This is the song I credit for taking me as a young 12 year old and turning me into a full on music nerd.
I had never heard of Throwing Muses before, and back in the day I used to listen to WHFR which was (and still is) a pretty sweet college radio station based out of Dearborn, MI. I would listen and tape everything, then have to decide if I liked it or not and hope I had time to go back, erase the crap and find the exact end of the last song so I could continue with my mix tape. It was a high art, requiring total concentration and a lot of patience and tapes.
The exact moment this song came on my body freaked out. I felt like my heart went crazy and I might throw up. Like my brain was crawling with all kinds of new passageways. I had no idea who the band was because I never taped the talking parts. I listened to this song over and over. It was so ripe and juicy I could almost eat it. It was pretty, ugly and uncivilized, music with rooms in it. A new door opened up every time. It never felt like the same song twice. She used her voice like an instrument and seemed totally unconcerned about making it pretty. The sound made physical things happen to me, like weird swirling sensations, and scalp tingling and all the tiny hairs on my neck and arms stood up. Discovering that music could do that was like finding the best drug ever. They were teenagers when they made this song. It blew my mind.
I had taped it on a crappy Scotch brand cassette and finally, rather tragically, it broke. I spent a lot of time trolling music stores looking for this elusive band whose name I did not know. One day I went in and said Look, all I can remember is 'Lonely is as lonely is as lonely does, lonely is an eyesore, the feeling describes itself' and finally an uber cool and annoyed looking clerk pointed me to the white section board with Throwing Muses scrawled on it. I scrutinized the cassettes (how old school is that shit!), still not convinced this was what I was actually looking for. My babysitting money was pretty tight and I was very nervous I might spend it all on the wrong band. I bought House Tornado and flipped out on the entire walk home about how awesome it might be. It was a lot of flipping out, it's a three mile walk. I swear to god, I just google mapped it.
I got home to discover that I had indeed found the right band. This was long before the internet would come along to rock the world of music lovers everywhere, and most other 12 year olds had no idea who the hell I was talking about, so it was some fairly isolated detective work. In fact, the very first time I had access to the internet, the first thing I looked up was Throwing Muses.
But, even after years of searching, I could not find that particular version of Fish, until one day I discovered it was on a compilation (Lonely is an Eyesore ). Seventeen years after I sobbed bitter tears in my room because my drug busted and the tape guts spilled out, it finally arrived in the mail, just as I was leaving the house to go dancing with my ladies. It did not make it home until 4am, but the first thing I did when I got in the door was pop that thing in the CD player. The second I heard it I knew it was the right version and just started laughing and crying and smiling. It was like witnessing a private miracle. Like something got fixed. The notes got in my ears and traveled down my spine and swept out the cobwebs and fixed all kinds of broken things.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Fake nails still freak me out
When I was in 6th grade I read Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH for a book report. I loved it very much.
I wrote a lot (in BIG loooooopy handwriting with heart dots for I's), how much I JUST LOVED IT, and how she should read it because it's the best book ever and she will also love it!! I turned in my report and waited for Mrs. K to clasp it to her chest and beam at me, telling me with breathy dramatic gratitude how much her life had changed since I recommended it to her and then do that A+++++++ thing all across the chalkboard.
Instead she handed my paper back to me with an E on it. I was horrified. I waited after class and asked her why, barely able to look at the bitter lines on her face, instead focusing on her
fingernails; long and fakey thick, bright red and squared off, drumming the paper.
"Did you even read this book?"
I was stunned. I think I cried a little.
"YES! I read it and I loved it!"
"It looks like you just read the blurb on the back. You haven't put in anything about the plot at all."
I know by then I did cry. Right in front of the dragon lady. That pinchy gulpy kind where trying to stuff it back in just makes it worse.
"I didn't want to spoil it for you in case you haven't read it yet!"
Then the Dragon Lady actually smiled. I turned in my report the next day. I got a B+ because it was late.
I wrote a lot (in BIG loooooopy handwriting with heart dots for I's), how much I JUST LOVED IT, and how she should read it because it's the best book ever and she will also love it!! I turned in my report and waited for Mrs. K to clasp it to her chest and beam at me, telling me with breathy dramatic gratitude how much her life had changed since I recommended it to her and then do that A+++++++ thing all across the chalkboard.
Instead she handed my paper back to me with an E on it. I was horrified. I waited after class and asked her why, barely able to look at the bitter lines on her face, instead focusing on her
fingernails; long and fakey thick, bright red and squared off, drumming the paper.
"Did you even read this book?"
I was stunned. I think I cried a little.
"YES! I read it and I loved it!"
"It looks like you just read the blurb on the back. You haven't put in anything about the plot at all."
I know by then I did cry. Right in front of the dragon lady. That pinchy gulpy kind where trying to stuff it back in just makes it worse.
"I didn't want to spoil it for you in case you haven't read it yet!"
Then the Dragon Lady actually smiled. I turned in my report the next day. I got a B+ because it was late.
PJ Harvey gets a smackdown from my dad
My father HATED PJ Harvey's 4 track demos.
I was in my room once and he knocked on the door during Rub Til It Bleeds. When I answered he just stood there looking angry and confused and asked me if I was OK. I said yes but he kept standing there.
Finally he said, "I just figured you must have fallen down and hit your head or something, because otherwise, why would this just keep playing?"
