I spread my lovin' arms across the land
But I'm still an embryo
With a long long way to go
Until I make my brother understand"

This year I had some friends with me. This year I had a rather fine-looking young lass with me, a girl with a spirit that is as far from puny as one can get. I mention it because it was unplanned, and had I planned it, it would never have happened, could never have happened and that's the beauty of Pride weekend. The sunshine decided to stay home, but the faces, the so many faces I've come to know mixed with the tourist faces, the people from Dubuque, Iowa; or the Texas panhandle; or places that require passports and visas and where they never really get to be free to be you and me—they were there. The ex-girlfriends. Always know you'll see the ex-girlfriends, both the ones you like and ones you like to loathe. The neighbors whom you see every day but didn't know were in the club. The smooches, the one-night or one-weekend stands, the new best friends—they're all there. It's not something to be taken lightly, though when it comes off well, you can be left feeling lighter. Myself, I lost about 40 lbs. of baggage this weekend, the equivalent of a travel carry-on. So cheers to all; until Pride 2006, carry on! I'm so Gay Fried that it will take a year to pack another bag. Thankfully, righteously so.

FADE
I am woman
I am invincible
I am strong
I am woman

"The White Jacket" - by Philly Moon

2005-06-16T00:37:00.000-07:00

So I'm falling asleep as I type, my fingers getting heavier with every letter. Can't really talk, I'm busy, well no, more like, I should be busy. I have to order furniture for my office and get quotes on signs & banners and crap for this company coming in next week. HA, they want ME to decorate the office? I can't even pick out matching furniture for my own apartment! hehehe

Maybe the public won't mind if I sleep talk to them for a while. Maybe my boss won't mind if I sleep walk.

Hell, maybe I can just curl up in a little ball in the storage closet and when someone comes in, I'll just pretend I'm looking for paperclips on the floor! Of course they'll think I'm a crackhead, quietly walk away, run down the hall to HR and explain my carpet combing behavior. THEN, HR will call and say "Hi Carol, how are you feeling today? Can you stop down and see us?"

I'll say, "Sure!" (pretending I don't know that they're about to send me to rehab). So I get down there and they have 2 large men waiting by the door with a cute little white jacket (I bet they're reps from the Gap).

"Oh, for me? How sweet!" Is it my anniversary with the company?"

"Ma'am, you'll have to come with us!"

Oh, how convenient, all I wanted to do in the first place was sleep. Now I get to do it in a cushy padded room! I never clocked out so I'm getting paid now for sleeping.

I wonder when I get to leave? "Hey, can I go back to the office now?" (I say this now in a slurred, drug induced murmur) It's kind of hard to speak when they have you injected with about 5 cc's of Thorizine).

Now I'm in a tough situation, and I'm pissed. I finally get turned loose and return to work next month. They failed to tell me that I've been replaced! I ask if I could at least get my belongings from the closet...they agree.

I open the door and what do I find? The new girl sleeping on the floor...... Hmmmmmm.......... revenge is sweet!

I never looked good in white anyway.

[Blogger's note: A cute girl sent this to me, not knowing that today was the turning point in which I have officially begun to hate my job. I 'spose it was only a matter of time, which is why I've begun reading Sabotage in the American Workplace. I'm not of that inclination, but I find it soothing that others have been thusly motivated to extract workplace revenge. Unwittingly then, Philly Moon's little "bedtime story," as she called it, assuaged the bitter wolf in me. Kindred!]

Asians Apparently Rise Above

2005-06-13T21:22:00.000-07:00

I don't know where this originated, but it makes the rounds and from time to time lands in my inbox. I always grimace for a moment before admiting there is a certain humor to it. After having recently seen Crash, which I liked very much despite its flaws, I found this particularly amusing. I'm sure it will offend some people, too. Oh, well. I couldn't resist after the brief Elvis debate on a recent posting.

10 TRUTHS BLACK AND HISPANIC PEOPLE KNOW, BUT WHITE
PEOPLE WON'T ADMIT:
1. Elvis is dead.
2. Jesus was not white.
3. Rap music is here to stay.
4. Kissing your pet is not cute or clean.
5. Skinny does not equal sexy.
6. Thomas Jefferson had black children.
7. A 5-year-old child is too big for a stroller.
8. N'SYNC will never hold a candle to the Jackson 5.
9. An occasional BUTT whooping helps a child stay in
line.
10. Having your children curse you out in public is
not normal.

10 TRUTHS WHITE AND BLACK PEOPLE KNOW, BUT HISPANIC
PEOPLE WON'T ADMIT:
1. Hickey's are not attractive.
2. Chicken is food, not a roommate.
3. Jesus is not a name for your son.
4. Your country's flag is not a car decoration.
5. Maria is a name, but not for every daughter.
6. "Jump out and run" is not in any insurance
policies.
7. 10 people to a car is considered too many.
8. Buttoning just the top button of your shirt is a
bad fashion statement.
9. Mami and Papi can't possibly be the nickname of
every person in your family.
10. Letting your children run wildly through the store
is not normal.

10 TRUTHS WHITE AND HISPANIC PEOPLE KNOW, BUT BLACK
PEOPLE WON'T ADMIT:
1. O. J. did it.
2. Tupac is dead.
3. Teeth should not be decorated.
4. Weddings should start on time.
5. Your pastor doesn't know everything.
6. Jesse Jackson will never be President.
7. RED is not a Kool Aid flavor, it's a color.
8. Church does not require expensive clothes.
9. Crown Royal bags are meant to be thrown away.
10. Your rims and sound system should not be worth
more than your car.

"Ian's Maddening" by William Harmer

2005-06-09T21:57:00.000-07:00

He caught her staring at him out of the corner of his eye as he tore down his equipment after the show. Between the tangle of cords, amps, and Vox guitars, he had hoped she would bring him a cold beer. When it was obvious that she wanted something more, he jumped off the stage to get his own and nearly ran right into her.

“They don’t care too much for 80s retro rock in this town, do they,” she observed. “They expect every other band to sound like the White Stripes’s rundown of the Stooges, not Echo & the Bunnymen.”

She’s much too gorgeous to have this much insight about the local scene, he thought. She was wearing an over-priced Made in Detroit jersey shirt. He used to be good friends with the guy who designs them. They went to high school together. Now the sellout was making a killing selling inner city street clothes to trendy white kids in the suburbs. Typical. He looked past this stunning, yet seemingly typical, young groupie and headed toward the bar.

“Yo, Ian,” she shouted after him, “you’ll never make it in this town dressed like a hippie and playing 80s psychedelic rock.”

“Look,” he said. “My name isn’t Ian, its Bobby. And my band isn’t any retrofit. We play atmospheric folk with a wide variety of instruments. And if that isn’t good enough for you, then tough shit, I’ve got better things to do.”

Bobby sauntered away, past the empty beer bottles scattered over the main floor, down to the tiny bar on the opposite side of the stage. He was surprised not to see the rest of his band hovering around trying to cage drinks or pick up any stray young girls. They must all be back stage finishing up the beer or getting high on the bag his bass player scored before the show. Bobby pulled out his wallet, spotted a five-dollar bill, and ordered a Bud. “Not the best turn out in the world tonight,” he said to the bartender, a metrosexual who looked out of place in the grimy setting.

The bartender shrugged. “It’s a Wednesday and people have to work or go to classes in the morning I guess.”

It was their second gig at St. Andrews, so it was too early to tell whether the band would find an audience or not. Although Bobby was only 20 years old, he had never held down a job in his life. All he ever wanted was to write songs and play them in front of an audience. These gigs didn’t pay the band much, but he was extremely confident of his own talent and abilities and never let money or the lack of it bother him. As long as he could afford ramen noodles and beer, he'd cope. So he drank.

He nearly ran into her, again, when he turned to finish packing his equipment. “Mind if I make a snap judgment about you?” Without waiting for an answer she said, “You’re a trust fund baby, right? Instead of going to college, you decided to blow your daddy’s money on a chance at rock n roll stardom.”

“Nice try,” Bobby said. “Mind if I make a snap judgment about you?”

“Shoot.”

“You are the daughter of a wealthy automobile executive from Birmingham. You went to private schools all of your life, went on vacation with your family every other month to places like Rome or Paris or Bangkok, your daddy bought you a Volkswagen Jetta for your 16th birthday, and instead of going off to an Ivy League school to pursue law like everyone wanted you to, you managed to convince your parents to allow you to blow their trust fund to pursue a long shot as an artist at the Center for Creative Studies.” Bobby stopped long enough to take a swig of his beer. “Close?”

“Close,” she minced haughtily. “But it wasn’t a Jetta, it was a Mustang.”

They both stood silent for a moment. Bobby lit a cigarette.

“Where are you from really?” she asked.

“Port Huron."

“Port Huron? That's a nothing town.”

“Port Huron is the home of Thomas Edison, the Students for a Democratic Society, and one of the highest suicide rates in the country.”

She smirked. “Well that explains why your music is so introspective.”

“I write love songs. There’s nothing particularly deep or mysterious about that,” Bobby said. “I’m pretty much obsessed with love, lost or gained, but not enough to kill myself over it. Not like my father anyway.”

“What happened to your father?”

“He killed himself.”

“No,” she said, “I mean why?”

“Because drugs were more important to him than me, my mom, his music or anything else. Drugs were his first love.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Depends on the question,” he sighed.

“What’s your name?”

“Bobby.”

“Bobby what?”

“Bobby Butler.”

“Oh my god,” she said. “Then I was right. Your dad was Joey Butler of the Thrills.”

“The one and only.”

“I’m so sorry. Is it true that he committed suicide on your birthday?”

“Yup.”

“That must have been awful.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, suddenly uncomfortable. “Listen, do you want to go and hang out in my van for awhile?”

“Sure,” she said.

He took her back to his Chevy work van. In the shadows, her face seemed nearly featureless. Bobby could see her flesh glowing faintly, like a ghost. His hands moved over her thigh to make sure she was real.

She kept still, trying to form a picture of him in the shadows, but she couldn’t. Away from the stage lights, he looked younger, just like the kid he was, barely out of high school, his complexion more pale, his hair darker and more coarse. He looked like a young Ian McCullough.

He was starting to lose his nerve.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, motioning to sit up, but he stopped her, firmly holding her head in his hands.

Bobby was puzzled. She was beautiful. Dazzling, alabaster skin along her neck, long and expressive eyelids with eyes of profound ambiguity, absorbing everything with cool abandon and heightening the weight of Bobby’s desire. She was more attractive than he was used to, a daughter of private schools and community activists, of fund raisers and expense accounts, of parents who read Morningstar and don’t have a need for the public library.

“Pretty girls make graves,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she flinched.

“Nothing. Something Kerouac said, I think.”

“Who?”

“Kerouac.”

“What’s that's supposed to mean?” she wanted to know.

“Nothing.”

“Isn’t that the name of a band?”

“He’s a writer,” he said.

“No, I mean 'pretty girls make graves?'”

Slowly he said, “I think it has something to do with obsession, which is the result of desire, which usually leads to pain and anguish, which can eventually cause premature death.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“No. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t come out here because I’m some groupie you know. I came out here because I find you intriguing …even mysterious.”

“I stopped kissing you because I couldn’t help myself,” he said, his eyes unable to face hers any longer.

“Maybe you were expecting me to be a groupie.”

“I don’t have groupies,” he spat with disdain. “I barely have a band.”

“If you kiss me now, I promise to be your groupie.

“I don’t want that,” he said.

“Of course you do,” she insisted. “I’ll be your Marianne Faithful, your Courtney Love ... I’ll be the groupie who makes you famous.” She imagined Bobby writing love songs about her. She imagined standing in the audience surrounded by her giddy friends and dancing to the music Bobby wrote especially for her. She visualized him bent over his vintage black Rickenbacker in an almost sacrificial pose beneath the warm spotlights. She envisioned the crowds growing larger and more dynamic with each gig. She imagined he was Ian McCulloch.

Quickly Bobby got up, pulled on his pants, buttoned his denim cowboy shirt, stepped into his boots, and fumbled around the front seat of the van for his pack of cigarettes. “I loathe people who want to be famous,” he said stepping out. “I don’t want people going around trying to dress like me or wanting to fuck me like they do Jessica Simpson, so you’ve got the wrong guy.”

Standing outside the van in the dark, Bobby lit a cigarette and watched the last of the bar rats stumble out to their vehicles along Woodward Avenue. He watched the traffic lights turn from green to red a couple of times. For a moment, he wished he was Ian McCulloch.

* * *
William Harmer, the evil genius behind "The First-Ever Rock n' Roll Library Tour," is going to be interviewed on This American Life in the coming weeks. Stay tuned here at Sleepwalkers' Glory for details and links to the archived interview.

Soothe Me, I'm Savage (Part IV)

2005-06-08T23:34:00.000-07:00

Allen Ginsberg wrote: “A few individuals, poets, have had the luck and the courage and fate to glimpse something new through the crack in mass consciousness.” Is there a moment or moments in music that you would say the same? An artist or group or emerging style that changed the face of music?

Tijanna: Check out Mick Karn. He was the bass player for the band Japan, a much more sophisticated and polished version of Duran Duran. David Sylvian, The singer was pretty as all fck, but he sang like a man! All deep-n-shit. Mick Karn takes bass playing to a whole new level. He finds a pattern and expands it. He finds the sounds in an AREA on the bass. I saw him in support of Mark Isham at the Great American Music Hall once. The music was totally unfamiliar to me but Mick's playing was so......stch....mmmh!....that....you're just like...he played
everything you wanted to hear on songs you'd never heard before. Such an
inadequate description but you just had to be there.

DJ Luna: Hip hop of course.

Lolo: In my lifetime, punk and hip hop. There was a time when some people thought electronica was going to take over the world—remember Prodigy?—but that didn’t happen. Personally, I love electronica in the broadest sense. I mean I’m not to into trance or rave music or other styles within the genre, but I still love IDM, house music, and d&b/breakbeat and nujazz, which has an electronic element to it. I really enjoy the way electronica has seeped into other genres (Radiohead, Madonna, etc.) but I’m not surprised the electronica didn’t win the commercial hearts of the consumer public.

In jazz it was constant from bebop to free jazz, each successive stylistic twist taking over and all the giants were true geniuses. Charlie Parker alone…. In popular music, you can’t overlook The Beatles even if you want to.

Actually this is too difficult a question to answer. I mean even Madonna changed the face of music in a way, if not the music itself then definitely the way it’s packaged and received and even by whom it’s received. Her initial audience was pretty different than the audiences of the other big name acts at the time that she became a household name and a lot different than what women were listening to in the decades prior. Why? Because nobody had ever done what she did.

And speaking of packaging, I’d say “world music,” too, because of course the rest of the world has always had its own musics but it’s never until we Westerners go out and discover it and get our grubby little paws all over it and comoditize it that it gets validated. And now, more and more, you find it seeping into places it didn’t used to be—just like electronica. Like how bossa nova became all the rage in the Sixties and suddenly the hippest thing in the world was for an American artist to incorporate some kind of bossa sound into their music. Nowadays it’s Cuban—you can’t go wrong inserting some Cuban elements into your shit. I’m not saying I’m against it; I just find it interesting to hear. And to whom do we owe this phenomenon? In a certain sense to people like Alan Lomax, who made sure it all got recorded.

Patty Boss: I think that John Cage's concept of incidental chance happening sounds as music, well, perhaps equal to anything else philosophical or musical, it has influenced my life in a dramatic way. I thank the spirit of John Cage every time the man out on Market Street echoes up into my window while he hollers and the car horns harmonize with him, and all at once it blends in with the song I'm singing to the stereo. It's a pinnacle experience that makes you feel like you're in the human soup of sound and potential. Similarly, in Dolores Park on a Sunday, watching the ice cream cart bump across the grass, when the jingle of the bells and the squeaking of the merry-go-round and swings move in a rhythm with the laughing girl playing Frisbee, and dogs digging in their claws, tossing mud up past your lunch, where their owners call them back and the airplanes move by overhead.

How / why did hip hop become the most popular music on the planet?

DJ Luna: See, even you know it! Stated as FACT right here in print! Hip hop is the shiznit beeach! For real, it's got great beats and people can relate to the lyrics, more so now then ever. It's not all about "shootin a nigga up" anymore. It's about the clubs, the parties, the fun times, the alcohol, representing your city, the beats, the vibe, the women. Shallow, yup. Fun, yup. That's why...because people don't want to THINK when they go out and party, they wanna dance & forget about shit.

Lolo: Beats me (pun intended)! Seriously, I think first of all, like the D.I.Y. ethic of punk, in the early daze it was something everybody could get into and have a soapbox. Then, just like anything else, as it become commercially viable it turned into a business and where there’s bait, there’s a feeding frenzy. Everybody wanted to get paid cash money. So on the one hand you have art, on the other you’ve got product and two hands rarely shake anymore. A ton of underground stuff exists that really floats my boat, but now that popular rap has hit it’s middle age, I can relate to almost none of the commercial stuff. Gimme the old school or gimme some underground sh*t, but it’s slim pickin’s for me when it comes to the stuff in the middle.

While it's not my favorite genre, I love the fact that it gives people a chance to get up and say something, which hopefully they use to say something intelligent and interesting. I think it's also popular because it's so dynamic. If hip hop had evolved only into "gangsta rap," I don't think it'd still have an audience. But underground/alternative hip hop is some of the most creative music around. And even some mainstream stuff has tripped me out from time to time. Like I love the idea of Bubba Sparxx, the good ol’ southern white boy mixing it up w/ Timbaland. Great concept. Ah, but there's a word that can be ugly in the context of popular music—"concept."

Can music die? Is jazz dead?

DJ Luna: Yes. House music is dead. What you still hear it in the clubs, you're just hearing a haunting echo of its ghost.

Lolo: I don’t know if it dies or not. I guess it doesn’t die so much as it gets gobbled up and regurgitated as something else. I was about to say that there’ll always be some diehard practitioners who will pass on their knowledge (and diehard listeners), but I just realized I’m writing words of wishful thinking.

I just remembered the first episode of Scorcese’s documentary series on the blues. They were talking about a fife-player who was one of the last of his kind though his grand-daughter was learning. It was tremendously sad; I mean this is music that harkens back to the early days of slavery. That’s when I realized that in a certain sense, music can die. Even if it’s preserved and can be played back, it dies when there’s nobody left who can create it from scratch. And going back to the question of generations, even if a new practitioner comes along 20 years after the fact, the music generated is never what it would have been at the time of its true genesis or heyday. Like remember that swing revival in the mid-1990s or the rockabilly revival of the 1980s? Those nostalgic movements were nothing compared to the real deal, I’m sure.

On the other hand, if a music has an audience, it lives. The heyday of jazz is long gone, but the mantle has been picked up by the Europeans and the Japanese and the Jews. I’m sure there are young black artists here in the states who are keeping it alive, but I wouldn’t know who they are aside from the generation that came of age in the 1980s—the Joshua Redmans and company. If there are any “brothers” (or sisters) younger than that, I don’t know about ‘em, but that’s just me, looking backward.

Patty Boss: Jazz is so not dead. It's the only original American art form. We just think it's dead here in America. In another sense, jazz has not evolved. It's the same that it was decades ago. But let's recognize the gem in our backyard. Music cannot die. It can only rest for centuries at a time.

Sipho: Music only dies when the part of you that music touched dies or goes dormant.

Who/what is your guilty pleasure? Should one ever feel guilty about music enjoyment?

DJ Luna: Frank Sinatra ;)

Lolo: Nobody should ever feel guilty about enjoying music. That’s what it’s there for—to be enjoyed. I admit sometimes I feel a little silly rockin’ my Hall & Oates, but hey, what’s a girl to do when she’s jonesin’ for some blue-eyed soul (which is a totally different animal from soul food people’s soul)? I’ll up the ante and admit to Duncan Sheik, Stone Temple Pilots and Wang Chung’s first album, too.

Once I was in a cab when Journey’s “Oh Cherrie” came on (or was that Steve Perry solo?). At first we both tried to pretend like we weren’t into it. He even asked if the radio was bothering me and made as if to turn it down or change the station but seconds later we were humming it and in minutes this cabbie—whom I’d never seen before in my life—and I, were belting it out and so wrapped up in it that we passed my destination with neither of us noticing. It was great! He drove me back the six or seven blocks and didn’t charge me for the trip at all.

