Great news! Someone has great news! Too bad there's a 75% chance you will fuck it all up. THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS.

Where the hell have I been?  Writing has been a supreme challenge lately.  I haven’t tackled anything new since doing WRITE CLUB in January, except for a few blog posts and a story for a birthday party.  The last two pieces I’ve performed here in Chicago were both written almost two years ago, so I’ve spent a good chunk of the last few months editing.  But my lack of fresh nonsense has left me a bit, well, creatively constipated.  I finally found myself with an unexpected day off and something inspiring to write about, so here goes.

My friend Jill and I recently spent a week in a dune shack on Cape Cod.  The shack was an experiment in time travel to some degree, as it had no electricity or running water. The basic amenities included a wood stove, two rock hard twin beds, a composting toilet, and a recently added porch with some decent Adirondack chairs.  There were seal sightings and drunken book burnings and we crashed a big gay bachelorette party in Provincetown, all of which will all be discussed in a separate post soon.  As serendipity with strangers is a recurring theme in my most cherished stories, this particular snippet was first on my list to share when I was again reunited with my computer.

On Thursday morning, I was attempting to knock off some of the daily shack maintenance chores.  I was out at the well, pumping water for washing dishes and armpits and such, when two hikers approached the front of the shack.  They called out, “Hey!  We don’t want to scare you!  But are we going the right way to see the water?”  Jill and I saw very few people out on the dunes during our week there, most just passed by with a friendly wave as their only acknowledgment.  I told them, yes, just a few yards up and over the next sand dune and they’d be at one with the ocean.  “Do you live here?” they inquired.  “Oh, God, no.  We’re from Chicago,” I replied, laughing at the notion that the shack could be our regularly scheduled reality.  “THAT’S HILARIOUS,” said one of the girls.  It all seemed pretty hilarious at that moment.  They agreed to stop by on their way back to Provincetown after they had some beach time.  

They made good on their word and after a brief bit of yelling back and forth across our back yard, we invited them to check out the shack.  We found out that Katie is from New Jersey, Shannon is from West Virginia, old friends on a girls trip to Provincetown, rounding out their stay with a hike through the dunes.  After a few easy laughs at the state of the shack, Katie suggested we all play Bananagrams, a game Jill and I weren’t familiar with, but we were more than willing to get our asses kicked by our new friends.  Throw in some trail mix, we had ourselves an impromptu Thursday afternoon word nerd deck party.  

We made the standard getting to know you jabber, discussing our jobs and our interests.  Shannon is a design consultant, making the world more beautiful, one room at at time.  Katie is working on a degree in positive psychology, using cognitive behavioral therapy to help soldiers reduce their levels of stress and depression.  We launched into a fascinating conversation about storytelling and related research on shame and vulnerability…we all agreed that it was divine intervention that they happened to wander by our dune porch on that morning.  In discussing communication skills in intimate relationships, Katie had some insights that have stuck with me and I immediately felt compelled to share them with others.  She told us that people gravitate towards the notion that the real test of a relationship is how your partner or friend treats you when times get rough.  Standing by people in the face of adversity is certainly important, but how that other person treats you in the face of good news is also pivotal, particularly in terms of initial reaction.  Katie explained that there are four common reactions to good news, and three of them cause more harm than good.  Katie had Jill present her with some good news, illustrating for us the four reactions.

Jill:  “We’re spending a week in a dune shack!”

Katie: “Huh.  That’s cool”.

The passive constructive response.  A conversational dead end, your good news has nowhere to go.            Thanks, Apathetic All Star!

Let’s try this again.

Jill:  “We’re spending a week in a dune shack!”

Katie:  “Hey, great.  Did I tell you about MY vacation plans?  I’m going to visit some friends in XYZ.”

The passive destructive response.  Your good news just got hijacked.  Thanks, It’s All About You!

And now for our third (and possibly worst) response.

Jill: “We’re spending the week in a dune shack!”

Katie:  “Why would you want to do that?  That seems like a weird plan. Have you really thought this over?”

The active destructive response.  Your good news just got shut down and shat upon, big time.  Thanks,       Dream Crusher!

And finally, drum roll, please.  The response, we’ve all been waiting for….

Jill: “We’re spending the week in a dune shack!”

Katie:  “That’s great!  Where is it?  When are you going?  Do you have any pictures that I could look at?”

The active constructive response.  This response helps both people share the joy in the good news.  Through showing interest and approval, the connection between the two people is strengthened.  Trust!      Intimacy! Bonding!  Woo hoo, NOW WE’RE COOKING WITH GAS, PEOPLE.

