Again, I'm writing a novel

I'm finally forcing myself into enough of a self-disciplinary mode to actually work on a novel. It's one of my more emotionally difficult ones (they just seem to get more difficult as time and experience collects), so, wish my luck (just as I am wishing myself luck).

I am also trying to keep this in mind today:

"I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship." -- Louisa May Alcott

Fear, be gone ...

I am crap at updating

I realize the subject line is a frequent revelation that is also frequently followed by the revelation that I must write creatively more, or I'm going to lose all muscle tone. My exposure to bad internet writing and other nonsense is too great, and I fear that my own skills are in danger of declining.

Plus, I'm feeling rather competitive lately ... in a good way.

My next point of focus is going to be updating my own website, which means I have to actually sit down and revise my resume, figure out a bio for myself, etc. Stay tuned ...

I feel like writing a bad movie review today. But I'm not sure I can endure the bad movie. I watched Fast Five the other day, and, while the end sequence depicting two small sportscars pulling a giant bank vault through the streets that ended up ruining half of Rio was quite impressive on the terrible scale, I'm aware that a lot has already been said on the subject by others who are possibly funnier.

Also, Dear Diary, Today I feel nervous and slightly sad. And I hope it amounts to nothing but my own imagination.

something about being a grown-up ...

In an attempt to re-jump-start my personal blogging (and in preparation for my updated website, which will have a professionally-focused blog I update hopefully much more regularly), I'm going to attempt a real thought.

I had a thought the other day that was too long for a Facebook status message update or a tweet (I don't even want to mention how painful the fact that I've embraced both those technologies as legitimate realities is for me) about what it feels like to finally start coming out of financial darkness. What I came up with is that I'm feeling pretty grateful to be experiencing the inconveniences of grown-upitude again, the biggest one being that when you can pay all your bills, you start to realize that all of them are due at totally different times, meaning you essentially feel like you are always paying bills. Some people might cite this truth as a frustration that makes life difficult. But I am enjoying it with an overwhelming sense of relief that I am finally not living with the stomach knot that is having to hand pick and choose who you piss off by not paying them what they are owed.

More on hopefully much more interesting topics later ...

rare moment

I'm having a rare moment (rare lately anyway) where I feel the need to make a commitment to my need to change my patterns of writing and doing creatively. I've been a little bit focused on money-making writing work lately (aka, semi-soul-sucking, or at least not directly contributing to my soul-feeding, purpose-of-life work). And I am itching for the music life again (and the worded life that is my own words written for the sake of my own thoughts and feelings and not to report on something already in existence).

I blame Spotify for this "compelling" second of expression. And, for some reason, tonight, this itchy feeling was sparked by Natasha Bedingfield's album Strip Me. (I am a closet Bedingfield fan, and "All I Need" got me all worked up, as did "Little Too Much." The second song is sticking for no particular reason, since it's really just a dagger in my sad little heart because I'm pretty sure I'm going to be eternally lovelorn/single ... but maybe that's to give me writing material. If other people knew how much I loved "mainstream" pop people like Bedingfield and also Pink, I would probably be shot ... but what can I say? I love to write a good pop song more than I love tShow allo write just about any other thing.)

Oh, and my website is under construction ("for realsies" this time). I'm going to really get that sucker going. I even have webmail now. If you are reading, and you can guess what it is (julia@ the rest of what I just said), then feel free to quench my loneliness by writing me. There will be a blog again eventually there. It will be slightly more "professional" than this one, but is still part of my never-ending quest to be that rare very genuine person whose private and public lives match. We'll see ...

And, I leave you with this ditty, that is oddly feeling like the current soundtrack to my current decade-long (and counting) movie "New York Career Girl Seemingly Trying Endlessly and Fruitlessly to Find the Balance between Love and Life-Passion Ecstasy:"



p.s. Thank you to all the people and things that have continued to remind me what it feels like to fail. Without you, none of my words (and none of the write-worthy, song-worthy points of my life) would exist.

Banner Day

Yesterday was sort of a banner day. I actually finished a chapter of my essay book. And it was actually semi funny (though, as I've now hyper-critically edited it 300 times already, it feels less laugh-out-loud to me than the first few times I read it).

Unfortunately, I think I may have to scrap a couple essays I've written already. They don't fit in with the overall book and make me very annoyed with myself. And I don't think there's anything salvageable in any of them, so they're not worth rewriting.

If I can finish this effer by July, I will be one happy writer. My goal is about 18 different short-ish essays.

Of course, things tend to not work out as planned when I'm involved, so I'm trying to be as rigid as possible while still remaining flexible when goals are concerned.

This entry was officially less engaging and significantly more annoying than the worst of the chapters I'm garbage-canning.

Reading Breeds Writing ... Breeds Loneliness

I woke up four times last night with new sentences for a chapter in my book of personal essays swimming in my head and was actually compelled to write them down. Thanks, Kindle, for making me read again, because this is what happens: I start working when I sleep again, which is ideal when I have too much work to do while I'm awake to get everything done.

Last night, I finally finished Sloane Crosley's second book How Did You Get This Number. It was less raucously, unabashedly, un-sadly funny than the first, but I still laughed out loud repeatedly. However, the last chapter about a lengthy, deceitful and in the end, horribly lonely-making relationship (that started over whiskey and a shared brain, as all my big and small ones have since I moved to this horribly lovelorn city) made my heart hurt. And, yes, I cried.

The last time a book made me cry was maybe one of the Anne of Green Gables books (Anne of Avonlea, to be exact, I think), and it was out of happiness that Gilbert and Anne got together. This one made me cry because I related on such a deep level, and it confirmed the feeling I was having that I hadn't been able to put my finger on until the last few pages of the book: when you write for a living -- particularly when you're over-analytical, over-psychological when it comes to analyzing other humans and your experiences, which makes for the best writing anyway -- you may just be destined for a sad and lonely existence. Thankfully, that existence might be extremely funny. But it will be so unspeakably sad at times that you won't want to leave your house. And when you are particularly over-diligent and really, really serious about your craft, you might not even notice you're creating your own loneliness, or that it's necessary to feel it in order for you to spend the hours upon hours of inside time toiling to produce some brief moments of human beauty. There was a sadness and a heaviness about her book, and I know it well. It often makes me uncomfortable because I think if I met myself on the street in my deepest woe-is-me, crying-my-eyes-out (or even just so-numb-I-no-longer-have-any-eyes-to-cry-out) moments, I would be the most unlikable character I'd ever read. I would make myself uncomfortable.

And as much as, when life and love lets me down (and I don't think I can do it ever, ever again, because "this time" was as close as I can ever hope to get [cue my "Island of Almost Boyfriends" song, because they just keep getting closer and closer to being real and not "almost," to the point where sometimes I don't think they could possibly get any closer and that it must just be me and my own problems that are keeping me alone]), I want to give it all up and stay inside forever, I know the following truth she writes:

"One mathematically insignificant day, you stop hoping for happiness and become actually happy. Okay, on occasion, you do worry about yourself. You worry about what this experience has tapped into. What will be left of it when the surface area shrinks? How will you make sense of it after the compulsion to have others make sense of it for you has faded? There is one thing you know for sure, one fact that never fails to comfort you the worst day of your life wasn't in there, in that mess. And it will do you good to remember the best day of your life wasn't in there, either. But another person brought you closer to those borders than you had been, and maybe that's not such a bad thing."

so much for motivation ...