He also really hated the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
I was in my room once and he knocked on the door during Rub Til It Bleeds. When I answered he just stood there looking angry and confused and asked me if I was OK. I said yes but he kept standing there.
Finally he said, "I just figured you must have fallen down and hit your head or something, because otherwise, why would this just keep playing?"
He also really hated the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Best compliment ever
I was in the grocery store. There was a cart ahead of me with a seriously charming wide-eyed toddler in it. I looked over at her and smiled, because I always smile at well behaved children.
Each time I looked up she was staring at me, if I moved she would crane her neck to see me. We moved on to the next aisle. This time the little girl and her mother were coming the opposite way. We were gliding past each other when I heard the little girl say, breathlessly, earnestly, in a half whisper, as though I were a princess, “Mommy… she is beeeyoooootiful.” My heart nearly burst.
Each time I looked up she was staring at me, if I moved she would crane her neck to see me. We moved on to the next aisle. This time the little girl and her mother were coming the opposite way. We were gliding past each other when I heard the little girl say, breathlessly, earnestly, in a half whisper, as though I were a princess, “Mommy… she is beeeyoooootiful.” My heart nearly burst.
6th grade Maude with a cinch waist tarp on
I was pretty tall in 6th grade. I had been compared to Bea Authur because of my voice and my "oldness". Once my grandma took me shopping at Rave, the mall mecca of girlie cheap teen fashion, and I found this gray denim skirt that was tight around the hips and waist, ending at about the top of the first rib, while also being ridiculously full and long. I came with a really wide black belt. There were freakin YARDS to that skirt, like a tarp. I wore it exactly once and was mocked with a mocking that lasted longer than one day. Some people still mention the skirt, even though it was 23 fuckin' years ago.
But once upon a time I was 6th grade Maude with a cinch waist tarp on.
But once upon a time I was 6th grade Maude with a cinch waist tarp on.
Message to my future biographer
My older Ink Era journals are a great source of personal amusement. I used to be very dramatic.
I wrote in great detail about things that were going on for me that I felt certain would remain as important as they day they were written. I was pretty sure writing them down was even kind of silly because it was a rich emotional history, so cleverly worded and only mine, how could I forget it? I am pretty sure what made me forge ahead was a sense of duty to my biographer.
I was actually writing for people I had not met (ghosts too, but that is another thing). From the age of fourteen to about twenty one I felt like I was going to be pretty famous and my journal would be a rich goldmine for anyone researching me.
Although I decided to remain humble about it, I could not shake the idea that I was crafting a crucial tool for future archivists who would chuckle and make notes and add things to their research timeline. I was pretty sure a future team of psychologists, soothsayers and philosophers would weave the ends into something hilarious and poignant while I was still alive and lounging with a glass of wine, soaking up the sunset in a moment of great calm, in a gently rocking chair, on a porch jutting out of the mountainside, in early autumn, with my tremendously long supple legs peeking out of my silk robe.
I expected to be adored in my lifetime. I expected to have “hot legs”. Ya know?
I wrote in great detail about things that were going on for me that I felt certain would remain as important as they day they were written. I was pretty sure writing them down was even kind of silly because it was a rich emotional history, so cleverly worded and only mine, how could I forget it? I am pretty sure what made me forge ahead was a sense of duty to my biographer.
I was actually writing for people I had not met (ghosts too, but that is another thing). From the age of fourteen to about twenty one I felt like I was going to be pretty famous and my journal would be a rich goldmine for anyone researching me.
Although I decided to remain humble about it, I could not shake the idea that I was crafting a crucial tool for future archivists who would chuckle and make notes and add things to their research timeline. I was pretty sure a future team of psychologists, soothsayers and philosophers would weave the ends into something hilarious and poignant while I was still alive and lounging with a glass of wine, soaking up the sunset in a moment of great calm, in a gently rocking chair, on a porch jutting out of the mountainside, in early autumn, with my tremendously long supple legs peeking out of my silk robe.
I expected to be adored in my lifetime. I expected to have “hot legs”. Ya know?
Love Sarah. I said so.
My mother had an old friend who sent me a gift when I was about six or seven. My mom wanted me to send her a thank you note, which was no problem until I got the end and did not know how to finish it. My mom said, just put “Love, Sarah” but I said I did not want to put that and it turned into an argument. My mom was convinced that I was being selfish, but it wasn't that. It was that to me, LOVE SARAH sounded like a command, a statement with no comma. Like I was telling some random grown up to love me. I couldn't explain it. I finally did what she said just so I could get it over with, but by then I had angered my mother and I could not express my own position on the matter. I stormed off to my room and curled up on the bed in a hot heap of sad because my mother called me a little snot and I knew that in her mind it was true.
I did not have words to explain that I did not want to tell anyone else what to do, that it was too bold of me to tell my mom's friend to love me. It wouldn't have worked.
Shortly after this we were told in school to write letters to our mothers. I struggled with that so hard. I couldn't think of anything to write that wouldn't offend her.
Eventually I wrote: Dear Mom, You are a very good person. Love, Sarah.
I ran across that letter recently. I have it. It is on this pulpy paper with a pink background, with dotted and straight lines, and a giraffe on one side, peeking over my lie. I have it because my mom gave it back to me when I was still a teenager. It hurt her feelings and she did not want it anymore.