Putting it in these terms makes it seem pretty obvious, perhaps your initial impression is “Well, duh.”  But I was struck by how many times I’ve used one of the three wrong answers on others.  Instigated by distraction, by jealousy, by insecurity, you name it.  Sometimes this sort of communication is simply a bad habit. Ironically the most damaging response (the active destructive) often comes from a platform of genuine concern and caring.  We discussed how we had knee jerk reactions of “Are you SURE this is good news?  What about this possible outcome?” (inserting worse case scenarios, ad nauseum) because we truly feel committed to the other person’s well being.  There’s no contention that your concerns aren’t valid, but it’s good to recognize that this reaction can often cause serious erosion to your connection with that other person.  We’re back to another concept I struggle with fairly often, the one where it’s better to be kind than to be right.  Might be time for that forehead tattoo.

Katie, Shannon, Jill and I had a fantastic adventure in Provincetown later that night…far surpassing the expectations of two girls who’d gone days without taking a proper shower.  More on that soon, as well as my realization that I may have spent the last three decades as a mislabeled introvert.  Dune shacks, they’ll show you what you’re really made of.

2013 has been treating me exceptionally well thus far.  I have a great house with two supportive roommates, a smart, kind boyfriend who is more fun than pillow fighting a barrel of monkeys, a writing group that rocks my world, and many wonderful friends that I treasure.   They all encourage me to be brave, to take risks, all the while reassuring me that they will be here for me regardless of the outcome.  Am I still an anxiety powered powder keg full of crazy?  YOU KNOW IT, PEOPLE.   You know it.  I know you expect nothing less.

International Women's Day 2013. Now With More Unlikability!

Greetings.  It is March 8^th, which is International Women’s Day, an occasion that I've acknowledged the last two years that I’ve had this blog.  It snuck up on me this year, just noticed it on my Facebook feed earlier and thought, “I guess this year I won’t be getting around to that.”  But here I am.

There’s so much to say on the topic, it can be a bit overwhelming.  Last year I wrote about the Rush Limbaugh/Sandra Fluke debacle and Barbie's rack and sexist advertising.  My initial impulse was to discuss the recent uproar about the Academy Awards, specifically about Seth MacFarlane’s insensitivity to women throughout the show.  Were we expecting something different?  He’s never billed himself as a sophisticated comedian to my knowledge.  It seemed a little ridiculous to me that people were outraged that he kept talking about how pretty all the women were and how degrading that was….folks, did you catch the million hours of Kristen Chenoweth on the red carpet?  She hardly commented about anyone’s intellectual prowess.  The Oscars are generally a vapid spectacle, in this case where Seth MacFarlane did the job he was hired to do. I'd go so far as to say I enjoyed his hosting for the hour or so I managed to stay awake, but I'm often a fourteen year old boy when it comes to comedy. I never met a dick joke I didn't like. Perhaps next year, they’ll bring back Steve Martin or Ellen Degeneres or someone with some observational comedy chops, or maybe Howard Stern could sink the whole ship, who knows.  It’s four hours a year, it hardly matters.  Where’s the outrage over STUPID, SEXIST SHIT THAT HAPPENS EVERY DAY?  Don’t get me started on the Kardashian situation again. Just my humble opinion.  But is it humble enough?  Which leads to what I’m really here to write about.

humble |ˈhəmbəl|

Adjective: having or showing a modest or low estimate of one's own importance.

My wonderful friend Cindy, who continually makes me aware of lady power fueled goings on in the news, recently brought to my attention this article:  

http://bitchmagazine.org/post/complex-heroines-of-scandal-and-enlightened

If you’re too busy to read it, let me break it down to brass tacks.  People have trouble dealing with female characters (in this case, on television) who dare to commit the ultimate sin:  THEY ARE NOT LIKABLE.  Tons of anti-heroes get embraced at large; the article mentions Tony Soprano, Dexter, Don Draper, to name a few.  But complicated, flawed, messy broads, AMERICA SAYS NO, THANK YOU.  Hmmm.  This brought to mind some data that was presented in Brene Brown’s TED talk that has stuck with me since I first watched it.  She talks of research done at Boston College where participants were asked, “What do women need to do to conform to female norms?”  The top answers were to be nice, to be thin, to be modest, and to use all available resources to be attractive.  Basically, to be likable, on a very superficial level.  To be pleasing when seen and not heard, and should you be heard, let it not be about you or your accomplishments and for God’s sakes, let it not be unsavory in any way.  What is this, 1955?

