Snapshot

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

When someone asks me “how I am?” I freeze like a deer in the headlights.  I never noticed this till the other day when I was wandering around downtown and I heard a wolf whistle.  At first it didn’t register and then it didn’t sink in that it was aimed at me. Not that I am not a vision of all that is lovely at 6 1”, with crazy dandelion styled copper hair and a body that would make a burlesque queen blush. I am. But at the time I was in slub mode, both internally and externally, which translates to ripped-up denim shorts, an old tee and a pair of sandals that should be condemned. I had my camera in my bag and was in search of inspiration, answers, solace and a break from the crazy that was pms bubbling over.  So yea, the wolf whistle didn’t land until I looked up at the direction where it came from and then it did. There was an old friend with a smile on her face and the light of mischief in her eyes. I can tell you there is no better sight than that.

There are things that instantly buoy my mood, a note from Layne or Tony, making John laugh, a talk with Marsue, Chris or watching Greg do a wind up to a punch line that gets me laughing before he speaks it. These are things I forget till they happen, thankfully for me that is often. So when my mirage a la Cindy asked “how I was?” I didn’t know what to say.  I was in a funk due to just everyday stuff and too much estrogen but then she whistled and I saw that look of glee she had at my reaction and everything felt better. She was well, happy and calm all the things I was not feeling until I saw her. Then I was. These are the snapshots we share. Take a shot of where I was just prior to the whistle and it is fuzzy, chaotic, a little dark, ugly and bloated. Then the light changes as someone smiles at me with recognition of truly seeing me, being happy at that sight and the picture brightens, lightens and smooth’s out. The exposure changes everything.

“How I am doing” is a snapshot of a moment, sometimes like in this case that moment is a transition. So words fail, I am looking at the view out of a train window in the rain. There is color, movement, feeling and then we stop. My answers unfortunately never reflect that. They are more like I just got up from a nap, startled, confused at just waking from the noise of my head, to see someone waiting. If I am lucky it is someone kind, funny or thoughtful, if not, I just blink and give the usual answer, “so far so good.” That is how I judge any day, any moment, in as honest and concise way possible. In the other instances at the sight of a friend I manage to give some details of where I was and not sound too out of it at my landing in a new spot thanks to them. In reality I am reeling and not till I walk away do I give thanks to the Universe and to them for being at just the right place at the right time. You might think ‘oh yeah it’s all about her’, well yes that is true. But it is all about you too, as it should be.

We are our frame of reference, filter, modality, brokenness; a vehicle to experience what there is on this little blue-green planet. Our experience, our truth is based on what we see and how we feel about what and who is around us. Each moment is significant but the whole is much more than its parts. Recognizing the transitions for what they are and the people in them with us gives us context.  Like those flip books with cartoons in them, one shot at a time it is static detail of a moment, when you add the grace of a thumb sliding over the pages it comes to life and has meaning.

 

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Emily Post on Armageddon

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

It has come to my attention that the publishing world has neglected a growing niche market. It seems Armageddon is at our door on a monthly if not weekly basis according to Inside Edition, ABC, NBC, CBS, Astrology Chronicle, The Kardashians, CNN, and Fox News among a few. It seems that comets are sideswiping us; there are ever-present nuclear threats from unstable nations, record earthquakes, tsunami’s, locust and flatulence that can blow our houses down. The collapse of financial markets around the world, Oprah off the air, famine, pestilence, ignorance and Simon Cowell and Paula Abdul back on the air. My MSN homepage portends something catastrophic more often than I change hair color.

 

Now we all know the drill if there is a zombie apocalypse, old news. There are many books, movies and iPhone aps to deal with that inevitability. Basically short story there is: hole-up at Wal Mart and dig in.  But what exactly do we do in the everyday mêlée of total world collapse and destruction? What are our PC lawless rules of etiquette?

 

I have a close friend, let’s call her Ms. M for “mayhem”, who keeps me in the know when I am out of the chicken-little stream of consciousness. She brought a laundry list of “what is the right answer” to common world collapse conundrums that Emily Post seemed to gloss over. Just because there is death and destruction is no reason to do it all without an air of distinction. Case in point: if Ms. M and her cat have secured enough food for them to survive—Lets not guess at this junction, only it’s the making of a Steven Speilberg classic if they do survive—would she be obligated to invite in a lone relative who comes to her door? What about if said relative had two dogs? Would she be obliged to share everything with family and her family’s critters?

 

What if that lone relative had a roommate? What if they had a bird, or a fish? What if that roommate had a beau? You can see this is much much tougher than who to invite to your wedding, bar mitzvah or Super Bowl shindig. Emily had most or all of those events covered. Here we are in the weeds without a whacker. If someone doesn’t get invited to the wedding you can send a nice note, a few pictures or a video after the fact. If someone doesn’t get invited in for Armageddon well I am thinking the documentation of eating, drinking and general ok living condition would be pretty rude to forward to those less fortunate. Besides I am thinking at that point they are working with less than dial-up.

 

This begs the question, “How much is enough to store for survival?” We have a reliable time-line or grocery list here. I mean we are talking, food, water, booze, chocolate/twizzelers, beer, tampons, critter food, litter, wine, TP, art supplies, tequila, tea, jerky, books, scotch, etc… one would need the essentials but for how many and for how long? I don’t think actuaries cover this set of circumstances. How long can you survive with X living with you.  I don’t think there are variables depending on if you are holed up with your spouse, mother-in-law, children, mute girlfriend or strangers without their meds. Really there are gaping holes of knowledge around this phenomenon.