Tijanna: Did I already mention Duran Duran? Yeah, I guess I did. Andreas Vollenweider too!

Patty Boss: Ohhhh! Guilty pleasures! I say, stand up for guilty pleasures. Mine? Joni Mitchell. Crosby Stills Nash and Young.

What has been the greatest decade for music?

Sipho: The 60s as an actual decade. Or a toss up of the ten-year periods 1965 to 1975 and 1988 to 1998. Both periods have had the largest impact on the growth of where music has gone as a whole. Does that make sense?

DJ Luna: 80s.

Patty Boss: It just keeps getting better. And luckily music isn't replaced, just accumulated.

Are there any albums you’d qualify as totally flawless in execution?

DJ Luna: Nobody’s perfect.

Tijanna: Believe it or not-side two of Duran Duran's Rio is PERFECT. As is side One of Houses of the Holy.

Patty Boss: Lucinda's Car Wheels on a Gravel Road comes to mind. So does the Mono album I have. I Don't even know the name. So do a few of our contemporary Radiohead, Bjork and Coldplay albums. Total crafted works of art, as a whole.

Sipho: Pearl Jam’s Ten.

Lolo: To me, a perfect album isn’t necessarily my favorite album though it might be. It just means there isn’t a single song I have to skip. I’ve got quite a few. Off the top of my head Mark Hollis’s Mark Hollis. The Beach Boys – Pet Sounds. The Pretty Things’ Parachute. The Who’s Who’s Next. Midnight Marauders – A Tribe Called Quest. Hole’s Live Through This. Emmylou Harris’s Pieces of the Sky. Seals’ first album. Chet Baker’s Somewhere over the Rainbow. Super Furry Animals’ Fuzzy Logic. Zero 7’s Simple Things. Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here. Even on a great album though, there’s at least one song in there that will fuck it up. The closest one for me recently is Avishai Cohen’s At Home. The fourth cut barely makes it for me; sometimes I can listen to it, and sometimes I can’t. If it wasn’t on the disc it’d be one perfect disc!

Can you think of a soundtrack in which the music made the film, whether an original score or a compilation of tracks? Or a soundtrack that ruined a film?

DJ Luna: Made it: Cat Stevens soundtrack in Harold & Maude, Kurtis Blow, Fat Boys, & Run DMC in Krush Groove.

Tijanna: Blade! Well, I was into Blade anyway, but I had to go out and get the soundtrack. Not the one with Mark Isham but the hip hop one. And I'm not one for either movies OR soundtracks!

Lolo: Georgio Moroder’s soundtrack to Scarface w/ Al Pacino has NOT stood the test of time and makes that movie completely unbearable to watch now. Stewart Copland’s music for Rumblefish made that film. Gustavo Santaolalla’s music for The Motorcycle Diaries definitely contributed to the beauty of that film. Koyannisquati is, of course, classic. I think the soundtracks to Dead Presidents and Crooklyn were actually better than the films. Spike Lee's father's music for She's Gotta Have It was really nice. Cinematic Orchestra wrote great music for the silent classic Man with a Movie Camera and the music selected for the tv series Freaks & Geeks and created for The Prisoner definitely contributed to the greatness of those two shows. They wouldn't be the same without the music.

Is there any hope for radio?

Patty Boss: Hell yes, you serve it up, I'll consume it. Do my thinking for me, please! I love internet radio. I'm talking about random playlists served up based on genre. But what is happening to traditional, air-wave radio is sickening. The radio dj's voices become sound bites as stored clips, triggered when needed. The dj's are getting fired. I miss a real person talking to me late at night, between songs on the radio. It's the last bastion of reaching out and touching someone. But someone's gotta pay for the radio, and I don't want to hear any ads.

DJ Luna: Yes, if Clear Channel Entertainment doesn't buy every freakin radio station on planet earth!

Lolo: Pirate radio. And maybe Internet radio. Any format in which the djs aren't catering to the record companies and advertisers. That said, I haven't listened to conventional radio in nearly 20 years, reason being that I can't stand spending time listening to music I don't like. Why wait for a radio dj to play a song you like followed by five you don't, plus the incesscent chit chat, plus the stupid ads, when you can just go out and buy the damn album and be your own dj?

If you had the power to force feed the masses one song or album what would it be?

Lolo: That’s just not gonna work. Besides, that’s apparently the job of commercial radio.

DJ Luna: Deee-Lite – “Groove Is in the Heart!” This was the only hit for the group – members were: DJ Dimitry, DJ Towa Towa, and Lady Miss Kier. Kier and Dimitry were married. Before they recorded this, DJ Dimitry wrote to Bootsy Collins and sent him a tape. Collins liked it and flew in to play bass. He appeared in the video. The rap in the middle is Q-Tip, who was a member of A Tribe Called Quest at the time.

Tijanna: Carlos Santana's Supernatural. EVERYONE needs a copy of it. EVERYONE needs to listen to that album at least 10 or 400 times. In fact, I've never seen an album reach across so many different types of cultures. I've heard that album in some mighty weird and unexpected places. Trust me.

According to Stephen Nachmanovitch, in creating, "Sometimes what's needed is to crudely smash through the confusions and obstacles; sometimes the most delicate, patient, intermittent massaging of the problem. Sometimes it is we ourselves who need to be hit over the head or gently massaged." Do you feel this is so?

DJ Luna: Yes, but I relate that to “writer’s block” or “dj’s block.” Sometimes my head turns to mush and I can’t think of a damn thing to mix. I’m burnt, foggy, exhausted. I allow myself to relax, take a step back, and do something different. BUT….when I’m live, onstage it’s completely different. I get such an adrenaline rush that there’s no time for hesitation, fear, or doubt. It just flows. Partly because it has to, partly because something in me opens up, like a door, or a switch goes on. It’s hard to explain.

Lolo: I personally never like to be hit over the head, and I'm likely to hit back. But I can relate to the idea that sometimes giving birth to a musical expression necessitates brute force and other times you kind of just have to let it happen whenever and however it happens. I find it nearly impossible to force things out of myself, and I think it's partly because I'm not technically adept. I don't know music theory, and I'm on the beginning end of the intermediate range on my instrument of choice so it's really difficult to decide that I'm gonna come up with something. I might hear something in my head but getting it out is tricky business. However, these same liabilities also give me a certain freedom. I play around with no expectations and sometimes hit upon something that I can build on, which is always a nice, fun surprise.

Patty Boss: Definitely. Obstacles and limitations are our friend. We are animals of pattern and that detracts from creative evolution at times. It's true with any art form: paint monochromatically, using only red, black and white. Or shoot photographs, but only of brick. Or, “I had to record a banjo solo, but all I had was this mandolin, so I changed the strings, and tuned them down, and oh, mi god, that is where this majestic and unique sound came from!”

Do you need an audience?

DJ Luna: Yes. It’s way different spinning at home. Some people call themselves bedroom djs, that cracks me up and then just makes me sleepy. I’d rather be out there with my people, interacting.

Tijanna: Not all the time.

Patty Boss: Yes. I always need an audience. If I write a poem by myself, I still need an “audience of ONE”, meaning I need someone, at least one, to read it eventually. It's a conversation, the music or the poem. And talking to oneself is contrary to this. If I play the piano at home by myself, I hope someone walks by the hall and can understand my 'question' or my statement. If I am playing by myself, I play to the stars, and to the gods, I ask the ancestors to speak to me. I have a conversation with those passed on.

Lolo: Sleepwalkers’ glory ;)

Have you embraced the iPod revolution and digital music-file sharing, home recording, etc.?

DJ Luna: Yes. There is a little dive bar in New York that used to have iPod “spin-offs”. You could sign up to be a dj for a 15 minute spot. It’s not really like dj-ing because there’s no way to manipulate the music besides fading in and out of the songs. ipods are evil. Mine holds 10,000 songs but at iTunes’ price of .99 cents per song, sheesh! That’s one valuable iPOD. Imagine if I ever lost it! Apple doesn’t make it easy to take the music OFF the damn thing. God for bid you want to back up your music on your hard drive. They’re too worried about copyright issues, music piracy, etc. Hello!? What about convenience! That’s ridiculous, no, actually it’s just capitalism.

Lolo: Not yet. I am really into ‘albums’ rather than singles, and I’ve had a hard time thinking of iPods and other mp3 players as anything other than repositories for singles. Also they’re still pretty expensive and god forbid if you lose the shit. Plus, I guess I’m old fashioned but I really need to own the actual, physical, tangible good. I need the jewel case and the disc jacket, and I need to able to stack them up and reorder them and gaze at them. I just don’t get the same level of satisfaction when I buy a song online or download one from a file-sharing service. I wish I could get over it actually because I’m probably one of the few fools still paying for music the way I do even though I buy only used cds. The other problem I’ve had is selection. The commercial sites like Napster and iTunes don’t tend to have much of what I want. The free sites, like Kaazaa aren’t much better, plus you risk trashing your computer. As for home recording, I’m ready to embrace that wholeheartedly—both digital and analog.

Patty Boss: Yes. The only drawback is that we're losing the concept of the collection or album. 12 songs meant to go together take one on a journey hopefully, a trip lasting an hour. The album that does this with virtuosity is rare, but I have them in my collection. The other drawback is that we're losing fidelity, and therefore information. mp3 compression has subtracted some audio. But in the case of a muddy recording, sometimes and mp3 can take out some of the mud, making it thinner and easier to listen to. But in general, after returning to vinyl recently for an evening of Mendelssohn and Mingus, oh my god! I vowed while bathing in the richness to never give up my record player. We are in the interim of formats and fidelity. When digital bit depth and sample rates can begin to approximate the perception of real ears, then digital music won't have the drawbacks that it has now in terms of listen-ability. But all in all, the music still translates no matter what the fidelity or format is. A melody, the lyrics and the emotion of music usually translates though anything. Back to the power of love. The best, most incredible outcome of mp3's and online access is that we now have access to amazing hard to find music that we might never have experienced. Long live the internet. Long live audio compression!

Tijanna: No. If I did, I'd lose my job, any prospective girlfriends, and would probably grow a beard sitting around all day in my pajamas downloading and mixing stuff. I'd be a girl with 5-o'clock shadow.

How do you feel about sampling, mash-ups, etc. or artists who only make their music available by download?

Patty Boss: It depends upon the goal. All I ask is that we call it what it is. "Recombination technicians" or turntablist. Let's give credit where credit is due. Your 3-minute shitty short video sucks except that now you have put a Tina turner song over it, and the film festival audience is screaming. Let's remember why they're screaming.

DJ Luna: Sampling is an art in itself. It’s like a collage. You can take clips, phrases, or other bits of a song and create a whole new sound. Mash ups get on my nerves. They should call them Fuck Ups.

Lolo: I love a great sample if it’s not overkill, like Puffy’s sacrilegious overuse of “Every Breathe You Take” a few years ago. That is just wrong!! But in my mind, sampling was legitimized by the jazz artists, who would “reference” other songs or artists in the midst of their own playing.

I can’t comment on the mash-ups because I haven’t heard one in which I know both of the original tunes so it’s hard for me to get a feel for what’s really happening. I tried unsuccessfully to download Dangermouse's The Grey Album and and DJ BC's Beastles (Beastie Boys – Beatles mash up). Music by download only is a great statement—except for people who don’t have computers or all the crap needed for a proper download HELLO!! I like Fugazi’s idea better—just make the music affordable. Do both if you really wanna help the fans.

Who or what excites you most about music?

Patty Boss: That it is just as intense as making love, those rare moments when you play music with others and that particular intimacy and interaction clicks or shifts. You can't plan it, prepare it or make it happen. It's one of the most intimate things you can do, and if this is happening, and others are around, it's almost embarrassing. Like love making, music is a far better language for expressing the mysteries of the human experience.

DJ Luna: The way it makes me move, the way it makes me smile when I hear a great beat. Music is the international language! It conveys love, anger, sadness, joy, fear, and everything in between.

Tijanna: I don't know! It just does!

Lolo: Music encompasses every idea and range of emotion ever experienced and maybe even yet to be experienced by humankind. Music has even scared me, at least twice in my life. The first time was when I heard "Emotional Rescue" by the Stones. I was too young; I didn't understand the lyrics and felt there was something sinister in the music itself, especially because I had heard adults say they were "bad" people. Of course, when I got older—and became “bad” myself—it became one of my favorite songs of theirs.

The other music that struck me that way was an album by John Coltrane, who is hands down my favorite jazz artist. For me, he encompasses everything that music is and should be and his growth as an artist was astounding if you listen to his transitions from 1956 to 1967. Amazing. One of my favorite recordings of his is A Love Supreme, which is basically his spiritual homage to "The Creator." Later he recorded Meditations, which is a “sequel” of sorts. However, it's nothing like its predecessor. I found it absolutely terrifying, like if I listened with my eyes closed, something terrible would happen. My heart was racing, the oxygen went of the room, and the physical space of the room shrunk; it scared the living shit out of me. That was a couple years ago, and I haven't had the guts to listen to it since.

That experience tells me also that music is power. Music is said even to soothe the savage beast; Nero was supposedly quite calm as Rome burned! (Despite the myth, Nero couldn't have fiddled while Rome burned because the violin was more than 1,000 years from being invented). Music reflects everything around me and allows me to project aspects of myself into the world even just by what I choose to listen to. It helps me get through the daily grind of my work life, sometimes it tucks me into bed on a sleepless night when I miss my mom, it carries me to distant places even when I have no vacation days to spare, it expresses thoughts and emotions that for one reason or another I can’t, and every lucky now and then, it serenades me and another special someone. More often, it befriends me when loneliness eats its way into my heart. I can’t imagine my life without music. Honestly.

What defines an artist?

DJ Luna: “One who skillfully creates, performs, produces by virtue of imagination to create works of aesthetic value.” Beauty is in the eye of the beholder so “artist” is a relative word.

Patty Boss: Gee whiz. What's an artist. Maybe we are all painters and musicians and poets and writers. Maybe it's up to the following generations to decide if we're artists. In some way, I think an artist is able to show us something else—something that vibrates above the baseline energy of everyday living. We are all artists. When we make children and create platters of food. When we love the stranger at the bus stop. Who the hell knows. I sure don't.

Soothe Me, I'm Savage (Part III)

2005-06-07T19:55:00.000-07:00

Here's a question that was once posed to Frank Zappa and now to you: "Have there been parts of your life that you've neglected because you've been absorbed in your music?"

DJ Luna: Yes, a one point or another... the gym, friends, women. Sometimes music is my girlfriend ;)

Patty Boss: Yes, I have traded in ways, my financial and family life to a degree, in terms of studying music, buying gear, and prioritizing these things financially. Family life traded in the sense of trying to maintain the open unending space needed as a climate for creation.

Lolo: Not so much so though I’d buy a cd before I’d buy food. If I can get my hands on some good music, I’m willing to worry about other things later. As for losing myself in creating music—no, I haven’t given enough and that’s why I’m not the real deal—yet. The people who I know who are successful in music are the ones who really seem to give their lives up to it or who let it become the gospel of their lives, living and breathing by it. Jimi Hendrix sleeping with his guitar.

Which affects you more—lyrical content or the music (melody / harmony/ beats)?

Tijanna: Definitely the music. Case in point: I've been in this band for over Five years and I still don't know the words to about half the songs! You can have the best lyrics in the world but if the beat is whack, I can't get with it. The first Too Short albums I bought back in 198%#@ suffered from both a lack of intelligent lyrics and a stunning paucity of phat beats. I returned them promptly. Now, I might feel differently about it today, but back then I was disappointed. Another example: at one time I thought I wanted to be a recording engineer, but after having to mix a vapid song for one of our classes, I decided right then and there that I could never do that job because how was I going to mix something I didn't like?

On the other hand, after I've completely absorbed tasty music through my pores, I'll eventually turn to the lyrics to see if I can live with them. Tupac's "Only God Can Judge Me Now" is something I love listening to, but half of his lyrics threaten to ruin everything, as well as Rappin' Forte's solo on the song. Of course, when both music AND lyrics are either intelligent, fun, or just plain niggah, I've got the whole world in my hands.

Being a bass player, I was ecstatic when drum and bass started happening. And while I'm far from knowledgeable in that area, LTJ Bukem instantly grabbed me from the first moment I heard Logical Progression at Burning Man back in 1996. The Chemical Brothers always do some interesting and crazy shit. I went to this one gig where they were just working as Tom and Ed without the Chem overtones. Ed, the dark-haired one, was cranking up this one song's intensity, you know, amping it up and amping it up towards the payoff. And right when you think he's going to drop the beat heavily after a heightened pause, he fking turns around and crams this tidal wave of sound right in back of it that practically made you turn around and LOOK for the sound coming up behind you! It was brilliant and was even better than a standard payoff.

DJ Luna: For me, it’s all about the beat. The harmony is key. The lyrics are like icing on the cake. It’s deeper though. You could have a song with great lyrics, but the beat sounds like two wailing fire trucks crashing into a wall. On the other hand, the lyrics could be mindless and still have a good beat that people groove to.

Lolo: The music always gets me first. In fact, it’s gotta because I don’t hear the lyrics for a long time. This is something my brother, and I talk about all the time because as fan of his music, I know that it’s the lyrics that make his songs. But honestly, I grasp it much better when he feeds me the lyrics ‘cause when I’m listening to music I only process on the most primal level, which is sounds and rhythms (i.e. mood), not taking in words and understanding their meaning (content).

Now, nothing is worse than falling in love with a song and then finally catching the lyrics and falling into a quandry over lyrics that are so stupid that it’s insulting or lyrics that are offensive in some way—racist, misogynist, jingoistic, etc. Fortunately I don’t get caught in that trap too often, but sometimes the opposite happens—I finally hear the lyrics and it makes the whole listening experience that much more rich. That happens to me with hip hop all the time because my ears are never fast enough to process that shit, but I get wildly excited when it reaches me and it’s got something good to say.

Usually I’ll gravitate to a couple lines here and there that manage to grab me. The last time that happened was with De La Soul’s last release, on the title track "The Grind Date": “people gotta go out there and bust they ass for a job / I mean, my dad's got five kids, man and I mean yo / he hates drivin' a bus but he loves five kids.” For me that's the gist of the whole song because it’s the only part of the song I’ve heard despite a hundred listens. Why? Because I always get lost in the beats, but those lines are enough for me to know the song's got something to say to me. Sipho has a line that always sticks in my head—I've got “pain in my pain.” I think about that one all the time.

The bottom line is that usually, if I have access to written lyrics, I’ll read along with them the first time through a listen and that helps me hear and retain. But I’m definitely all about the beats or a beautiful voice first and foremost.

Was music education available to you when you were growing up? If so, did you partake or are you more self-taught?

DJ Luna: Both. My brother played guitar, he taught me a little bit. My parents owned a record store in Jersey so I was always surrounded by music in some form or another.

Lolo: I was in middle school band, and I played the flute because all the girls played either flute or clarinet. Except Sue Sabin. Sue played the drums, and I was jealous but as the only girl, she had a high pressure, high profile role; I watched her cave and wasn't about to go there with her. Yet, to this day only rarely can I bear the sound of flutes. Ugh. If I'd had the chutzpah, I would have chosen the trumpet, the saxophone, or the drums.

The really sad thing is that I learned how to read music, which is a skill I've lost over the many years, and now I'm just too lazy. I'm a guitar fiend who spends more time reading about them and looking at them and listening to other people play than actually playing. I'm self-taught though I haven’t learned even one-tenth of what I'd like to be able to do. I know the answer is practice, practice, practice. I guess this goes back to the question of how much you’re willing to prioritize it. I guess in the scheme of things, it’s in the top five of my life priorities, but only the top three get attention. But in the past year or two I've been doing more composing and am just starting to toy w/ the idea of home recording.

Tijanna: I'm totally self-taught. Up until about two years ago, I never wanted to take lessons because I thought it would ruin my individuality. But now that I'm 40 I think I could use a little help! I'd also like to learn how to read music some day.

Patty Boss: I played around by ear. At 10 my mother offered lessons. Perceiving lessons as just one more adult telling me what to do, I declined. At 24 I felt strongly that the music I heard in my head was too complex for me to execute without more skill. So I embarked upon study that was one of the most painful processes ever.