Fuck.  That.  Noise.

To counter, when the question was “What do men need to do conform to male norms?”, the top answers were to always be in control of their emotions, to make work a priority, to pursue status, and really disturbingly, violence.  

Sure, it’s just a limited study group, but I’m going to say that these answers are representative of popular opinion currently, to some degree. I see lots of examples of men whose identities revolve around career, status, and their ability to never lose their shit, unless, of course, they're punching someone in the face, which is totally acceptable, and women who just concentrate on being nice, thin, modest, and foxy above all else….oy.  Unreasonable expectations all around.

As I’m focusing on International Women’s Day today, my suggestion is that the nice, thin, modest, trying desperately to be attractive archetype lady take the rest of the day off.  And the weekend.  And the month of March and the rest of 2013.  Okay, she’s fired.  I’m not suggesting that we all let ourselves go and start telling off everyone in sight, but what if we were to loosen up our grasp on these traits and their societally imposed value?  An easy jump to patriarchal man bashing, but honestly, I see and hear tons of women busting each other over these very things ALL THE TIME.  If you are a woman and you dare to do any of the following on a regular basis:

Honestly speak your mind
Get pissed off when it’s warranted
Applaud your accomplishments (within reason, everyone still hates a blowhard)
Give up being obsessed about your weight as long as you are healthy
Accept the way you look without makeup/hair products/Spanx, etc (extra points if you rock it in public)
Decide what you need from your relationships, ask for it, and hold people accountable
Embrace other women for doing all of the above

then I say you’re on the right track.  I struggle with these things every day, in every way, as I was raised with the importance of being nice and thin and modest and attractive as well.  I still pursue them to some degree as they make me feel good about myself, but I don't center my self image around them any more. People who don’t like the fact that I cuss like a sailor and have caustic opinions and wear sweatpants to run errands don’t have a place in the life I’ve made for myself, and that’s perfectly okay.  And condescending assholes that tell me I’d be a lot prettier if I’d just “SMILE” can suck it.  I smile every time I acknowledge that I’m not married to some jerk off that would say something like that to a total stranger.  Whoops, there I go not being NICE again.  Until the tides turn, I guess I'll never make it on television.

Currently reading Robert McKee’s “Story” in an attempt to teach myself screenwriting.  He contends that “an honest work of art is always an act of social responsibility", which has started some wheels turning in my head.  Stay tuned.

The Next Big Thing Project

The Next Big Thing Project is an engaging undertaking where writers divulge their current book related news and suggest other writers to share theirs as well.  You caught me taking a break from doing anything besides catching up on season three of Friday Night Lights, but apparently The Next Big Thing Project requires that I scheme up an idea for a book.  FINE.  I suppose I could cobble together all of my personal narrative into some sort of kooky anthology, but that doesn’t really sound like a challenge.   I’ve only been writing seriously for about two years now, but they have been the most revelatory years of my life thus far.  Through writing and performing stories I’ve be able to recognize the power of my point of view.  When an audience member approached me after I told a story and told me that it made them think differently, I was instantly hooked on the medium.  MAKING PEOPLE THINK IS AMAZING AND FUN.  Of late I’ve been concentrating on ways to use my super powers for good instead of ego.  I’m working on some ideas to help young people to find their voices the way I found mine.

1. What is your working title of your book?

Dark Star.  Winner of the Kentucky Derby in 1953, CSN classic rock song circa 1977.  Neither has much to do with the book, really, I just like the way it sounds.

2. Where did the idea come from for the book?

I was a camp counselor at Rain City Rock Camp in Seattle last summer, and I intend to do another week with Girls Rock!  Chicago this year.  I met lots of fantastic, smart, super together girls of privilege who appeared to be headed for bright futures.  But the ones that really stuck with me were the ones who were constantly having trouble fitting in, that spoke of being bullied at school regularly, that often disrupted the camp activities with their need for attention.  They wrote the majority of the song lyrics for the bands they were in, and their prose was dark and haunting and lovely.  In them I saw the spirit of the next Patti Smith, Chrissie Hynde, Debbie Harry, Queen Latifah, Joan Jett, Tina Weymouth, Kim Gordon.   I know my exposure to those music icons growing up taught me that women could be both strong and sexy, tough and vulnerable, sweet and sour.  Most importantly, they were heard, valued, and respected.  The girls at camp had immense potential to spin their pain into art, to embrace being angry girls with the guts to speak their minds.  They just needed proper support and encouragement.  I still struggle with the notion that it’s fantastic to be weird in my day to day existence, but when I see quirky young people, I go out of my way to cheer them on.