 

 

If things went further south for those in the bunker with dwindling supplies, whose pets get eaten first? How does one broach the subject of eating someone’s Fluffy, Fido or Bigo? Is there a meat, fat, muscle ratio per pet per meal? Or a fang, feather, claw deterrent? How about the hard to catch, kill or she has soulful eyes quotient? You can see we have to contend with anthropomorphizing, fur-balls and family of origin dysfunction dynamics to just name a few. We are only talking pets, this dynamic grows more complex and pointed when we apply the Donner principal. Enough said. On a side note here the spell check wants to change Donner to “dinner”.

 

I am not the girl to solve these prickly social grace issues and create a throw-down etiquette. I am awkward at best in situations where grace, poise, and tact prevail. I became a member of the “I don’t give a rat’s ass” fan club some years ago. It is a distant mutant half cousin to Mickey with all the ideology, rigorous training and casual wear being polar opposites. My plan for Armageddon involves cases of champagne maybe the beach, maybe something more intimate depends on who is around and handy. Generally it involves make hay while the day lasts and then say goodnight moon.

 

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Chasing Butterflies

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

Writing has not been something I have wanted to do or could have done for what feels like a very long time. It has felt like my head has been stuffed with cotton—like you would find in a new bottle of aspirin— the pills are there but a cottony stuffing prevents you from getting to it. It’s placed there to prevent breaking in shipping. I don’t know if mine was protective but it sure was jammed in tight. I was cluttered as my brilliant sister Chris put it. I just needed time and patience, of which I have in short supply; to have it all sort out. I say “it”, as I seem not to be any help in the sorting, as much as I tried I only made it worse. Up until then I had been serious about chasing down solutions to all my ills and hit a wall.

Most of the time during this cycle, yes it is cyclic unfortunately; I almost always panic at the onset as I always feel like Alice going down the rabbit hole. Not good. My fear and belief that I will not make it above ground again is so strong I get overwhelmed. I feel like the clutter will not clear away and I will feel anxious, lost and useless forever.

It took a long time for me to right myself this cycle. I am not sure exactly why that was but I believe there were lots of elements involved to extend the process. One element being a significant birthday, another was reduced resources, an anniversary of a trauma and the loss of faith, hope and fun. All of which resulted in whirling. Lots of whirling indeed. I can whirl like a tie-dyed hemp Jesus-sandal wearing, three-brownie eating, yogi dervish at a Grateful Dead concert. Pure pro… All the whirling does is create confusion, anxiety and a loss of focus bringing me to a dizzy, damp heap of red, freckles and pale.

I tried to use my trusty bag of tricks to right myself, yoga, walking, the beach, sex, mediation, twizzelers but nothing worked. I could not even bring myself to write. I was not able to string a sentence together. I tried drawing as painting and color felt like too much, too overwhelming. I tried reading; music, napping, bad TV and good movies… still nothing. I got nowhere. In fact it got worse before it got better.  In the end the right answer for this cycle was to do nothing about my perceived issues, drama, troubles, etc. and keep my head down and muddle through it. There was nothing to fix and certainly not in that state. I was too clouded to recognize a solution if it bit me on the butt.

What I can equate this to is butterfly hunting. You don’t do well to chase butterflies; running willy-nilly around a flowered meadow is inefficient and unseemly to say the least. To say even less it sucks. You do best to sit still among the beautiful flowers and wait. Sooner or later a butterfly floats down and lands next to you if not right on top of you. Chasing most things make them move away from us. This is true for meditation, creativity, love, a pool toy, money you name it. If we are hyper-focused we lose sight of the opportunities right in front of us. We miss the presents that are being offered. Not to mention we make ourselves and those around us crazy with our whirling, moaning, groaning and generally bitchy attitude… or so I am told. Not a good way to spend an hour much less a life. So when in pursuit of something be mindful of what you are chasing and if it is something elusive perhaps it is time to sit down and take a breathe or two and smell the flowers.

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My, people come and go so quickly here

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

That is what Dorothy said in the beginning of the Wizard of Oz and she was not only spot on but also a star. People do, we do, come and go quickly here. Today is the anniversary of my youngest sister Amy’s death. I write about her life and who she was a lot, but not much about her death. It was just a small part of her, just an exit, however impactful. Her exit does not define her. I don’t believe we define ourselves by what we do or what we say but by our relationship to others. People don’t even remember what you do or say I find, but they remember how you made them feel. That doesn’t mean what we do or say isn’t important, it is, but it is only a reflection of our values, skills, and intent… all good things but not however, who we are.  Who we are is our connection, our touch, our love and how we move through the world. It is the alchemy of us and who we bump up against at any given moment.

 

Amy’s legacy is vast from her hilarious writings, to the pictures of her dressed as a storm trooper with a chemo head at a hospital visiting sick kids, to the students she listened to and helped understand something in her 8th grade English class, to the sneakers she left on the Fire Island Ferry that got her and my other sister, Chris, busted for playing hooky, to her Pomeranian attitude and razor wit not to mention all the people who are forever changed in a deeply profound way just because they knew her.

 

Amy had a way of looking at the world like no other person I have met; she had a certain brilliant off-center wisdom. Once when asked if she would date someone with a tattoo she said, “No, because if we were in a plane crash and I had to eat him, he would taste terrible.”   Another time she was asked if world peace was possible. “Sure, but not with people on the planet” she shot back.  I remember one afternoon on a walk after I had a particularly horrible failed relationship she imparted “what did you expect from him?  It’s like trying to teach a dog a card trick. ” Her view on fear, which is flawless in my eyes: “There are topics that are difficult, but I’ve unwound the mysteries about them so they aren’t so scary anymore.  It’s like dragging a fear from the closet to the front seat and telling it to sit down and shut the fuck up.  Generally it does and it’s not so scary in the light.” Just brill, raw, funny and true to the bone of who she was and is in my heart and memories. Those vignettes we shared define us both. And I do mean vignettes; there is a reason why the word quick is in the title. Not only are we here and gone but it is done in a blink of an eye.