I've been having a hell of a time lately getting started on things (and finishing things). And, of course, once I sit down to do something, it's absolutely no problem (and I know this, thanks to decades of empirical proof). I'm determined to cross everything off my to-do list by Sunday at the latest. And that likely means I'm going to have to lock myself in my apartment until I'm forced to make things happen.

Sometimes, I wish computers hadn't been invented, and all I had was a typewriter. I think everything would be a lot easier.

reKindle

It is true: The joy of reading is enhanced by the Kindle (and perhaps by e-readers in general. I know, I know, most are not as good as the iPad, but, I don't need to go that far yet!). Dammit. I was hoping it was just all hype.

Also, I am starting to suspect that the joy of writing (when reading good and not trashy stuff) will be positively affected.

Stay tuned ...

Also, I will confess, I just finished reading two trashy mysteries -- something from the "Liv Bergen" series. Sandra Brannan is certainly not Shakespeare -- and she uses some crappy/novice writing conventions (mostly attached to melodramatic character self description and observation) as well as not-that-surprising twists -- but all in all, I ate her stuff up like cupcakes. It's nice to have a break from The Brainy sometimes.

Lost Ideas

You know you've been doing too much writing for online purposes (and not enough writing for "real life" purposes) when you start to have typos when you think of words in your head. My most recent typo was "writer's blog" instead of "writer's block."

I don't really believe in writer's block, frankly (with writing, as with all disciplines -- even the creative kinds -- the theory of "use it or lose it" holds true). I do believe that I've been blocked from writing down even the crap that I think up (and it's in the crap that we find ideas).

I'm hoping today trash breeds treasure, in all life areas.

Less than Banner Days ...

That would be the description of the past few days, and possibly into the future. I went for cheesy but kind of delicious Mexican last night with an old college friend I haven't seen in 12 years, so that was kind of fun. It's always weird to see people from your history enter into your present and future element and realize how much different (yet how much the same) you are from the last time they were a part of your universe.

I have some other thoughts that are less pleasant, but I'm not going to "Hang in There, Kitty"/"Dear Diary" journal.

Now that I've finished my work work for the day, I'm going to get cracking on the real, near-and-dear writing.

In pop culture news, I think I've become hooked on The Voice. I can't get Xenia's rendition of "Price Tag" out of my head, and I felt myself being intensely emotionally affected by a Fergie song ("Big Girls Don't Cry"). In my defense with the second point, I blame it on some other heartbreaking events that happened this weekend that had nothing to do with it.

And I'm sure you thought you had problems ...

Better Days

I've been gone so long. I really need to get better at this.

On this week's docket is to do some serious work on my books. I need to stop the distractions and just get it done. If I focused like I used to focus, I could be finished with at least one of my many-started ideas in just a few weeks (or less).

Also on my list is to get back into performing. It will take my mind off some of the unpleasantness that has been going on lately and get me out more without having to squander a lot of dollars.

Hopefully I'll be more prolific about this in both quality of thought and length of post next time.

I Wish I Had an Evil Twin

Tuesday was a day of very weird events that led me to believe maybe I have an evil twin who is causing a fair amount of mischief. The following things happened:

1. I got a strange call at 8:30 a.m. from Diana at the CT Department of Environmental Protection Boating Division, and she left a message insisting I had called her to ask about boating licenses (this is particularly funny, because my friend Emily and I joke regularly about going on a yachting double date, complete with couples boating outfits, should I ever meet someone that sticks around for more than 5 minutes).

2. I got a bunch of catalogues for wedding registries in the mail (does someone know something I don't?).

3. I had an "epiphany moment" that produced a good idea for a section in one of my novels, and when I went to work on it, I discovered I'd written the very section I had been imagining (but no more than a month ago, since it was based on something that happened to me no longer ago than that).

Oddly enough, last weekend (before any of this happened) I had a dream I was living in Paris in a tiny apartment and was renting out part of it to a pair of middle-aged male twins (one was evil/terrorist/serial killer/etc., who wore a lot of denim shirts with jeans, incidentally ... what's more evil than that?) . There were more details to that. However, I definitely wish I had an evil twin, and that that evil twin did more interesting things to spice up my life than just signing up for wedding registries, planning boating trips in CT and writing decent sections of my books.

furious motivation

I labeled this with the "procrastination" tag, but I'm not even sure what I'm procrastinating (or more accurately which THING I'm procrastinating). Yes, I've done some work in the past couple weeks to make headway on things that could publish, but no I have nothing concrete that I'm comfortable with to show for my efforts. I have so many simultaneous writing projects going at this point, many of which are completely on my own internal deadlines, because no one has actually "commissioned" (is that what you call it in 2011?) me to do them. However, I'd really like to finish something on my personal project list, and I'm pulling for myself this week. Maybe I'll be able to post a snippet if I can actually get off my ass ... or stay on my ass, as the case may be.

I need to get back to the writing opus-related proliferation of my past.

here comes the rain

It is weeks like this when I wish I had my gym membership back. I finally am back into the feeling that I can run every day (probably as of about yesterday), and here it is, seven days straight of a pouring-down rain forecast. And, it's not just bogus, since it is actually pouring down rain right now. I'm no wimp when it comes to raininess, and I'm perfectly happy to run in it, but when it's raining so hard it's like running underwater in your bath tub, that's probably taking it too far.

Plus, when you can't afford a gym membership, you certainly can't afford running rain gear (and why would it be worth it, since the blazing hot summer is coming right around the corner)?

Let's hope this week turns out more productive in other areas, even if I'm semi home-bound.

Romance, Jesse Ventura Style

So, as slightly alluded to I think in recent writings, I'm going through a little waiting game right now in the romance/love interest area. And thankfully, I can discuss it a little bit because I've kind of discovered I can't mess this one up by voicing anything about it out loud (not that my superstitions previously about love life disclosure have been right either). Because I'm involved in a momentarily star-crossed (but I trust not forever hopelessly star-crossed, because it just doesn't feel like it) situation, I today expressed to the co-entangled, writerly that I am, that at the very least all this waiting and subsequent love lettering could produce a nice both-ways romantic letter-based opus a la Sartre/de Beauvoir. However, it would decidedly be modernized with plenty of Jesse Ventura and Steve Guttenberg references and a fair number of bad specially-effected explosions.

That's about it for now. It wouldn't be my life story if there weren't a fair amount of existential suffering, so this is just how I roll.

Limbo

That title pretty much describes the very unrequited "on-the-brink" feeling I've been experiencing the past month or so. I'm trying to see this test of patience as just something I needed to help me appreciate everything when it hits (patience is not my strong suit, I will admit), but it's hard not to be disappointed that things seem to be at a standstill. I think I understand the true meaning of the term "dying in the friendship of God but not being allowed to enter heaven," even though I in no way believe in that crap (not being Catholic or particularly religious). On a philosophical level, I think the past decade of my life has probably been a little bit limbo-riffic though -- lots of not-quite failures in love, life and career and seemingly no real significant forward movement in any one area (though I know if I look at it much more objectively, this description of my life is hardly true).