3. What genre does your book fall under?  

Is there a genre called Fictional Fantasy Life Do Over?  I’m game to invent one, if not.

4. Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition? 

I want Alison Janney in it somehow.  She brings sass, smarts, and sex appeal in the right percentages.

5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

After discovering her creative talents, a middle aged broad helps a pissed off teen develop her inner rock star.  

6. Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

Don’t really care, whatever gets the job done.  I have no dreams of becoming rich and famous.  Quoting Lester Bangs, “The first mistake of art is to assume that it’s serious.”

7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

I have to live it first!  Whatever happens will certainly be more inspired than anything I could make up.

8. What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Catcher in the Rye meets Charlotte’s Web meets The Virgin Suicides, with a rock and roll edge.

9. Who or what inspired you to write this book?  

Jill Howe, who tagged me on this project.  She continually drags me kicking and screaming down the creative rabbit hole, which is why I need to forever keep her on staff.

10. What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

Although I picture it as a tale of female empowerment, I would like it to be of interest to men as well.  All of my male friends growing up had gender-blind reverence for women who had the chops, artistically…it was never considered “chick” rock.  We listened to Patti Smith’s Easter as many times as we listened to Led Zeppelin II.   I’d like to write the novel equivalent of Patti Smith’s Easter.  Too ambitious?  Okay, I’ll settle for writing the screenplay for an all female reimagining of Stripes, as long as I get to be Bill Murray.

'Till Victory.....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gcY0fLwxqyQ

Just "Like" Starting Over

Last Saturday night I was part of WRITE CLUB's show at the Fillet of Solo festival here in Chicago.  My topic was "Start", opposed by the hilarious Caitlin Bergh selling "Finish".   I wrote this piece with a memory of a guy I went to flight attendant training with twelve years ago stuck in my head.   Jim was a snarky homo who had already put his time in with seven other airlines who told me when he first learned how to evacuate an airplane in an emergency he was taught to swear at people....as in it was company policy/FAA approved to yell things like "MOVE YOUR ASSES, YOU FUCKERS!"  The reasoning was that people in airline accidents were sometimes found still buckled into their seats, dead of smoke inhalation, but no other obvious cause for their demise besides the fact that their brains just chose to seize up under the circumstances.  The prevailing philosophy to force people to snap out of it and get a move on was to shock them back into action, including yelling profanity at them.  Not sure when they changed the directive on that one, but I can assure you if I ever have a day where we lay it down unexpectedly in the cornfield, I am cussing out EVERYONE IN EARSHOT, regardless of current policy.  I talk to myself this way a good amount of the time, in fact, the "Start" piece is a personal post it note that whatever I did yesterday is great and all that, but a good whack to the brain to stay motivated and challenged under ever changing current conditions should forever remain on my agenda.

Briefly about the WRITE CLUB bout, I'd never done a timed reading or a competitive reading before, so the whole idea scared the shit out of me, which is precisely why I had to agree to do it.  It's a wildly entertaining show, if you're in Chicago, Atlanta, Athens, Los Angeles, San Francisco or Toronto, you should check it out.  I lost in a dream the night before, so when it happened in real life, it just seemed fated more than disappointing.  To be in a battle of wits with someone as talented as Caitlin made me appreciate once again that my days are made of magic far more often than not.

I woke up Sunday morning to my hungover roommate wandering around looking for Advil, still clad in her Green Bay Packers jersey from the night before.  We were pretty stoked to rename our humble abode "House of Losers" for the rest of the day, 'cuz that's how we roll.

More info: http://writeclubrules.com  

Go to the Hideout, you'll be glad you did.  

START! 

There is never a sunnier time than the beginning, when you’re brimming with hope and possibility.  Inevitably the clouds roll in.  The start is the first day at your new job, when you just can’t wait to unleash your freshly sharpened brain on every problem worth solving.  Fast forward, you’re coming in late, making tasks that should take an hour last three days, counting the seconds until the weekend.  The start is when you meet someone you think is amazing and he feels likewise and you kiss and talk until three in the morning.  Fast forward, you’re pissed off because he won’t stop talking, can’t he see you’re trying to read a book? The start is “’til death do us part.”  The end is either divorce lawyers dividing up your trinkets, or death, I guess.  Everything you attempt, despite your wide eyes and noble intentions, is a time bomb ticking towards despair and disappointment. Your life is a modernist novel: it’s Gatsby or Anna Karenina, or Mrs. Dalloway, at best.