I did not have words to explain that I did not want to tell anyone else what to do, that it was too bold of me to tell my mom's friend to love me. It wouldn't have worked.
Shortly after this we were told in school to write letters to our mothers. I struggled with that so hard. I couldn't think of anything to write that wouldn't offend her.
Eventually I wrote: Dear Mom, You are a very good person. Love, Sarah.
I ran across that letter recently. I have it. It is on this pulpy paper with a pink background, with dotted and straight lines, and a giraffe on one side, peeking over my lie. I have it because my mom gave it back to me when I was still a teenager. It hurt her feelings and she did not want it anymore.
The day my arm died
I think I was about six. I slept funny, face down with my arm bent across my chest. When I woke up my arm was dead.
IT WAS DEAD AND WOULD NOT MOVE AND IT WAS HORRIFYING.
I couldn't make a fist. I couldn't feel anything. My arm had turned into this silly, floppy flesh stick. I started screaming high pitched panic screams. My mom came running into my room.
My mom: WHAT'S WRONG? WHAT HAPPENED?
Me: MY ARM IS DEAD! IT'S DEAD DEAD DEAD!
And then I flung my arm around, trying to get it to respond. It wasn't working anymore. I would have to live the rest of my life with a dead arm. I thought it might need to be chopped off.
My mom grabbed me and started rubbing my arm and then I got another weird sensation.
Me: IT'S BURNING! IT'S BURNING!
I thrashed my small self around some more, making frantic herky jerky motions and repeating myself until I noticed I could wiggle my fingers. My mom said it was just asleep. I thought that was ridiculous. Usually all of me woke up at the same time.
I tried sleeping funny on purpose after that but it never happened again.
IT WAS DEAD AND WOULD NOT MOVE AND IT WAS HORRIFYING.
I couldn't make a fist. I couldn't feel anything. My arm had turned into this silly, floppy flesh stick. I started screaming high pitched panic screams. My mom came running into my room.
My mom: WHAT'S WRONG? WHAT HAPPENED?
Me: MY ARM IS DEAD! IT'S DEAD DEAD DEAD!
And then I flung my arm around, trying to get it to respond. It wasn't working anymore. I would have to live the rest of my life with a dead arm. I thought it might need to be chopped off.
My mom grabbed me and started rubbing my arm and then I got another weird sensation.
Me: IT'S BURNING! IT'S BURNING!
I thrashed my small self around some more, making frantic herky jerky motions and repeating myself until I noticed I could wiggle my fingers. My mom said it was just asleep. I thought that was ridiculous. Usually all of me woke up at the same time.
I tried sleeping funny on purpose after that but it never happened again.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Really girlie stuff
Last night my daughter had a sleepover. It was a first time event with this particular friend, and I am pretty sure that kid thinks I am awesome because I made spaghetti. There is something so sweet about twelve year old girls. They are so interested and easy to impress. They were all aflutter about a 6th grade dance that's coming up. Katie wants to try mascara but her eyelashes are already so long we will have to go lightly so it doesn't look like stage make-up. It's weird to have a kid who wants to wear make-up already. And she also joined Facebook. I knew it was coming, she asked me about it months ago. She insisted she did not want to do it because she's not thirteen and was worried she would get in trouble. I am not sure where her deep fear of The Man came from, but she hates to break the rules. She was also worried it might be "too addictive", but by now she has friends on it, and it's a good way for her to keep in touch with her far flung family. They spent much of the night friending and tagging and tweaking privacy settings. We had to have that speech about how if you can't say it to someone's face you can't put it on the internet and how nothing online is truly private. Sometimes it feels like we went straight from Sesame Street to cramps and pimples. She is already so much more confident and grounded than I was.
I'd had a link to this blog on my own FB page, back when I had no real content or idea what I was going to do with it. And then the words got more intense, and then BAM, my daughter has a page and is commenting on all my pictures and looking very closely at everything. I don't have anything to hide, but imagining her as my "audience" here made me freak out a little, so I took the link off. She has a vague idea about some of the things I have been through, and what my own childhood was like, but I have spared her the worst of it. Now no one will find my blog. Dang.
*****
I decided to switch from chemical hair dye to henna, which I'd had great success with in the past, but that was a long time ago. I'm pretty much all about being a redhead. My real color is a dusty gray blonde and I was never very fond of it. I knew henna was a messy process, and I read all the directions and decided last night was the perfect time to get to it. I sat around with goop head for three hours, then spent almost an hour getting it out of my hair and just went to bed. This morning it's shiny but the color enhancement was almost too subtle to be worth all the effort, and I realized the instructions lied to me. I added olive oil, but no lemon juice and I had no idea I needed to allow the color to develop once it was mixed. I just mixed it up and put it on.
I just made another batch with lemon and will try again tomorrow. Hopefully the applied hair color will be perfect by next Thursday because that's when I get to see my sweetie and we fly out to DC for the Rally to Restore Sanity. I want gorgeous hair for that. I really really do, I don't have many indulgences in the uber girlie realm, but my hair is certainly one of them.
I told Mike once that I take my hair very seriously and he laughed his ass off, because that sounds pretty stupid. But it's true. My hair is a big deal. I just want it red and shiny. I take care of it all by myself, I can count on two hands the number of times I have ever let anyone else even cut it. I can count on two fingers the number of times another person cut my hair without making me cry once I got home and looked at it. I am really bad at letting someone else take control like that. Come at my hair with some scissors and I'll have an instant panic attack.