This "Dear Diary" moment was brought to you by the grave displeasure of waiting.

Busy and Important

I'm noticing again that I'm encountering people again who are very "busy and important" about the way they organize their time with me. I start to feel like I'm being selfish when I demand a certain level of attention and care be paid to me by friends and others that engage in relationships with me ... but then I realize that's not at all too much to expect, and I start to try to find ways to make sure others know my demands. Unfortunately, there's really no easy way; grabbing the attention of the "busy and important" can be an uphill, losing battle.

I'm fortunate enough to have more than one person I can count on in my life to NEVER be too busy for me (and I realize that I reciprocate this action when people who deserve it are involved). I can count on one hand the people that will make time for me if I need them (and that do make time for me WHENEVER I need them). And these 3 or 4 are quite enough, thank you very much. Some people like to collect friends like they are trading cards or vinyl (and brag about how many friends they have). Honestly, if you are one of these people, I know, being a person who very much emotionally engages in my own life and truly cares about the people I most trust and love that you can't possibly have deep relationships with all these "friends." And I also know there's a distinct difference between "friends" and "acquaintances." I'm not willing to trade close friends for non-close ones (also frequently known, especially in this city, as "drinking buddies").

A lovely phone call from one of my very best friends of my life whom I have known for over 15 years now and who has been there in a heartbeat for me during some horrible times (and when I didn't even ask her to be there) reminded me what real friends are and really helped me categorize some of my more recent "acquisitions" (and also realize what's wrong with some of the ones that are making me unhappy at the moment).

The end message is pretty simple: Make some time for me, and you'll be worthy of me making some time for you ... and probably then some.

Monday

This is possibly the worst/most boring title for a blog post ever. But I've been a little lacking in things to say lately. I did a little work on a few of my books this past weekend, but I feel like it was a pretty lackluster effort. And now, it's Monday, and here I am with a boring update very befitting of Monday. You're welcome?

getting out

I realize that it's been quite a few years of frugal living. Unfortunately, that mostly has to continue, but I'm finding myself lacking in the observation department the past few months. You know you need to get out more when you're a writer that mostly observes/dissects the human psyche and your nighttime/social life observational opportunities happen about 3-4 weeks apart.

A friend recently expressed concern that I was online all the time. She had come to believe I was a shut-in and needed some sort of intervention. Of course, I leave my house frequently to run errands, get food, go running (5-6 times per week lately in fact) and generally walk around. Her assumption that because I work hard it means I am a social deviant was actually beyond annoying to me. She's clearly not paying attention ... or she has a much different work ethic (not that she doesn't work hard ... it's probably more a slight difference in life goals).

I'm not sure what I'm going to do about this yet, but I think I just have to make the most of the times I am in the presence of ridiculousness (aka, out at night, on a weekend or a weekday ... there's plenty of ridiculousness to be had around these parts regardless of time of night). It shouldn't be too hard to find some funny trouble, since some seems to find me every time I step out my front door.

apocalyptic events

There are definitely things brewing right now in my life, and I'm not even close to disappointed by them. However, it's not time yet to write about most of the positive revolution that is percolating. Maybe it's a fear of jinxing, maybe it's just that I'm growing up and learning the art of enjoying the happiness that can come from just having a lot of good things on the brink of happening. There's a certain degree of faith in that process, and I think my semi-abandonment of more organized spirituality (though I've certainly retained a deep connection to the "supernatural") has made me forget what that's all about. Some events can't be rushed. Oh, how we keep growing, sometimes in spite of our best intentions.

I came across a very fitting quote last week. I was actually just looking for something about patience, because mine was wearing thin. I'm not really one to be reverently inspired by random quotes outside the context of a larger literary work, song or treatise (or force other people to gain inspiration from them), but this one from American theologian, editor extraordinaire Lyman Abbot struck me:

"Patience is passion tamed."

It seems simple enough. And, it made me realize that I've been looking for more passion when my problem was too much passion and not enough respect for the time needed to enjoy the results of having so much of it. And, I've recently come into contact with some things and people (or perhaps one remarkably special person) who is going to teach me a lot about this part of me and a lot about how to stop rushing the life excitement I always think I'm waiting for, but that is actually in the process of happening as I type and breathe. And here I've been waiting for the world to explode, when everything I want is in the process of happening right now.

Here are some things I'm excited about:

1. I have three music reviews coming out in Bitch magazine very shortly. It will be my first time seeing myself in physical print with a byline, and I'm probably a little bit too excited about that. I hope I can get used to a lot of it in the future, or perhaps I should say, "I have faith I will get used to a lot of it in the future."

2. Job things are happening. I'm just waiting for a few things to finalize, and I think this dry spell will finally pass. I'm trying to retain enthusiasm without getting too enthusiastic in a way that will ruin what I need to do to keep working hard.

3. Previously mentioned special person expedite shipped what I'm expecting will be a funny bad movie, and is oddly apocalyptically related. I'm pretty sure it (and perhaps we) are going to blow up the world (or at least my world). I'm irrationally excited to see it and spend time with someone that seems to legitimately appreciate and even adore my flaws and stupidity as much as some of my good traits:



Stay tuned. Change is happening ... right now ...

Don't bother me ... I'm spinstering!

For the first time in my long history of watching Antiques Road Show in the privacy of my own home, I experienced a moment of acute awareness about my own penchant for behaving like an elderly person, and it's given me a pretty good chapter topic for my essay book. The gist of it I confessed to a certain special someone that I happened to be talking to while it was happening (and the approximate time of the admission was around the early hour of 8:15 p.m.):

"I just want you to take in this moment, because it will never be more spinstery than this (God, I hope not): I am on the couch eating a cookie in my pajamas while watching some woman get her doilies appraised."

I decided I'm going to call this practice (and I might also remind you, I have a cat) "spinstering." So, you heard it here, and it's the new "it" word. I'm pretty sure if it were 1984, it would be deemed a "Sniglet."

Incidentally, that woman's doilies appraised for $70,000. So, if you were having sex or even just making out with someone at that very same moment, you can just eat your cash-poor heart out!

Rip-Off Distraction

I think I'm starting to understand Lady Gaga's madness, at least when it comes to trying to make as much of a spectacle of herself as possible. She's just trying to distract us from the fact that she's re-writing all of Madonna's old hits and hoping no one will notice. Some of them were created before she was born, I suppose, so it's almost as if it never happened. It was in that creatively dormant time "B.G."

Alejandro = La Isla Bonita
I Was Born This Way = Express Yourself

I have no more deep thoughts on this today, but I'd like to make a request for Cherish or This is Not a Love Song. I always kind of liked those two. And in the case of the latter, be careful. Prince gets a little litigious when it comes to his intellectual property.