Perhaps you’re comfortable with your job, even if some days it’s beneath you, and your significant other, even though the hottest thing you’ve shared recently is watching reruns of One Tree Hill, and you trust your dedication to your mundane routines will be rewarded in the end.  You’re smug in your belief that YOUR life is a novel of development, a Dickensian production in which the hero of the story starts out naive, but eventually learns through a series of tests that the society is not out to get him, cue ubiquitous feel good ending.  News flash, your story has grown tired.  So why are you still buying it?  Because it’s the path of least resistance, because you’re apprehensive about embracing the uncertainty of starting over.  You mindlessly cling to your job that provides no challenge, to your relationship that’s gone south, to your Rain Man inspired regimes. You want only to remain submerged in the tepid bath that is your apathy.  

Fifty Shades of Grey is quickly on its way to becoming one of the best-selling books of all time, a poorly written travesty where a virginal waif who’s never masturbated meets a rich, handsome bondage enthusiast who makes her pussy explode from the get go and she then finds her life’s purpose in attempting to heal his damaged psyche.  I’m all for escapism, but seriously?  The most awkward and unsatisfying sex in real time has got to be better for you than reading this crap with one hand. So why is everyone on the couch devouring the pages of this stinker instead of out seizing the day?  Why is today’s renaissance person the one with the most technology to do everything for them, leaving them more time to watch Honey Boo Boo?  It’s because we’ve lost our love of the start.

The start is where the sweetest nectar of your life is, my friends.  It’s the pure joy of potential, it’s autoerotic asphyxiation with your aspirations, it’s the dopamine hit we crave all swirled up inside that lovely, humble human being you are when you don’t have a clue as to what the hell it is you’re doing.  Think about the last time you embarked on something truly new and terrifying, the last time you mounted the great unknown and started humping it like there was no tomorrow, with no concern for the consequences.  Despite the perils of the modernist novel plot, you can choose to laugh off the inevitable and to not let your fear of unfamiliar territory stop the start before it begins.  You can embrace the knowledge that any new job or partner or attempts to take a chance and reimagine yourself might be a dead end street, an opportunity to crash and burn, an occasion to show your ass to the world.  But when you reach that confounded cul-de-sac, when you pull yourself out of the fiery wreckage, when you hike your pants back up, you must prepare to start again.  The next round you’ll burn a touch brighter, you’ll react slightly faster, your edge will be more finely honed.  There will be times when stars align and you’re not just randomly spinning the dial on the Master Lock of life hoping to get the numbers in the right order.  Celebrate those occasions when you know the combination and you feel the satisfaction of pulling that lock open.  And then what?  You must push yourself to start again with humility, because getting high on your minor achievements and stagnating in them for too long is the fast track to complacency.  And complacency puts you at your 20^th high school reunion, where you’re a balding fuck on your fourth Dewars and water talking about your Hail Mary pass in the fourth quarter at the big game while your wife yammers on about how she is a far superior mother than that other so and so bitch because she makes her own baby food as everyone’s eyes glaze over as they are silently thanking God that they are not YOU.  Sure, there’s satisfaction to be derived from a job well done, from seeing a project to its completion.  But nobody really cares about your moments of past glory, your reheated recounts of the roads you’ve already travelled.  What’s imperative is your ability to spit in the face of failure and humiliation and your enthusiasm to be continually rebuilding yourself with superior materials.  Your reinvention as a bigger, better bad ass relies on you being hopelessly addicted to the rush you get from the start, a high you can ride all the way to the end, just to get back in line to do it over all again.

So start petting your spirit animal; don’t be discouraged if it’s a mange infested hate monkey.  Let it guide you to the start of something new, it’s perfectly fine to start small.  Start by offering that hot stranger you see on the El every morning a “hello” instead of your same tired, creepy stare.  Start writing the first chapter of your modernist novel or perhaps some bad escapist mommy porn.  Put some air in your bike tires and start peddling, you could be the next Lance Armstrong, the world could use one with more balls and less scandal.  Start wrapping your head around the notion that you are the architect of your future, so grab the blueprints out of that garbage can you stuck them in for safe keeping and start scribbling on them about how those who aren’t afraid to begin are rewarded with euphoria and how you’ll never again let your eyes drift away from the starting line.  