I feel the course of study has been stopped mid-stream. I have not completed what I served up for my self, but now feel so deeply satisfied by branching out into composing and using recording as an instrument, as well. I still can express my emotions using just a few piano notes that then branch into a simple melody, with simple chords. For the speaking of the soul, I feel I have just the bare necessity to say [what] I need to say. It's enough for now, in terms of playing. Composing and arranging using the recording process is allowing me to sculpt and investigate the larger ideas, the more layered and complex ideas I would like to express.

If you currently collaborate with others, how did you find each other?

Patty Boss: We found each other sometimes through newspaper ads, when I was new to town. But that quickly evolved into meeting others when playing out. It gives them a chance to hear you and vice versa. And through invitations from music friends, to come and sit in on a project, to see how the chemistry is. No matter how good or bad anyone is, like dating, it all comes down to chemistry.

DJ Luna: [Not yet] but I would like to collaborate with other djs/performers.

Have you gone through discernable "musical phases" in life, and if so, what have they been?

Tijanna: I cut my teeth on hard rock and heavy metal in the late 70s [imagine a little Black girl learning some AC/DC (preferably with Bon Scott), Aerosmith, Ted Nugent, and early Queen on an acoustic in Hattiesburg, Mississippi where I went to high school]. Led Zeppelin, the Who, and Pink Floyd got me through college in the early 80s. Reggae had me in the mid-80s for a minute. Led Zeppelin snatched me up in the late 80s. Public Enemy and KRS One stormed me in the early 90s. Led Zeppelin won me over again in the mid 90s. Salsa overtook me about three years ago. Death metal and hard, misogynistic rap have me by the clit currently.

DJ Luna: Yes, LOL. In high school I went through my hippie phase with classic rock, my goth phase where I wore all black and listened to angry dark music, my gangsta phase when I listened to gangsta rap, my 80's glam band heavy metal stage, my not so glam - speed metal stage, my mainstream pop phase, but not all in that order ;)

Lolo: I’m always going through a musical phase : ) The first album I ever picked out for myself was Eddy Arnold’s greatest hits. Actually, I didn’t really pick it, but I had memorized all the tv commercial sound bytes, and my dad ended buying it for me. The first album I bought for myself was with birthday money. I was torn between whatever the The Doobie Brothers had out that year and Maynard Ferguson’s Greatest Hits, having been exposed to his music from band class. I went with Maynard. I also had all kinds of disco 45s.

I was pretty religious about writing down all the songs from Casey Kasem's Top 40 countdown and catching the King Biscuit Flower Hour. I milked Columbia House with their 12 for a penny scheme. That gave me a nice classic rock collection, with my absolute treasures being The Best of the Doors and the Who's Hooligans. In high school my faves were U2, The Police, Prince, and Peter Gabriel. Though I brought my Isaac Hayes soundtracks and Frankie Goes to Hollywood 12-inches with me, the college years gave way first to CSN / CSNY / Neil Young, Simple Minds, Midnight Oil's Red Sails in the Sunset and the Psych Furs' Forever Now. I also had short-lived radio show called "Weird Scenes Inside the Goldmine," the title of a Doors compilation. The second part of college was all about Love & Rockets, Jane's Addiction, Traffic, and Humble Pie's Lost and Found.

The 1990s was filled with acid jazz, inc. Soul II Soul and Masters At Work's Nuyorican Soul; the grunge of Pearl Jam's Ten and Alice in Chains; trip hop, starting with Massive Attack; the first hip hop I embraced on my own (i.e. without having to have my brother force feed it to me) inc. Public Enemy, A Tribe Called Quest and Tupac; the neosoul of Me'Shell NdegeOcello and Erykah Badu and a slew of other stuff: Eric Matthews, DJ Shadow, 808 State, Seal, Elastica, Goldie, Jamiroquai, Madonna, Lush, and lots and lots of house music and Detroit Techno.

Brazillian music and jazz always weaved in and out, starting with Isaac Hayes soundtracks I borrowed from my cousin Darby when I was in middle school and leaping into hard bop / post-bop and working my way to free jazz only recently.

In the noughties it’s been Radiohead, old soul, Jill Scott, and a true branching out into all kinds of stuff—field recordings, roots music, Cuban music, electronica, experimental stuff. Since my mom passed away I’ve picked up on her love for South African music and country music. I go backward and foreward through everything—neosoul, country blues, chamber rock, hip hop, Japanese rock, Eurojazz, Venezuelan disco. I don’t care what it is as long as it’s good.

By which artist/group do you have the most recordings?

DJ Luna: Missy Elliot.

Tijanna: Ach! Why ask this question??? How am I supposed to figure that out, woman??? :-) LTJ Bukem, Chemical Brothers, Aerosmith, Missy, Me'Shell, Janet, Mick Karn, and Madonna.

Patty Boss: Chopin, Tricky, Steve Reich, but the most recordings, not to be confused by the most listened to. A band I love, MONO, (not the other mono) well, I have one recording of theirs. And I have listened to it two million times in the past 3 years since I got it. So, who do I sit around and listen to the most? Over and over and over and over and over? Recently: Coldplay, Gillian Welch, Radiohead, Bjork, beck, Coltrane, Nat King Cole on those down days. Keep in mind, this is all limited by my limited collection.”

Sipho: Prince and I don’t really know why. No disrespect to Prince :)

Lolo: Coltrane.

Is there a genre that you would like to know more about?

DJ Luna: House & Breakbeats.

Lolo: I am trying to understand classical music, but it’s hard because I don’t have an ear for it, and I don’t know where to start. The only classical stuff I know is from Looney Tunes. Seriously. But I just got Mozart’s Symphonies 40 and 41, recorded by the Prague Chamber Orchestra. Don’t ask me why I chose to start there. Because I had to start somewhere. Opra, too, I don't really understand / enjoy, but I'm willing to learn more about it.

Patty Boss: Yes, I would like to understand more about poly rhythmic African styles. When I say 'understand' I mean that I want my body to understand.

Is there a genre that you simply can’t relate to and why?

Patty Boss: Easy listening pop radio Kenny G. Plastic music with no soul. The first indication of no soul is the lack of a speaking melody. Playing scales and arpeggios in place of actually saying something. I cannot relate to music that is being played in a detached way, like banging on a drum because you can, or playing a chord progression because it's there. I need to feel the players' motive. I need to feel something painful or beautiful churning beneath. Even if it's a question. Even if it's one note, played over and over.

DJ Luna: Opera. I just can’t feel it. It doesn’t move me enough to want to listen to it. It’s actually quite annoying.

Lolo: I have a hard time with native Hawaiian music and most reggae from dub and roots right on through dancehall. They both bum me out, and I don’t know why. I don't care for Cajun music or Dixieland jazz. Or swing for that matter. Oh, and someone once tried to turn me on to “black metal.” I like some hard stuff, but I really couldn’t go there except for the Swedish group Opeth. It made me wish I could create an amalgam of two genres—black metal and black American soul, which of course would be called "black soul." If anyone does it before I do, I’ll be pissed!! Remember, I had the idea first. You’re my witness!

I really can't stand anything with the harpsichord or bagpipes and have only slowly been warming to the organ and the acordian. And other than Peter Frampton, nobody should touch the vocoder. There's also some instrument or sound I blame on Dr. Dre—that eeeeee sound that's in a lot of hip hop. I know he didn't start it, but after The Chronic everybody was doin' it.

Who’s the best live performer you’ve ever seen?

Sipho: Seal. I wasn’t expecting anything special, but I was totally pulled in and captivated the entire show. I can’t say that about any other show I have seen. At some point I will lose focus on the performance and find myself day dreaming or people watching. Seal had me pulled in the whole show.

Lolo: I get bored at shows. It doesn’t matter how much I like an artist; I have a low threshold of interest, so I don’t go to many, though I have seen some truly great ones over the years. But I have to say hands down, no contest, Ornette Coleman was the best experience I’ve had. #2 was Derek May’s set at the The Motor Lounge in Detroit for New Years eve in 1998? And Master Mike, who BLEW ME AWAY at the DNA Lounge a year ago or two? Goddamn, that was slammin’! Make that number 3.

There are so many elements that go into a show—the music, the audience, your mood—let alone the performer’s performance. Ornette Coleman and Derek May are about as different as you can get—apples and oranges—but those shows changed me. The Ornette show was a powerful and moving experience. My mom had recently passed away, and I felt very connected to her through the music, though she would have hated it. During the show I had a piece of paper on which I scribbled something about how the music sounded like it must be the music of heaven with all the stars listening in… Coleman, accompanied by his son on drums and two bass players, didn’t say a word during the entire show. Then at the end, he thanked the audience for coming out and added that he believes that there are as many musical ideas as there are "stars in heaven” and it felt like synchronicity because I’d just used the words “stars” and “heaven” myself, and I was certain my mom was there with me.

Derek May is Detroit Techno, but there's more of an audience for it Europe and Japan than at home. So not only was it great to see a big turn out but people were in a great mood that night, and he worked it, and a beautiful girl kissed me while I was waiting in line to get a drink, and her boyfriend beamed at me as they got lost in the crowd and I only realized now—nearly 10 years later—that they were probably on “E” but at time I was convinced that Derek had worked some magic for me and my year would be incredible. (I think it ended up sucking royally). And Mix Master Mike? Merciful god in heaven, that man can throw down!!

DJ Luna: 1. Tori Amos – her honesty projects through her lyrics, she’s passionate, sexual, charismatic, and just plain ol’ talented. 2. Actually, to be honest, Kid Rock. I know it sounds lame, but it surprised me too. The guy is actually talented. He played every instrument on that stage that night, including doing a scratch solo on the decks.

Tijanna: You know what? ZZ Top put on quite a show back in the day. Excellent execution of songs, lights that only complemented them, and silly stuff like cows and bathtubs falling on the stage at the end of the show. Judas Priest wasn't too shabby either (man, when's the last time I've been to a show?). And would I be worth anything if I didn't say that Janet's last show, where she starts the night on a giant white pedestal....ohhhhh!

Patty Boss: It depends upon your definition of “performer”. There are shows that appeal to many senses, visual and conceptual. There are those performers that entertain the shit outta the audience - the Princes or Tina Turners, the energy and church-like charisma of Patty Smith. All I ask is to be lost, to be taken, and to be risen in vibration to the cumulative community. So I can't answer the question with one performer. Like a drug, I need the consistent intake, and all are relatively equal in what they can offer for a live experience. But the performer is only one piece of the live experience puzzle. Also contributing is your own state, the people around you, the visual experience, the sound mix, the lighting. And famous or obscure, shy onstage or entertaining you, they all hold the most important place of catalyzing magic.

Do you support the local music scene in any way, whether going to shows, buying recordings, etc.? Who or what’s your favorite local band or dj?

DJ Luna: Yes, I’m out at clubs probably more often than I should be. It’s hard getting up at 6am for my day job! (I try to work with new djs and help them get started. It’s just good karma. Favorite local djs: Club Papi Productions’ DJs: Luna (of course ;) Carlitos, Chili D, and James from The Café.

Tijanna: I love Hadan. They're death metal. Their music is so heavy and so thick, oppressive, and meaty that it makes me want to have sex right there in the club.

Patty Boss: Yes, yes, yes. Well, I really loved David Hopkins but he moved back to Dublin or somewhere far away. There are so many great artists, and I rely on the auspicious intersections of evenings and venues and friends leading to such music. Sometimes ducking out of the rain and into the Amnesia bar on Valencia for a Wolaver's on tap can lead you into the most beautiful night of acoustics, and voices and red lamps and bend 1940s hats. And then there's the Make Out room. I tend to rely on knowing what type of music a venue tends to book or what my friends think I'll like, as opposed to finding music on my own.

What’s most important in the music business—luck, talent, or image?

DJ Luna: Luck 20%. Talent 60%. Image 20%. [To succeed as a dj] it takes determination, turntable skills, people skills/street smarts ;) (to deal with some of the scum in the industry), communication & negotiation skills... you have to be able to do lots of PR and be willing to take risks.

Patty Boss: Raw charismatic talent to entertain, and a shit load of persistent marketing.

Why are Britney and co. so popular? Is it a good thing or a bad thing?

Patty Boss: She is a hell of a good entertainer. She entertains, and is supported by the machine of all elements of glamour sex and fashion. It has little to do with music specifically. She's popular because the machine finds the lowest common denominator of what people think they want, and they put a pretty bow on it, and some cleavage. It's a good distraction for people, just like my King Cobra 40 ouncer and chess board are distractions. Luckily there are different levels of distraction and intrigue. If she were it for me, I might look for the doc. (Kevorkian).

DJ Luna: Uggh. I can’t even bear to answer that one…. To the cranked out, processed, Brittany Starbucks musicians of the world… I would barely call them musicians. I haven’t heard her do anything that would classify Brittany Spears as an artist either. Yes, she’s easy on the eyes, but depth, quality, skill, and true beauty are lacking.

Lolo: Woe is me.

Tomorrow: Rhythm science.

Soothe Me, I'm Savage (Part II)

2005-06-06T21:58:00.000-07:00

What is the source you tap into when you create music? Or does Michelangelo's theory of sculpture apply? He believed that the statue is already in the stone, and it's up to the artist to see it and release it?

Harmer: I don't create music. I respond to it.

DJ Luna: I see a song as that stone. I mold it into a mix. Those songs become the sculpture that was already there, but the next gig I do, there’s a whole new beautiful statue in the same stone just waiting to be created. Like Play-Doh, you just keep remolding, breaking, twisting, shaping the sounds.

Sipho: My heart and soul.

LaBlanc: No one ‘creates’ music. It's just out there, part of the human experience. Some of us are like antennas; we can, from time to time tap into the muses, or the collective unconscious, or whatever. Kind of like a psychic. I don't sit down and say, ‘I'm going to write a song about runaway brides.’ That's a different talent. And you'll notice that almost all of these clever lyrical parodies use a real song's music to carry them.

Patty Boss: The first source is the emotion, being moved or triggered by something else. It could be a chord progression someone else is playing. And if it is, I will hear the melody in my head, just little notes at a time, and in a way, I play as I hear it in my head. Like channeling? Sometimes it is energy, where you might just have energy to express, in a kinetic sense. This might be playing a scale, and this is why I love a fast jazz solo, as a listener, an admirer. When I watch a soloist busting out something incredible and kinetic at a live show, my nostrils flare, and I get a burning in my belly. I get nauseous and angry. This is one of the impetuses to study music, to attempt to gain some technique, because when the storm comes and you need to feel the storm come through you, this is when having skills really can come in handy. When there is no actual technically learned skill, there can still be one note. One note played monotonously, over and over like a ticking clock, or a jackhammer, or like the waiting for the return of a loved one. A second is an hour, and one hour is a day. One day is an eon. And so, the note is plucked over and over, slow and steady, monotonously.

The source I tap into when creating music is the tone. The tone is the mode. The mode is the moment of the state of your entire existence at that exact point in time. And if one note says it, one note plucked or strummed or played, then play that note. But if two notes cannot represent the truth of the moment, I can't play the second note. So, like an offering, I hope there is more offered, but it can't be forced. The source is the power of the moment, or the accumulation of the lifetime, or the hopes for the future. And the music serves as a mirror. So if my hair is not green, like a law of nature, I am not able or comfortable to play green hair music. It's about being true to yourself and listening to all of the inner voices and emotions and thoughts. It's about refusing to play that second note if the second note is not truly how you feel. And then all you can do is hope the one note evolves with you into a rhythmic motif and your other hand adds some other sounds, and like making love, it seduces you, and brings you with no sense of time to another place, after which you have been changed. It guess it is like a trance.

Lolo: I wish I knew. If I did, I'd bottle it and store it for the many times I feel blank or I look at a stone, and all I see is a rock.

"Do not fear mistakes. There are none." So said Miles Davis. How do you feel about that?

Sipho: In the music he was making, yes. It does not apply to all types though. I don’t want to split hairs and say there are varying degrees of a mistake. Simply put, a fuck up is a fuck up. The wrong chord by the lead guitar, the band being off in rhythm, the vocals being off from the music or noticeable to even a music novice. These things are not good and very unpleasant to most.

DJ Luna: None what? No mistakes? No fear? Both? Maybe they are just learning opportunities.

Patty Boss: Mistakes become motifs. If they've wormed their way into your playing, it's hard to erase it, even if you hate it. Since it is still ringing out, in memory and air, even as you go on to new phrases of the music, I can't help but try to make peace with it by reintroducing it, playing the mistake again, and working it in to the part being played. Maybe it's trying to tell you something. Maybe you can get it to play with the other children without fighting. Maybe it has something to show us.

Also, as Picasso said something to the effect of not being afraid to copy others, because in copying, you are likely to blunder, and in the blunder are being yourself. IN this sense, all mistakes are doorways to finding your voice. They are the pathway and suggestions to new routes and ideas, new combinations. It's like tripping in the forest and finding a dead body. Ha ha. No, not really. It's like tripping at the beach on waterlogged driftwood and looking up to see the face you have been dreaming about.

When I make a mistake and stumble upon notes that sounds perfectly mysteriously and unexpectedly right together, it is like 'discovering' these notes. All notes have been played. All chords exist. All tones exist. But I think that it is true that the combination of your tone, the softness or loudness played at that exact moment, the previous overtones mixing with the current notes, the room you're in, the others listening, all affect the sound of the moment. And I think, like individual snowflakes or fingerprints, or galaxies, these are unique, always unique. And yes, we trip on the preexisting sounds. But where melody is concerned, I feel that this element of what we call music is the most personal. The melody is the singing soul, and no one can ever have your soul.

Lolo: I don’t like to make mistakes, but they sure like to make me. Monkey, get off my back! Now scat!! And ain’t scattin’ beautiful….

How do you deal with fact that as Philip Toshido Sudo said, "No matter how well you play, no matter how large your spirit, no matter how much your sound speaks the truth, some people will simply not be moved. Your music will not appeal to their taste."

Patty Boss: That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. No, it's sad. Well, it just is a blanket statement that cannot be true. If someone hates your ass, you have moved them! You have moved them right out of the room. I think that Sudo could go into a room and ask himself why he plays music. If it is to play well, speak truth and move people, well then, that might be too extrinsic. Philip could go into a room and play what moves HIM and take a little time out. Count to one hundred and when he's ready, come back in with the other kids.

It's funny, I just reconsidered the question and I realize I may have misunderstood it. I thought he meant that "people" would not be moved. But when considering 'SOME people' not being moved, yes, I agree. I find once in a while, or more often than that, there are people that do not have a relationship to music. They don't own a stereo. They don't seem to miss it in their life, they don't seem to prioritize it or need it. And when I find this, I feel an analogy to a person who is born with a broken part, or something like not noticing your TV is in black and white until you buy a color TV. But this opinion is regarding the larger whole, about people in general. So back to his question about a specific music not moving a specific individual, yes, totally true. It's like you show the huge Picasso painting (on the horrors of war, 1937) to someone, and conceivably, they might not feel anything. Why might they not feel anything or have a response? My answer is a question.

DJ Luna: Reminds me of the saying, “You can please some of the people some of the time, but you can’t please all of the people all of the time.” It just isn’t possible. I try to focus on the people who are having a good time, it is a much more useful motivator.

Lolo: I wasn’t going to answer this one at all because I haven’t gotten to the point of making my music available for public consumption. However, I do tend to get a little bent out of shape when a piece of music that is really important to me gets dissed or dismissed by someone. I take it personally because music that touches me deeply becomes a part of me. Now I could care less if the masses are into it—they never know what’s good for them. But when a friend doesn’t get it the way I get it, it’s disappointing. I guess that’s it. It disappoints me because it makes me feel like there is something about me that they don't get or are missing or that is unappreciated. Whatever criticism they levy towards the song in question I inadvertently take upon myself.

Another great Miles quote: "You can tell whether [someone] plays or not by the way he carries the instrument, whether it means something to him or not. Then the way they talk or act. If they act too hip, you know they can't play shit." Comments?

DJ Luna: LOL ohhh yes. The louder they are, the bigger the ego, the less convincing.

Patty Boss: This is true. The roadie carries the instrument with a distant care. With an industrial care. The artist carries it like it's the I.V. on wheels, critical to vital functions. But then there are 'players' and there are 'listeners and thinkers' and there are people who might not play technically good, but have so much to say. As in all conversation, it is about meeting the other in a similar tone, creating rapport. If the player is obnoxious and you are obnoxious, it's a celebration! I think you can tell the best musician by how little they say. The quieter they are, better watch out. That is usually true in life.