Oh Rachmaninoff my Rachmaninoff

Last Wednesday a dear person took me to see the St. Petersburg Philharmonic at Carnegie Hall. On the program was just about my favorite piano piece of all time, Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2. As I sat in a box, surrounded by what felt like old New York, I realized how lucky I've been to live in this fair city and randomly get to enjoy things like this courtesy of generous people that I would never meet if I didn't continue to take huge risks in my life.

blocked subjects

Lately, I can't seem to think of any interesting subjects to write about. And for someone that is a very definite over observer, this fact is frustrating me to no end. I can describe events and even people to others in a way that makes them certain when they encounter them in their own lives that these things are exactly what I was describing. Someone recently told me, "You make everything fascinating" (though I would say that might be a little bit of an exaggeration). I guess I've been a little bored with describing the "mundane" lately. And, the not mundane that's happening in my life is attached to some writing/communication paralysis. Either that or I don't want to incriminate any of the people involved (yet) until I see where some situations are going to take me. Sometimes I feel like if I write about things before they've had a chance to fully play out/settle in I might manipulate outcomes. Is that the definition of a writing God complex? If so, it's a good thing I'm not a surgeon ...

sleep walking

I don't think I could string together a coherent sentence if I tried. I was watching TV tonight at a friend's house and found the only comments I could muster were mono-syllabic observations (sometimes just calling out names of objects) of things I was seeing on the screen. I am currently the poster girl for what lack of sleep can do to a person on all levels. I'm glad to report that most of the "difficulties/struggles" I have to report these days (at least those that are not going to be short lived) are what I'm going to call "happy people problems." The happy people problems are also the cause of my insomnia (which is less insomnia and voluntary staying awakeness). Sometimes it's pretty nice to be blindsided. Stay tuned ... Also, work is picking up at an alarming pace. However, I'm realizing there's always time for the important things.

schmupdate

It's been a roller coaster of a week, and I've been a bit too overwhelmed by it to update (plus, I felt an "obligation to classiness" that prevented me from fully disclosing what was happening with job-type things this week). I had a whole plan for an epic saga describing an event in my work life that imploded onto itself, but that whole thing managed to right itself in about 12 hours flat.

I'm feeling rather inspired to write something thematic soon (as well as a song, but that's not really relevant/translatable in this forum), so I suppose stay tuned ... ?

the word is "precocious"

The other phrase is "terrible at keeping up with this blogging thing." I don't even have any good excuse, and this is going to be quick as I get back into the swing of creativity (which, thankfully, has been majorly kicked in the seat of the pants by the things that inspired the theme of this entry).

I just got back from Chicago Saturday, which was a trip that was a mixture of keeping up with my NYC job(s), hanging out with my dad ... and going through some of the many, many boxes my pack rat mother saved that contained all memories and accomplishments from my childhood. And that's not a daunting task, right? What I discovered was that I clearly had a psychological problem growing up: I could not stop writing stories. There were thousands of pieces of stories (and an entire 200-page book I don't even remember writing that I apparently wrote in 5th grade) crammed into everything imaginable.

My favorite find can act as the punchline to this entry: A story I entered into a writing contest in kindergarten (likely my first contest ... and incidentally, likely my first contest winner) about two dogs who were friends. They went to the park for the day and played, then went over to each others' houses and played. It was really nothing special. However, the dogs' names made me fall in love with a 5-year old me and oddly fall in love with writing all over again (and inspired me to return to the time when I knew I was going to be a writer. And I will let that now motivate me to kick it into high gear, "for realsies" this time).

Wait for it ...

"Muffin" and "Barky."

Can you get a basket with that baseball in the field zone?

I'm currently working on a news story about March Madness and how it affects workplace productivity. Though I am not completely clueless about the rules, etc. of basketball, I realize I know absolutely nothing about college basketball, and it thus makes me overly concerned about how I will present it in public forum.

I feel like the kind of person that would be watching a game (or is it a "match"? Don't worry ... I know it's not) and cheer excitedly, "Yay! They scored a basket in the end goal!" or "They hit a home run into the basket in the field zone! They're going to the Super Series for SURE!"

I dream of covered-up anxiety

Last night (or this morning -- it's always hard to tell), I dreamed I either witnessed or abetted a murder. I was hiding out in motel room with my co-conspirator (whom I didn't know), preparing to leave the country (presumably for Mexico or Canada, though I feel like it may have been Switzerland). The details of the murder were unclear, and the dream basically started in medias res, after the crime had been committed. I had the foul feeling of murder without having to see the violence. The cops showed up, and we engaged in a ridiculously low-speed car chase in a tiny topless car in which we could barely fit our backpacks (that we had to pack in 30 seconds when we heard the police coming to the hotel, which I believe was in Vegas). What's funny is, I dream often of this tiny car (though usually, it's my secret car that I keep in a closet in my apartment) and this hotel (though I'm usually there with my former swim team ... or Robert Loggia and Bob Saget [though that was only once]).

So, what does this mean? My favorite, albeit not very well-maintained dream site says,

"To dream that you have committed a murder, indicates that you are putting an end to an old habit and a former way of thinking. This could also refer to an end to an addiction. Alternatively, the dream indicates that you have some repressed aggression or rage at yourself or at someone.

To dream that you witness a murder, indicates deep-seated anger towards somebody. Consider how the victim represents aspects of yourself that you want to destroy or eliminate."

So, I suppose the murder part would be cross between the first two, since I'm not completely sure I actually did any of the killing.

And the tiny car part? I don't know.

However, I did find out something potentially interesting about my "disappearing characters" dream from the other night:

"To dream that people or objects are disappearing right before your eyes, signify your anxieties and insecurities over the notion that loved ones might disappear out of your life. You feel that you cannot depend on anyone and that you will end up alone. You need to work on your self-image and self-esteem."

Perhaps a little too deep for me. More Bob Saget, please!

brain trust

I'm currently trying to work on my ability to trust people, but at the moment I'm struggling with it. I realize that I automatically don't trust those that claim they are incapable of telling a lie. A case of protesting too much? That's my feeling. It could also be that my brain relives past experiences and feels uncomfortable waiting out situations that need a little more marinating. I just recently proved that patience and letting someone else evaluate a situation in peace brings that person back (when it's the right thing ... at least, I hope and feel like it's the right thing). So, why am I complaining? I can't tell if it's actually my head/reality or something less rational that's making me uneasy.

Un-deep thoughts are crap today. There may be better things to talk about later (let's hope) ...

dreams of impoverished bliss

Last night I dreamed I met a new man friend who took me home to meet his wife and nine kids. I'm pretty sure he looked like Aaron Eckhardt, but he was vaguely someone else from my life that I can't quite put my finger on. They lived in a tiny house where the master bedroom was sunk deep in the ground (presumably it had at one point been a family room) and was the center of the home, along with the kitchen/dining room. The family insisted I eat dinner with them, which was tacos made of different types of lunch meat and very bland bean salad. I knew they had almost no money, but they talked about it like it was funny, and they didn't seem to care. The generosity was palpable. They ate on two tables, with the oldest kids eating at the table with the parents' in the dining room, and the younger ones (and me) eating at a small folding table, and they were all watching some American Idol-like game show and singing along.

