new to ipod
Note to self: the morning that you find out your 65 yr old Dad went to ER and didn’t tell you, at the crest of PMS week, and while suffering under the load of a 3 pg. to-do list, is NOT the time to cue up playlist ‘longing”.
Geez Louise, while navigating amongst bleary fools on 880 and preparing to act as some kind of functional supervisor, one can hardly go about your business in some teary eyed state. Somewhere inside us all resides that poet clad in ruffled shirt and all, but there’s no place for her in rush hour traffic.
Longing, indeed.
What’s on it?
The usual suspects I suppose: unrequited love, disappointed love, love affairs in their death throes, or worse yet -ever unspoken desires.
Ugh-this will never do!
Ok, switch to playlist “angry run”. Grrr. Yea.
Upon multiple occasions my hetero partners have griped that I act “like the guy in the relationship”. This, while debatable, is always made to sound like… some kind of bad thing. So what commentary is that upon their own gender?
Well, one typical guy trait I have mastered is to sublimate sorrow, vulnerability, and longing into piss-off ANGER.
Crying is fantastic and actually splendid for one’s health-but I’d rather yell at the top of my lungs and kick stuff anyday.
Nothing like a few rounds of Nine Inch Nails, Guns ‘n Roses, Rage Against the Machine, and Metallica to get one all nihilistic and agitated…
More than a decade ago, a sweet boy fell for me when he spied me crying over a break up from a different cute boy.
That, my friends, is what you might call an inauspicious sign. (to put it mildly)Take note.
That sweet boy & I had a rather disastrous relationship, and he later suffered an authentic nervous breakdown (not my fault…really). The moral of the story is, people who are attracted to your tears and pain are not inhabiting a great mental space themselves.
Thusly, I’d rather be scowling than crying as I cope.
Ipod is lovely for running, although the company of a friend is far and away superior. Especially my faves, Muddy Buddy, Office spouse, and B. (B, I don’t think you have an alter ego/moniker yet!)
Perhaps one day we will get into the free associations that will accompany the other playlists such as “booty”, travel”, or my personal favorite,“revolution”
p.s. Dad is fine, and stoically pooh-poohs the whole hospital episode as much ado about nothing.
SF
Many moons ago (7.5 years to be exact) I used to work in downtown SF. The empire of PG&E supported me through graduate school, and I learned about Unix, and mostly I befriended engineers while frequenting Stacey’s bookstore, Specialty’s deli/bakery, and Henry’s
Hunan
. Highlights of my tenure there also included protesting at the Indonesian embassy and watching PacBell park under construction.
I am back at Stacey’s bookstore after lunch and I think I just got hit on by like possibly the most un-smooth young man I have ever met. He was visibly nervous, but kind of sweet and the utter lack of suave was a bit endearing as it was so damned funny.
First of all, he came up and said “excuse me ma’am…I’m a photography student…”
For starters, I don’t think anyone should refer to a potential interest as “ma’am”
He asks me, in a rapid mumble, if I would consider modeling for him since he is a photographer “just starting out” and also adds that I have a great look, the right body type, the right skin tone. He reiterates 2 or 3 times that he is trying to obtain a “mature look”. I think he is trying to imply that this is not amateurish/cheesecake, but perhaps he is implying he into old(er) women or that I look very mature?! Geez, I think it’s funny but many a woman would storm off in a huff at such an implication.
I wonder if I should be alarmed or irritated that he is talking about my ‘body type’ at all. But this isn’t the first time a random photog has approached me, and at least this one was not giving me a single one of those “ewwww” vibes as had all the others. No inappropriate surruptitous glances or inappropriate affect. (this is starting to sound like a mental status exam.) But do people not realize there is something inherently hella creepy about approaching a strange woman and asking to take photos of her!? Or perhaps I am merely old-fashioned, and in this age of reality TV other people grab any limelight they can get.
I observe that this boy has almost perfect skin, enviable really, and I sort of go into my own reverie about skin care issues. Actually he also has very nice black eyeglass frames. I have very nice black patent leather boots that keep me taller than he is.