Lolo: No better case can be made for this than by spending an afternoon at Guitar Center.

What’s more important—proficiency or emotion? Which do you try to cultivate?

Patty Boss: Definitely emotion is more important. If lack of proficiency is getting in the way of expressing emotion, then it's time to go acquire some chops.

DJ Luna: Proficiency. You have to be able to match a simple beat. If not, you cause what they call a “train wreck”. Emotion comes from within, I don’t have to cultivate it. It is the by product of proficiency.

Lolo: There’s nothing more boring to me than unemotional proficiency in anything but especially in art. In surgery, maybe you don't want so much creativity. No cross-stitching or anything like that, but in most everything else, I say go for the emotion. Even if it's kept under wraps.

Tijanna: Emotion when it comes to recording. It took us a couple of months to record our last CD because me and the guitar player wanted the emotion and spontaneity to come through, whereas the drummer and the trumpet player wanted each note in its proper place. Those two won out! I'd say proficiency, but I'm never at my best and I'm actually not that creative when it comes to thinking up new stuff or hitting the right note, so I gotta go with emotion. :-)

Is there still a place for rebellion in music?

DJ Luna: Of course. Always will be—unless of course the music is about rebelling against the record companies. Nah, can’t have that now could we? Could we rebel against the force feeding of crap that is cranked out every week and stuck up on the Billboard charts and Clear Channel Entertainment’s cloned radio station..., the saddest addition being KMEL. Although, it still keeps the name “The People’s Station.”

Lolo: Authentic rebellion? god, I sure hope so otherwise there is no hope for anything at all.

Patty Boss: Fuck you!

Which mixes better—politics and music or love and music?

LaBlanc: Wrong question. It's not an either/or proposition. Both politics and love are societal constructs that in and of themselves mean nothing. It all goes back to that primal human experience we call life. The best comics—Chris Rock, Jerry Seinfeld, Sinbad—are those who take everyday situations we all face and give them a new perspective of truth that we can all relate to and laugh at our human foibles. Honesty and truth in the writing and performance are way more important than transitory, illusory bullshit.

Patty Boss: Well, back to Picasso. He said that art was an instrument of war. You can choose where to direct your music. You can be an activist or sympathize with the heart. In the end, it's all the same thing. It is all some kind of lament or yearning, some kind of cry, or declaration. The voice, the guitar, the dulcimer, the drum. These are all ways to make a request; to stake a claim to taking up space on this incredible earth.

Sipho: Love and music of course. Love can affect politics while politics can’t effect love. If someone decided not to be with a person because of political differences, it’s because they love the political belief more than they love the other person. So assuming music affects love and politics to the same degree, the fact that love is involved to a greater extent makes music and love a better mix. Unless of course you’re part robot.

Lolo: Hey, love is politics baby. Love songs might be more popular, but political songs can rally the troops when nothing else will. I think the difference is that politics and the circumstances of life change so that the music rises to meet a need and then it is forgotten whereas we moan and groan (in ecstasy or despair) every day so love music never seems out of context and is always appropriate whether it’s about breaking up or getting’ it on or looking for it in all the wrong places or stealing someone else’s or simply basking in the afterglow. But look at The Clash, Marvin Gaye, James Brown, early U2, Stevie Wonder, Midnight Oil, MC5, Radio 4… hip hop from Public Enemy to The Coup and even “Party for Your Right to Fight”… in jazz we’ve had Abby Lincoln and Max Roach’s “Freedom Now Suite”… look at Gil Scott Heron’s “Revolution Will Not be Televised.” Listen to the “Red Hot” series. Today’s young feminists have Ani DiFranco. Within the classical oeuvre there’s Shostakovich … reggae has given us—Bob Marley, Linton Kwesi Johnson, Peter Tosh. And I think probably in other countries, where civil society plays a larger role in day-to-day life and people aren’t so disinvested, politics maybe goes more easily hand in hand with music.

In Chile, Víctor Jara’s hands were broken by the millitary who then taunted him to “sing your songs now.” He did, and he was killed for that music and buried in a mass grave, but he gave his people strength. Look at China’s dissident rock star Cui Jian, or Nigeria’s Fela Kuti, South Africa’s Miriam Makeba, Zimbabwe’s Thomas Mapfumo…. Save for these, most Westerners probably couldn’t name any other Chinese or Nigerian artists. The political artists make an impression far outside of their homelands because it’s music that moves.

Even in the U.S. if you think politics and music are unrelated look at what’s happened to Cat Stevens, the Dixie Chicks, Steve Earle, and Linda Rondstadt since 9/11. And what was punk all about in the beginning? “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” should be our national anthem: bury your head in the sand, it’ll all be wonderful when ya come back up for air. Listen to slave songs, prison songs, gospel. Basically, I think politics and music are under-rated and sometimes unforgiven in the United States. Calling it political gives it an instant stigma. Yet we love the “the politics of dancing, the politics of ooooh feeling good” (with a nod to Re-Flex.)

Harmer: Love and music. Take U2, would you rather listen to ‘One’ or ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday?’ I'll take ‘One’ hands down. All the greatest music is written about love from Bob Marley to the Beatles to Frank Allison and the Odd Sox.

DJ Luna: Love and music.

* * *
Tomorrow: Rockin' in the free world.

Soothe Me, I'm Savage (Part I)

2005-06-06T02:38:00.000-07:00

I don’t know what I’d do without music in my life. For as long as I can remember, it’s been a consistent factor in my day-to-day living, what with my dad’s 8-tracks of Emerson, Lake & Palmer and Sergio Mendes and his coveted Beatles 45s and my mom’s penchant for traditional country music, South African music, and an eclectic taste in rock/pop, including the Everly Brothers, Cliff Richard & the Shadows, Abba, and Cleo Lane. And Elvis may not have liked black people, but we sure liked him in my house. Simply put: I love music—listening to it and attempting to make it rank high amongst my favorite past-times. Talking about it is fun, too.

In fact it’s the one topic my brother and I can spend hours rapping about (no pun intended) and it was during one of our conversations that we lamented not having the ability to have a broader conversation—meaning with more than just the two of us—about different aspects of music. A few days later, I called him with the idea of having a music roundtable, or, to be more specific, a virtual music roundtable.

In other words, none of us sat in a room together and held a conference. Instead, I came up with the questions and distributed them to a smattering of people I know, who have a deep connection to music beyond being a casual listener. The results, I think you’ll find, are quite interesting and more meaningful to me than the current issue of Rolling Stone, Spin, Vibe, or any of the other national magazines. I wanna know what people accessible to me think. To that end, I was honored to persuade the participation of friends, old and new, who all share one thing in common—music. I think, like me, you’ll find the answers stimulating, amusing, thought-provoking, and oftentimes, surprising.

Introductions:

Tijanna Eaton is the bass player in San Francisco’s Binky, a devastating quartet of carn-evil “Mistresses of Metal.” Completely self-taught, Tijanna plays the bass left-handed, i.e. upside down which is a total trip to watch. Binky recently released Bloodbath & Beyond, available via iTunes.

Singer-songwriter Michael LaBlanc was born with a guitar in his hand, which he had to trade for a machine gun during the Vietnam War. A survivor of life, he writes and plays roots rock in and around Detroit City.

Writer and music critic William Hendrix Harmer has found a unique niche: as a young adult librarian, he exposes Detroit teenagers to music beyond the scope of top 40 radio. The mastermind behind “The First-Ever Rock & Roll Library Tour,” he has brought musicians such as Brian Jones Town Massacre and The High-Strung face-to-face with youngsters who might otherwise never get to meet “big shot touring artists” and learn first hand about life on the road, working with record companies, and the making of music videos.

Silver-tongued Sipho has voice that can melt butter but over the years he has gone from Mahattan Transfer-style vocals to writing and delivering his own rhymes. He’s been involved in several projects, including cameo performances and guest recordings over the years. He is currently working on Confessions of a Conceited Bastard to be produced by his San Diego-based Naturally Dope Productions. For now, he can be heard at Soundclick.

Poet, composer, and Berklee School of Music grad Patty Boss is the sole proprietor of Boss Studios, Inc., a music production studio in San Francisco, specializing in music production and scoring for film. While the piano is her main instrument, she can pretty much play anything she picks up. She has composed original music for independent film, national public television documentaries, worked on the Sims video game, and has produced a wide array of artists and genres, including two self-released CDs.

Philly-transplant DJ Luna has been making a name for herself on the Left Coast, dropping and mixing beats on the dancefloor. She currently spins at The Café, Kandy in Oakland, Cream @ Space 550 [San Francisco], Octopussy in Sunnyvale, and will be featured at San Diego Pride’s main stage. She also promotes most of the local LGBTQ events on her website and at her space on MySpace.

Lolo is guitarist and composer for Scaliwag, a solo project.

* * *

When are sounds music?

Sipho: I think sounds are music when you can feel them. When a ‘sound’ can make you forget where you are and take you to another place for even the slightest moment—that’s music. You can hear "it" if you listen ... ya know?

DJ Luna: When it speaks to my soul and makes me move my body.

Lolo: Music is in the ears of the beholder. I've certainly heard a lot of stuff that I personally wouldn’t qualify as music but it gets airplay. On the other hand, sometimes the wind whistling through the trees is music to my ears. It reminds me of an anecdote about a Siberian prison escapee who heard the strains of a strange violin only to discover a bear scratching itself on a tree limb. Every time the tree was bent in just the right way, the nonstop wind would create a tone that sounded like an instrument. I think about that all the time. I also think about all the birds in my parent’s yard in S. Africa. They live in the heart of a suburb but at certain times of day they all burst into song. I would call that music, too. Or I remember once when I accidentally knocked over a basket of coconuts at the grocery store. It sounded like horses were cantering through the canned goods section, which reminded me of that Christmas song “Sleigh Bells,” that we used to do in band when I was in the 6th or 7th grade. The percussionist always had to mimic the sound of horse’s hooves at the end of the song before the lead trumpeter would get to give a good brass whinny.

LaBlanc: Any sound can inspire music, but that does not mean that any sound is music. Music is a conspiracy of sounds, all in the same pitch, tuning, and structure. I personally don't believe rap to be music. It's a totally new form of street poetry (some of it very sophisticated and disciplined) put to a heavy rhythm background. It's an art form all its own, separate and distinct from music.

Patty Boss: Sounds are music when they tickle you, draw you in, create a mysterious rhythm. When they synchronize rhythms of the moment. Sounds are music when they are the inhale and exhale of your lover's chest, rising and falling in the early morning, while the city busses squeak and slide down Market Street, and you cannot sleep for fear of missing a moment. Sounds are music when they spontaneously burst out in unison and harmony; the hollering from the tall young black man on the corner, raising his voice where horns are leaned on, with two and three tones each, losing the man's voice in the mix, where the Coldplay song on your stereo is climaxing with the same exact pitch, and harmonizing tones, in a cry of hungry humanity. Sounds are music when the slow ticking of the clock on a late Sunday night indicate you are now stopped. You are still, and silent and perfect.

Harmer: Huh?

Is electronica "real music?"

Patty Boss: Of course. Melody, harmony and rhythm. The three definitions of music as we know it. It's real music, but the real question is, is it interesting? Does it move you? And, who created it? More and more, if samples or loops are used, really, someone else created it, and in this context, using it makes you more of a collage artist. A lot of electronic music combines being a collage or re-combination artist with being a musical or compositional technician.

We're losing our musical skills in our culture to a degree. Sometimes, in the midst of the ease of loops and samples, things sound regurgitated. To some degree this familiarity can bring comfort, like in a stale relationship. But there will be a revival of instrumental and acoustics. We're seeing it now, with low-fi, singer-songwriters found via mp3 online. There will come a day when a real orchestra has never been heard and to hear one will be a revelation. But what's important is the concept.

We are all experimenting and expressing. Sometimes I think we're just in a big soup drawing from the collective unconscious. I have no idea where digital and intellectual property rights will take us. We're in a time where we are confusing the appreciation for something with the creating of something.

DJ Luna: Of course it's real music if it makes people happy, makes them dance, sing, cry, laugh, or whatever. That kind of goes back to "When are sounds music?"

Is there a group, artist, song, album, etc. that has personally affected your relationship to music and in what fashion or how so?

Lolo: Jazz has affected my relationship to all other kinds of music because a lot of the jazz I like requires developing a certain kind of ear and openness to the way different sounds interact. The more jazz I listen to, the more I tend to lean towards the avant guarde or experimental forms in other styles of music. I recently attended a symphony performance of experimental works of contemporary composer Oliver Knussen. I really enjoyed them, but I’m not sure I would have enjoyed them say six or seven years ago when I was more dependent on melody.

In particular, the song “Birdland” changed my relationship to music. I was in middle school when I discovered two totally different versions of the song, one by Maynard Ferguson and the other by The Crusaders. Maynard’s version is very lean and brassy, high energy, almost daring you to get caught up in it. It also goes through a few changes—there’s a funky part, there’s a bare bones section where he solos the melody unaccompanied on the lower registers of the trumpet before the rest of the instruments come back in and then he deconstructs the melody in the higher registers with the backing of a fairly large ensemble on the track. The Crusader’s version is much more laid back and less showy. While the other version is centered around the trumpet, The Crusaders build the song around a bluesy saxophone and some fat electric bass. For some reason, their version always makes me think of those rain showers that only happen in the summer, the kind of rain where you sit in the window and look out just to listen. Until I heard those two dissimilar renditions of one song, I don’t think I really understood that a song is really what the artist puts into it as much as what the listener extrapolates from it.

These days, the closest I’ve come to that feeling of discovery is when I hear something that gives me that “oh! oh! I wish I could play that!” feeling, i.e. the desire to be active in it, rather than being content as a passive listener.

DJ Luna: No one in particular but hip hop has influenced my relationship to music. When I started to spin it, I got exposed to a new way of mixing. Instead of the “four-on-the-floor” beat, it switched up a bit, making it possible to get way more creative with the beats.

Harmer: Like a thousand. I live in my head. I'm the most self-absorbed, self-obsessed, self-conscious, un-self-confident person I know of so naturally rock & roll is the soundtrack to my pathetic life. The last record that truly possessed me was And This Was Our Music by the Brian Jonestown Massacre. Why? Because its one of the most dark, disturbing, depressing, beautiful, sad, and soul stripping records I've ever listened too. Listen to Smile by the Beach Boys and imagine the antithesis of that record and you'll have an idea of what I'm talking about.

Sipho: So many to choose from. Difficult question as I feel there are so many songs I could touch on. So many points on the spectrum of emotions that it would be difficult to not have it effect your emotions. With that being said, I would say a song I sang while in Shade of Blue, a college vocal jazz group I was in. We sang a song called "I Hear Music," an a capella song with lots of movement, tight vocal harmony, and little nuances. Once I learned how all the pieces in that song fit together, I could see the layers in other music. I could always hear all the different sounds (the vocal runs at the end of a song or the key change / rhythm change that move the song to another place), but didn’t see how each as a part of the overall product really made the song as great as I saw it. I learned how to build a song. Nurture it with my soul to deliver something you can hopefully feel if you let it.

Patty Boss: Every artist affects your relationship to music. When it's Kenny G in the women's locker room at the LA Sports Club after a beautiful swim, the relationship calls for a serious talk and possibly going your different ways. If I did not have all the rest (other music), I would not be able to breathe. Artists, albums, songs, they are more powerful than love. More powerful than jobs. Faster than superman.”

LaBlanc: Pretty much everything. My paternal grandfather had a band back between 1910-1930, and my grandmother was the singer in his band. They loved ragtime and Dixieland jazz, pop standards of the day, and French and French-Canadian torch songs. My dad was a drummer during the "Big Band" era, so I grew up on a diet of Al Jolson, Louie Armstrong, Rudy Valle, Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller, and, during the 1950s, "Your Hit Parade" pop hits on TV.

I was never too big into Elvis, but Buddy Holly, the Everly Brothers, and most of all, Sam Cooke introduced me to a world of music that sounded so good, so "sincere." Sam's "Chain Gang" ran through my mind for days; I bought the 45 and listened to it over and over again. That's when I decided to become a songwriter. He had touched something in my soul, something I could feel, if not explain. From that point on, I just let the music cascade over me like a waterfall: West Side Story; the Beach Boys; Roy Orbison; Bob Dylan; all the great Motown groups, including the Holland-Dozier-Holland songwriting team that wrote so many of those great tunes; the Beatles; the Moody Blues; Crosby, Stills and Nash.

And sandwiched in between all of that was Jimi Hendrix. He was a Vietnam vet, too. 101st Airborne Division. A bad-ass outfit, no slackers there. If you weren't smart and hip, you couldn't cut it. I trained for and was assigned to the 101st, but was attached to the First Cavalry Division, the "Air Cav." Served as a Cavalry Scout. And to this day, the sweetest music I've ever heard was the sound of "Purple Haze" blasting above the thud of the Huey rotors swooping in to pluck our sorry asses up and away from almost-certain death. "Sometimes I was in such a bad head about it I thought the dead had only been spared a great deal of pain." But the songs of that time, the ones I heard, also left a major impression on me: Cream; Arlo Guthrie; Janice Joplin; Aretha.

Several years later my son died. Out of respect for his mother, I will say no more than to acknowledge the fact. And I drank in the music of that time like one lost without water in the desert for too long. And after that I just let the music flood over me, lift me and carry me across the years and the miles to that point in space and time where everything is connected. And it's the connection that's important—that's what the art is—not the music itself.

Stephen Nachmanovitch wrote, "The creative process is a spiritual path. This adventure is about us, about deep self, the composer in all of us, about originality, meaning that which is not all new, but that which is fully and originally ourselves." Do you agree?

Lablanc: After my son died I went to the DIA [Detroit Institute of Art] to kill some time between classes at Wayne State. There was a Rembrandt exhibition and I had only seen prints and photos of his work in books, so I decided to check it out. It was a bitterly cold early February afternoon and few people were there. To view the paintings, one had to walk down a long, canopied tunnel, like those ones these set up for kids to see Santa or the Easter Bunny. I made a turn and came face-to-face with the painting of a man that almost seemed alive. It wasn't the result of Rembrandt's imitative skills; he had captured the spirit, the soul of this man so completely that it translated and touched something in me hundreds of years later.

That was the first time that I really understood what art was—the ability to convey the Universal human experience through a physical medium. His work, his art still establishes that connection hundreds of years after his death. That's the test. And it's as simple, and as difficult, as simply portraying the truth in all of us that makes us human.

DJ Luna: Yes. It’s a beautiful thing when music & art merge with spirit to create a new vibe. The end product is my mix, my connection with Spirit … with my crowd. It’s a pretty powerful link.

Patty Boss: The creative process is a conversation with others. It is praising god with joy. It is listening and mirroring or transmitting what you have been shown. Or it's just collecting music reverberating for years in the air, like a satellite dish—the collective unconscious. I think that what is original, though, are the inundations that we affect it with, even when playing one note with one finger, or one tone with one voice. The originality is in our unique combination. It's the overtone series multiplied with softness followed by a loud punctuated chord. It takes no talent but much of a listening to yourself when playing one single note, possibly over and over. And if you can let the single chosen note explain to the world a little about how you feel, that is all there is to know. It can expand from there.

Lolo: Oh, I agree wholeheartedly, which is why it’s so frustrating not to be fluent in what I’ve chosen as my instrument of expression. But it’s also the journey to fluency that’s the spiritual part of it. In my opinion, nobody got this better than John Coltrane. That man’s music was all about spirit, and he was willing to roll with it no matter where it took him. The blues artists have this expression, “going deep in the shed.” It’s like when sometimes you hit that wall of lack of inspiration, you have turn inside yourself rather than looking for it outside yourself. They go into lockdown mode until they can articulate to themselves what it is that needs to be expressed and then they work on expressing it. You can’t get more spiritually deep than that in terms of finding/being your original self.

I also like Nachmanovitch’s quote because he distinguishes between originality and original self. Music has ostensibly been around as long as the world has existed. It’d be ludicrous to think that one can ever put together a string of notes or chords that have never been put together before; but on the level of being an individual in a sea of sentient beings, your expression may have similarity to my expression and still be original. I might “invent” something that later I realize sounds like a riff from another song that I obviously didn’t intend to copy, but if it’s a genuine self-expression than it’s original.