In remembrance

Today, like most people, I think about where I was eleven years ago.  I’d had my job as a flight attendant for only a handful of months, and in a strange scheduling twist, I was home in Seattle when I had been scheduled to be out flying.  When I heard the news, I felt an immediate kinship with the crews working on the planes for obvious reasons….then I considered the passengers, the workers in the buildings, the people on the ground, and all the people connected to all of those people.  The scope of tragedy was simply too large for me to wrap my head around, the television brought unimaginable sights and sounds…..I was struck completely powerless, overwhelmed from trying to wrap my head around it all.  I found solace in concentrating my thoughts on just one man.

The first time I visited New York was in the winter of 1995.  I headed out with my girl Monica who had once lived there and would prove to be a most excellent tour guide.  She told me if I took my Fodor’s guide out in public like a dumb ass tourist that she would throw me in front of the F train, which certainly set me straight in a hurry.  I’d always heard the rumors that New Yorkers were brusk and harried….when I planned the trip some of my Seattleite friends echoed those sentiments, warning me that I would find the city unpalatable, especially in the dead of winter.  Excited to make the trip regardless, I tried to keep an open mind.

Monica and I headed to the World Trade Center on our first morning there.  Wanting to see the city from up high, we stopped an older guy working security and inquired if there was an option to look outside from the top.  He explained that going to the roof was no longer a possibility since “the devastation”, his euphemism for the truck bombing that occured two years before.  Even in discussing a fairly recent somber event, he never lost his bright smile.  He told us about all the other buildings where we could get a decent view of the city and made some other suggestions that were his personal favorite places to see.  He was patient and kind, and immediately I felt a sense of warmth on a cold winter day in New York.  We thanked him for his time and headed off to the Empire State Building.

When I heard the news about the attacks eleven years ago, I thought about that man.  I wondered if he still worked there, if he was working there that day, perhaps he had retired or had taken a Tuesday off to spend with his family.  I had no idea, obviously, but it gave me comfort to think about him and how his friendliness had colored how I felt about an entire city full of people.  I think of him every year on this day when my sadness threatens to get the best of me.

Sometimes I struggle with my identity as a flight attendant.  I’ve often said it’s just what I DO, it’s not who I AM.   I’ve resisted writing stories about the airplane for this very reason.  But after eleven plus years of flying, it’s undeniably a big part of who I am.  I’ve written about two encounters that happened at work; one was about a soldier coming home from Iraq that shared with me that he had been discharged with post traumatic stress disorder, another about a co-worker that I had written off as a brainless asshole until I found out that the load she was carrying at home was unimaginably heavy.  When I’ve shared these tales with other people, they’ve often reacted that the stories reminded them that there is a person with feelings behind the flight attendant facade, behind the wings and the uniform and the service industry smile.  The world is such that we all tune out on all the nameless, faceless people sometimes….I know I am often so far up my own ass it’s ridiculous, so focused on my own petty bullshit, riding a pendulum swinging back and forth between fearless bluster and self condemnation. But I keep myself grounded by taking in other people’s stories, sharing snapshots of our connections to one another…..in my case, I often gravitate to reflecting about people who have come in and out of my life in a flash, like that man in New York.  Taking a few minutes to recognize someone else’s humanity can change your own…..just listening is a powerful act of love.  Pondering that everyone I come in contact with, even that jerk in 14C who will not turn off his phone until he is damn good and ready, is an individual with a story, even if I never get to hear it.

Honoring those we lost eleven years ago can be as simple as a small act of compassion for another.  You never know who’ll be thinking about it every year, seventeen years later.  Also taking a moment to really consider your dreams…..if there was ever a day to let it soak in that now is all we have, let it be today.  Think about what you can do with your one wild and precious life in tribute to those who were taken from us too soon.

My Life So Far

One week from today I will be forty six years old.  I repeat, FORTY SIX FUCKING YEARS OLD.  Holy shit, shouldn’t I be in an ill fitting sweat suit watching Matlock picking out burial plots by now?  Perhaps.  

The last forty five years, the highlight reel.

Complicated mother.  Absent alcoholic father.  Autistic brother.  No room for me to have an adjective.

Spent almost three decades bumping along without much purpose, besides putting out fires caused by all of the above as being a fixer appeared to be my station in this life.

Met a safe, sane guy to spend happily ever after with.  Set me free from family worries.  Lived in the shadow of his dreams until I was terribly sick.  Got better.  Reevaluated my priorities.  Realized that our safe, sane life was not doing it for me.