He also offers to pay me for my time. He babbles a bit in a way that assumes I have modeled before. But when I ask what is his project he has nothing specific, no concept nor assignment. Now, any photographer or agent doof worth their salt knows I am far too vertically challenged to professionally model. And those who know my history know that I retired from pageantry and that whole
L.A.
scene more than 10 years ago.
My mind also wanders off to the fact that actually, I have been wishing I could find a skilled portrait photographer. A friend of mine in
Taipei
took a series of what in the
U.S.
is termed “boudouir portraiture”. I used to think it was something cute and cheesy that women did to produce pin-up calendars of themselves for their spouses.
But I am reaching an age where it occurs to me that I’ll want to preserve for posterity the yoga/running firmness I have currently attained, as well as to preserve bodily integrity (nothing lost yet to cancer, and my current surgery scars well-hidden). For me, 32 was a hundred times better than 22. But I know that 42 and 52 will not necessarily be so… but I’d certainly prefer a seasoned female photographer for a project like that!
Part of me wonders if the boy is doing therapy “homework”. You know, like when we make our socially anxious clients promise to talk to 2 strangers during the week and then report back to therapy and we will process the experiences.
That therapist in me automatically seeks to reduce his anxiety, since that is what I do. I say some randomly encouraging things and point out I know many photographer friends so I know about needing to assemble portfolios blahblah.
Look, e-mail me your ideas or maybe I can link you to some other photographers, I say.
He starts to inquire about whether I need someone to do my manicures or make up for me. I raise an eyebrow. I think: Seriously, do I look that high maintenance?! We both look at my long, but naked fingernails. I advise him to keep things simple, as I do. And again tell him he needs to chat with other photogs.
He looks at my card-“You’re a psychologist!”
And then asks to be my client.
Seriously.
Asks if I take his HMO and what my fees are.
Good lord, this conversation is getting weirder by the minute.
OK, so maybe he isn’t doing therapy homework right now if he’s not currently in treatment.
At any rate, I need to get back to Anne Lamott & Anne Patchett (if you’ve not yet read Bel Canto yet, READ IT. Or I’ve ploughed through 100 pages of Truth & Beauty just on the BART ride home). He thanks me for talking with him, and disappears back into the book stacks again. Go figure.
Back to the bookstore. I was browsing in the Writer’s reference section as my current self-project is to revive the soul of that writer within.
Poor dear fell into a coma during the institutional trauma of my graduate school years.
In retrospect I wasn’t quite ladylike, squatting in tight jeans and reading away…vaguely debating between plopping down on the carpet to read some more or to stand up and buy the book.
I bought 2 books, mentally listed about 10 more, renewed my long expired Stacey’s “Literary License”, and basked in this rare SF sunshine walking all the way back to my office. And fantasized about moving somewhere I could wear a bikini every single day.
In my company, the “Jesus Loves you” placard holding guy, alongside the man yelling obscenities at an imaginary friend, the heavily made up transvestite with alarmingly prominent nipples and make up, the Oracle world attendees, the Harujuku looking kids, and then the beauties of my day:
A baby with a poof of hair, she sat in a stroller amongst other babies and strollers. I noticed her because of her beautiful features. She was one of those children so lovely that occasionally brings out the rare baby-snatching urge in me. Mom is Asian, and baby is also partly African or African American-and she was smiling and waving fervently. I had to look and see whom she was waving to, it was another little girl, a
Latina
girl being led away by the hand, but the two had locked gazes and smiles.
I smiled to myself, and turned to see an old woman in a knit hat caressing and smelling a white bloom by the side of the bank. One among many, blooming between the wrought iron and the concrete wall, but a beauty within the cacophony. That made me smile too, and pause to admire the endurance of any plant that survives downtown SF. A Grateful Dead lyric comes to mind, “you’re as mighty as the flower, that will grow the stones away.”
I need to do more writing, about anything and everything
and less reading/fermenting/obsessing.
Hence, this snippet of my minutes on
Market Street-call it an exercise in literary free association.
Secrets
Of the thousands of books that have passed through these hands, this one is phenomenal. Because it’s more of a public art forum, a giant confessional, than a book really.