I am kind of funny about my nails too. I work with my hands a lot, and I have this stupid finger picking compulsion that gets really bad when I'm stressed out and the weather is cold. If I keep my nails buffed and shiny I don't pick at my nails because I don't want to ruin them. If they already look like shit I bite them and dig at the cuticles and sometimes the sides of my thumbs bleed. My thumbs are a sign for my mental state, if they are ragged and bleeding it means I'm having a pretty shitty time of it. I don't paint my fingernails often because it's not practical, but I always buff and paint my toenails. I like the nail to be very smooth and shiny and I am partial to deep bloody reds. Even in the winter I have goth toes. No one but Mike ever sees them, but it's not about that anyway. It's a girlie indulgence that makes me feel human.
I don't wear make-up as much as I used to, but because I wear glasses and they make my eyes look small, I do like mascara and eyeliner. Also eyebrow pencil so they match my hair. Other than that, I can take or leave other girlie stuff. I hardly ever wear earrings, or lipstick or perfume. But I always put moisturizer on my face when I get out of the shower. I brush my teeth with baking soda once a month to get the stains off because I like wine and coffee and blueberries and I smoke. And while I have the baking soda out I shine up all my silver jewelry. I wear the same jewelry every day, I have been wearing the same necklace for seven years. I sleep and shower in it. Why? I have no idea. I like it. I like shiny basics.
I'd had a link to this blog on my own FB page, back when I had no real content or idea what I was going to do with it. And then the words got more intense, and then BAM, my daughter has a page and is commenting on all my pictures and looking very closely at everything. I don't have anything to hide, but imagining her as my "audience" here made me freak out a little, so I took the link off. She has a vague idea about some of the things I have been through, and what my own childhood was like, but I have spared her the worst of it. Now no one will find my blog. Dang.
*****
I decided to switch from chemical hair dye to henna, which I'd had great success with in the past, but that was a long time ago. I'm pretty much all about being a redhead. My real color is a dusty gray blonde and I was never very fond of it. I knew henna was a messy process, and I read all the directions and decided last night was the perfect time to get to it. I sat around with goop head for three hours, then spent almost an hour getting it out of my hair and just went to bed. This morning it's shiny but the color enhancement was almost too subtle to be worth all the effort, and I realized the instructions lied to me. I added olive oil, but no lemon juice and I had no idea I needed to allow the color to develop once it was mixed. I just mixed it up and put it on.
I just made another batch with lemon and will try again tomorrow. Hopefully the applied hair color will be perfect by next Thursday because that's when I get to see my sweetie and we fly out to DC for the Rally to Restore Sanity. I want gorgeous hair for that. I really really do, I don't have many indulgences in the uber girlie realm, but my hair is certainly one of them.
I told Mike once that I take my hair very seriously and he laughed his ass off, because that sounds pretty stupid. But it's true. My hair is a big deal. I just want it red and shiny. I take care of it all by myself, I can count on two hands the number of times I have ever let anyone else even cut it. I can count on two fingers the number of times another person cut my hair without making me cry once I got home and looked at it. I am really bad at letting someone else take control like that. Come at my hair with some scissors and I'll have an instant panic attack.
I am kind of funny about my nails too. I work with my hands a lot, and I have this stupid finger picking compulsion that gets really bad when I'm stressed out and the weather is cold. If I keep my nails buffed and shiny I don't pick at my nails because I don't want to ruin them. If they already look like shit I bite them and dig at the cuticles and sometimes the sides of my thumbs bleed. My thumbs are a sign for my mental state, if they are ragged and bleeding it means I'm having a pretty shitty time of it. I don't paint my fingernails often because it's not practical, but I always buff and paint my toenails. I like the nail to be very smooth and shiny and I am partial to deep bloody reds. Even in the winter I have goth toes. No one but Mike ever sees them, but it's not about that anyway. It's a girlie indulgence that makes me feel human.
I don't wear make-up as much as I used to, but because I wear glasses and they make my eyes look small, I do like mascara and eyeliner. Also eyebrow pencil so they match my hair. Other than that, I can take or leave other girlie stuff. I hardly ever wear earrings, or lipstick or perfume. But I always put moisturizer on my face when I get out of the shower. I brush my teeth with baking soda once a month to get the stains off because I like wine and coffee and blueberries and I smoke. And while I have the baking soda out I shine up all my silver jewelry. I wear the same jewelry every day, I have been wearing the same necklace for seven years. I sleep and shower in it. Why? I have no idea. I like it. I like shiny basics.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
That cloud stomps around my house, does whatever it pleases
I was all set to write every day. I didn't declare that I would because I thought I would just do it, but then I was derailed by a deep unexpected sadness.
I have been making tons of jewelry, partly because that's what I do when I am alone, which I often am at night. I make stuff. So this time I hauled out all my jewelry bits spread them out all over my desk and in little clear cases on the floor. When everything is spread out it's a constant battle with the cat. I spend a lot of time screaming at Jasper, “Get off the desk you turd monkey!”, while he lords over the pile, trying to eat wire because his brain is the size of a raisin, with only slightly more computational power. If I am not careful he'll make off with half-finished necklaces, dragging them down the hallway while I am in the bathroom or getting more coffee. Then I have to find all the beads and restring everything and he just looks at me like I'm a crazy loud bag of wind, “What's HER problem?”