Moved to Chicago.  Drank, danced, went a little crazy.  In a good way.  Started writing down the stories of my life as they were burning a hole in my head.  Found other people with heads full of story fire.  Started telling stories to anyone who listen, fanning story flames.  Felt a sense of pride, a sense of direction, an unprecedented sense of worth.  Can’t stop now, flaming story train has left the station.

Met another guy.  Tried to make it work.  Failed miserably.  Hardly wrote a word.  Broke up with him.  Held on too tightly, ripping my heart apart, not because there was a future for us but because he believed in me.  Mourned the loss of having someone to cheer me on.  Cried every night for a month.  Cried to anyone who would listen, not so much over lost love, but over lost youth.  Scary to let others know that I was in pain, that the fixer needed fixing.  Couldn’t go home, slept on friends’ couches.  Recognized finally that love was all around me.   That it wasn’t too late.  Woke up to feel the sun on my face.  Felt an unfamiliar sensation.  Joy.  Walked the beaches of Florida’s redneck Riviera while traveling for work, surrounded by low rent tourists trolling around yelling on their cell phones, eating crap food, playing volleyball, screaming at their overweight children.  Didn’t just write them off as trashy, as I usually would.  Connected only with their happiness, that they were spending their vacation days on a beautiful beach, doing exactly as they pleased.  Strangely contagious, smiled the rest of the day.

 Have been thinking differently about everything.  Not because of being sick or moving to Chicago or going a little crazy or having my heart broken or whisky tango beach epiphanies.  Because of all of it.  No longer care what others think, no longer have to pass judgement on other people to feel good about myself.  Finding bliss in everything I possibly can.  Discovering that if I pay attention to my world, I will always have something to write about.  Ecstatic at the possibility.  Spent such a great deal of my life so far telling everyone that everything was fine, that I would make it fine, which I did and I didn’t.  Glad to quit that fixer job.  Recognizing that the only life we have is right this minute and possibly the rest of today and tomorrow if we’re lucky.  Spent a long time pretending to be impenetrable, only to find out that it was the shield standing between me and happiness.  Surrounding myself with love and support from all kinds of wonderful people.  Embracing being single.  Soaking myself in lady power.  Reaching out to the straight dudes that I adore in order not to lose faith in them as a species, a few who I would drunkenly marry in Las Vegas as my next fabulous mistake.  Throwing the bird to societal expectations, shedding the apathy that was suffocating me like a dry cleaning bag.  Loving that sharing stories brings my joy together with your joy, my heartache with your heartache, thus pulling me out of lonely isolation.  

Forty six, show me what you got.  Prepared to keep fire walking, friends are always there when I get burned.   Inspired by Rumi, forgetting safety, living where I fear to live, destroying my reputation, attempting to be notorious.  Never too old to make shit happen….I invite you to join me.

Everybody Got Their Something

I often feel like I’m the last person in line to get the life changing memos.  I have no doubt we all feel that way sometimes.  This blog has been rolling around in my head for a long time....it’s my most recent revelation that has been building steam for a few years now.  

In discussing this blog or any of my other writing projects with people, I often hear the same comments, mostly along the lines of I Used To Do XYZ But I Don’t Now, I Couldn’t Do XYZ If I Tried, or probably the most common response, I’m Not A Creative Person.  The last one truly speaks to me as that was my line for forty years.  When I was fourteen, I got a job flipping burgers and discovered my love of boys, music, and wine coolers all at once.  I had a boyfriend that was in a sparky Brit Pop inspired band; they played friends’ parties, small clubs, public parks and the like, until they managed to attract quite a following.  When the shows involved collecting money they would often ask me to work the door, assumedly because they trusted that I wouldn’t rip them off and they could concentrate on doing their thing.  I suppose I was a merch girl before there was such a term.  I had it in my head that being a merch girl type was most certainly my station in this life….that I was an ardent art enthusiast, at times getting lucky enough to be close and helpful to those who produced it.

When I started writing, I felt a slow but discernible shift in attitude.  I had enjoyed writing as a kid, which was my only criteria for starting there in attempts to figure out if I had any creative juju whatsoever.  Throwing myself into it, I started voraciously taking in information about how to be a better writer, storyteller, artistic type person....are you feeling my air quotes?  I wanted to be armed with information, God forbid I just do it and fall on my face.  I kept coming across the same message over and over again.  Simplified to a few concepts, it is as follows:

1) When you first start doing ANYTHING, you probably won’t be that good at it.

2)  You will get better, but only if you don’t give up.