It came in the mail today, I had ordered it on a whim a few weeks ago because I love public art and its interactivity and accessibility. That’s why I photograph graffiti when I travel around the world.
And why I love this book so much (also, I may be one of the last relics of ancient communique, I still buy beautiful stationary and postcards everywhere I go)
The title: PostSecret
also
www.postsecret.com (book is better of course as you can see many, many compiled works of art in glossy color, blown up size, in your hands).
About 3 or 4 years ago, I was so proud of myself that I had reached a point in my development where I could say: "I have nothing to hide". It took quite a bit of work and chutzpah to get there, and a lot of making peace with the infinite things my inner control freak did not want to accept.
This, really was an accomplishment.
And now?
Hmmm. I wouldn’t really say that I hide secrets, but I have learned that some things come in harsh shapes and edges that shouldn’t be bounced off of others. And that sometimes, telling the whole truth is actually sort of a self gratifying and selfish thing to do if that truth shall bind or harm the listener.
P once quoted that big, maudlin movie Titanic: "The heart of a woman, is as deep as the ocean."
I thought that was hilarious, such a corny movie (I always bag on love stories, bad habit). Yet there are depths in all of us.
As for the people far and wide who contributed to this book-I admire the creativity and hilarity and serious artistic talent. But it brought me to tears to witness the raw emotions, the longing, the guilt, the hate and self hate and fears that had been projected onto these little cards. I wish my clients would read this and understand, that our deepest and darkest secrets and fears are actually universal. That they, that we, are never as ugly, or stupid, or doomed, or alone, as we think….and that legions of others have behaved just as stupidly/impusively at times.
And releasing unwanted or outdated secrets, is now just a postcard away.
Rock ‘N Roll Marathon
On this year’s to-do list: a half marathon. This from a gal who swore "I am not a runner" until Susan dragged my rear into gear for the post-Thanksgiving Run to the Far Side. How can one not run when amidst a herd of fish, cows, and cavemen?! Especially after a day of yams, pie, wine, and turkey?
So for this endeavor, I required suitable distractions. The first ever San Jose Rock n Roll half marathon fit the bill: 14 bands, packs of cheerleaders, and some friends to keep me company. After all that G n’ R I’ve been feeling pretty Rock n’ Roll, so heck, let’s do it.
Mike ditched us by about mile 4 or so, but My Muddy Buddy and Loreli (the queen of fitness, who ran this thing less than 5 months after giving birth to a beautiful baby), stayed together through 13.1 miles of knee soreness, music, port a potties/Amino Vital/h20 on the run.
Although tempted to vote for the all women’s punk group Inspect Her Gadget, I ultimately voted for Bento. But this race would be worth walking through just to spend time really taking in the impressive local talent.
As for the cheerleaders, it’s not everday I get little girls high-fiving me and screaming at me to "stay strong" through megaphones as they jump around with tinsel pompoms.
The Kenyan and other African runners managed to leave absolutely everyone in the dust (as expected). I believe the top 10 runners came in at under 1 hr and 10 seconds or so for the 13.1 miles. (holy cow, do the math!)
Despite our rest stops, we came in at under 2:30 - better than I had anticipated given that my lazy butt, nasty cold, and oppressive work schedule had conspired in such a way that I never actually did a training run past about oh…7.5 miles or so. My estimate was that by mile 9 I’d be in grim shape and just start walking. What the heck-they give you up to 4 hours or so to finish… But when we reached another cool band and the bystanders yelled "almost there! You’re at mile 10!" I was pleasantly surprised.
So that’s what P would call getting my mid-life crisis out of my system for awhile. Recovery was smooth, 2 days later I wasn’t even sore, (maybe that Amino Vital stuff really does work) 3 days later we went back out for a run after work. The only casuality from all this? A teeny pinky toenail just up and plinked off. Gee, that didn’t even happen when I used to do ballet.
Small price to pay. Pain is temporary-the joy of accomplishment is forever-
see y’all at next year’s race!
Slow Dance
This is a poem that the HERS center sent along with an invitation to their full moon meditation this weekend. Ironic that my life is crazed right now and far too hectic for me to be able to actually attend the meditation.