I realized I had my own room, which was essentially the size of the twin bed that was in it. And a few of my friends from college and my female next-door neighbor were also staying there. It was also on a larger property that was an Irish wedding bar (no, there is probably no such thing in real life, but it made sense to me in the dream). Right after dinner as the sun was setting, we were all invited outside to join briefly in the reception of a wedding that was going on there in the courtyard, and we did some line dance to which we magically all knew the steps and that made you feel like you were levitating. Despite the fact that everyone had a place to sleep, we all curled up in the master bedroom together to watch a movie (I had introduced them to my iPhone's ability to play Netflix, and we figured out how to connect it to their tiny television). I couldn't keep my eyes open and was so comfortable with these strange people that I fell fast asleep next to my new male friend (as we were lying there, we were also talking about writing, etc., and he was mentioning being displeased that his liberal arts degree brought him nothing but a minimum wage job on a local construction site). When I woke up, everyone was in a rush to get out of the house (and use the one bathroom). In my search for the bathroom, I realized family members seemed to be just disappearing one at a time, which I chalked up to them leaving for school and work. But then, as I was getting into an argument with the pre-teen daughter over the bathroom, she suddenly just squealed and disappeared into thin air, but her clothes stayed in the place she'd been sitting. I started to walk frantically through the suddenly VERY quiet, deserted house, and realized there had been a baby (that I'd been holding as I fell asleep the night before). I went to check the crib, and the baby appeared to be there, but when I started to move the blankets away, it was just the clothes, etc., still holding the shape and size of the baby.

I walked back into the dining room, and the calm, love-filled house had transformed into a very well-to-do mansion. A very uppity, cold woman I somehow knew was my mother and a teenage girl I knew was my sister grabbed me and asked me where I'd been, then said how happy they were to see me, since I'd apparently been gone for months. I started to tell them where I'd been, and they looked at me oddly, then told me it didn't matter; they were just happy to have me home ... and that they didn't even care they now knew I'd been in an insane asylum for the past few months. I woke up feeling unsettled and missing that crazy, extremely poor but generous family that never existed in the first place.

I think this might be a story ... or a screenplay. Maybe not.

Now if only I can dream in songs again, I can fix some of my problems.

Too much

I've had quite a few solid weeks of packed workdays, which is great. But unfortunately, because the more I write, the more inspired I feel to write, these busy times are also when I find myself most wanting to get back to working on the work that doesn't currently bring me money.

And, there's your briefest and boringest update ever.

Reviews, reviews, reviews ...

That's my night tonight, after putting together a Hip Hop interview article that led to a song getting stuck in my head and produced the phrase/name "Rapping Bangless Bieber." I would argue he looks a lot like if Casey Affleck and Justin Bieber were physically able to have a baby. But, this song just won't quit, and I think it's likely because of the Annie Lennox sample.

Now I get to review a bunch of music that is almost the polar opposite of this. First I have to clear my head, since it feels achy from Oscar's Manhattans last night and generally way too much work the last few weeks (but who's complaining)?

I can't wait to get back to figuring out how to superhero-ly do it all, from making music and playing shows, recording, working my many "day jobs" (which are becoming closer and closer to my for fun, pay-less night jobs, which is an excellent feeling indeed) and noveling/essaying.

Also, I need to make more sense before I write anything that's going to show up in a magazine, so I better go do something non-computer-related for a while to get my head back in shape.

President's Day What?

I was going to get a ton of work done yesterday (and also revisit my "real," as in, "dream" writing projects), but sickness got the better of me. I still don't feel quite right today. I'm going to try to hole up today and get everything I possibly can done, so I can feel good about myself again. I also got new work today, so I'm going to have to do something to make it happen.

a blah blah blah

There won't be much to this. I'm trying to get some serious work done this week, so I've been a bit on edge, "blah" and busying myself with worrying about nothing. I've been taking myself and others way too seriously. I think laughter needs to go on the menu.

I stayed up too late last night working on articles and a newsletter, as well as sleepless from an uneasy feeling, and now I'm feeling the burn. Mister Badger returns tonight (in rehearsal form), so I'll admit, I'm a bit excited about that.

Foodie Lapses

A belated Happy Valentine's Day to all.

I don't have much interesting or literary or anything else to say. The past week has been filled with businessy writing, food and social engagements (and that's not so bad!).

Last weekend E. and I went to a delicious Thai place in Park Slope, Song (which I discovered I'd been to eight years ago with a bunch of high school friends when I walked in): A bottle of wine and a heaping plate of chicken spicy noodle later and only slightly over $15 per person spent, and great happiness ensued. Then it was off to a fun and slightly raucous night with new friends and a slightly hungover brunch on Sunday at the Sidecar (fried chicken salad sandwich!). Brunch was a little pricier than the previous night's dinner (and I'm not so sure the $10 bloodies had any alcohol in them), but it was pretty worth it.

For Valentine's Day, I prepared a plate of appetizers: shrimp kebabs with tarragon; veal/duck pate with peppercorns (purchased from Eli's Vinegar Factory) and rosemary crackers; bruschetta with goat cheese, nectarines and jalapenos (a recipe courtesy of my friend "Famous Original Emily"). We also burned through 2 bottles of wine. By far, it was the best V-Day I've had in a long time, and it was mostly spent in pajamas. This isn't really surprising.

Oh, and I have a new house plant. I didn't realize how much happier it makes my apartment, and now I want more. Let's see if I can keep it alive.

Where's the Party?

I woke up with this song in my head today, and it's totally frustrating me. When it came out, I was so obsessed with Madonna, and particularly the True Blue album that I didn't even care or notice that a lot of the songs sucked. And, thanks to that moment of blindness, I now know all the words to all the songs, making them even stickier when they come to mind.

E. sent me an e-mail with a hilariously mismatched subject line (as I've noticed she is wont to do) yesterday, and I think that's how the vicious spiral probably started that led to waking up to internal "wished we'd forgotten this happened" True Blue era Madonna. The subject line was "Martika -- Toy Soldiers." The actual contents of the e-mail revolved around a Buffalo wing competition in Brooklyn. Of course, who am I to say that Martika isn't at all related to Buffalo wings? I have no idea what she's doing now.

Qabang

Incidentally, that's "I love you" in Klingon (depending on which part of the galaxy you're in, of course). Today, it was actually necessary to research that for an article I wrote in honor of Valentine's Day. Pullitzer, here I come! Or, perhaps a Nobel Peace Prize? Actually, it was one of my more well-written pieces ever, but I'm not expecting many accolades. It was on the topic of successful but odd dating and social networking sites.

Now I have so much work it's coming out my eyes, but I knew I had to update this or my creative sanity would fall by the wayside. I've been having a bit of blockage when it comes to getting writing things started the past week, and I think I finally got over it. I rarely really have writer's block, but I definitely had a freeze-out of my brain/creative process this week. I feel a bit better now that I actually finished something, but there is a lot more to do to catch up to my week's worth of professional inadequacy.

Besides, this week I'm working for the weekend, which is kind of starting tomorrow night (at least the evening part of the standard view of the weekends). Thursday Night Date Night, aka, RELIEF.

Things are really okay.

Bears, Maple Syrup ... and Robyn

Today is a very exciting day. Not only is it ONE day until I see one of my favorite things, Robyn, at Radio City, but it's also the day one of my favorite people on the planet, my old friend Frank, descends upon New York City from the Great White North (well, Toronto) for the FIRST time ever! I have a lot of nice, happy thoughts on the subject, but the biggest one is a question: What would I do without the internet? Frank and I have known each other for almost a decade ... but have NEVER MET in person (until today, when we will, at last). Still, thanks to the multi-media power of the internet, I consider him to be one of my bestests. Does anyone really stop enough in life to realize how amazing we all have it? In what Space Age world is that possible? Next time you're complaining about something (and you will eventually have grievances, because we all do), think about how incredible it is that we are all connected on such a regular basis by such seemingly simple technologies.