3)  Even if you don't master it, there is much joy and satisfaction to be derived in learning.

These simple truths started coming at me from all sides. I'm sure the information was always present, but I didn't see it because I didn't think it applied to me. Ira Glass talks about the period of time it takes before your abilities catch up with your enthusiasm and your taste.  Anne Lamott celebrates shitty first drafts.  I recently discussed this with my friend Charles who directed me to his blog on the topic (http://anevalinc.blogspot.com/2012/03/metaphoric-refrigerator.html)  It’s a powerful message that applies to the bigger picture, beyond making art….that in order to learn, you must be willing to try and willing to accept the fact that you will most likely not be instantly successful in your attempts.  People aren't divided into creative and noncreative.…it’s just a matter of experimentation and patience with the results.  And being very careful about who you share your experiments with.  When I wrote my first story, I sent it to two respected writer friends who I trusted to help me.  When I read what I sent them now, I find it pretty cringeworthy, but they were supportive and encouraging and gave me tips on how to make the piece better.  I've improved my work through trial and error, heavy on the ERROR.  For every decent piece I've come up with, I have had a whole slew of ideas that went nowhere, that remain unfinished, or just plain sucked ass.  Every time I press POST on this blog, I am filled with self doubt about the worth, the message, the value, the spelling, the grammar, the punctuation. I just found out I'm the last asshole on the planet to put two spaces after the period, but so be it.  I want to give up every time things don't turn out the way I've planned (which for the record is almost EVERY TIME), but then I look at how far I've come and I realize I just wouldn't be satisfied going back to being a merch girl.

Any innate talent I have as a writer I attribute to the fact that writing involves paying attention.  It is my personal celebration of my observations of the world.  I have always been a very nervous type, hyper analyzing everyone around me in an attempt to fit in.  Not that uncommon, I suppose.  My crippling fear of being uncool combined with my desire to belong turned me into a social chameleon, a shape shifter, someone who could figure out how to act appropriately in any number of social situations….that combined with years of waiting tables and tending bar was a master class in the human condition.  Writing is helping to smooth out the rough road that is a recent quest to just accept myself for who I am, relinquishing the exhausting struggle that is changing myself to please others and related attempts to get others to change to suit my needs.  Writing has brought my life a piece that has always been missing, a bridge between the mad swirl that goes on inside my mind and the outside world where we all collide…a glimpse at self acceptance, a window into a sense of belonging.

I know there’s always work to do and bills to pay and Bravo marathons to watch and other etcetera to consider, but I encourage you to try your hand at being creative. If it feels uncomfortable and unnecessary and flat out stupid, you’re probably on the right track.  I'm exploring the Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, which I just started tackling with a great group of new Chicago friends.  Every week I've committed to going on an “artist’s date”, something I do alone that’s pure play, any activity that exercises my imagination.  Even though I have plenty of time to do this and a plethora of interesting ideas, it has been surprisingly difficult to let myself just DO IT.  It feels like an indulgence and contrary to what responsible adults do with their time.  This week I’ve decided to canoodle with Garage Band on my Mac Air, even though I have never tried my hand at anything musical.  Just for fun.  Just to see.  I’m sure I will suck….but who knows, I could get better.  Even if I don’t (those of you who’ve heard me sing karaoke know this is a real possibility), if it’s fun, I might just continue to do it anyway.  Think of what you enjoyed as a kid.  Did you sing, did you dance, did you draw?  Everybody got their something....there's a time for every star to shine.  Take a moment to consider yours.  I've attached the Nikka Costa ditty that my iPod kept shuffling as a musical reminder to put this post together.

Still rebuilding from a breakup that was the emotional equivalent of playing catch with a hand grenade.  Applying the above philosophy to that as well….I tried, I loved, I lost, I learned. I arrived at the address of my first meeting of my writing group to unexpectedly find it was where I last had my heart smashed.  Actively shaking in my shoes from the visual, I had to convince myself that it was time to embrace new possibilities and focus on the doors that were opening instead of the ones that I had been slammed in my face.  Great thinkers like Nietzsche and Kelly Clarkson (!) remind me that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.  I may be on the fast track to bench pressing Volkswagons.

Leaving you with a Rumi reminder.  It's almost summer in Chicago, people.  LET THE GAMES BEGIN.

The Guest House 

                             This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival. 

A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor. 

Welcome and entertain them all! Even if they're a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house  empty of its furniture, still, treat each guest honorably. He may be clearing you out for some new delight.

 The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in. 

Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vyeoW4ifNik