 

I took a trip to LA recently and had the pleasure of watching a recording of a brilliant dance performance featuring a good friend. She was with three other wonderful dancers and the piece was so moving it brought me to tears. One of the other women in the performance was once a dancer with Martha Graham; she was graceful, full of emotion and stillness. She used her body in a way that gave me a view into how we make connection by distilling emotion and circumstance into movement. It was stunning. Her body communicated in incredibly profound ways.  I am sorry to say I just heard she is gone.  Her beautiful body in which she spoke so eloquently is no longer. However her legacy of who she was is still here and strong for those who knew, loved and worked with her. Her connections with them are very much alive and real. Our connection to others is indeed what defines all of us despite our exit strategy.

 

So yes people do come and go quickly here, that is the nature of this platform. So while they are here and you can touch them pull them close and do so, often. Listen and look at them when they speak to you, be thoughtful of them when they are near. Enjoy the sound of their voice when they laugh, snort, snore, or sigh. You are gathering and sharing what matters, what defines the wonder of what we are. And when they go celebrate the connection between you, the love, learning and crazy because that is what makes us sparkle.

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Survival of the Witless

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

There are only a small number of people I travel with because of the way they approach life and limb, they choose fun, adventure, the unknown and a little bit of danger. It’s the devil may care attitude that gets me in trouble every time, but it always garners a good story.

My friend John doesn’t like to read, he tells people he is allergic. He makes an exception for menus and on rare occasions my writing when it contains two things; it is light/funny and he is featured. I’m not so sure what he will think of this story but he was there so I hit the mark on one count.

 

Some days you need to just get out of dodge, skip town, hit the bricks and as you can see from my language I have been netflixing cop shows these days, but I digress. So John and I decide we are going to head out to Mt. Laguna one morning and hike around. What “hiking” generally looks like is we pack lots of snacks, beach chairs, and beverages and take a walk. After snacking at various woodsy locals we then go find a restaurant for lunch.

 

John is far more detail oriented about this type of day trips than I. One of the reasons is he is gluten intolerant and eats one meal a day. That meal lasts from the moment he opens his eyes till he shuts them again at bedtime. He grazes all damn day. So now with the gluten twist it raises his anxiety level that there is not enough non-gluteny food to eat at any given moment. Besides the fabulous array of snack foods he travels with he has all the fine accoutrement one might need to take care of a toddler when they travel, that would be me. An example of his supreme readiness would be last year on a day hike in the desert when it was too late in the season for sane people to be wandering in the hot desert. John had the where-with-all to bring cold packs, damp cold wash clothes in Ziplocs and frozen water in his thermos, which melted at the perfect rate to provide cool water to drink. I on the other hand brought one bottle of water which I finished in 15 minutes. I was beet red and near stroke when we stopped for lunch. During lunch John gave me the extra soda he packed for me, gave me the cold washcloth in the baggy to wipe down and let me play with the cold pack, which I promptly dropped on the dusty ground. In all fairness I was attempting to cool my neck when I dropped it in the red dirt. It made a cloud of grit when it hit and I just stared at its betrayal. I was also thinking I would be swabbing my neck with mud now as it was still cold and damp albeit grimy. John just laughed as he knows he is traveling with a toddler and expects these things to happen. He picked up the cold pack, wiped it clean and handed it back to me shaking his head. Hey for all the nuisance I cause I also give him hours of good stories to tell at cocktail parties.

 

What is funny to me is John is more hyper-vigilant than I am; he likes having addresses for points of destination on day trips so we can find gas stations, food etc. In traveling with another friend of mine I am the organized one because he is far less grounded than I. This guy is like the Underdog balloon at the Macy’s day parade on Thanksgiving. He is so floaty he is in need of adult supervision at any given moment but he is a hell of a lot of fun to travel with as you never know where you’ll end up.  I was the one who did the crossing of the t’s and dotting of the i’s when we traveled. He would forget to eat until I pointed it out and by that time I was way past ‘hangry’, as my friend Heidi says, and needed to be fed for all of our safety. So the dynamics of travel is relative to whom you are with and what you are doing.

 

So, as I was saying, John and I head to the mountains all sun-screened and ready for adventure. The night before we both checked the weather. Not only might it get hot but there might be some thunderstorms in the afternoon, this seems like good fun. Summer in San Diego gives us little to no exposure to rain so the prospect of being in the Mountains for a storm was exciting for both of us. (If this was a movie there should have been a sound track from John Williams of some ominous music right back there.) I was also drawn to the mountain lion warning I saw on the parks website. Who doesn’t like a little lions, tigers and bears drama when they hike through the woods?

 

The drive was pleasant as we climbed up the winding road to Mt. Laguna. At one point of the drive on a twisty two-lane mountain road a chipmunk darts across the road and in a Darwinian manner chooses to rest mid-way and enjoy the view from the middle of our lane. John, knowing he cannot swerve, does what any kind hearted person would do, he honks. I burst into laughter, which was not appreciated by the driver or by the would-be target. My thought was that if the chipmunk did not pay mind to the 2,395lb car hurtling toward him at 50 mph he might not notice the toot of a Scion’s horn. I’m just saying is all… John likes squirrels, chipmunks and small creatures of that ilk, me, I think rabid, mobile, and flea hotel when they get close. For any kind hearted readers who don’t believe chipmunks are merely rats with good PR the varmint managed to stay still and make it off the road safely after we passed.