What are the plans? Well, it's Chinese New Year, the Superbowl and a bunch of other things this weekend. So far, there will be late morning dim sum at Sweet Spring tomorrow, Robyn at Radio City, obviously, and Momofuku (at his request, and apparently his treat!), probably on Sunday, Papaya King, pizza ... Oh, and I think I'm going to inflict a Phil Hughes "liquid brunch," though I'm nervous about doing it on Superbowl Sunday.

According to the latest e-mail I just received, laundry is also actually on the laundry list. Talk about trying to experience it all!

Mustache Competition Contestants vs. Has Been Female Figure Skaters

The old man bar in my neighborhood is kind of amazing. But I love it when I introduce someone new to it, because they find new characters to add to the cast. It's mostly always the same group: a mumbling man drinking red wine with an ear-flap winter hat and reading the newspaper from four days ago (probably unaware it's out of date), who signs over his social security checks directly to the bar; an old woman that has likely been coming there since the 70s that gets her hair helmet done once a week and never washes it and sips white wine spritzers while bitterly remembering her failed marriage; three perpetually-drunk, white-haired men that look like they could've participated in either a strong man or mustache competition in Coney Island in 1954. Last night, I took E. there for the first time, and she noted a new contender: a 50-something-year old woman in a canary yellow very trendy cable knit sweater with her hair pulled back tightly in a bun, kind of looking like Peggy Fleming. Her comment: "That woman looks like a former figure skating champion." Except she didn't mean she looked like a specific one; she just had the aura of someone that probably took the ice for the last time at some point in the early 80s.

New York is known to be full of celebrities, but I'm not quite sure this is what they mean by that.

earlyish start

I decided to get strict with myself this morning and not put off an update. It's sleeting here, and I'm feeling sad that a comment about the weather is the thing I'm talking about right out of the gate.

I guess the most interesting thing (that I'm willing to talk about at this point within the confines of this space) I've noted lately is that my dreams have been fairly crazy lately. The dream parade seems to have hit the pavement since right after I finished a chapter of my essay book about my Stanley Kubrick dream starring Nicholas Cage (which I had quite a while ago). Lest it slip through my fingers -- because dreams are wily like that -- I must note that last night my dream involved having moved back into my first NYC apartment, part of which had been turned into a men's college dorm. I was bringing my parents there, and my mom was alive, though she had a sprained ankle. She was also an Avon lady that couldn't stop trying to sell (despite her injury). Incidentally, I was a TV reality show maven along with my sister, and went to the bar a lot and fought while eating french fries and nachos. Also, my father was Craig T. Nelson, and an avid boater. In fact, he had picked me up in his boat on the Hudson to bring me home, and was wearing heavy rain gear, since a storm had arrived. This wild sea scene was of course probably sparked by the sounds of the ice storm in real life on my skylight. Oh, and he was accompanied on his journey by Sinbad and Ice Cube and their five-year old son, who randomly took his pants off when he got scared or felt socially awkward.

Even stranger, this dream began with me somehow managing to hot air balloon (with my bike, from the shores of New York City) to Morocco, where I was greeted by characters from The Office. I'm not exactly sure what that part is about, because I haven't even been watching that much television lately.

bridge bys ...

I think having a gym membership contributes to New Yorkers' desensitivity to poverty in the cracks (and sometimes right out in the open). When you have the luxury of going to sweat it out in the winter (or any other season) at a gym with a bunch of other people who can also afford, at minimum, to spend $100 a month for that privilege, you can encase yourself in a comfortable bubble. I realized yesterday while I was running along the river, through depressing amounts of grey snow, puddles and half-melted ice how depressing that run is. It's along the expressway, and more often than not there are sleeping bags and dirty mattresses full of people sleeping under the bridges along the way. Of course, I have also previously mentioned the fact that the Randall's Island foot bridge seems to be the hobo pooping haven. Once while I was crossing it, a ranting crack head touched my arm, and it felt like one of the most violating things that has ever happened to me. And I believe I've mentioned the man with the shopping cart full of his life's belongings that loiters beneath the stairs of the foot bridge over the FDR at E. 111th Street. He keeps to himself, but he's consistently there; things never improve for him, though sometimes he has a few more or a few less things in his cart.

The other day I thought, "Once I get more comfortable financially and catch up from the nightmare personal work decline of the past year and a half that is finally looking up, the first thing I'm going to do is buy a gym membership again." And I think the thought was formed a lot because, when I get lazy and don't want to walk all the way to Central Park -- which presents me with a blissful cakewalk(run) during which the worst thing I will encounter is a clueless looking-up tourist that won't move out of my way on the running path -- running is pretty depressing. The "river people," and honestly, even the people walking there with dogs, etc., are often creepy and sad, and it makes me uncomfortable, probably because like so many other New Yorkers, I feel that horrible, selfish truth welling up inside: I have no desire to help them get out of their situation, and sometimes wish I didn't have to see them at all. But maybe it's not so aggressive as all that. The feeling is more that I recognize the futility of helping with my normal resources, and my complete inability to understand how they got there or how their lives must feel.

Even at my lowest, I've at least had family members and friends to send me boxes of food and other lifelines, and those people care whether or not they get to me and know enough about me personally to send things that I can actually use.

Busy Signal

Life's very busy right now, and I like it. It's kind of inspiring when that happens. I have enough work to last all day (and then some), almost every day. I have new contracts coming up and plenty of things to write. I feel brimming with new ideas and about to work the creative stuff back into my life again full stop. I have some exciting personal things happening and coming up (I hope, that is). I feel balanced again more often than not. I can put things aside that stress me out without worrying I'm neglecting something else (at least this week). I'll admit, I haven't even kept to my meditation project. From failure comes success ... ?

The "very best that I can possibly do" feeling isn't so bad, and it doesn't really happen for me unless I'm blindly busy, because when there's not a moment to spare in the day, I can't ever say a misuse of time was a problem. Eventually, the daily clock just runs out, and I have to be satisfied with what was accomplished. So, bring it on.

As promised, food glorious food ...

Yesterday's meal was quite the success, and today I'm finding myself reminiscing about it (especially since I have so much frustrating busywork on my desk this morning so far).

Here are some beautiful photos, taken by my friend Emily, who takes the prettiest, most delicious pictures of food I've ever seen.

Speaking of old ladies ...

Although Friday I definitely acted like a young person, the rest of my weekend has been pretty much spent proving that I will make a great old lady once it comes to that. Yesterday I spent in doing a little cleaning, napping, shopping for items on today's menu. This morning I got up early to bake a cranberry pie (which is in the oven as I type). My friend Emily and I are doing another one of our theme brunches today, although this particular meal doesn't have the same level of thematic planning as others in the past (like "Luccipalooza, for example). It's more of a "The Main Event is Duck, so Let's Make a Bunch of Stuff that Goes with It" theme. So, without further ado, the menu:

Roasted duck with sage, garlic and mustard glaze
Rosemary cornbread
Spiced walnuts
cranberry pie

The movie event of the day is, so far, just one of my favorites of all time: Drop Dead Gorgeous (featuring Denise Richards' only acceptable role). I'm feeling like a theme will build as we go (I'm already thinking that maybe the duck thing is already related to Minnesota, since, it being one of my many homes, duck hunting is big there, and also referenced in the movie of choice). However, there has to be more than that (and maybe I should've made some bars or tater tot hot dish).