While I am doing all this deconstruction and reconstruction of failed projects and busted bits, I am listening to music or This American Life or The Moth. Or I watch documentaries (there is such a marvel of free documentaries online.) Sometimes, if the work part is going very well, I am just looking for filler. Just a stupid crap show I don't have to pay very close attention to. This is how I ended up watching "Jersey Shore" (sweet jeebus, what a sadly compelling pile of horseshit). This is how it is that I sometimes watch an entire series while cutting fabric or paper. I watched all of Peepshow (if I had three thumbs that show would get a three thumbs up). I watched a totally boring documentary called "Salesman" which seemed like it could be interesting, I wanted it to be interesting, because the idea of real footage from some bible salesmen in the 50's sounds like it should be interesting. Except it wasn't at all. It was like being stuck in a hotel room with a bunch of really boring dudes who were sad about their bible selling stats and blew off steam by making fun of the Irish.
What I am getting at is that sometimes I am not too picky about the media I land on. Sometimes there is much to be learned by just watching things that kinda suck, as a writer and teller of stories it's helpful to see the breakdown points. I get a kick out of playing Where's Plothole. When I have a long night of Making Stuff ahead of me I just go to Hulu and pick something without any real expectations. Sometimes though, it's so compelling I end up doing more watching than working. Abel Raises Cain, was so fantastic I didn't get much work done. Or “Last Tango in Paris”, my god, that movie. I saw it ages ago with my friend Matt, who invited me over to watch it in his father's psychiatry office in the basement. I was 16. I had a fierce crush on Matthew that never even resulted in a make-out session, so that combined with the content of the movie and location where we viewed it already made it pretty weird. His dad came home and came up behind us, asking what we were watching. He then announced what a great movie it was, put his hands on our shoulders and kind of pushed us together on the couch. Then told us he was going to go upstairs and leave us to it. So the butter scene glowed extra absurd for me. Watching it again nearly 20 yeas later, it still strikes me how strange it was for Matt's dad to nod in approval. (As an aside, don't watch this on Hulu. They chopped off the last twenty minutes of the movie in a cruel act of fuckery.)
And then, even though some part of my brain knew better, I decided to watch When a Man Loves a Woman. It pretty much knocked me over and ran me down. I bawled like a busted sissy at least four times during that movie, and then went to bed in a weepy heap and slept for twelve hours. I woke up pissed off. I put on my glasses and found the insides covered in tear droplets, as though my eyes had just shot out a mist of cloudy private swamp. I spent the day like a hermit, crying for no reason at all. I didn't talk to anyone. I didn't write. I just made jewelry. And I thought, I should be writing, I should be punching something, I should be more and do more. I should stop failing. I should be eliminating things off my giant list of things to do. I should be steam cleaning something. I should be accepting that lovely invitation to sit around a fire with my friends. But, as much as I wanted to go out and be personable, and enjoy one of those rare, crisp Autumn evenings where I come home smelling like a bonfire, I just couldn't trust that I would keep my emotions in check. I don't mind expressing myself, it's just when everything is that close to the surface I worry that I might barf up a torrent of sadness, and I'm pretty sure the hostess wasn't planning on that. I couldn't show up like, "Hi. I am a sad failure, may I drink your wine? Let's make your party all about me. How 'bout a hug?"
When I hit play, I took up my pliers and beads, intent on making. But almost immediately I was struck by a sinking sensation in the shape of my mother. I had always found Meg Ryan kind of bleh, she's cute in a way that was perfect for "When Harry Met Sally", which is a mildly entertaining fluff movie, which is what I thought I was getting myself into. I just wanted a stupid romantic comedy that would give me plenty of room to look away often and contemplate shapes and the way light passes through glass. What I was not looking for was a full on hijacking of my emotional core. It hit me immediately that Meg Ryan reminded me of my mother. And then it hit me even harder. That movie gave me an uncomfortably familiar memory of BEING that eight year old daughter with sad old eyes and a younger sibling to protect. It was me all over again, trying very hard to stay small and perfect, to straddle that line of being a kid when that was expected of me, and being a responsible clean-up crew without taking any credit for it because that would mean saying out loud that often, my mother was not in her body and needed to be protected from knowing that. My mother was interesting, sometimes pretty, adventurous and smart and then, very dramatically drunk, mean, emotionally retarded, scary, intense, volatile, selfish, hungover, incapable and unsafe. And, as a movie, as intense and believable as the shittiest shit parts were, it was still a best case scenario. A woman has a sweet husband, two bright and adorable kids, a good job. A nice house. She gets help, she gets clean, she re-connects with her herself and her family. How nice for these fictitious people.