Shortly before he died in 2002, and many years after the demise of The Clash, Joe Strummer was quoted as saying that he makes music "for his own age group." Is this a statement that resonates with you, i.e. do you feel that certain music necessitates maturity on the part of the listener and / or the creator?

Harmer: Absolutely. I hated Sandinista by the Clash when it first came out because it wasn't punk rock the way I wanted it—loud, fast and rude. Years later I discovered what a masterpiece that record was. What else? The Beach Boys. No way I could have sat thru Pet Sounds or Smile at age 18. Country Music? I would rather have stripped the hair from my arm pits with duck tape before torturing myself with country music. Boy was I wrong. Johnny Cash is the first punk rocker baby!

DJ Luna: Music speaks to anyone that listens.

LaBlanc: Pete Townsend wrote a classic parody on this topic that he recorded with The Who as "My Generation." I guess it's subtle, satirical, tongue-in-cheek wisdom was lost on Joe. He broke the first commandment of Rock: "Thou shalt never take thyself too seriously."

Patty Boss: I feel that all time and all ages can communicate fully through music, although I love to be familiar with an artist as they mature, and feel similar twists and phases of life with them, in synchronicity. For example, Beck used to feel to me fun and silly and intrigued when I felt fun and silly and intrigued. And now, as his voice is deeper, and some of his songs seem to be reflecting a new type of depth, It's easy for me to identify with this new tone and feel a reflection of themes of family and of having children. In addition to this type of resonation, hell yes, music made for one's own generation and culture and context is often one of the most, if not THE most important element defining self when coming up.

Lolo: I probably would never have agreed except for the fact that I’ve reached that seemingly inevitable stage where you can’t relate to “what the kids are listening to these days.” I kind of hate that I’m letting myself get there, but more and more often I look backward to find music that appeals to me rather than looking forward. I don’t know who Pink is, and I don’t give a shit. I don’t like her name and it’s easy enough for me to write the whole thing off. I’d rather go off and discover Aretha’s back catalog. On the other hand, what is music for my generation? I think it might be the kind of music they play at the dentist’s office—lite rock, soft rock, VH1 stuff. If that’s the case, then I’m not too hip to that idea at all!

***
Tomorrow: Rebel music

The Dillio

2005-05-31T22:03:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader,

I've decided to address a few topics that keep coming up in regards to the glory of sleepwalking. "What's it all mean?" I've been asked. "What happened to all the political stuff?" "What's with the 'workers players revolvers' motif?" "What's up with your poetry?" "How come you don't have new stuff up every day?" "What's the dillio, yo?"

Well, the dillio is this:

I say sleepwalking because sometimes you're going through life and it looks like you're going through the motions, but really, you're changing the world only it's so subtle that nobody suspects that it's taking place let alone that you're the one behind it all. And if you think about it, all roads lead to glory. Actually, all roads lead to a lot of different places, but there's bound to be some glory along the way. It's part of that whole 15 minutes of fame business. I'm not saying that all glory is deserved, but somewhere, somehow, sometime, someone will give you a pat on the back—maybe even one you don't deserve—and when it comes you'll lap it up or laugh it up or ... maybe you won't. Maybe it won't happen at all. You see, what I'm trying to say is why in the hell do you think that I know what it all means?

Like the political stuff? I mean Christ but that gets depressing. Sometimes it's more fun or liberating or enlightening to think about these pants, you know what I'm sayin'? All day long you're a worker who'd rather be a player, and if you're denied long enough you evolve into a revolver until the dream dissolves and you wake up at your desk in your tiny cubicle with the man's lackey breathing hoary breath down your neck. The merry-go-round—that's the motif, the poetry of life.

I ain't no poet by the way. I'm no powerful goddess. I have no answers. That's the dillio, yo.

As to why I don't have new stuff here every day... oh, I dunno. Put it this way: there's more to the blob than writing. By the way, you may be pleased to know that while I haven't submitted any work this year, some of the stuff I sent out in 2004 is still circulating, and I have recently received acceptances from Riverwind, 13th Moon: A Feminist Literary Journal, Fox Cry Review, and Compass Rose. In addition, I received a complimentary copy of Mudfish 14 today, with "They, of the Jungle" buried somewhere in there.

So don't think I'm slackin' over here. I'm just using this venue to stretch my writing wings in a different way. I'm playing, but I'm taking it seriously; I'm building up stamina and endurance so I can tackle my book about my mom. The political will raise its head up from time to time, but right now summer is upon us, and I'm gettin' out and about and I'd rather share that with you than kvetch about politicians and broken policies. Winter will be here soon enough, and then I'll be perfectly willing to get depressed again and immerse myself in cursing the crap that makes us all cringe. But for now, it's time to soak up as much Vitamin D as possible. Don't forget your sunscreen.

P.S. Thanks for asking. You're the best.

Ink, Sweat & Tears

2005-05-25T21:38:00.000-07:00

Wow, is it this Wednesday already? I haven't even had a chance to data dump about last Wednesday, let alone this one. Nothing much to say about this one except that I wore a dress to work and half the office flipped out. It was good, clean fun I guess, but I really didn't expect it to be such a big deal. I've only been there since February; it's not like I've been there for five years and then suddenly decided to wear a dress. But enough about that already. I'm writing this in my skivvies and wrapped in my swaddling sleeping bag on the couch.

Last Wednesday evening was definitely more blob worthy. Last Wednesday, I paid three dollars to sit in on Ink, Sweat & Tears: A D.I.Y Cartoon Concert and Book Tour, featuring Eric Drooker, Keith Knight and Jon Longhi delivering 15-minute sets of spoken word accompanied by slides images of their work.

Drooker was the draw for me, no pun intended. A nationally known painter and graphic novelist, Dooker's work is among my favorite in the graphic novel realm. I first stumbled upon his stuff a couple years ago at an open house at AK Press, "a worker-run book publisher and distributor organized around anarchist principles."

Drooker has perfected the art of telling moving, spiritual stories solely through pictures. Flood!, winner of the American Book Award, has been described by Art Spiegelman (Maus I & II) as "a picture of a soulless civilization headed toward the apocalypse. The page acts as a curtain to be raised, each page offering up new visual surprises... Drooker has discovered the magic of pulling light and life out of an inky sea of darkness." Equally stunning, Blood Song follows the journey of a young woman who inadvertantly becomes the sole survior of a brutal military invasion in her once idyllic home. Deemed "more optimistic and accessible than Flood!, this volume celebrates the perseverance of the human spirit in the face of repression," according to a Library Journal review. Drooker has done numerous covers for New Yorker and collaborated with Allen Ginsberg to create Illustrated Poems, in which Ginsberg commented: "Drooker's old Poe vision of beauteous deathly reality transcend political hang-up and fix our present American Dreams."

In other words, Drooker is a bad ass in the classic New York style, and I was psyched to see him. While I wouldn't say he was a disappointment, I will say that he seemed very much in his own microcosm. His images included "excerpts" from the aforementioned books, some cover art and other drawings I'd never seen, and most interesting, photos from his recent trip to the Gaza Strip, which he recounted for CounterPunch. It is obvious that the trip to "Israel's Apartheid Wall," separating the Palestinean rif from Israeli raf, has left Drooker's mind an occupied territory not unlike the one he visited. He did a little rap in the dark for us at Artist's Television Access as his images flashed on screen, though I'm slightly ashamed to admit I can't remember what it was about. I think it was about "the Man." Ultimately everything is.

I was prepared to leave after Drooker's portion, but the rain kept me in my seat. Longhi was next. Billed as an "urban humorist" and the author of graphic books Flashbacks and Premonitions and Wake Up and Smell the Beer, his work didn't resonate with me at all. He read three short stories that made the rest of the small but appreciative audience cackle, but I felt like I was enduring his 15 minutes rather than enjoying it. He did tell one slightly amusing story. The narrator reminisced about a dry spell during which his best friend was the only person in Portland who had access to any weed. However, this meant that whenever they brought it out—say at a party—they'd instantly become surrounded by "high school jocks and rednecks." Somebody would bogart their joint, and they'd never see it again. The problem was solved when the best friend decided to make a bong out of a "lifelike" dildo. After that, they couldn't get anybody to toke with them, even when they tried to force it on people. Like I said, the story was slightly amusing.

Then, it turned out they'd saved best for last. I didn't have particularly high hopes for Keith Knight and for no good reason. I'd already sat through this Longhi fella's moment, Drooker's demeanor had left me feeling oddly placid, and I was losing my patience with the guy sitting behind me who kept bumping my seat. It was in this moment of pure vulnerability, when Knight took front and center and won himself a new fan. I really liked his work and what he had to say and how he said it. Keith Knight's got it goin' on.

In addition creating and drawing two syndicated comic strips, The K-Chronicles and (th)ink, Knight is a member of the "semi-conscious" hip hop group, the Marginal Prophets. He's also the unofficial MC of the Ink, Sweat & Tears tour. Clad in an "I'd Rather Be Masturbating" t-shirt, Knight had no trouble bringing the house to life. He narrated strips and panels from his strips and collections and told a few annecdotes from his childhood (corroborated by his sister who was visiting from Seattle), shared a hilarious rejection letter from a newspaper to whom he'd submitted his work ("IN A FAMILY NEWSPAPER?!! ARE YOU NUTS?!!"), and talked about how at comix conventions he's always confused with the other black comic stripper, Aaron MacGruder who draws Boondocks.

I'm not into Knight's drawing style, per se, but it works with his humor, which is dead-on. For example, he showed one featuring "Sadaam" and "Osama," who turn out to be Dubya's drunken daughters who’ve chosen their respective disguises because then their father is guaranteed to be able to find them. I like that one a lot ; ) In addition to politics, his strips are also about gender and family issues (e.g. a man who has no problem buying a cure for crabs but is mortified when the sales clerk has to get a price check on the seaweed facial scrub he’s pretending to buy for his wife) and every day life through the eyes of a young African-American guy.

One anecdote he told was about getting harassed by police in the Haight because he loosely fit the description of someone who had committed a crime in the area. His roommate, who happened to be on a bus that was passing by, jumped out and ran over to his defense. The roommate harangued the cops until they apologized. As Knight recounted the story, he shook his head with a glint in his eye and laughingly said “White people get away with anything. I appreciated it and everything, but could you imagine if another brother had jumped off the bus and started badgering the cops to let me go?”

Knight also showed us a copy of some flyers he had once posted around the city, advertising a phony business that offered to rent black people for parties or to lend “legitimacy” to business events. (In fine print, the flyers boasted: “We can provide Latinos, too”). Now aside from the results of his “experiment” or “protest” or whatever it was, I found this story highly entertaining because it’s something I’ve threatened to do myself. Anyway, he said he posted some bills around town with a real phone number connected to an answering machine. He got several messages from people who were simply curious and wanted to know if it was a legitimate business. He also got a responses from bona fide racists who got a kick out of their ability to request some watermelon-eatin’, big lipped, %&*@# for private use. Some callers left angry messages accusing him of being the racist. All of these were expected, but the ones he didn’t expect were the handful from some blacks who wanted jobs. He seemed a bit dismayed by this last, but I found the entire stunt to be brilliant. Reminds me of Blackpeopleloveus.com, still one of my favorite, subversive websites. Anyway, Knight's collections, including “the fourth K-Chronicles compendium, The Passion of the Keef ... with an introduction by that "other black cartoonist", Aaron McGruder!!, are worth a look.

Spinning Rwanda: Hollywood's Trilogy of Gloom

2005-05-23T21:56:00.000-07:00

I don't think there's a one of you out there—of those who know me—who doesn't know my views on the Rwanda genocides and the reaction of the West, particularly the United States. A decade or so after the fact, one can hardly turn around without bumping into yet another article or tv program or book or big-screen commentary on the events of 1994, and every time, I just get more and more disgusted and saddened by the whole affair. Never mind that at the time, I don't think I shed even one tear. It wasn't enough of a news story to do so, nestled between whatever else was going on that year.

In Sometimes in April, Haitian director Raoul Peck makes devestating use of news report soundbytes, including one of Kurt Cobain's suicide with a visual of business people shuffling onto the subway to get home while people were being hacked to death across the globe. I'll never forget Cobain's untimely death because I was at the mall of all places when I heard; the stores were overrun with ravenous consumer-zombie teens a flutter with their own ignorance of the reality of death. Though I remember that scene clearly, I have zero recollection of how and when I first heard about what eventually became the deaths of 800,000 for whom "untimely" is too much the understatement, and my own and my country's own chosen ignorance is a heavy burden.

The horror stems from many factors, not the least of which being that my generation slept on another Holocaust. That the hands of the United Nations were tied still makes little sense to me. But the real hook in my throat came after reading Howard French's A Continent for the Taking. I first learned from French's book that the U.S. refused even to jam the radio broadcasts that the Hutu extremists used to stir the masses to irrevocable vengence against family and friends and community members. The radio personalities so efficiently and effectively dehumanized the enemy, that the exterminators were, in fact, targeting cockroaches, not people. Radio broadcasts were also used to help direct the army, and if the President Clinton didn't want to put U.S soldiers on the ground, the least we could have done was block the transmissions. THE LEAST.

A character in Peck's film suggests something that's always rattled around in my head, i.e. the West doesn't care about a bunch of blacks and certainly not Africans. Besides, unlike Iraq, Rwanda doesn't have shit. At least not anything that the U.S. wants. That was my mindset going into the theatre to see Hotel Rwanda this past winter. It's a brilliant film that left the entire theatre with nothing to say as the audience poured out, homeward bound for an evening of deep introspection at home, trying not to have nightmares. But Six and Vani and I agreed that we were glad we went to see it. It was important.

Then last week Vani gave me Sometimes in April. Another take, another perspective, another brilliantly acted film, another heartbreaker. I told Six to rent it. We all had another bad night but agreed that we were glad the film was made. It was important.

The two films go together pretty well. Despite being produced independent of one another, to see one without seeing the other is to cheat yourself. Hotel Rwanda is sort of the John the Baptist of the two films; see it first. Then, when you've had time to absorb it all and the luxury to recuperate, spend a couple hours with Sometimes in April. If you do, you'll be mad as hornets, frothing at the mouth about Bill Clinton, among others, and how we didn't want another Somalia. Then watch Black Hawk Down.

A Ridley Scott film based on journalist Mark Bowden's book, you can count on Black Hawk Down to be a stark rendering of a brutal battle that took place in Somalia two years prior to the Rwanda mass murders. The situations, of course, were totally different, but as I watched the final piece of an unintentional tryptich, something surprising happened. I found myself starting to understand—just a tiny bit—why the U.S. might have been so uneager to do the right thing.

Though the African people depicted in Black Hawk Down were the animalistic, inhuman creatures one rightly fears and loathes, there were other Somalians pictured near the end. The ones whom the U.S. ostensibly went to help. Innocent civilians with nothing, nothing to lose, nothing to win, no thing. It reminded me that sometimes my government has a humanitarian agenda. It also added to my perspective: I see now why when the U.S. took on the Somali warlords, the deaths of 300,000 civilians was easy to label genocide and why, when more than twice that number died brutally a couple years later in another country, the West ran down the time clock by debating the difference between "genocide"—which necessitates ballsy action—and "acts of genocide," which is a neutered nuance one can filibuster 'til the cows have come home and withered into beef jerky.

I'll never think letting all those people get slaughtered was the right thing to do, but I've purposely avoided talking about the plot of these films or the history behind the real-life events because if you're reading this, I really want you to see these fictionalizations of something that seems too horrific to have been real. I hope, in so doing, that you'll tackle the Rubik's cube of it all in your mind with the awareness that the reasons our species can be so despicable is a puzzle that's unsolvable. But it's precisely because the little squares interconnect in ways we can't imagine that we have to make the effort of solving the impossible.

And I don't wanna hear any of that "never again" crap. History is too much an endless loop for me to ever believe in that, but I write this to suggest we've made real progress when pop culture does the job of presenting stories—even sans hardcore analysis or lectures from professors in horn-rimmed glasses or reams of data spewed from the largest hard drives and fastest processors—that have to be told, especially when the news media can't do the job or doesn't do it adequately or does it but we tune into something else. Besides too much of that can make one's mind shut down, but art, hopefully, will open the heart. Even for tears.

These Pants

2005-05-15T00:37:00.000-07:00

i've done everything possible
there is to do in these pants
except make love
i've slept in them
i've crept in them
i've done downward dog in 'em
i've mourned in them
i've laughed in them
i've gone to town in 'em
i'm the little piggy
who went to market inum
then stayed home inum
had the roast beef inum
(didn't like it)
later had none inum
ya hear—i ain't gettin' any,
and it's making me cry "wee, wee, wee"
all the way home alone inum
i think i've even gotten slippery in 'em
and i know i've done the watusi and
the crawling king snake in 'em
but it ain't, i say no it ain't
the same as makin' love
so i've got no choice
but to put on a dress
'cause I may have pranced in them
been entranced in them
caught your eye in them
and tried to romance in them
i swear i've whispered your name
from the inside of 'em
but I haven't made love in them yet
and that's just not workin' for me

Segue

2005-05-12T21:05:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I went to Detroit, at the gracious behest of friends. They paid my way and conspired to make my brief homecoming a delightful one. Simon was turning 30, and his and Shan's newest little one was three-weeks old. Spoogy and Henny's little girl had just had her first birthday. It was nice to be amongst all my peeps.

A couple things developed out of that trip for me, though. One is that I marked it as the end of an era. The last time I went back, which was about a year ago, I was torn. It was so good to be around the friends whom I consider family: Ken, Nappy, Bill, Lockhart, Dan the Man, Lenny, and others. In a way, these are the people who I grew up with, the people with whom I cut my teeth on the way to adulthood. I went back last year and returned to SF thinking that maybe I should figure out some way to split up my time, a sort of bi-coastal living experience. Many of them have families now, and I didn't want to be left out. Eventually the draw wore off, and I sort of resigned myself to my life in California.

This time I had a much different experience. While I was just as happy to be with some of the people who mean the most to me, I almost felt like I could hear the sound of the door slamming authoritatively shut, could feel the breeze it created as it narrowly missed freeing me of my nose. Thomas Wolfe's "you can't go home again" quip finally struck home. I knew, deep down, that I don't belong in there anymore. More importantly, I knew something I haven't known in a long time, which is that I do belong here. At least for now. San Franciso is my home now. I've made it my home, I've made my life here, for better or worse, and mostly for the better I think.

I reached this knowledge almost immediately, while Suzy and Jill were driving me to their house from the airport. Poor Jill was screaming her head off; she didn't recognize me from a year ago, when she was a month old. Suzy apologized, but it wasn't that. Certainly I could understand Jilly's position in the back car seat. No, Jill's cries felt like my own birth and renewal, allowing me to see the flatness of the terrain and the washed out colors. Caveat here: I have no desire to offend any of my fellow Detroiters, least of all my friends. I am not dissing Detroit, which will always occupy the deepest place in my heart. It's just that I'd never fixated on the geography of the place in the way that I did last weekend.

I saw a unique parallel: Except for the existence of my friends, who are, and continue to be, my effervescence,when I was in Detroit, my life was flat. By the same tack, the Bay Area hills, represent the ups and downs I've endured since I moved out here. But at least I know I'm alive, and when I forget, I have made good friends here who are riding it out with me.

I'm not saying that one landscape is universally better than the other. Detroit is a special place, and I don't mean only special ed. But I could only have the life I live here. I don't know what life I'd be leading in Detroit, but it wouldn't suit me. The trip put things in perspective for me, something I lost this past year after losing my mom. I still have a lot to figure out, but it's nice to know that that piece of it has become a nonquestion: San Francisco is my home now. For the real.

* * *

And damned if I didn't fly United, the Greyhound bus of the friendly skies. I know the domestic airlines, and particularly, United, are going down the shitter, but damn yo! Unbelievable.

On the first leg, I was scheduled for an 11pm red-eye to Chicago. The flight board showed an "on-time" status, and sure enough, the three hundreds of us on a full 777, boarded when expected. But after boarding is when they decided to check on some engine trouble. It was after 1am, when they finally let us out of the plane to board a different jet. Since at least half of the travelers, myself among them, would miss connecting flights, there was a whole 'nother hullabaloo before we were freshly ensconced and ready for take-off—at 2am. They did pass out flight vouchers along with the 4 oz. bags of pretzels, but that hardly atoned for keeping us sitting on the tarmack for so long.