 

The park was beautiful and we wandered around the campgrounds exploring, breathing in the green and waiting for the rain. We decided to hike some, and then have a snack on the edge of a canyon we found and watch the sky. There had been a drop or two as we walked around but no real rain, we wanted to stay long enough to see if there were more drops. There were. They came after we walked down the trail and found a great picnic table at the edge of the outcropping. They came in fat cold drops that after a hike felt wonderful. It was a slow lazy rain so instead of standing back under a pine, like John, I stepped out to feel it. It had been at least 6-8 months since I had been rained on much less in the middle of the woods. It was glorious, which turned to a little nippily when the volume increased as the sky opened up. I was getting soaked. We went down further on the trail to a denser outcropping of trees and another picnic table. Here we sat on the low slung branches and ate chips and drank soda watching it all. The rain lightened so we moved to the table chatting and laughing.  We stopped laughing when the lighting and thunder started. We looked at each other with an “uh-oh” look. John looked down at the table and pointed saying one word, “metal”.

 

We stood back from the table as the thunder and lightning cracked very close. We went down to a crouch, then even lower, sitting on gnarled tree roots. We smelled the ozone and felt the electricity in the air like people talk about on the weather channel after their watches melt to their arms. John was hanging tight to his Pepsi can and I moved away from him as I pointed it out. I asked where exactly his keys were so I could pull them from the charred remains if he chose not to put the conductor down. I also pointed out that his best-case scenario would be the can melted to his hand, the worst he would be a crispy critter.

 

Just then John stopped laughing and was looking off in the distance. The rain was steady but the lighting was moving off some so we felt safer, or I did. I watched him a minute trying to figure out what was up.

“What’s wrong?” I asked after another minute of watching him watch something.

“Those leaves over there are moving but I can’t see what is moving them.” He said, still staring.

We both stood up and looked over, I could see where he was talking about and it was low branches on a tree.

“Mountain lion?” I said.

“Don’t know, something…” he murmured, squinting.

With that I started waving my hands over my head reminding him about the data we saw that morning at the Information Office about mountain lions. It said we had to look bigger than we were and not to run. Just as I was waving my hands manically there was another flash and crack from the sky.

“And not get hit by lightening; put your hands down for god-sakes.”

“Oh yea” I shrugged looking between the sky and the suspicious shrubbery off to our left.

We agreed the hiking part of the day was over and that we should move to the car and watch the show from there. We carefully, watchfully stumbled up to the parking lot to the car and dried off. We decided since the rain stopped and the sun was peeking out we would try one more short walk before heading down the hill to find lunch. We drove to another trail site as not to tempt fate and began to walk. After 20 minutes it started to rain lightly again so we chose to sit at the base of a giant pine on the bank of the road. We could hear a squirrel barking up the tree from us but paid it no mind. That was till it dropped some chips from a pinecone about 3 feet from us. I pointed out to John that his woodland friend was not happy with us being in his hood. He shrugged and we talked on about nothing and everything. Suddenly a huge stripped pinecone came crashing down and scraped John’s shin, impaling itself in his foot before falling over. Then came the blood. The little furry bastard wanted us gone and I guess figured John was a safer target since I would have chain sawed the tree or shot him out of it just to make a point. John was stunned, how could his little fiefdom turn on him in such an ugly way? It was my turn to shake my head as we moved up the trail to the safety of the car.

“Better a squirrel than a mountain lion attack” I said and had to add, “I told you they are nasty little bastards!”

We managed to get up the trail without further damage or danger from lions, tigers, bears, squirrels, chipmunks, lightening, pestilence, flood or god forbid famine. On the drive home we laughed about our adventures as we focused on finding our next meal. We had succeeded in laughing through everything that could have been a threat, a danger, or nuisances. None of these things made us cranky or impatient with the other or the situation. We chose laughter, wonder and to enjoy spending time with crazy people. Each of us not only accepting but delighting in the others person’s foibles and oddities. So here is the deal folks, choose your co-pilots carefully. I highly recommend the ones who make everything an adventure and rainy days fun!

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Waves

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

The duality in nature is what provides us with context.  Those deep still pools in juxtaposition with rushing waters are both our internal and external landscape on a daily basis.  What I mean by this is that without both there is not contrast which provides meaning. These elements are the conditions of our journey that we struggle with.  Our day unfolds with the act of us spilling our coffee across the counter creating a small chaos till finally we manage our first sip savoring it as it warmly greets our tongue. The first breath of crisp green morning as we step out the door calming us is followed by the sight of Pterodactyl crap on our car because we parked under a utility pole which tweaks us. We are tossed back and forth between those things that make us happy, calm or go as expected to the opposite. There is no level that is constant it is not unlike sitting atop a surfboard I would think riding the waves. We don’t control the waves but we choose what to do with them.

In the last few weeks I ‘ve had a number of conversations regarding creativity, life’s purpose, art, love and the proximity of these concepts to each other. That the duality between faith and fear and how they ride shotgun in all the arenas we work and play. That our position between those markers of faith and fear is reflected in how we live our life, create art or make dinner. It mirrors our openness and is essentially our valve for creating risk and vulnerability in what we do and who we are. Like the waves it is mutable. Whether we choose to open it wide in creating a painting but close it down when someone we have feelings for gets too close. We can choose to be great at things that don’t matter to us, excel at what holds little, to no value but be afraid to venture into places that do. Places we value so much that our perceived failure will cut too deep and reveal our frailty and inadequacy to the world and worse to ourselves.

Yet this is neither all good nor bad but the rolling from one to the other is what gives us our learning.  If I don’t spill my coffee sometimes, write shitty first drafts, get myself tangled up in my beach chair and subsequently tumble into the sand I am unable to recognize the wonder of the times when I don’t. When I hit my mark with focus and clarity despite having the valve open to risk/vulnerability, it allows me to recognize the achievement. This is largely due how the action stands in contrast to the times I have not and choose to learn from them. When I can appreciate the stillness, the depth of calm having been in white water an hour before and had my stomach churning provides richness and texture.