My mother was pregnant at 17, married at 18 and divorced in her mid twenties. She had two kids, lived on welfare and the charity of friends and various men and lived by making herself into whatever a man wanted in exchange for a few months of lodging. And while HER story is deeply sad and compelling, it bleeds all over MY story. What her choices meant for my sister and me was a whole lot of chaos and moving. Constant. Moving. It meant going to three different schools per grade for most of elementary school. It meant always being the new kid. It meant I did a lot of reading and hung out by myself making silly noises and drawing and being deeply nerdy and watching out for my sister. It meant living with strange men, in their strange man apartments with their man strange stuff. It meant keeping my possessions packable. I am really fucking good at packing. I trained for it like it might one day be an Olympic fucking event. In fact, my mom once moved us into a boyfriend's house where my sister and I were granted night time access to the strange man's weight room, and I got to sleep for a few weeks on a weight bench. Try THAT for balance, here I come Olympics!
I know what it's like the be the punk kid of a mom in detox. I know what it's like to see your drunk mother, crazed and angry, slamming a cast iron pan into a sink full of dirty dishes with a sound that punches you in the heart, hurts your brain and fucks your sunshine. I have watched my mother destroy everything in a room, slamming an electric guitar through the glass of the television, pulling things off the wall and smashing them. I sat through two speeches, once when I was five and again when I was twelve, that started like this, “Your mother tried to kill herself. She's in the hospital.” Unlike a movie, there was no sweet, stabilizing daddy figure who could step in for me and let me vent by smashing my mother's vodka bottles in the trashcan. No adult scooped me up and told me things would be OK. When I visited my mother in the crazy ward there were no swans and wide green expanses. There were other crazy people, and my mother. My mother did not go to AA and come out stronger and more understanding. My mother went when she was forced to go, and she called it a meat market and she hated every second of it. So, watching a movie that took much of the emotional fuckery of life with a raging alcoholic, only to stomp around my memories and make it tidy kind of pissed me off. I realize no one wants to see a movie where things go from terrible to worse and stay unresolved for thirty years, but that's kind of what my movie would look like. Which is why it's hard for me to even write about it. I assume someone is reading this, and if it's really depressing I apologize. I am sorry my movie sucks. You can have your money back.
I clearly have some things to work out. My heart has a basement and it's crammed with shit I don't need anymore.
I have been making tons of jewelry, partly because that's what I do when I am alone, which I often am at night. I make stuff. So this time I hauled out all my jewelry bits spread them out all over my desk and in little clear cases on the floor. When everything is spread out it's a constant battle with the cat. I spend a lot of time screaming at Jasper, “Get off the desk you turd monkey!”, while he lords over the pile, trying to eat wire because his brain is the size of a raisin, with only slightly more computational power. If I am not careful he'll make off with half-finished necklaces, dragging them down the hallway while I am in the bathroom or getting more coffee. Then I have to find all the beads and restring everything and he just looks at me like I'm a crazy loud bag of wind, “What's HER problem?”
While I am doing all this deconstruction and reconstruction of failed projects and busted bits, I am listening to music or This American Life or The Moth. Or I watch documentaries (there is such a marvel of free documentaries online.) Sometimes, if the work part is going very well, I am just looking for filler. Just a stupid crap show I don't have to pay very close attention to. This is how I ended up watching "Jersey Shore" (sweet jeebus, what a sadly compelling pile of horseshit). This is how it is that I sometimes watch an entire series while cutting fabric or paper. I watched all of Peepshow (if I had three thumbs that show would get a three thumbs up). I watched a totally boring documentary called "Salesman" which seemed like it could be interesting, I wanted it to be interesting, because the idea of real footage from some bible salesmen in the 50's sounds like it should be interesting. Except it wasn't at all. It was like being stuck in a hotel room with a bunch of really boring dudes who were sad about their bible selling stats and blew off steam by making fun of the Irish.
What I am getting at is that sometimes I am not too picky about the media I land on. Sometimes there is much to be learned by just watching things that kinda suck, as a writer and teller of stories it's helpful to see the breakdown points. I get a kick out of playing Where's Plothole. When I have a long night of Making Stuff ahead of me I just go to Hulu and pick something without any real expectations. Sometimes though, it's so compelling I end up doing more watching than working. Abel Raises Cain, was so fantastic I didn't get much work done. Or “Last Tango in Paris”, my god, that movie. I saw it ages ago with my friend Matt, who invited me over to watch it in his father's psychiatry office in the basement. I was 16. I had a fierce crush on Matthew that never even resulted in a make-out session, so that combined with the content of the movie and location where we viewed it already made it pretty weird. His dad came home and came up behind us, asking what we were watching. He then announced what a great movie it was, put his hands on our shoulders and kind of pushed us together on the couch. Then told us he was going to go upstairs and leave us to it. So the butter scene glowed extra absurd for me. Watching it again nearly 20 yeas later, it still strikes me how strange it was for Matt's dad to nod in approval. (As an aside, don't watch this on Hulu. They chopped off the last twenty minutes of the movie in a cruel act of fuckery.)
And then, even though some part of my brain knew better, I decided to watch When a Man Loves a Woman. It pretty much knocked me over and ran me down. I bawled like a busted sissy at least four times during that movie, and then went to bed in a weepy heap and slept for twelve hours. I woke up pissed off. I put on my glasses and found the insides covered in tear droplets, as though my eyes had just shot out a mist of cloudy private swamp. I spent the day like a hermit, crying for no reason at all. I didn't talk to anyone. I didn't write. I just made jewelry. And I thought, I should be writing, I should be punching something, I should be more and do more. I should stop failing. I should be eliminating things off my giant list of things to do. I should be steam cleaning something. I should be accepting that lovely invitation to sit around a fire with my friends. But, as much as I wanted to go out and be personable, and enjoy one of those rare, crisp Autumn evenings where I come home smelling like a bonfire, I just couldn't trust that I would keep my emotions in check. I don't mind expressing myself, it's just when everything is that close to the surface I worry that I might barf up a torrent of sadness, and I'm pretty sure the hostess wasn't planning on that. I couldn't show up like, "Hi. I am a sad failure, may I drink your wine? Let's make your party all about me. How 'bout a hug?"