With the original itinerary I would have gotten into Detroit City at 9am; instead I didn't get there until just after 1 in the afternoon. Since my trip was so short to begin with, when we got to Chicago I had to bully my way into having them change my return flight, from leaving at 9am to leaving at 3:30pm. They wanted to charge me $99. I touched my feet down, gently but terra firmly. The result was a trip that was as long as was originally intended.

In fact, it worked out quite nicely, and I'd have no further complaints if it wasn't for the fact that my seat tray was completely filthy, on the first plane, Detroit to Chicago. A passenger must have spilled what looked like coffee with lots and lots of sugar in it, which had semi-dried into a sticky, disgusting mess. Full flight. I was stuck with it, no pun intended. In reality, it hardly mattered since all we got was a 4oz. bag of pretzels, but I'd kinda wanted to write a little bit. Little did I know it was just foreshadowing.

On the second plane, I was utterly dismayed to discover that my assigned seat had some kind of poo poo like substance clotted atop it, and even better, it was another full flight. I knew that complaining would yield very little so I placed my blanket on top of it and parked my ass—only to find that the pillow I'd been given had clearly been drooled on and possibly used to brush someone's hair. It was disgusting. I didn't have the guts to use the restroom on the plane or to buy an on-board "snack meal" for myself, since you don't get fed on domestic flights anymore, even when you're flying almost clear across the country. And I sure as shit wasn't gonna put on some skanky headphones, especially after having had the opportunity to play with Henny's med school tools. (He showed me how to use the otoscope, or "ear-scope" to peer into Suzy's head; it was like falling down the rabbit hole, I'm tellin' ya).

And then there's the news today about the pensions for United workers. I just don't know what to say. Here these airlines complain about how much their business is suffering, and here I was on fully booked flights on the largest domestic jetliner currently in use. They starve us and expose us to completely unsanitary conditions. They herd us like cattle and keep us penned in like chickens. (Asked Soylent Green, "Where are you, when I need you PETA? Can't ya help a sistah out?) They subject us to lotteries: my friends got my ticket for $100 roundtrip on Hotwire; the guy sitting next to me paid $440 for the same ticket, bought three-weeks in advance, and honey it's wasn't no first class, you know what I'm sayin?

I dunno. I'll be really curious to see what happens to the industry over the course of the next year or two. I mean what do we do when these companies tank, as I feel like they just might. Rely on Amtrak, which is a total joke, and Greyhound, which simply is what it is? Maybe it is time to breakdown and buy a Segway.

Stoked and Spoked: Rebels with a Cause

2005-05-01T21:54:00.000-07:00

The title of this post is just a little homage to the naming convention frequently used for individual episodes of Freaks & Geeks, one of televisions brighter moments—the kind that lasts for just a season because it doesn't attract enough viewers. I remember when the series originally aired, but I never got around to turning on and tuning in that direction. My bad, but as it has so many times since I've joined Netflix, DVD came to the rescue. The sole season is available, bringing 1980 at Detroit's fictional McKinley High back to life. Incredible ensemble cast, delectable humor, wicked use of music, deadly dialogue—it was and is a fucking fantastic show. Watching the very last episode tonight was actually a very bittersweet (and hilarious) experience. I'll miss the burnouts and freshman that populated a school that was very much like my own high school experience. In fact, I've heard that Freaks & Geeks was more popular amongst people who had been teens in the late 70s-early 1980s, than it was with people who were teens when the show aired in 2000. Anyway, enough about that; I sold my tv for a reason, but Freaks & Geeks is one of those truly inspired shows that reminds one that real art can come out of the medium.

The other title reference refers to Critical Mass, which I finally participated in as I've been threatening to do for the past five years. Critical Mass, if you don't know, is when bikers take over the street, disrupting rush hour traffic patterns in an effort to, among other things, "assert cyclists' rights to the road." The Critical Mass movement has been described as an "unorganized coincidence." There's no sign up list or initiation process, it's not a club with dues or leadership—it's a happening, one that originated in San Francisco 13 years ago and has spread across the country and world. One could call it a sort of, non-violent political action though riots have occurred, arrests have been made, and the City of New York is currently trying to ban any further Critical Mass events. Here in SF, it's become a time-honored tradition, taking place on the last Friday of the month, rain or shine. If you live in the city, you're not to be surprised when hundreds or even thousands of bicyclists come barrelling through your neighborhood with no advance warning. The route is never predetermined and the geography of the city is such that hundreds of people on bikes can cover most of the city in a matter of a couple hours.

Anyway, I had a blast. I rode my bike to work that morning and was ready to roll at 6pm, when the ride began forming at Justin Herman Plaza. Every style of bike and every style of rider was to be seen, from the fully decked out Lance Armstrong types to the down and dirty, bike messenger contingents. BMXers mingled with folks on single speed or handbuilt models. One guy was even riding an authentic high wheel bike. I even saw a mother with her grade school age boy; they were wearing matching bike jerseys.

The whole experience was bravo, with a few moments really standing out. For instance, picture this if you can: a huge empty parking lot, like that of a shopping mall on Christmas Day. You're on your metal steed, reveling in the commeraderie when you look up to see two things, a stream of cyclists ahead of you pouring out of lot's farside exit, like a swarm of bees, and a swirl of riders riding in circles and curliques like circus performers or molecules expanding to fill the empty spaces of a flask. It was an achingly beautiful scene, but I was afraid to stay lest I witness it's demise so I re-entered the fray and we charged off, down 3rd St. to Caesar Chavez. That's when I started to get the hang of it.

At each intersection, riders would take it upon themselves to put their bodies and machines in front of the cars to make sure that all of us made it through the successive number of light changes needed to accomodate that many riders. The reactions of motor vehicle drivers were pretty similar to those you might imagine when one gets caught behind a train—some exasperation, some boredom, some who are actually happy to see the train roll by. A Muni driver who was unable to move his N-Judah gave us the thumbs up and honked his horn; his passengers didn't seem to share his enthusiasm. More than one driver got hostile, a few getting out of their cars and verbally or even physically challenging the "blockers."

To my knowledge nothing too terrible happened, probably due in some small part to the motorcyle cop escort. They paced alongside us making sure both the cyclists and the stalled drivers didn't cross any lines. At Caesar Chavez, we turned on Delores to San Jose—the San Jose that leads to 280 South. As with the Cirque de Soleil moment, I didn't anticipate what was about to happen because I was in the middle or last two-thirds of the pack with a few hundred people in front of me. But from behind I heard someone sing out, "Do you know the way to San Jose?" followed by Soyboy's "What the f--? Look!" followed by insane giggles. I looked up to see two large signs looming up ahead, one indicating which lane to stay in for San Jose and one indicating the upcoming exit. That's when I realized we were on the freeway! It was insane. It was so cool. It was craaazy, so crazy that the cops were forcing us off by hook (those who followed the exit) and by crook (those of us who scrambled up the embankment—Soyboy and I chose the portage), all of us rejoining to invade the next neighborhood.

Adults brought their children out to watch as if the carnival had just come to town. We rode past one house where an elderly gentleman was in frozen repose, his accordian in mid-squeeze and his jaw completely dropped. Pre-teen girls waved from their bedroom windows. We mounted steep hills, some on foot and some dogging it out, and careened down dangerous descents. I almost fell off my bike on one steep downhill, simply because there were so many bikes congregated at the bottom of the hill that I was nearly track-standing at a more than 45 degree angle, which is impossible.

There were several bike casualties along the way—blown tires, popped spokes, derailled chains, and a few tumbles caused by the careless carefree ways of so many bikes in motion together and bikers losing track of time and place, drawn into the wonder of all the events. More than once, my bike and Soyboy's "kissed" at the handlebars but always gently, making us laugh because of the sensation it brought on of dozing off somewhere where you shouldn't and waking just as your head drops.

But most of us made it through Eureka and Noe Valleys and the Castro, where we came upon a motorcyclist hemmed in by bicycles all around. The cyclists were getting a little surly and sadistic at that point, forcing the lone motorman to wheel his bike all the way back to the beginning of the intersection until they were good and ready to get out of the way. Meanwhile, some jokers yelled out the window: "You people are so lazy! Why don't you get off your bikes and walk for a change!" That's when I noticed the temperature had dropped and the sun was quite low. What had been a mad crush was becoming more and more diffused, with splinter groups doing their own thing. Soyboy and I decided to park the bikes and get some chow after all the excitement, and that's just what we did, newly annointed bike freaks and city geeks.

Know When to Fold 'em

2005-04-25T21:54:00.000-07:00

So the Mayor of San Diego announced that he’s stepping down, this after a three-way triumph last November. I don’t know much about Mayor Murphy or his politics, though he was recently labeled one of the worst urban mayors in the country by Time. I will say, however, that I give TOTAL props to someone has the integrity to walk away. I’m not talking about running off with one’s tail tucked in between the legs, nor do I advocate quitting in the middle of the game when things aren’t going one’s way. But in his own words, "When I ran for re-election, I had hoped that my second term would be as productive as the first time. But now that seems unlikely. It's clear to me the city needs a fresh start." The City Attorney, who has openly criticized Murphy, publicly stated that "in making the hard choice of resignation, Mayor Dick Murphy has shown an admirable determination to do what is right and also shown a level of courage to which all in public life should aspire." I agree wholeheartedly, not just for elected officials but for bad supervisors, ill-suited lovers, and Ben Affleck. Just stop making movies already, okay?

Speaking of movie stars, I spent the evening listening to Jane Fonda, who is on a speaking tour in promotion of her new autobiography, My Life So Far. I didn’t know she had written a book that’s been the number one seller in the country for the past two weeks, nor did I know she's out promoting it. Even if I had known, I wouldn’t have gone out of my way to see her, if it hadn’t been for a coworker and friend who issued a last minute invite to me. Of course, I ended up being terribly glad that I went, both for the company and the speaker.

The event was well-attended, perhaps in part by those hoping to see another tobacco spitting incident, though her detractors did not have a strong presence. The vast majority were Fonda's willing parishioners. I did see a lone guy outside A Clean and Well Lighted Place for Books (stupid name, I know, and always-rude and overbearing clerks, but hey, they bring in some interesting folks) who was bearing a sign blaming Fonda for everything under the sun, from the hole in the ozone layer to the propensity of milk to rot when left out. Well, I’m being facetious, but honestly his sign was so laden with text that I couldn’t bear the idea of standing there and reading it all. A few words jumped out at me—genocide, Cambodia … I dunno. It just seemed like a lot to place on the shoulders of someone, specifically a woman,whose main crime in life seems to have been a willingness to speak her mind at a time of social upheaval. The way she put it is that “we’re not supposed to be perfect. We’re supposed to be complete. I realized good enough is good enough.” She was talking about her ill-fated relationships with the men in her life, but I felt it was a comment that one could easily take to heart in regards to a lot of things.

What I liked most about Fonda is that she seemed extremely open, in a way that’s rare. Sure she’s an accomplished activist-actress, but she’s also 67 years old, which is hard for me to believe. She looked fantastic in her moss green jacket and green tinted sunglasses. Whatever skeletons she’s got left in her closet would probably crumble into powdery crumbs if exposed to anything as tepid as a sneeze.

Fonda spoke very briefly yet warmly to those of us gathered—well over 100 crammed in that clean and well-lit place—and then went straight to questions, which ranged from queries about her personal life to her political activities, and one or two on acting. Sadly no one mentioned her workout videos, and I didn’t have the chutzpah. I was too busy trying to remember how to use the camera/camcorder function on my cell phone. When I finally had the money shot in the frame, a giddy acolyte put her big fat head in the way. You win some, you lose some.

In what I deem a rare experience, the audience posed a nice array of interesting questions. For example, one person asked, why Fonda ended up with men so different from herself, to which she cheekily replied, “I made the same mistake twice,” which brought lots of hearty chuckles. She also said, “I betrayed my body, heart, and soul so that I wouldn’t be left by my husbands, but when I finally did show up, I was left by them.” She didn’t say it in a "poor me" way but more from her self-described “liberal, feminist, progressive, Christian” self.

I didn’t know that Fonda converted to Christianity, which brought a question from the audience about how and why she had done so. Tongue-in-cheek she said, “It happened in baby steps. I think the fact that Ted Turner took me to Georgia….” After the laughter died down she added, “No really. People aren’t stoned in Georgia.” But then she revealed that after “I became a Christian, I thought I’d made a mistake. I hadn’t left a patriarchal marriage to be in patriarchal religion. [Then] I learned it’s quite congruous to be a feminist and a Christian.” She mentioned other well known Christians, including Andrew Young, Jimmy Carter, and Rosalyn Carter, noting, “They aren’t dummies.”

Fonda also spoke about her relationship with her father and children. Of the latter she said the thing she’s most grateful for in life, is that her kids turned out alright. One interesting anecdote was spurred when an audience member asked her to tell the “potty training story.” It was the only moment in which Fonda was slightly taken aback; she asked how he knew about that, and the man said, “Tom Hayden told me.” She had the clearest expression of “Oh” on her face that I’ve ever seen, and it was a wonderful moment. Then she cheerfully related the story that when she and her then-husband Tom Hayden were traveling through S.E. Asia, their son Troy “was potty-trained by communists, and I thought that was pretty cool, but then revisionism set in, and by the time I got home, [the training] was all gone.”

Someone asked if Fonda had any ideas about how her father could be such a sensitive actor but seemed to lack the same sensitivity as a father. Fonda reminded the audience that “generations of fathers couldn’t deal with emotions, and they didn’t have Prozac back then,” a comment that brought laughter and nodding heads. She related the fact that her dad could hold 45-minute discussions with complete strangers but never once in her life spoke to her for that long. Then she asked how many people have had the same experiences with their fathers. More hands went up then were left down. Then she said the greatest lesson she’d learned is that “you have to understand why they are that way, and you realize it has nothing to do with you, and then you can forgive them and move on.”

Asked what women she considers role models, Fonda said too many to mention but off the top of her head she ID’d, Karen Nussbum, Eve Ensler, and Pat Mitchell as friends whom she admires greatly. A wishful thinker asked what it would take to get Fonda to run for office. After the many catcalls, whistles, and hand claps that followed, she offered, “I wish more women would run for office because we are different, and the issues affect us differently … but it won’t be me.” Then, before we knew it, the spectacle was half over.

The other half was signaled by jostling lines that formed for the book signing. I left Mary there to fend for herself, and headed on home with the intention to read the book in the near future. I know my mom would have, so I’ll read it for both of us. Five years in the making, if it’s as candid and forthcoming as she was in person, the book will be a great read about a remarkable woman of our times.

The Government's Pyramid Scheme

2005-04-19T20:29:00.000-07:00

Didn't they just go and change up the food pyramid. I'm sorry, but it's the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen. And I love this quote from an Associated Press article:

"[The old pyramid] become quite familiar, but few Americans follow the recommendations," Agriculture Secretary Mike Johanns said Tuesday as he unveiled the new pyramid.

The new one encourages people to figure out their calorie and exercise needs using a new government Web site www.mypyramid.com. There people can find 12 different models based on daily calorie needs—from ... sedentary toddlers to ... teenage boys."

This is completely absurd. If people er I mean Americans are familiar with but don't follow the recommendations of the simply and easy to follow "old pyramid," what in the hell makes the government think that people, especially Americans, will muddle their way through 12 different models. I sure as hell won't, and I'm not even a sedentary, toddling teenage boy.

Later in the same article, a graphic design expert is quoted as saying that "the new pyramid doesn't provide much information and instead assumes people will do a lot of research. 'They've thrown away the useful part of the pyramid—less at the top, more at the bottom. I think words and pictures together are very powerful. But just by itself, this isn't a substitute for what we had before.' [He] called the stair-climbing figure an 'inelegant' attempt to encourage exercise. 'If you remember the pyramid at all, and you remember oil was at the top, you now have somebody marching steadfastly up towards the oils,' he said." I'm sorry but that's hilarious.

But not nearly as funny as this: "To help promote the new emphasis on exercise, Johanns invited fitness expert Denise Austin to be a cheerleader for the recommended 30 minutes of daily physical activity. Austin, a member of the president's Physical Fitness and Sports Council, goaded reporters like an exercise class instructor: 'The more you move, the more you lose!' She gave an impromptu demonstration, gripping the arms of her chair like parallel bars and lifting her legs to work her abdominal muscles." Have you ever seen Denise Austin in action? She is unintentionally hilarious, and I can only imagine the moves she put on during the press conference. What a joke.

By the way, do you remember those Presidential Fitness Challenges of yore? They'd make kids, even the asthmatic ones, run a timed mile with absolutely no training and do silly things like walk a balance beam. I think fitness goals are great at any age, but the approach, like the aforementioned pyramid scheme (pun intended), was all wrong. Interestingly, there's a President's Fitness Challenge for adults, too. Medals are the lure—bronze, silver and gold. It's weird if you ask me but just weird enough that I might go for it. I know I would feel absolutely ridiculous walking around with a Presidential Fitness Gold medal 'round my neck—ridiculous enough that it might be fun to turn myself into a "Presidential Champion." Maybe I can even earn the super neeto patch!

* * *

Meanwhile last week I said, three things get me through the day: nutritients, exercise, and tunes. I think I've pretty much covered the food, though I didn't mention my occasional need for donuts or candy or some other kind of sweets. Nor did I mention that we have wine every Friday at work, and that as much as I abhor Chardonay, I've succumb more than once. But it's time to move on because we've got a new pope and other things are going on in the world about which I have an opinion or two, but I feel equally compelled to finish out this work thing, especially because there is a law of diminishing returns that will eventually come into play, i.e. a day whereby no matter how good the food, or how far I run, or how many songs I have in my playlist, I'm still hoping to win the lottery, and I will by golly by gum.

Alright so I found long ago that the more active I am, the more energy I have. That exercise = energy is well documented, but it's easy to forget the extent to which it's true. Sure you might end up feeling tired that particular day, but once you get in a regular groove, you'll find that your energy lags more when you miss a few days.

I am fortunate in that I enjoy working out. If you can't find something you enjoy doing that gets your blood flowing, then working out sucks. There's nothing more painful than spending 20 to 90 minutes doing something that you can't stand. For instance, I hate swimming. There's nothing about it that I like. I loathe the smell of chlorine. I get the heeby jeebies from stray hairs and debris that I know I'm gonna end up drinking. And I can't stand drowning. In the Bay Area, there are plenty of non-pool options, complete with non-pool deterrents like ice cold temperatures and salt water that stings worse then chlorine when you swallow the water just before you drown. Nope, no water sports for me, and I mean that in all the connotations.

Now me, I learned belatedly in this life that I like running. Go figure. When I was in my teens and twenties, you couldn't have gotten me to run, even by offering me a steak and a slab of cake at the finish line. Then lord knows what got into me, but I started running about two years ago and behold, I love it. I'm a natural runner; I'm fast, and I can go the distance. BUT, I've got totally flat feet, and since everything's connected, I've had problems from the foot on up to the knee with both legs. I had to have six-weeks of physical therapy last year, where it was highly suggested I try something easier on the body—like swimming. My compromise was to take a couple months off and then to resume on a greatly reduced schedule. So I went from running three to four times per week to twice a week or doing the math, I've gone from about 20-25 miles per week to about five, which blows but hey, at least I can do it at all.

Ideally, I'd like to get four cardio sessions in per week, but I'm kind of stymied. I usually go bike riding either Saturday or Sunday, so that give me three. Riding is awesome, especially in as scenic a place as San Francisco, but it's not the same. Riding gives me a complete sense of freedom. For example, two weekends ago Soyboy and I went for what was meant to be a leisurely ride, and we ended up in Sausalito. Along the way we rode through Golden Gate Park to Ocean Beach, went along the Coastal Trail to China Beach, went through Mountain Lake Park and the Presidio and eventually over the Golden Gate Bridge. The weather was stellar, and it was totally fun. But running is different for me. I don't know why. They say it's the endorphins.

Meanwhile I'm still looking for one more piece to round it all out. The Ron and I bought a soccer ball recently. We kicked it around last in Delores Park Thurday after work, which was a blast, but I hate to rely on either people for stuff like that. I'm not casting aspersions on The Ron, but I like activities that I can do on my own if no other takers are around. I'm thinking about handball as a possibility now, if I can find a court.