We can bring these elements in and play with them in art in such a way it helps us to recognize them in our everyday life. For me an incredible example of this was seeing the images of snow white skin and dark coats of dancers in controlled grace displaying human frailty under a microscope that packed a punch so hard it set me back on my heels. The piece showed the dance we do in how we make connection and back away based the reflection of ourselves in others eyes. When we use art to distill our questions we can sometimes find our answers. The truth, meaning and vulnerability are displayed against a blank canvas as to help us recognize it when things began to swirl.

So there we are tossed back and forth trying to find a footing in which to rest and get perspective while constantly moving.  It is about controlling our own balance in the face of our changing landscape. It is about allowing ourselves to be where we are without judgment of its goodness or badness, and then our ability to take our experience apart and learn how the sum relates to the parts. How the choice to open or close the valve on risk throughout our day depending on how we feel will affect the outcome of our experience and perceived value. What we glean when things come crashing down on us and land us up on shore yet again, safe, or split open, there is always a gift.

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The Philosopher of Venice Beach

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

My friend Layne introduced me to the Philosopher of Venice Beach, (PoVB) two weeks ago Sunday. It was the craziest church service I had ever attended. Granted it was just the boardwalk and this was not his vocation but all the same he was a pro and a self-proclaimed student of the streets. He was also an artist, a jewelry maker extraordinaire working with found objects, antiques and obsolete items recycled into richly textured pieces of wearable art. Watching his short rough brown fingers deftly twisting copper wire, taking innards of watches, fasteners, coo-coo clock chains, chandelier parts, bits of discarded life and creating something achingly beautiful and unique was transfixing.  His pinked half closed possum eyes seeing more than 20/20 was startling at first as he began the chatter of the boardwalk. But chatter is inaccurate because this young man only spoke in truths, mumbled between salty grins, shrugged shoulders making one poignant insight after another all throw away lines for him. As he said all that he knows is just out there in the air, “there is a lot of stuff out there you just have to pick out the truth” and he did.

Layne convinced me that to have him make me a piece of jewelry while we sat with him would make the piece and the day more memorable and she was right. The philosopher happily agreed on a collaboration and pulled over a box wiped it down and I sat down under his umbrella on the boardwalk, Layne nearby. I gave him a dollar amount and free reign on the creation even to the extent of what he made me, whether it was a necklace, ring, earrings or bracelet whatever felt right. So he worked and we talked, or rather listened to this young guy ramble. He talked about work verse art, and the creative process. This is a conversation I have had with Marsue, a lifelong artist, many times about creating product vice art. The film “Exit through the Gift Shop” also deals with this subject in an interesting way. As a side note the boardwalk is filled with Banksy copies and reprints among other artists. What the PoVB said was if he just created product he would be working for a living and not enjoying what he was doing. So he choose to create what feels right, interact with nice people and share a moment in time with them which made it an experience. He shared his thoughts and elicited them from whoever he was chatting with so it was a union, an exchange. All the while answering questions on his jewelry for passer-bys, watching the boardwalk traffic and talking to whoever was in his current orbit about life and what he believes to be true. It was done in a flow that was so smooth it pulled you in and calmed.

We talked about creating art rather than product which puts the focus on the process, the discovery, the mistakes, the ugly and in the end if you are lucky the beautiful and unique. It is the age old worn out saying about the journey being the reward. It is also the journey that makes us frustrated, cranky, frightened and tired. Whether the journey is toward being a better person, creating art, enlightenment, or figuring our life out, it is all the same process. When I focus on the end result, the product, I lose the moment and the learning; I might as well be a robot. To do something with the only goal being giving people what I think they want or want to hear, see, purchase, is an act of fear and manipulation. To create something that inspires me, will inspire others. Furthermore the creative process helps me to understand myself and how I problem solve, react to failure, stress, doubt and so much more. These lessons if you will, directly translate to my actions and the results of them.

My intent is the key, if I intend to grow, to risk, to look at the bits of myself that are twisty and imperfect it does make for a difficult journey but my rewards are matched to the level of commitment to grow and risk. It’s just physics folks, for every action is an opposite and equal reaction. Being willing to embrace what is all of me the good, the bad and the crazy is always a good jumping off point for a journey.

The Philosopher of Venice Beach created a beautiful necklace for me that I love; it’s graceful and strong, rough and sleek. The duality in form is stunning.  I almost wore it to bed that night like a child with a new pair of patent leather shoes. I put it next to my bed as a reminder of all the strange, wonderful things I had seen and heard over my few days in LA and to work with what is. Those gnarly bits, those things I want to discard or recycle which in reality are what make me human, interesting and unique. If like the PoVB I work with these things in the creative process of life I appreciate the beauty of what is and build on it instead of ignoring it and working toward perfect.  Face it being perfect is boring, beige and just plain bad fiction because it based on a lie.

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Club Change

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

A few weeks ago I got an Evite to a girlfriend’s birthday party in downtown San Diego in the Gas Lamp district. She had chosen a trendy cool restaurant for a dozen or so of us to have dinner and later hit a club for some more cocktails and dancing. I can tell you right then my head swam at the last line of that invitation. I had not been in a dance club for about 15 years and back then it was a different birthday extravaganza in San Francisco–I would have rather been clubbed like a precocious baby seal then repeat that fiasco.

I am an introvert. I have people skills which all introverts don’t have, some of us simply grunt and point, but me I have my charms. That charm however, does not extend to over 8 people at any given time, so large functions can derail me. I was good for the dinner part of the night as I knew 8 of the 12 people going and they are warm, funny, delightful people who know me just enough to find me engaging and not enough wonder if that new medication they saw on that TV commercial during Dr. Phil might be just what I needed. Going to a dance club however was something I had sworn off years ago but in this instance I would be going with a group of friends, would be drinking my body weight in martini’s and it would be part of my present to the birthday girl. I thought I could man up and put on my party heels that would not send me to the ER before the night was over and try again.