When I hit play, I took up my pliers and beads, intent on making. But almost immediately I was struck by a sinking sensation in the shape of my mother. I had always found Meg Ryan kind of bleh, she's cute in a way that was perfect for "When Harry Met Sally", which is a mildly entertaining fluff movie, which is what I thought I was getting myself into. I just wanted a stupid romantic comedy that would give me plenty of room to look away often and contemplate shapes and the way light passes through glass. What I was not looking for was a full on hijacking of my emotional core. It hit me immediately that Meg Ryan reminded me of my mother. And then it hit me even harder. That movie gave me an uncomfortably familiar memory of BEING that eight year old daughter with sad old eyes and a younger sibling to protect. It was me all over again, trying very hard to stay small and perfect, to straddle that line of being a kid when that was expected of me, and being a responsible clean-up crew without taking any credit for it because that would mean saying out loud that often, my mother was not in her body and needed to be protected from knowing that. My mother was interesting, sometimes pretty, adventurous and smart and then, very dramatically drunk, mean, emotionally retarded, scary, intense, volatile, selfish, hungover, incapable and unsafe. And, as a movie, as intense and believable as the shittiest shit parts were, it was still a best case scenario. A woman has a sweet husband, two bright and adorable kids, a good job. A nice house. She gets help, she gets clean, she re-connects with her herself and her family. How nice for these fictitious people.
My mother was pregnant at 17, married at 18 and divorced in her mid twenties. She had two kids, lived on welfare and the charity of friends and various men and lived by making herself into whatever a man wanted in exchange for a few months of lodging. And while HER story is deeply sad and compelling, it bleeds all over MY story. What her choices meant for my sister and me was a whole lot of chaos and moving. Constant. Moving. It meant going to three different schools per grade for most of elementary school. It meant always being the new kid. It meant I did a lot of reading and hung out by myself making silly noises and drawing and being deeply nerdy and watching out for my sister. It meant living with strange men, in their strange man apartments with their man strange stuff. It meant keeping my possessions packable. I am really fucking good at packing. I trained for it like it might one day be an Olympic fucking event. In fact, my mom once moved us into a boyfriend's house where my sister and I were granted night time access to the strange man's weight room, and I got to sleep for a few weeks on a weight bench. Try THAT for balance, here I come Olympics!
I know what it's like the be the punk kid of a mom in detox. I know what it's like to see your drunk mother, crazed and angry, slamming a cast iron pan into a sink full of dirty dishes with a sound that punches you in the heart, hurts your brain and fucks your sunshine. I have watched my mother destroy everything in a room, slamming an electric guitar through the glass of the television, pulling things off the wall and smashing them. I sat through two speeches, once when I was five and again when I was twelve, that started like this, “Your mother tried to kill herself. She's in the hospital.” Unlike a movie, there was no sweet, stabilizing daddy figure who could step in for me and let me vent by smashing my mother's vodka bottles in the trashcan. No adult scooped me up and told me things would be OK. When I visited my mother in the crazy ward there were no swans and wide green expanses. There were other crazy people, and my mother. My mother did not go to AA and come out stronger and more understanding. My mother went when she was forced to go, and she called it a meat market and she hated every second of it. So, watching a movie that took much of the emotional fuckery of life with a raging alcoholic, only to stomp around my memories and make it tidy kind of pissed me off. I realize no one wants to see a movie where things go from terrible to worse and stay unresolved for thirty years, but that's kind of what my movie would look like. Which is why it's hard for me to even write about it. I assume someone is reading this, and if it's really depressing I apologize. I am sorry my movie sucks. You can have your money back.
I clearly have some things to work out. My heart has a basement and it's crammed with shit I don't need anymore.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Getting the mulch off the dinosaur
Tonight it was just Miles and me. He's a great kid. So smart and sweet and funny, with his freckles and his mop hair and utterly earnest conversation. I took the air-conditioner out of his room, making him hold onto Jasper while I set it in the unfinished half of the attic. I don't want the cat back there because he's not the brightest crayon in the box and that side is full of insulation. Also, he could just climb the wall and be in the other side of the duplex, where my landlords and their baby live. With their dog. It would be very bad for Jasper, but he is simple and does not know that. Until tonight I am pretty sure he had no idea there even was a door leading to another place in the house. He was meowing and writhing, tail twitching, just wanting to leap, but my son kept him in check. I had a one minute window before the AC was set down and the door closed again. In the meantime Jasper got very mad. When Miles set him down he lunged and snapped his jaws and actually made a short barking sound. It was kind of funny so we laughed at him. He thinks he is a giant fearsome beast, but actually, we can roll him up in a rug just like an angry cat burrito.