But cardio is only one piece of it. Another is flexibility. I do what I call "baby yoga" at least two to three times per week: studios are expensive, so I've armed myself with a DVD or two, and I get my stretch on that way.

As for strength training, which is the third part of the fitness triangle, that's incorporated with the running thanks to the inestimable coaching of SF Outdoor Fitness's Mike, and then I've got a trick or two of my own up my sleeve. (C'mon, I can't give away all my secrets). Suffice it to say, strengthing and conditioning is going on daily.

In addition to feeling healthy and energetic as a colt, I've also found that working out helps keep me on track. I tend to go to bed earlier rather than later because I know I'm gonna get up at 5:30 a.m. on the days I run. I also tend to eat better when I'm in a fitness groove because my body craves nutrient-rich food, and because I know that I perform better when I fill myself with quality fuel.

Which brings up another point: rest. Working out gives creates a body awareness that wouldn't otherwise exist. For example, two weeks ago I was exhausted one evening. Not just sleepy, but physically exhausted. At first I thought it was because I hadn't gotten enough sleep the day before, but I realized it was more than that when I found myself wishing for a bus though I wasn't far from my house. I didn't feel sick or run down; my body was just tired. I decided not to work out the next morning and slept in an extra hour. Doing so, didn't make much of a difference. I was sluggish all day and couldn't wait to get home to my bed. Then I thought about what I'd been eating, what sort of workouts I'd had earlier in the week, and I decided I was low on protein. After work, I ate a cheeseburger, something I rarely do. Saturday I dragged myself on a long walk and then had two filet mignons in the afternoon. Sunday I went to Osento, a local women's bathhouse, and treated myself to an hour and a half of hot tub and sauna, which I try to do every few weeks. Then I ate a smoked trout salad because unlike the previous days, I craved salad. Monday, the exhaustion I'd felt began to drain away. Today I felt 100 percent raring to go. When I hit the pavement the next day, I knew I'd feel stronger than before my little burnout, and I did.

I don't eat red meat often, but there are times when it makes a difference. I often find that when my body is craving something, it's because I need something. Maybe it was the iron, maybe the mad cow's, who knows. I was also craving pampering. I try to do the spa (steam and soak) about every three weeks or so and a deep tissue massage about once a month. I've also done acupuncture for relaxation. They all work in different ways, but they all work. These methods of healing can be expensive, but I try to budget for them as best I can because they're worth it, especially as we get older and especially when you're really active.

My overriding physical fitness goal isn't prowess; it's about paying attention; when I don't, I suffer. I've done that plenty of times, and I'm sure it will happen again. But overall, I like the grounding feeling that comes from physical exertion. I also find it's a sort of meditation for me. Sometimes I take my mom with me, communing with my ancestors, if you will. Other times, I talk to the universe or just listen to my own internal rhythm. I know many people work out in the afternoon or evening, but I like the way it sets the tone for the rest of the day. Then I can go to work and plug in and still feel like I'm transforming my life.

As for fitness websites, my favorite is Marty Gallagher's Purposely Primitive Fitness, which discusses diet basics, fitness, and exercise along with random philosophical musings (Marty's Stream of Warped Consciousness Blog) from the five-time world master powerlifting champion. The web site might seem intimidating at first, but I got to know his work through his Live Online Washington Post columns. In that forum, he made an art form of addressing every level of fitness questions from every walk of life, not just hardcore bodybuilders. Now he's got his own thing going, and I think it's great. Ask him a question during one of his live chat sessions; just make sure to include a lot of detail. The more you tell him, the better a response he can give.

Tiny Bubbles

2005-04-18T19:51:00.000-07:00

"Nothing without water/Water has no enemy”
—"Water No Get Enemy" lyics by Fela Kuti

Besides tea, my other beverage of choice these days is good old fashioned water—without the gas. Carbonated water tastes like aspirin to me so that would leave plain old tap as the source, but I live in San Francisco. No matter what they say about the Hetch Hetchy water system, filtered by Yosemite—I ain’t doin’ it straight from the tap. And forget about those Britta water pitchers. I don’t have all day to wait for them to drip drip fill. I’ll take my chances with the already bottled water, though there doesn’t appear to be a consensus on the risk of dixoin (and other carcinogen) contamination attributed to plastic containers.

While scholarly opinions vary, I’m pretty skeptical of the purity of most water, especially for urban dwellers. (I was surprised to see that Detroit’s water is better than San Francisco’s, which is a bit frightening). It’s even been suggested that prescription drugs, such as Prozac are making it into the water supply. Crimeny, we can't even agree on how much water to drink each day let alone what's in it. One thing's for sure, though: easy access to water will one day be the stuff of myth. Water gets more scarce day by day.

You can laugh and take it as a joke if you wanna
But it don't rain for four weeks some summers
And it's about to get real wild in the half
You be buying Evian just to take a fuckin bath...
Used to have minerals and zinc in it (New World Water)
Now they say it got lead and stink in it (New World Water)
Four carbons and monoxide
Push the water table lopside
Used to be free now it cost you a fee
…The rich and poor, black and white got need for it (That's right)
And everybody in the world can agree with this (Let em know)…
Go too long without it on this earth and you leavin it (Shout it out)
Americans wastin it on some leisure shit (Say word?)
And other nations be desperately seekin it (Let em know)
Bacteria washing up on they beaches (Say word?)
Don't drink the water, son they can't wash they feet with it (Let em know)…
Epidemics hopppin up off the petri dish (Let em know)
Control centers try to play it all secretive (Say word?)
To avoid public panic and freakiness (Let em know)
There are places where TB is common as TV
'Cause foreign-based companies go and get greedy
The type of cats who pollute the whole shore line
Have it purified, sell it for a dollar twenty-five
Now the world is drinkin it...
The cash registers is goin to chink for it
—"New World Water" lyrics by Mos Def

The professional prognosticators tell us that once we realize that it's more valuable than oil, water will be the next commodity we fight over. We’ve configured our world so that we can’t live in the way we’re accustomed without oil, but we literally cannot live without water. Global discussions of the issue revolve around degrees of water crisis:

"Water shortage" is used to describe an absolute shortage, where levels of available water do not meet certain defined minimum requirements. The actual quantity that determines a per capita minimum may differ from place to place.

"Water scarcity" is a more relative concept describing the relationship between demand for water and its availability. The demands may vary considerably between different countries and different regions within a given country depending on the sectoral usage of water. A country with a high industrial demand or which depends on large scale irrigation will therefore be more likely to experience times of scarcity than a country with similar climatic conditions without such demands. Countries such as Rwanda, for example, would be classified by most standards as suffering water shortage but, because of low industrial and irrigation utilisation, would not be classified as water scarce.

"Water stress" is the symptomatic consequence of scarcity which may manifest itself as increasing conflict over sectoral usage, a decline in service levels, crop failure, food insecurity, etc. This term is analogous to the common use of the term "drought."

"Water security" is a situation of reliable and secure access to water over time. It does not equate to constant quantity of supply as much as predictability, which enables measures to be taken in times of scarcity to avoid stress.

The end result of each of these is dire, and the potential for destruction is widespread. According to an article originally published in a 1991 issue of Foreign Policy water has been on the radar for nearly two decades:

As early as the mid-1980s, U.S. government intelligence services estimated that there were at least 10 places in the world where war could break out over dwindling shared water—the majority in the Middle East. Jordan, Israel, Cyprus, Malta, and the countries of the Arabian Peninsula are sliding into the perilous zone where all available fresh surface and groundwater supplies will be fully utilized.

Algeria, Egypt, Morocco, and Tunisia face similar prospects in 10 to 20 years. Morocco has made serious efforts in the water and sanitation sectors. Still, that country faces the prospect of a declining water supply beyond the year 2000, when its population is projected to grow to 31 million.

Algeria, Israel, the West Bank, Gaza, Jordan, Tunisia, and Yemen are already facing a "water barrier" requiring accelerated efforts, investments, regulations, and controls just to keep apace of spiraling populations. Middle Eastern and North African countries combined will absorb 80 million people by the close of the 1990s, pitting the Davidian capacity of existing water and sanitation services against the Goliath of demand."

According to other data, one can expect to add Qatar, Libya, Djibouti, Saudi Arabia, Oman, Zimbabwe, Barbados, United Arab Emirates, Tanzania, Singapore, Peru, Bahrain, Comoros, Kuwait, South Africa, Cape Verde, Syria, Kenya, Iran, Burundi, Ethiopia, Haiti, Rwanda, Malawi, and Somalia to the list of countries that will likely experience deep difficulties by 2025, if not already. And of course the problem isn't just out there—it’s here at home as well. Anyone who lives in the southwestern United States, including Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada, or some of the plains states can tell you that the price of gas will one day be the least of your problems. Tiny bubbles. Chin chin.

Mighty Tea

2005-04-14T22:05:00.000-07:00

In the south of South America, somewhere between the River of the Painted Birds and the largest tropical wetlands in the world, ie. the Uruguay and Paraguay rivers respectively, the Guarani (pronounced “war-an-i”) were greeted by Pa’ i Shume. Among other things, the god revealed to the tribe the secret of the medicinal Yerba Mate (pronounced “ma-tay”) tree. In Brazil, Argentina, Uruguay and Paraguay, the bitter-sweet-grassy tasting tea brewed from the leaves of the Yerba Mate remains revered for its immunity-boosting, detoxifying, and stimulating effects. The beverage of choice for many, “Mate tea has become almost pathologically ritualized in a manner reminiscent of coffee and tea abuse in Western and Eastern countries.”

The traditional method of making Yerba Mate involves soaking dried, ground tree leaves and stems in a gourd filled with cold water, before steeping them in hot water for a long enough time to extract the health and energy provoking qualities of the subtropical plant. The infusion is then sipped through a wooden or metal straw with a sieve—the entire apparatus of which is called a bombilla—in order to filter out the leafy material. Mate, which can also be served as a cold beverage, is increasingly available in tea bags or powdered form for those of us who eschew tradition, shame on me. That’s about to change, though. In the meantime, I’m currently drinking Guayaki brand because it’s organic and dedicated to free trade. The company started out as a class project for enterprising students at California Polytechnic State University and has developed into a nice business model.

For many, "Mate is more than just good for the body; it's good for the soul. Drinking it can be a form of meditation or reflection—allowing the goodness to infuse into the body while stimulating and resting the mind." I drink a few cups every work day.

I also drink other teas and am currently on a white kick, ironic ain't it. Delicate and subtle white tea has the least amount of caffeine of all the non-herbal teas and is high in Vitamin C. Though green tea gets all the hype, white tea actually has more antioxidant properties than its rival. I'm not knocking the grassy flavors of green tea, which was the first to be drank in China (Tang Dynasty 618-907), where many if not most of the finest teas originate. Sweet, black tea (think Lipton, Earl Grey, English Breakfast etc.) is the sort with which most non-connossieurs tend to be familiar. Black tea is, in fact, the most common tea in the world and is also the basis of the beloved chai, but my ultimate favorites are the oolongs and the puh-erhs. If green tea and black tea were to marry and have a baby—or even if they had it out of wedlock, oolong would be the result:

Oolongs provide an eye-opening experience and offer a wide variety of flavors that range from subtle to intense, with each infusion unfolding new and different subtleties. These teas are semi-oxidized and roasted teas with medium levels of caffeine. The vast majority of oolong teas are produced in Fujian province in China, or Taiwan. Chinese oolongs generally tend to have a darker roast and fruitier nature than Taiwanese oolongs, which are generally greener, with a more floral aroma.

As far as I'm concerned though, the mysterious puh-erh is the king and queen of tea.

"Pu-erh tea is the only tea to improve with age. A truly full bodied, robust and yet incredibly smooth taste, pu-erh can be brewed hotter and longer than other teas. From the Yunnan province in China, this tea has been in production since the sixth century BC, traded along the Silk Road. The ageing process takes place in caves, underground, in bamboo stalks, in fruit rinds and many other ways. Pu-erh comes in square cakes, large round patties, compressed balls, or loose leaf. Also known as Pou Nei or Bo Lei in China, this tea is aged from 1 to 100 (or more!) years. Pu-erh has been known to lower cholesterol and triglycerides, cleanse the blood, help digestion, and even alleviate hangovers."

Or get you through a day at the office, though not near quitting time. Drink enough of these fermented tea, and you won't be fit to drive.

Then you've got your herbals or flower teas, my favorites of which include the red South African rooibos (fantastic plain or with sweetened condensed milk if you wanna drink it S. African style), hibiscus, osthmanthus, Samovar's "chill out blend" and the Celestial Seasonings offerings. Bite my tongue, but it's true. Can't be highfalutin' all the time. Plus I've been on the Celestial Seasonings factory tour in Denver twice; that's how cool it is.

For more on the delights of tea, check out the websites for Samovar Tea Lounge and DynasTea, two of my favorite tea providers in San Francisco, the latter thanks to Soyboy. Wisconsin's Rishi Tea also has a nice thing going on.

You Are What You Eat, Whether or Not You Know What You're Eating

2005-04-11T22:11:00.000-07:00

Back to the donuts. If I eat enough okra or other it’s-good-for-you fare during the week, I don’t feel too bad about the occasional donut. However, if I’m having the sort of day in which a donut is the only thing that’ll cheer me up, it’s donut city, for which I’ll probably feel guilty later but when in Rome you eat spaghetti, when I’m in the dumps, I eat donuts.

Sometimes the question isn’t where but what. Is okra actually good for you or not? It’s green and repulsively slimy, which is often a dead give away of high nutritional content, but I’ve discovered a more reliable way than guessing (because sometimes green and slimy just means rotting). NutritionData’s Nutrition Facts Calorie Counter is easily my favorite nutrition-oriented web site. I couldn’t care less about the calories, but I’m always wondering what specifically is good (or not so) about what I’m putting in my mouth.

Let’s take barley for example. The other day the woman at Arabi talked me into a pearled barley salad with corn and diced red peppers, spiced with dill. I told her I’m not that into dill, but she sold me with “barley’s great for you.” As she packed it up for me, I wondered—is it? I know it’s a grain. I know grains are good for you, but some are better than others. But wait, aren’t grains starches? Aren’t starches not so good for you? Back at my desk, I plugged into NutritionData—upper right hand corner, enter food name, and hit food search button.

Results. In this case we get “cereal grains and pasta,” “breakfast cereals,” “soups, sauces, and gravies,” and “baby foods.” Under cereal grains and pastas,” we get “barley flour or meal,” “barley malt flour,” “barley, pearled cooked,” “barley, pearled raw,” and “barley.” Clicking on “barley, pearled cooked,” one learns it’s a good food, earning three of five stars: “This food is very low in Saturated Fat, Cholesterol, and Sodium. It is also a good source of Dietary Fiber and Manganese.”

We also get a nice visual with the Nutrition Facts box that we’re used to seeing on packaged foods as well as a “Caloric Ratio Pyramid.” For the super hardcore, there are tables that contain nitty-gritty detailed food composition breakdowns, including nutrients per serving, nutrient density, and protein quality. These breakdowns are way more information than I need; in fact, I admit they are largely nonsensical to me so I skip right over them. Instead, I scroll to the very bottom of the page where resides the other key piece of information I like to know: “Better Choices,” i.e. lists of alternative foods that may be more supportive of your dietary goals, whether you’re trying to lose weight or gain it, which I think is really cool. Each food also gets a nutritional density rating that mirrors the star system used at the top of the page and a fullness factor rating.

The 5-star rating system is based on editorial opinions of NutritionData and is not intended to replace the advice of a nutritionist or healthcare professional. "No food is completely good or bad for you. Optimal nutrition depends on your individualized needs and the combined nutritional benefits of all foods that you consume. Any opinions expressed on the analysis page are based on calculations derived from the Daily Reference Values (DRVs), Reference Daily Intakes (RDIs), and recommendations of the FDA."

This is an extremely dynamic site loaded with useful information that can be used in myriad ways. My curiosity never goes deeper than what I’ve just described, but I’m super impressed with the wealth of information and the different ways in which its accessible. So who’s behind this treasure? Some cute little couple in Arizona: Ron Johnson, a fitness expert, engineer, and inventor, who has consulted for "some of the world’s foremost fitness and nutritional products companies, " and Lori Johnson, a certified personal trainer and weight loss consultant. They use raw data from the USDA's National Nutrient Database for Standard Reference with additonal info from restaurants and food manufacturers. The exact source for each individual food item is listed in the footnotes of that food's analysis page.

My second runner up for food info is The George Mateljan Foundation’s World’s Healthiest Foods. The WHF has a different tack, which is “to show you a healthier way of eating that's enjoyable, affordable, quick and easy to fit [into] your personal needs and lifestyle." You get food tips, menus and recipies, and a mini-essay on the food of the week (this week it’s green peas: “They contain 18 health-promoting nutrients that qualify as excellent, very good or good according to our Quality Rating System.” The recipe always incorporates the food of the week, hence this week we have “lemon flavored fish and sweet peas … a great combination of flavors that takes only 25 minutes to prepare! It also provides 101% of the daily value (DV) for selenium, 85% DV for vitamin B-12 and 85% DV for protein.”

Like NutritionData, there’s a lot going on here, most of which I under utilize. I don't need as much help with selecting, preparing, and enjoying my food as I do just knowing what's in it. The WHF is also more community-oriented, with “George welcom[ing] you to interact with him and the Foundation by asking questions, sharing ideas and even supporting the cause of the Foundation. ” George’s bio is rather lengthy, but suffice it to say that he created the first company to produce healthy convenient prepared foods in the United States. The year was 1970, the company was Health Valley Foods. He’s put his 30+ years of expertise into his eponymous foundation. I subscribe to the newsletter, which admitedly I look at irregularly. I don’t go to the site often, but it’s a nice resource of which to be aware.

Next: washing it down.

Fresh Meat, or Your Brain's the Size of a Mango

2005-04-09T14:04:00.000-07:00

Before I answer the question about the donut, let me explain the title of this post. Thursday night was the best of times and the worst of times. The Universe Within formed the basis of the best; the worst was distilling the experience into a post immediately afterward, hitting publish, and losing my Internet connection for a day. It's back, which is nice, but the post is gone to lost post heaven. I offer you this information less for martyrdom and more as an apology if my enthusiasm doesn't shine through. Not only do I hate to be asked the same question twice or told the same things repeatedly, I hate trying to duplicate something I've already written. I'm not enough of an optimist to believe it will be as good as or even better than the original, but for you, dear reader, I'll try anything, so here we go.

After work I turned down a dinner invite from Roro and Lala, instead heading down to the Nob Hill Masonic with Soyboy and Six to "explore the mysteries of the human anatomy in a fascinating new exhibit" called The Universe Within. In the same building in which I've seen and heard Ornette Coleman channel something completely otherworldly, they've got more than 200 plastinated organs and full bodies of formerly living Chinese men and women. I'm laughing as I write this because I know it sounds pretty bizarre, and I won't lie. It's more bizarre than you can probably even imagine.

Here's the thing. A guy by the name of Gunter von Hagens, invented plastination, a method of preservation that forgos the messiness and smelliness of formaldeyde, which is one of those substances the stench of which you never forget. In high school and college I dissected a fetal pig and a cancerous cat, and all I can remember is the smell. I even had to pith my own frog. What got to me most was the smell. Actually the pithing was nasty, but I've blocked that out. But in plastination, all the fat and body fluids—remember that we're more than half water—are sucked out and replaced with liquid plastic that hardens to create a "solid, durable anatomic specimen that will last indefinitely," according The Universe Within program flyer. This creepy von Hagen has had an exhibit touring now since 1998, called Body Worlds. You may have heard about it recently if not sooner than that because the Body Worlds exhibits have stirred some controversy with their inclusion of a pregnant woman and fetuses, one of which was recently roadside attraction with Ken and Suzy some years ago, i.e the little known museum of oddities called the National Museum of Health and Medicine, filled with jars of abnormal fetuses, the vacuum- sealed leg and basketball-sized testicle of a man with elephantitis, and the sawed torsos of a man and a woman, pubic hairs included. The cut lines revealed the flesh to be nothing more than fresh meat.

Thus, when confronted at The Universe Within with a skinless man holding a hanger on which hung his skin, it was kind of old hat to me even though I can’t watch horror films of any sort, and I abhor gore. To me he could have been holding a cured leather coat—an oddly human shaped leather coat, but fashion is often a mind-fuck and the belly button actually is a button. Seriously. It’s pretty bizarre.