Oh wait, I HAD done all that last time in San Francisco. That time the birthday girl’s name was Tony. We went with a group of close friends to a gay club to dance and celebrate and I drank my body weight in martinis. I was a bigger girl then so we are talking enough Saphire gin to float a boat, ok, ok a yacht. Aw hell…you see where this is going. By the end of that night in San Francisco with thumping house music, glistening nearly naked gay boys, gallons of gin, and day-glow stick necklaces when my friends finally rescued me from behind a huge potted palm in the corner. That corner and its foliage was the safest place I could find in that swirling sea of the great unwashed. When they got me outside on the sidewalk they found out that I was muttering, swearing to God, the Universe and Liberace that I would never be drug to a dance club again. I was young then, I didn’t know it’s bad to say “I’ll never” to the Universe, it’s best to say “I would rather not” because saying “never” really means I need to do this again cause I am a ninny.

This time I figured I would attend the dinner and dash off before they trotted over to the club. I was more concerned with hunting around my closet for the right clothes that proved attractive and comfortable, an oxymoron at it’s best but what I can say it’s hard being a girl. I ambushed two friends of mine to give me feedback. I thought straight guys would be good at this. What I found out was no, no they are not. No, because they are frightened, with good reason.

First, I show John all three pairs of shoe options after getting the general OK on the skirt and shirt ensemble. He came to drop off a birthday card and knows damn well he did not sign up for this. I know because I could hear him screaming in his head as I did my best Vanna in the shoes I was parading in front of him. He had friends in town and could not attend the night’s birthday dance party and thought he had escaped this type of torture, silly rabbit.

“Ok these are the classic match with this pencil skirt” I prattled “as they are paten leather pumps but walking in them is dicey. Drinking and walking could lead to major medical bills” his eyes had glazed at the term “pencil skirt” but I went on.

“The second choice are these heels, they are opened toed and easier to walk in and still work pretty well with the retro thing I got going on.” The last were a casual sandal the safest but least attractive I added when I had showed him what they looked like with a half turn. He had been muttering through most of the fashion show. “ those are nice, that works, what ever you are comfortable in, that’s nice, those look good, whatever you like…” he was praying I could tell. His prayers were answered in the form of David. David was attending the gala and we were going to cab it from my place as not to deal with parking downtown.

I gave David a hug at the door and John screamed “run, man run” ok only in his head but I am pretty sure David heard the telepathic man message because he broke out in a sweat but barely flinched when I told him I had to show him three pairs of shoes I was trying to decide on. He was steeling himself. I did the show again. David made all the right noises and gave me more constructive feedback as to style and function. As he was the one in all likelihood who would be sheparding me to the emergency room when things went boom.  I had to give him a hell of a lot of credit, it took nerve to okay the second pair of heels which were as high as the first but a little easier to walk in.

John’s comments on the rerun of the show were to David only. “It doesn’t matter what you say, they wear what they want anyway you know… don’t look them in the eyes when you say that they sense fear…” and things of the like. Both these guys had been married and what I was doing it seems was cruel and all too usual punishment. I have never been married and had only had the option of getting a straight guy’s opinion on clothes so few times it was fun and a novelty. I really did want to know what they thought. Once, when trying on a grey taffeta dress from Banana Republic that made me look like a washer woman from the eastern block I was happy when my boyfriend agreed with me and laughed as hard as I did at the dress. I don’t know what they do to the mirrors in the dressing rooms to make you think you look good but its pure black magic.

So John took off like a big girls blouse to see his friends and David and I headed downtown. He telling me it would be fun to go dancing and he would protect me from well… he really didn’t know, but he would. Oh man this could be ugly. Downtown was already pretty busy when we got there and it was only 7pm. The restaurant was filled with bachelor parties, birthday parties and 20 and 30-something’s out for the hunt. We had a great meal and I drank only half my weight in martinis. It was time to move the party to the club I was lubricated enough that I thought I could try it for a little while. I followed my friends or rather was towed in hand by my friend Cindy a tiny woman who seemed to grow super human strength and speed due to the sake she drank and we teetered trotted our way through the crowded sidewalk. Me, all the while saying “slow down I don’t have medical insurance” I think she thought I was kidding. I was not, me on 3 inch heels is like the statue of liberty coming crashing down, no good can come of it.

We get to the door and we have to pull out our ID’s I look ahead to see that there is an embryo in charge of checking them. When I get to him he starts to look up at me and gets as far as my neck and waves me on. “Time for that tuck,” I think and I slip into the dark club. Getting inside I find David has already paid for me. I thank him and insist I buy the first round. I insist because I didn’t carry a flask for the walk over to calm the anxiety that was welling up like a tsunami. I needed a martini stat in order to not go in search of another palm tree. The young woman who bartended sported leather hot pants and fishnet stockings which made David’s eye’s pop out. The bartender in San Francisco the last time I club hopped had the same outfit on but he had a whole other topography south of the equator. She did a quick job of providing us with libations and we all stood there taking in the scene.

There were monitors with artful pictures of naked woman, black walls, sofa’s in dark corners and a DJ in a cage. I gulped my martini as my friends moved to the dance floor one by one. I do dance. It’s seldom and not unlike Elaine from Seinfeld so it’s a public service that I not. After 30 minutes or so I was alone at the bar being crowded in by youth. I decided to take a walk and look around before I left to stretch out my visit. I moved around the bar to the other side of the dance floor and a guy sidled up to me shoulder to shoulder. He was proud he was as tall as me and grinned at me. I grinned back and thought, “Wow I could have given birth to you.” Looking over the room the only people I could not have given birth to were the ones I came with. Yikes, time for nanna to go home. I thought I would hit the ladies room and then make my goodbyes.