At any rate, the author is an anonymous teen, and I love it. I love it when youth do artistic endeavors, and how they hit on such big, simple truths that tend to get lost among bills, chores, lists…
Salud-
H 3
The following is a poem written by a teenager with cancer:
SLOW DANCE
Have you ever watched kids
On a merry-go-round?
Or listened to the rain
Slapping on the ground?
Ever followed a butterfly’s erratic flight?
Or gazed at the sun into the fading night?
You better slow down.
Don’t dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won’t last.
Do you run through each day
On the fly?
When you ask : How are you?
Do you hear the reply?
When the day is done
Do you lie in your bed
With the next hundred chores
Running through your head?
You’d better slow down
Don’t dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won’t last.
Ever told your child,
We’ll do it tomorrow?
And in your haste,
Not see his
sorrow?
Ever lost touch,
Let a good friendship die
Cause you never had time
To call and say,"Hi"
You’d better slow down.
Don’t dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won’t last.
When you run so fast to get somewhere
You miss half the fun of getting there.
When you worry and hurry through your day,
It is like an unopened gift….
Thrown away.
Life is not a race.
Do take it slower
Hear the music
Before the song is over.
Keep Abreast
My Muddy Buddy & Office Spouse got their butts up early yesterday morn to join me at the 7th annual Keep Abreast 5K. My friend Kev said it was "a terrible pun for the name of the event-what would they call a run for testicular cancer?" (We had a gleeful time coming up with some possibilities which I shall not suffer upon readers-but use your imagination). At any rate, the three of us now have lovely tees that say Keep Abreast across our chests-if it raises awareness, so be it.
I hope next year we can bring enough friends to organize a team. The run took us into Coyote Hills park where we ran near the bay,identifying flocks of waterbirds on a beautiful trail. Numerous Breast Cancer survivors stood at the mike to announce their years of survivorship, and they released white doves. I knew there was a dove-launch scheduled, and when I read about it it seemed sort of corny. But on that clear day, surrounded by women and people who love them-the doves were so very beautiful, and it brought my heart up into my throat. My mother is a Survivor too. And so is Tim’s sister. And so are two of Sue & I’s most beloved office mates. And we have had clinic patients die of breast Cancer in recent years.
Patty & Abigail acoustic duo provided fab live music-making me long to see Indigo Girls in concert yet again. We got free massages, Panera provided pink ribbon shaped Cherry Vanilla bagels, and we pigged out on free hot dogs, chips,fruit, and Luna bars as well. One survivor was gifted with a very sweet & pricey lookin’ pink driver (golf). The 1st place female runner was a whippet of a lady in tiny shorts who somehow managed to be the mother of 3 boys. Raffle prizes included very cool techie stuff from Logitech, and then our favorite announcement was "The next winner gets a bottle of the Dominican Sisters’ Special Home brew".
Hmmm. Those nuns are making moonshine?!
Nope. The prize was "Extra Virgin Olive oil". Tim starts to crack up about the "extra virgin" feature of the nunnery oil, and we can’t help but follow suit.
It was such a positive and family friendly event, that amidst the pink foo-foo one might forget the seriousness of the cause. While it is true that Breast Cancer survival rates are now fairly high-it is also true that it’s still a killer, and the battle for survival is a brutal one.
We picked up a batch of little silicone mini-breasts at the HERS booth-for our clinic patients back in Oakland. What does one do with a mini-boob you may ask? Well, it’s quite ingenious really, there are 2 types of lumps inside the little silcone blob so its a teaching tool. Practicing on this thing provides a point of reference for a self-exam (answering the "what in heck am I feeling for anyways?" questions.
So ladies, do what you know you are supposed to do! Check yourself, and count your blessings each time you do. Guys, check your partner if you have one. I imagine it’s the most pleasant of chores that you can assist with. And Truth be told many a man has detected Breast Cancer in his Girlfriend/significant other/partner/lover/spouse before she did.
And that’s my PSA for today.
Salud y’all. To paraphrase a wiser person whose quote I again can not credit due to my impending dementia: Those who do not make time to care for their health-had better be prepared to make time for illness.