One of the specimens that made the biggest impact on me was a man (if I remember correctly) who was spread out horizontally, and I do mean spread out. He’d been sliced into approximately 1 inch slices from head to toe, like a loaf of bread. The slices were positioned about an inch apart as if he’d been merely been stretched out. It was mind-boggling to view the human body in that way—to see everything within a slice so to speak.

Some of the other specimens rivaled anything one might see at the MoMA or Louvre. One display had the entire circulatory system sans bone, muscle, organs—just the blood vessels themselves, but intact in human shape. Incredible. And beautiful. Another specimen feature a man in the running position, with all of the major muscles flayed apart. He looked like a graceful superhero, which I think was one of the points of the show.

The body is heroic in all that it survives day and in and day out. We’re so delicate on the inside and yet so strong. To really see the bones of the feet and think about the way they carry most of us … or to see how small the gluteus muscles really are and thus know that EVERYBODY has a fat ass … or to see how small the heart and kidneys actually are and that even the brain is only the size of a mango. It was amazing and eye-opening. Wanting to protect their precious cargo, Six and Soyboy immediately resolved to bulk up. I felt differently; rather than wanting to bulk up, I just wanted to make sure that everything that’s in me stays healthy. It gave me an entirely different kind of respect for my body.

I also had a lot of respect for the people whom we viewed. The program didn’t offer much explanation regarding who they had been or how they had been selected for this show, but from a spiritual standpoint, I offered thanks to each and every one of them for allowing us to have such a personal look at them, and one that "normally only doctors and scientists are allowed to see first-hand."

From a curatorial standpoint I was a tad disappointed. The "pieces" were incredible, but I found myself wanting more information. Many, but not all of the pieces, were accompanied by a placard bearing a digital photograph of the specimen in question, on which various parts were labeled. But I wanted to know more, like had this man or woman been young or old when s/he died; what was the cause of death; and was what we were looking at considered healthy or normal? For instance, one specimen had clearly fractured a leg; the metal plate and screws made that quite evident, but then I wondered if anything else on him was "damaged." There was one case which contained a set of healthy lungs and the shriveled, blackend lungs of a smoker. I wanted more comparisons. In a few situations, the placards had information that was too technical. I don’t know if the information dearth was due to issues of translation since the exhibit originated in China, but Soyboy said that when he went to Body Worlds last year in L.A., more information was available, including short bios for some of the specimens. I also think that for $17, attendees should get more than a single piece of photocopied paper. I expected something more explanatory—a brochure basically. We all agreed the lighting wasn’t very good either.

These complaints are minor in the long run. As a final remark, I thought Six’s comment was pretty funny. All of the specimens were anatomically correct, prompting Six to look at one particularly small male appendage and say, "All that trouble in the world over something so small." Much ado about nothing. See, it's true—you can always rock the Shakespeare. And if you have the chance to see one of these exhibits, do. It's a trip.

Spring Chicken

2005-04-06T21:59:00.000-07:00

And other foods. I don't know about you, but research makes me hungry and good food makes me happy. Since all I do at my "9 to 5" is tap at the keyboard and squint at the screen all day long, I gotta entertain myself. I've got three essential methods that get me through 8 hours of work: tunes, exercise, and food. I'ma start breakin' it down for ya, startin' with food.

My coworkers marvel and comment endlessly about what they perceive as my endless capacity to eat. I think I've mentioned before that my cubicle office has windows all around, so it's true that nearly every time someone walks by, I'm stuffing my face. However, I don't think I over eat. It's more that I eat small portions of this and that throughout the day, and I eat a lot of "weird" stuff, which mainly means that I don't eat "breakfast things" at breakfast.

Currently I'm lucky because several healthy and relatively inexpensive meal options exist near my office. I'm sure I eat better during the day than I do at home, which is just plain sad, but the truth is, by the time I get home, I have neither the gumption nor the wherewithal to shop and/or cook. I hope this will not always be the case because I actually miss cooking, and I'm not too shabby of a cook, but I am lazy when it comes to it. Being a hungry, lazy chef is not a good combination. I'm hoping that in my next abode I'll have a more inspiring kitchen (gas stove, counter space) with the right equipment (I don't even have a full set of cutlery anymore let alone the right cooking utensils). As for shopping, the big chain stores like Cala and Safeway are out of the question. Aside from last Sunday's escapade, I really don't know how to shop at those places anymore. I walk through the aisles amazed by the overabundance of product choices, 99 percent of which I don't eat (anymore).

Rainbow, the local co-op, is too hippie for me, and Trader Joe isn't that convenient for me plus I think it's highly overrated. If the Albertson's of the world offer too many selections, Trader Joe's is the opposite. I don't like shopping where I can't make brand comparisons and they only carry their own stuff. I don't care if it's organic. I can't tell if it's a good bargain if I've got nothing with which to compare it. Plenty of independent produce markets and mom and pop groceries are scattered througout each city, but as luck would have it, none of the one's near my house work for me. (I miss Golden Produce on Church St. for veggies and Courtney's at Duboce and Castro--or is it Divis right there--for the fruit). San Franciscans also have access to farmer's markets on various days of the week, but again, the locations/dates no longer work out for me. So what's a hungry girl to do?

I'll tell you what I do. Weekday breakfast I head over to Arabi at the Rincon Center. Best Arabic food I've found in the SF, hands down. They will do stereotypical, short-order breakfasts (eggs, bacon, etc) in the morning, but I always opt for the lunch items they already have prepared. This can mean anything from hummous and tabouli to brown rice w/ lentils to chickpea salad to fresh fruit salad. Sometimes I'll stop at a corner store on the way to the Bart station before I get downtown and get some cottage cheese and canned pineapple. If I have time at home I'll make breakfast couscous or quinoa or maybe make a yogurt smoothie. Or if I've had time the night before, I'll get some nuts and raisins. Today I had kale & seaweed salad I picked up at Whole Foods the night before and baked chicken w/ red, green, and yellow bell peppers and red onions on top of cooked cabbage from Arabi. Every once in a while I'll get a carrot raisin bran muffin and a cup of lentil soup at Specialties or a peanut butter banana granny smith apple sandwich with fresh cranberry spread ($3.50!). That's breakfast.

I usually follow this up with a cup of Yerba Mate. Right now I've got a Yerba Mate green tea w/ lemon grass that I sweeten with either honey or stevia. If I need a mid-morning snack, I'll either have nuts and/or raisins if I hadn't had any earlier or "fake food"--ie. a Balance Bar or a Cliff Bar or a Larabar or a Luna Bar or a hemp or flaxseed bar or any compressed, bar like food. I hate succumbing to them, but I figure they're not that bad in the scheme of things.

Lunchtime I usually go to Lightening Foods, which has an awesome food bar. Not that expensive and always plenty of vegetable options so I'll load up on the green beans or the zucchini mix or whatever they've got going that day. I'll even eat the brussel sprouts if they have them, even though I hate brussel sprouts; they're good for ya. The other good option is back to the Rincon, either to Arabi or the Indian joint in there. I can't remember the name, but I usually get the honey chicken and spinach dal with naan. There's also a Japanese place that has the best seaweed salad (wakame) I've had. Depending on the time, my mood, etc. I might venture further away and grab a sandwich or soup or salad elsewhere or if I'm satiated from before, I might "skip" lunch. I never consider it skipping because usually I've had enough to keep me satisfied 'til dinner.

Dinner is the big challenge for me. Lately I've either been mooching off Vani and The Ron or scrounging around for something cheap and quick, whether a visit to a taqueria, a cheap sushi joint, or a yogurt w/ nuts and raisins. Every once in a while I'll break down and cook at home just because I crave something home cooked. Last night I picked up a lamb shoulder chop, marinated and broiled it, and devoured it. No side dishes, just meat. Mmm.

Weekends are more of a free for all: skipped meals, bad meals, good mixed with the bad, or sometimes I've a veritable saint of healthy eating. Just depends. I try not to sweat it too much and not to spend too much cash. As it is, eating is clearly one of my biggest expenses. I try to budget for it, but doing so makes me unhappy. Sometimes I think Mpho really means "feed me (something tasty)." But allowing myself to basically eat whatever I want on the weekends, makes it easier to eat healthier during the week, and eating healthy keeps my physical and mental energy up, which gives me the stamina to endure eight hours of sometimes challenging, sometimes mind-numbing work in front of a computer.

Next: What's the healthier option, a glazed donut or a bowl of okra with steam tomatos? It depends. I'll explain why.

Foreign Correspondent: Moscow Missive 1

2005-04-05T21:44:00.000-07:00

[I've got a friend in Russia, whom I'll introduce more properly in the near future. He's a Kentucky boy who's been working for an American company in Mother Russia for a few years. That's all you need to know for now. We'll tell more as he checks in from time to time.]

March 2005

Moscow continues to be a good place to be. I continue to look on in uncomprehending horror at the US. I had about 3 weeks there over Christmas/NewYears, and right now I've got an image in my mind of the I-5 highway, early morning, heavy fog. There are numerous heavy trucks going each direction at high rates of speed, as are innumerable passenger vehicles. Something very bad is about to happen involving immovable objects and kinetic force. And absolutely no one seems the slightest bit apprehensive, cautioned or even, you know, aware. Does that sound dire? Maybe it's not so bad as all that. Personally, I've started keeping a third of my salary in rubles as a hedge against the dollar. That may sound weird, and it's a risk of sorts, but the weak dollar is a huge subject of concern over here, and I'm wondering if I'm being too conservative.
Anyway, that's a snapshot. More later.

—Z

All in a Day's Work

2005-04-03T16:56:00.000-07:00

"'THINK DIFFERENTLY,' he shouted, 'AND YOU WILL CHANGE THE WORLD.'"
No one heard him. ..."A single thought of ours could change the universe. We human beings are small things. Life is a great thing."

--Ben Okri: Dad
The Famished Road

Spring forward, and everything gets crazy.

Sunday, after an intensely fun bike ride, I ended up needing and taking an unplanned nap. One moment I was laying on my bed reading, and the next moment I was waking, completely unsure of whether I had slept for 2 hours or 24. My clock is am/pm challenged and indicated that it was 5:48am, though it seemed it had to be early evening. Because we hadn't yet sprung foward, it was impossible to tell from the light. I just didn't know if it was still, Saturday or if I'd pulled a modest Rip Van Winkle and slept through my Sunday. I ended up having to call Six to find out what day it was and was relieved to find I still had a Saturday night and entire Sunday to enjoy.

However, I woke up Sunday searching frantically for that lost hour. I have the feeling it won't turn up until October. Meanwhile what an odd Sunday it turned out to be. First I got simultaenous drop in visits by PBoss, Amber, and The Ron. I clearly wasn't expecting company, which was most apparent by the dirty socks and running clothes strewn around the room. We discussed the revamping of our band amidst a pile of panties and an empty pizza box. I felt like I was in a dorm room instead of my humble studio.

When the impromptu meeting was over, The Ron and I went grocery shopping at the 23rd and S. Van Ness Cala. What a nightmare that turned out to be. Far be it from me to be politically correct at all times, so I'll go ahead it say it: that store is ghetto. In fact, it's super ghetto. The prices are higher than at any local corner store and more importantly there's no visible management. When I noticed that the cheese was rotting on one shelf because that part of the refrigerator section wasn't working, I told a passing cashier who shrugged and suggested that it was defrosting. I asked her if it's supposed to defrost until the feta turns brown.

The entire time I grumbled and moaned, driving The Ron as crazy as I felt as we endured a three-year-old motor mouth who seemed to be standing next to me wherever I went. She was cute, and she was polite, asking her dad for this and that and thanking him profusely as she commented "oh this is great because it's my favorite and it tastes so good and i haven't had it in a long time because last time mom didn't buy it because she said that we had some at home but we didn't and she didn't believe me because she forgot but i don't think that she didn't want me to have it so thank you daddy, thank you daddy, thank you!!!!" Three aisles later I looked at The Ron and said, "just a glimpse of your future." His response: "fuck you." Oh it was insane.

But the real insanity began when I turned the corner and caught a customer shoving about $200 worth of meat into a rolling suitcase. Talk about cojones. Now, here's a clear cut example of not knowing what you would do in a given situation until you're in it. Had I been asked a hypothetical "you see a customer stealing at the grocery store--what do you do?" I would have said that if it was something little, like a candy bar, I'd ignore it. A suitcase full? I'd report it to the store, then I'd go back to my own business."

Well, I started out meeting my own prediction. For a moment I thought the guy had to work there because it was so blatant, but it didn't make any sense, and he definitely got a little frantic when he saw me see him. I immediately abandoned my cart and headed towards the front of the store, where I ran into a cashier going to her register. Careful not to draw unnecessary attention, I sidled up to her and said, "I think there's a customer stealing a lot of food." She merely kept walking. I thought maybe hadn't heard me so I repeated myself, adding, "he's right behind me." She laughed, shrugged her shoulders, and went to her register. He walked out carting his stash behind him. Incredulous, I said, "So you don't care." She shrugged again and asked what she could do. The store doesn't have any security, and there were no male personnel in the store--and besides, "he comes in here all the time. He came and stole food yesterday." It was at that point that something in me snapped. Without giving it a second thought, I left the store without telling The Ron. I saw the culprit strolling down S. Van Ness towards 24th, and I did what any (ab)normal person might do: I dialed 911.

Let's pause for a moment. Normal or abnormal? If the store clerks weren't going to be proactive, was it up to me to do so, or should I have left well enough alone? I ask because the people who've heard this story live from my lips have fallen into two camps: those who think I'm crazy/overreacted/endangered myself and those who think I was "brave" but still think I went above and beyond. My own feeling falls somewhere between the two extremes. I'm not a heroine, that's for sure. But I am surprised both by the lengths to which I went and by the fact that my reaction wouldn't be universal--even though before it happened, I would have considered it to be "above and beyond."

What happened was that I saw the guy across the street, so I hid behind a truck and called 911. They asked for a description, so I told them what he was wearing, his height, hair color, described the 'case, etc. Then he started walking again, so I followed him on the other side of the street. He turned down 24th; I crossed against traffic and stayed about half a block behind him. He met up with a woman, and they continued walking leisurely until he happened to turn around. When he saw me, the woman automatically split, and he crossed the street again. I stayed on my side of the street and actually ended up walking past him so as not to panic him. About half a block later, I stopped and saw him step out of a doorway--with different clothes on. That's when the chase began in earnest. He started walking faster and faster and was quickly at a run. Me, too, except the entire time I was on the phone with the cops. Telling them which streets we were on and headed towards. The chase broke into a full out sprint; meanwhile I was yelling at the cops to hurry up. We dashed across Cesaer Chavez and down a side street. He rounded the corner, and so did I, just seconds later . . . but he was gone. 30 seconds later the cops came rolling up, wanting to know where he was. I was so disgusted, all I could say was "Maaaan." They shrugged their shoulders.

The only thing that made me happy in that moment was the realization that I wasn't out of breath at all. Not too shabby. That and the fact that I'd drank a yogurt at the store that I hadn't paid for since I abandoned my cart. I mean goddamn it, this world isn't right. How freakin' annoying. I'm about to stand in line with my rotten cheese, and this asshole gets a free ride everyday? The Ron asked me why the cashiers should care. I told him that even though they don't own the store, they also have to spend 6 or 8 or 10 hours a day making 8 or 10 dollars an hour. Everybody should care. I don't think I overreacted even though my reaction was much stronger than I would have expected of myself.

So that was my adventure. The rest of the day had no chance of topping that. And I'm still mad at the cops who said they'd put two cruisers in the area. I know it wasn't a life threatening crime, but if a citizen is gonna go the lengths I did, they should fuckin' nail it. And the cashiers suck, too, because they should call the cops the moment that guy sets foot in that store. It makes me wonder if they're in cahoots. Well, that's bullshit. That's the first and last time I set foot in that store--without a suitcase. Free food down at Cala.

But more importantly, what does it say about us culturally, that most of us would have stopped at reporting it if even that? Or is it simply that we don't know what we'd really do? In either case, I think we need to ingrain it in ourselves that the most normal response is to do what I did. Not because what I did was great but because there are a lot of unfair things in this world, and whenever we see a chance to rectify it we should. I'm not talking vigilante justice or anything like that. But the cops, the cashiers, the culprits, need to know we care. Maybe instead of giving chase I should have shouted an pointed to the guy in the store and let other customers get involved. But would they have? I hope so, though if I were in the store and one customer was denouncing another, I think I'd just shrug my shoulders and move on the next aisle. But the thing is, it's not any different than signing a petition or waving a sign during a march; we've got plenty of signers and wavers in this city, myself among them. Yet I see stupid little petty crimes all the time--I'm sure we all do--and nobody does anything, I suppose because it seems futile. Well, when that's the stance we take, all that happens is we end up with overdeveloped shoulders from constant shrugging, and nothing changes.

The Passing of Pope John Paul II

2005-04-02T14:17:00.000-08:00

This is the image I love best. Over the years and particularly in the past few weeks I have opined publically my cynicisms about the Pope, but I have been greatly saddened by his passing. I am not a Catholic, so the whyfores and wherefores and whofores of this man were lost in my memory banks. I must have been in the 5th grade when he ascended to papal greatness, as it were. I have vague memories of being excited about it but only because the world was excited. I know I didn't understand anything beyond that and maybe I still don't.

Last night I sat at Roro and Lala's. The television showed an endless stream of live and archived footage about the Vatican, this Pope's historical and cultural contributions, and his current condition. Even if you missed it all, I'm sure it's easy to imagine. We watched intermitently, talking about other things when the drone became too stressful. Every once in a while a soundbyte would catch my attention or Roro would say something that would dislodge items that had been lost in my head for 27 years. "Born Karol Jozef Wojtyla ... the first non-Italian in 455 years." A small part of me murmered "oh yah...." Roro mentioned the previous Pope and how he had died after a month. I felt disoriented; I had no recollection of that. Then slowly it came back to me. Yes, his name was Pope John Paul, and this new guy chose the name John Paul II, and I, a ten-year-old, had thought that very noble. It had made me feel warm and fuzzy about him. I had loved the Pope with my decade-old heart.

So the night continued, the reports, the timelines, the failed attempts by newcasters not to appear opportunistic about having a guaranteed large-scale viewership for the evening. They continued with shots of people crying, comments by average Joes saying that losing him would be like losing his or her own father. Experts drone and speculated. People prayed for the Pope in hope that he might not suffer too much. I couldn't relate to much of it other than that certainly one always hopes for no suffering. It made me sad that he was laying there, knowing that he would die sooner rather than later. I thought of my mom and how she must have known that she was dying even if the rest of us were in denial. I thought about how I'm glad that they will meet. Isn't that odd? At the time it was a perfectly sensical thought—the Pope will die and at some point my mother will get to meet him and oh how she'll like that.

I lost myself in myself as I had more and more strange thoughts. I tried to imagine the life of someone whose destiny will lead them to be a spiritual leader of such reknowned stature. Or what it would like for his parents or childhood friends. I thought about all the irreverent comments I've made about the Pope, and I stand by them because my comments were not about the man who is the Pope, but the Pope who is a man. Think about the power with which we imbue certain roles as well as the people in them. If their power comes from us then aren't we really the powerful ones? Or is it that we give up so much of it that we leave ourselves none?

One thing I never forgot was the reaction when Sinead O'Connor tore the picture of the Pope on Saturday Night Live. I didn't understand why it was so troublesome and had such bad repercussions. I wouldn't have done it but to me it was just a picture. It wasn't like she shot him. The symbolic gesture was nothing more than that to me, but last night, when I realized that he really would die, I began to understand. The world, including the non-Catholic one, has lost a great spiritual leader. It doesn't matter if you or I agreed with his actions or stances or that for which he stood. Genuine spiritual leaders speak for all of us regardless of class, color, or creed. They speak to the one thing that we all have in common, even if we're athiests. For better or worse, we're all human, which means that ideally we share a humanity.

I always liked my impression of the man who was John Paul II. I will continue to point the finger and have my opinions about the Pope just as I do for presidents and princes, monks and ministers, supervisors and sultans, judges and the judged. We'll have a new Pope soon. He won't be Asian or Latino or Black nor will he be a woman, but he will be somebody. He will lead and many will follow. God bless the future and the past. Amen.