The ladies room air was thick with desperation, glitter body paint and CK perfume. The girls and I am using that term all to literally here, had their hands down their dresses, tube tops and shirts pulling their breasts up and out as to position them in a serving style manner minus the silver tray. I did not miss a beat in step as I swung around and retreated toot-sweet from the cloying “I need to get a new boyfriend, get laid, and find a mate” cloud that was the ladies room. The level of panic to hook-up in general had amped considerably since we walked in; the venue had already doubled its patrons.

I found out later that 20-30 minutes after I left the club had become jam packed and bikinied go-go dancers appeared on ledges and on the bar which prompted my friends to flee as well. By then I was happily home tucked into bed still wide awake to receive the phone call at midnight as to how my cohorts exit worked out and how crazy the club had gotten. Ah the wisdom of age. I had bolted when the time was perfect, there was a taxi waiting as I stepped out of the club. God, the Universe and Liberace were kind to those who know how to grow old gracefully, with humor and cab fare. The next morning as I rolled over in bed and stretched the first stretch of the day I rubbed my eyes. In doing so I saw a dark mark on the inside of my wrist and looked closer, what was there was my stamp from the night before. It simply said “I strut” I laughed and thought “damn straight cookie even without medical insurance.”

 

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The A Team

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

In mid-August I found myself getting double takes as I sat at an outdoor café table. It could have been the three feet of bare leg that was dangling, the bright white tee shirt atop my cutoffs, the rich red hair standing out at crazy angles, or the huge martini in one hand and a smoldering cigar at my lips. Hard to say.

How I started my day was working my List of “100 Things to Eat and Drink in San Diego” like it was my job. The list is from Alice Q. Foodie’s blog and it’s brilliant. Being new to San Diego I have been exploring neighborhoods on my stomach with her list in hand. The list was becoming soft like thin cotton gingham and food stained. There were notes from waiters, waitresses and bar keeps on the back of places they loved. Can you tell I love food, I am a foodie. I work out every day so I can eat all kinds of lovely things. So this day I was exploring downtown there were a half dozen places on my list and I planned to have a course, a cocktail, just the item she recommended at each establishment. It would be a glorious day if my stomach held.

It was, I walked and ate for close to 8 hours wandering about, looking at kitsch and sampling gastronomic delicacies. I was also thinking about my sister Amy. It was a week past the 3 year anniversary of her death; she was 36 when she died. She died of leukemia and unfortunately for her my slacker stem cells just didn’t do the job. I had been trying to come up with a gesture, a token nod to the universe and her about her life and outrageous spirit when I passed a cigar bar. Now that is interesting I thought, looking back over my shoulder heading toward the eyebrow threading salon.

Ten years ago on a trip to Austin to visit Amy, we went to one of her local watering holes and I met her friend Lorelei a good ol’ Texas girl. We settled in on the back deck of the bar with our Shiner Bocks in the cool of the evening. As we relaxed Lorelei and Amy pulled out cigars. Amy was not a smoker; she didn’t ever smoke cigarettes to my knowledge. To see her prep a big fat cigar made me speechless. She and Lorelei grinned at each other and lit the tip. I cocked my head at Amy and she gave the only answer she could. “It’s the only 8 inches that never done me wrong”. With that we laughed and drank the night away, the tips of the cigars glowing red into the night.

Flash forward on my downtown eating adventure I had passed both a cigar shop/bar and a cigar café in my travels that day when it hits me. I have to man up and smoke one for Amy. I will need an extra-large adult beverage for this to be possible but I can pull my skirt out of my back pocket and butch up. I find my way back to the cigar shop/bar. It has been years since I was in a smoky bar; I hadn’t missed it at all. I approached the guy at the counter and tell him I wanted to buy a cigar and he led me to the vault, or the humidor hookey dokey. It was smoke free, ahhh. He asked me what I would like.

“I don’t smoke” I stammered “but I want to smoke a cigar in memory of my sister who died, she did smoke them”.

I choked up at the end, an unexpected and unwelcome emotion at that point in time. I am clueless about my inner workings most days and would like to keep it that way at least in public.

The counter man found me a honey flavored cigar which is great for folks who don’t smoke. Evidently there is a market for non-cigar smokers who smoke cigars. Who would have thunk it? I paid for my stogie, he clipped the end and I took a pack of matches for the road after declining his offer to help me get lit. I needed a drink for that, thinking how hard can it be anyway I have seen it done in tons of old movies. Besides it was too smoky to stay in the bar and smoke it. I know that sounds crazy but if the shoe fits. I was determined to find my way back to the second place I saw which was an outdoor/indoor cigar smokery and libation establishment.

After a little while of wandering I found it and settled in after placing my order for a martini with three olives. Hey, three gin soaked olives are almost a serving of vegetables, and hell I might have two martinis’ which definitely takes it up to a near healthy meal! I had an ash tray at the ready and started the process of lighting a cigar on a windy afternoon. My cursing like a sailor at my first three attempts completed a lovely picture. What can I say I went to the Ernest Borgnine School of Charm. Once lit or half assed lit as only one side was burning, the other, well not so much I called my trusty side kick Marsue in Denver for company on this journey. I sucked hard as the phone rang in Denver; finally I had gotten the whole damn end to light up. As Marsue picked up the phone the waiter delivered my martini and I thank him.

“Guess what I am doing?” I said looking down at my newly delivered drink.