I think my excitement would only be slightly sad if I were doing this by myself, right?

And now, it's time to go running to prepare my stomach for the requisite calorie burning madness ... and buy some wine.

the song nigh time

I am definitely feeling that the time is upon me to write some more music. I feel the pull of something at the edge of happening ....

... on Betty White

My favorite quote of the day comes from my lovely friend Bart in France. We were discussing people being liked in spite of their looks, solely because of their personalities. I often argue it's only ever my personality that gets me dates (and that theory is pretty much what I believe most of the time). He seems to feel that if someone dates you, it automatically means that person thinks you're aesthetically "hot," so there's really no such thing as the statement "she's got a really great personality" leading to a date. Why? Well, it's logical:

"Betty White has personality, but nobody's trying to go down on her."

I don't know if I'm supposed to be comforted ... or feel bad for Betty White.

satifaction guaranteed

It's really true that when one area of life goes spectacularly well, some of the others suffer. Let me clarify, it's more that none of them are ever perfect (nor should they be. What would I write about?). But it's definitely a rule of the universe that when you start to get really incredible at your job and people come a-callin', and you finally get a steady core of some lovely, dependable friends (I think this is the first time in my life that exists, actually), and you start to convince (or maybe "dupe," but who cares what it is?) yourself with helpings of hope that you might be good at the whole love thing, but you really just haven't found the right person, the sketchy voice creeps back into your ear and makes you question everything.

I finished what was really an insignificant transcription project in the grander scheme of things yesterday, but felt really great, because it was challenging, I got immediate kudos (just on sight and a quick browse-through of the gigantic document) from the new client. And it proved I can still do really fantastic work and be incredibly skilled and impressive at my job, as silly and unaffective as parts of my job sometimes feel. And this project that I rocked is probably the beginning of a new professional work relationship that will really improve my life. I also just had a fairly great week with lots of pitches getting accepted for some fantastically fun and interesting articles. And on the social front, I've had some really good times (and more to come) with favorite friends.

Still, guess what I am I focusing on right now? Waking up this morning and discovering that someone who has been the least dependable person in my life for the past nine or so months after he exploded into it (but at times has very confusingly done some really big gesture things for me) and has sent my head and heart for a tailspin (but also sometimes has conversely also sky-rocketed both body parts into shiny places) and aggressively challenged my sanity and sometimes the things I know about myself sent me messages in the middle of the night when I finally thought he wouldn't dare anymore. The answer and response to him continues to be the same as the one I landed on after his last message a month and a half ago: I can't engage with someone that more often than not doesn't approach me like a human being (or at least most of the time chooses not to approach me in a human way), even if I've set a bad precedent and accepted that type of contact in the past against my better judgment. Still, sometimes (and perhaps a lot more than sometimes) I miss him ... a lot. And I secretly pull for him in a corner of my mind, hoping he'll miraculously overcome some of the social retardation -- which I've admittedly helped create -- as well as some deep truths I believe might prevent anything from changing, and emerge victorious.

The other part of me wants a sweep-me-off-my feet scenario from an entirely new contender that will just render this very intense problem powerless and irrelevant.

You can't please everyone.

it rains and pours on my new client blowout

The title of this entry is likely going to be far more interesting/creative than any of its contents. I'm in the midst of one of the types of workdays I've missed for over a year and a half: the extremely busy one. I started work with a new small business-y client today (initially, I'm doing some tele-class transcription for her), and it's a nice fit. I'm enjoying the opportunity to get better at a skill by flexing different muscles related to it (because I'm used to lately transcribing music industry professional/musician interviews). Who doesn't like to learn? I'm also really excited to be returning to where my small business skills all began -- working closely with someone that is training other people to be better entrepreneurs and business owners. Hello Old World, remember me? I used to make some money here.

Of course, on a day I was just supposed to have this one bulky thing, I ended up also getting a slew of pitches accepted (for the first time in a painfully long time) for one of my journalist gigs, which needed some attention today also. Ah, diversity and laundry lists of work-related tasks, how I've missed you!

And now, on my dinner break, here I am writing even more things. It's additional proof of what I've said many times before (but seem to always forget when I get particularly creatively blocked): Writing breeds more writing. The more I type ... well, the more ... I type (and want to type).

If I say it, it will happen

I'm fairly proud to report that just now, I finished a chapter of my essay book about a dream I once had that was directed by Stanley Kubrick. This satisfying completion thing isn't so unattainable after all. And, the feeling is kind of like a runners' high (which is how I know I'm supposed to be an artist).

And, here's a little taste:

Often, my “important things” manifest themselves in dreams, which tend to be complicated and usually end up being swept away by large amounts of water or a natural disaster like a blizzard. A very favorite person in my life, who seems to understand and embrace my secret love of horrible synthetic pop and be okay with the contents of my movie catalogue, while still being one of the most matter-of-fact assholes in the world recently said, “Wow. Your dreams are long” when I was relaying one that he thought would be a simple barrage of details: “walrus in the desert with balloons;” “baboons laying eggs on the streets of Paris.” We were noshing on our bagels, and after Sentence Two involving a mime, a donkey and a long car trip to Venice, he glanced at my lonely “everything” with bacon/scallion cream cheese, and his chewing got weary.

failure to complete

I was thinking this morning about my abysmal failure to finish anything recently, and how difficult it is in general to put the final period (or sometimes ellipses) at the end of any of my writing projects, or write the final note of a song (or put lyrics with songs), or even finish a run (even though that is thankfully more frequently accomplished than anything work related).

Then I was realizing that completion has always been hard. That was the biggest challenge of grad school for me, actually. We had to write at least one piece of fiction every week, and sometimes I'd cheat and bring in chapters of my novel that had already been written years before, because I could start stories like gangbusters, but found it impossible to tie them up at the end. Even my first novel took eight years to complete, even though technically I wrote 95% of it in about two weeks (in the first two weeks after I quit my preschool teaching job). The last chapter was definitely a doozy, and didn't happen until well after my divorce, because I was being quite autobiographical (in the cliched way that all newbie adult artists choose autobiography for their first works), writing about things in my life as they were happening, and there was a certain excitement to the idea that I didn't know where the story was going.I was living it. But I did finish eventually. Little did I know, of course, that all my work was going to be based on things that happen to be directly, because my life is usually better than anything I can make up in my head. Or maybe it's a very chicken or egg scenario, where I create imagination and near insanity in my environment because it is surging through me at all times. I certainly don't question the origin, as it has been a true gift and has guided me clearly towards my passions and what I want to do with the rest of my life. Still, it feels like when I'm ending a story -- especially when it's based on something or someone that truly hit me like a meteor -- I'm ending my relationship with that thing, experience or person. I guess I have abandonment issues.