Marsue gave some smart assed answer but it was lost on me as the waiter had delivered a Green Apple Martini with three olives. Yikes! I flagged him down and explained this cocktail was not only not what I ordered, it was also an abomination against all that is good and shaken not stirred. Marsue hears this interchange laughing and then I tell her where and what I am doing. She cracks a beer to help me celebrate Amy’s life, well lived however short.

I was trying to puff and talk but there were problems. One big one was me.

“Damn it’s gone out” I mumbled around the wet end stuck in my mouth.

“You have to keep working them so they stay lit” Marsue said. Is it any wonder why she is a perfect partner in crime?

Evidently cigars require more attention and up keep then my roommate Hector the Beta fish. I got the damned thing lit again after three more matches and was then vigilante about keeping it going as we talked. I noticed the double takes now from mostly men and as I was at the finish of my second Bombay martini made to icy perfection. I sighed and signaled for the check, I was also at the end of the honey cigar. The sun was starting to dip behind the building and it was time for me to walk off my cocktails and think. I said good-bye to Marsue and thanked her for the camaraderie. She is the kind of friend that comes along once in a lifetime if you are lucky. She is smart and sensitive always knows what to say and what times not to say it. I wish I had that skill, but I don’t.

I smelled like a bus station in the 1950’s minus the urine, I stank from smoke. I didn’t regret smoking the cigar at all, it was great fun. It was a little gaggy at first but hey I am sure Amy got a huge laugh over it. The things I do regret are the things I don’t do, things I am scared to try, never what I do. It turns out that is not uncommon, though most people might not realize it. People agonize over what they do and do badly. But in the end it seems according to the author and Harvard psychologist Daniel Gilbert in “Stumbling on Happiness” what we regret most are things we did not do. There are no guarantees in life; it is a short, slippery, and full on roller coaster ride. Not too long ago I was talking to a young girl who was cutting my hair. She wanted to know how I moved from state to state and had so many different careers. She thought I was brave, adventuresome, and smart. I could be, I could also have ADHD, but mostly I told her I am comfortable making mistakes. I make them all the damn time. I would rather try something, dive in and make a fool of myself, get hurt by love, naivety or bad fashion choices than sit the ride out. Amy taught me lots of things, laughing is always a priority, the purple ice cream at Friendly’s is a damn tasty treat, looking ridiculous at any given moment is easy to achieve and easier to survive. Not living every day with whimsy, passion and an occasional good cigar is a crying shame.

 

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The Consistency of Faith

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

Faith is a tough nut to crack, done with consistence is near impossible for me. Wikipeda says, “Faith is trust, hope and belief in the goodness or trustworthiness, of a person, concept or entity.” I can go with that. I understand faith is something that I can’t wrap my hands around, capture on film, or set up an experiment with set variables to measure, meter or prove. Faith and proof thereof is empirical data at best. Faith is by nature like smoke or mist, translucent as it slides across the skin and distinct in its flavor to the tip of my tongue. It leaves an unmistakable residue like a fingerprint. I am clear when it has come to play; its presence resonates deep in my core. But if you ask me “how will I know for sure about X, Y or Z” of which something that is faith based and intangible in nature I can only point you one place, inward.  We all have an internal guidance system that can point us to our true north, the truth, and peace, really whatever the body is craving. Our answers do not lie outside of ourselves, they lie within. Faith is just one vehicle for this journey.

I go through life with my hands full. Sometimes they are full of fear, worry, ‘what ifs’ other times faith, hope and love. I assume if I live a balanced life, a good life that fear and worry will be smallish specters that hover but never land. But as it turns out that has never been true in my experience, that lack of fear just means one thing: numb. Fear gives me a context for love, for hope, for joy and faith is what transports me. I am not saying I don’t work at it, but I have no way to know if I eat that donut, take that walk or kiss a handsome stranger that I will be closer to fine. I have faith that by putting one foot in front of the other and making choices that feel good I will find my answers. Faith I will land at contentment, laughter or go ass over teakettle and still be okay. I am open to the possibility that all that I believe could be wrong. I can only do the best I can with the information I have at this one shining moment. When it is gone, more will be revealed because I have chosen to take another step forward. It is like peeling back the layers of an onion.

There are no guarantees, life is not fair, and one size does not fit all. Those points are some of the truest pieces of data I have come across. I don’t see any of that as bad either, they just are. When I try to apply one or all of them to life as if it was a commandment is when things go bad. When I expect life to offer up some of those tidbits as true and real is when I find myself estranged, evicted, sitting on the side of a road with a dead cell phone wearing an ill-fitting garment in an ill fitted life. Faith in someone else’s fiction, beliefs, assessment of me, lands me exactly nowhere I want to be. Faith like love starts at home. It starts with believing in myself to know the truth when I hear it, see it or touch it.

What makes faith so tough is I have to practice it over and over to get a feel for it. I have to go into that nasty limbo place and just wait, just sit, just be. All the while my head is berating my stupidity and screaming that I should be doing A, B, C, my stomach is home to a nest of hornets and I am cursing like a sailor. Despite this internal activity faith demands I hold tight to my belief, vision and trust to stay my course. The better I am at using that internal guidance system the better my results. If I am taking cues from external data well… that can land me some place that does not fit. Practice only prepares me for the sequence of emotions like fear, anger, recrimination, despair, the feeling of being lost or crazy… it is a catalog of mental illness (if you are me). If I let it wash over me and hold on I am generally rewarded with quiet first, a peaceful stillness where I can see the road, the truth, my way. I think what all the fuss was about and I am ready to go again. Knowing what a storm entails lets me weather it. Practicing my ability to stand still and not doing anything when I am not clear what to do is courage under fire. It is faith in motion, rolling across my skin, pricking at my tongue beckoning forward into the mist with clear vision.

 

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