This whole blog began flowing this morning because I was trying to think of how I motivated to do that much focused writing (because I can write little things all day about nothing with great ease) while watching television -- because most days I do that so I feel like I have company, even when I'm alone, without the pressure of having to be around other people and their distracting and sometimes invasive idiosyncrasies. And I realized that my first official day of writing after I decided I was going to give up the idea of going to grad school for cello performance (and get my creative writing MFA instead) was happening as the news was breaking about the tragedy in Columbine; I was watching talk shows whilst writing, and it interrupted my day.I was sitting on the ugly blue couch in my and my husband's one bedroom apartment in Woodbury, MN while trying to keep as quiet as possible to avoid waking the puppy, Griffin, who was happily in his kennel and already pretty much trained, despite just being not quite three months old. It was almost exactly twelve years ago.

The point is, I did finish, and I can focus when I want to focus. And I need to conjure up some of that strength and light a fire. I think also I often get overwhelmed by how much is in me and continues to strike me as writing worthy. It feels like I can't keep up. Sometimes my inspiration is like racing thoughts to which I am deeply emotionally connected. I can't grab onto them, and I mourn their loss as they whir past me on the track.

Luckily, they always return, and sometimes they hit even harder the second time around. I need to start seeing my writing and music more as a celebration of my on-going relationship with the world, and not as last rites or the final word.

unfinished finishing

Well, today was a big-time failure on the whole promise to finish something front. My male BFF Rick is moving to a lovely new triplex further downtown, thus ending his 6-year reign on the Upper East Side, and he asked for some measuring/moving help to prepare for the movers tomorrow a.m. It was worth it. My reward was a delicious meat-filled dinner at BLT Prime in Gramercy. Prime rib, broccoli rabe, cheese-encrusted popovers, chicken liver, goat cheese salad with prosciutto, apple tart with cinnamon ice cream ... a meat-lover's dream, truly.

It proved my theory that heaven is made of meat, or at the very least, meat flavored.

I guess I can technically say, "I finished a steak today."

Finish Him

Today's Mortal Combat quote was brought to you by today's goal: finish something. It sounds pretty simple, but for me lately, finishing anything is a very lofty situation indeed.

Blog entries don't count (at least not those for this blog).

singled out

Sometimes I think I need to take more advice from sane people, older than I, that don't feel the pressure to do things the traditional way and feel happy with the way their lives are turning out. I have plenty of friends that lead non-traditional lifestyles and have non-traditional relationships, but I don't feel like any of those lives resonate with me.

In general, I guess I think people need to encourage each other to be exactly who they are more often just to take the pressure off a little bit.

some delightful certainties of my life

I had a comforting revelation that makes me never worry that my life will be full and exciting if I want it to be, and without effort: I make fast friends, and bizarre and sometimes life-altering experiences (or at worst, experiences that change the way I look at the world) just seem to find me every single time I go out into the world. Last night solidified my faith in that statement as truth, and it made me less concerned about what I don't have and less worried that things won't "work out" for me. Because, they already are working out for me. I'm leading a pretty thrilling and happy life, full of funny incidents and overwhelmingly stranger-than-fiction coincidences. I can truly count on this.

In general, I need to do better at not trying to control how the tapestry of my ideal life is supposed to look.

today's special

Today's special is "nonsensical ways of treating other human beings."

I certainly am guilty myself of getting in neglectful mode and being careless and self-centered when it comes to interacting with others, but people I've come into contact with lately, both personally and professionally have definitely taken the proverbial cake, with extra icing. Without going into detail and shifting into full "dear diary" mode, I will simply say that sometimes disappearing completely with no explanation/cutting all ties is better than e-mailing to "explain" your douchery. Because in the end, that explanation is really just about making yourself feel better about your lack of scruples, and not about doing right by the recipient of any incredibly weak defense of your personal shortcomings.

To add to that, assuming you died and that this death might be the reason you blew me off is often an easier pill to swallow than the lame words you put together in an e-mail a month after I had mostly moved on anyway.

motivational Monday

Briefly put, I'm finally feeling some artistic and writing motivation (along with running motivation) after weeks of feeling majorly under the weather. This is going to be a good thing, I hope.

I'm also feeling more comically charged. Hopefully the return of my voice will shortly follow the return of my sense of humor, because this "not singing" thing is getting pretty tired.

vocalise in absentia

Because I can't sing right now thanks to the laryngitis, I'm trying to listen to stuff that won't make me want to sing along, but failing miserably, since I want to sing along to everything. I've been revisiting the latest Magnetic Fields album a lot lately and realizing why Stephin Merritt is my musical and lyrical hero. I really couldn't love a band any more than this, and I'm sorry that a few years ago I went with someone that was obnoxious times ten (and doesn't really appreciate the music, but just likes to be seen at things she perceives other people think are awesome) to see them at the lovely and magical old movie theatre in Jersey City. Next time, I'm going solo (or perhaps with someone I love, if that person exists).



I can't wait until my voice and drive return from illness. I'm ready to write more music, already ...

dreaming of home

When things get hairy in my life, I start to dream that I'm trying to get back to the house in which I grew up, usually on a school bus. It's a pretty mundane dream, since the dream trip usually starts at my old junior high school, except this time I have all the modern conveniences of my current life (cell phone, headphones, etc.) as well as my actual experiences under my belt, except for the big ones like my mom dying (in the dream I always suspect her to be waiting at "home," though I somehow can't get a hold of her). I am usually running to catch the bus because my dad, who is teaching orchestra at the school, has to stay after to help some kids with auditions and can't take me home. I just make the bus, but I'm not sure is still taking the proper route that will carry me home, and I don't recognize anything along the way until I get to Dolphin Lake (a few blocks from the house where I grew up in real life). Because I am somehow lazy and want the bus to take me almost right to my door, I almost get off too late, but end up exiting at the place where my very first bus stop (in kindergarten) used to be in Homewood, IL, just a few blocks from the house. As I start to amble towards home, the houses look strange, and I almost pass by mine. There is always someone else living in it (typically the single mother my parents actually sold it to in 2001 and her young son that has kept the house up nicely), though my mom eventually does show up to take me to a new house in Flossmoor (not the one they actually bought), which is gargantuan and cold.

Sometimes, I also dream I'm going back to college for my "real" senior year, having discovered I didn't actually graduate. Usually this involves me wandering around the halls looking for a dorm room (which is always my actual senior year dorm room) and trying to get back into swimming, but realizing I can't swim anymore (which isn't true in real life).

I'm not sure why I'm obsessed with school and the past in dreams in a way that implies regret of some sort, because in waking life, I certainly am not big on regret (I don't even think I believe in it). I guess I'll take trying on that issue for size in the safe confines of sleep over letting it consume me in life any day ...

starting the day right

I suppose I started the day and the worky part of 2011 right this morning, as after I brewed a pot of coffee, I jumped right into the fray of my essay project. A part of me is embracing the idea that I may forever be alone, and thus I'll have plenty of time to write. The other part of me is feeling quite depressed by that concept (don't worry -- I'm not ready to end it all. That's lame).

Being that I am also a crazy multi-tasker, I have also been organizing my journalistic articles as I write on a chapter of my essay project about a dream I had once that was in the style of Kubrick. My real life existence often sounds like a mixed-metaphor dream in and of itself.

And the disconnected hits keep coming ...