After that I plunked down on my son's bed, scoping out all the weird angles in his room. Taking in what he sees, the angles of his private thoughts. He started going through his stuffed animals. Organizing. Just like his mama. About a week ago we had jumped in the car to check out a post I found on Craigslist where someone was giving away the rest of an estate sale in a decent neighborhood. I had never just jumped into my car for something like that, but I was looking for two kitchen chairs. I found them. They once belonged to an elderly Jewish woman named Roberta. I know because I picked up a paperback copy of Flowers for Algernon, and her name was inside the cover. I also got some sewing stuff, a few large jars with lids, a pair of shredding scissors, a screwdriver set and a saw. I also found a picture I framed and put in my kitchen and a M.A.S.H mug from the 80's. Miles found a glass cork top jar to put his marbles in, a tie rack and a big basket that looks exactly like it should have a snake in it.
And that's what he was doing, as I was draped on his bed with our ridiculous barking cat, looking at the angles. He was searching his toy box for his three wooden snakes and his two bean bag snakes, so he could put them in the basket. He told me the story of almost every stuffed animal. Sometimes with a voice like, "This used to me very important to me. Oh, long ago, you are so far away..." Which is funny to me, because he is ten. But his ten-ness feels different to him than it feels to me. In another ten he will be twenty. I have a concept of twenty, but he does not. I know, when he is twenty, he will have very different things in his box. But to him, there is no other box. Not yet.
Instead, in this box, there is a pale green dinosaur. He pulled it out and looked at it and told me in a very sad voice, "I took this to school for show and tell, and then I took it outside for recess, and some kids offered to babysit all the stuffed animals but they accidentally dropped mine in the mulch a few times." His voice was sad. And what made me sad was this thought, "I don't know this dinosaur." I had never seen it before. Or at least, never really noticed it. It was important to my son, important enough to take to school, but not important enough for me to find it on the couch, or move it around the house, or leave it on the steps for Miles to take up to his room. So I offered to vacuum it up. I took it downstairs and tried to suck the tiny mulch bits out of the fur, which was difficult because they were pretty stuck. Mostly I picked them off with my fingernails. It took half an hour. And while I was cleaning up the dinosaur I was thinking, damn, my son is closer to the age where he will no longer care about keeping stuffed animals than he is to the age when I used to scoop him up and nurse him. I cleaned that dinosaur like crazy. I noticed the hell out of it.
After that I plunked down on my son's bed, scoping out all the weird angles in his room. Taking in what he sees, the angles of his private thoughts. He started going through his stuffed animals. Organizing. Just like his mama. About a week ago we had jumped in the car to check out a post I found on Craigslist where someone was giving away the rest of an estate sale in a decent neighborhood. I had never just jumped into my car for something like that, but I was looking for two kitchen chairs. I found them. They once belonged to an elderly Jewish woman named Roberta. I know because I picked up a paperback copy of Flowers for Algernon, and her name was inside the cover. I also got some sewing stuff, a few large jars with lids, a pair of shredding scissors, a screwdriver set and a saw. I also found a picture I framed and put in my kitchen and a M.A.S.H mug from the 80's. Miles found a glass cork top jar to put his marbles in, a tie rack and a big basket that looks exactly like it should have a snake in it.
And that's what he was doing, as I was draped on his bed with our ridiculous barking cat, looking at the angles. He was searching his toy box for his three wooden snakes and his two bean bag snakes, so he could put them in the basket. He told me the story of almost every stuffed animal. Sometimes with a voice like, "This used to me very important to me. Oh, long ago, you are so far away..." Which is funny to me, because he is ten. But his ten-ness feels different to him than it feels to me. In another ten he will be twenty. I have a concept of twenty, but he does not. I know, when he is twenty, he will have very different things in his box. But to him, there is no other box. Not yet.
Instead, in this box, there is a pale green dinosaur. He pulled it out and looked at it and told me in a very sad voice, "I took this to school for show and tell, and then I took it outside for recess, and some kids offered to babysit all the stuffed animals but they accidentally dropped mine in the mulch a few times." His voice was sad. And what made me sad was this thought, "I don't know this dinosaur." I had never seen it before. Or at least, never really noticed it. It was important to my son, important enough to take to school, but not important enough for me to find it on the couch, or move it around the house, or leave it on the steps for Miles to take up to his room. So I offered to vacuum it up. I took it downstairs and tried to suck the tiny mulch bits out of the fur, which was difficult because they were pretty stuck. Mostly I picked them off with my fingernails. It took half an hour. And while I was cleaning up the dinosaur I was thinking, damn, my son is closer to the age where he will no longer care about keeping stuffed animals than he is to the age when I used to scoop him up and nurse him. I cleaned that dinosaur like crazy. I noticed the hell out of it.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Life's mangled butterflies
For quite some time now I have thought to myself, "Self. You should have a blog." Then I got all wrapped up in the plan part. Like, there should be a clear cut REASON, right? There should be some kinda over-arching thing I am trying to do or say or sell, or something, and it shouldn't be self-referential (which is quite frankly, all I've got.) Well I still haven't figured that out but here I am doing it anyway, so if you're here, looking for me to Be Interesting, sorry. Mileage may vary.
I have already spent too much time trying to nail down my own intentions. When it comes to writing I love/hate so hard on the planning part that I burn myself out before I get to the doing part. I write my witty bits in notebooks, concentrated little things that are really only for me. I start wee documents with notes about stuff that interests me, or stupid shit that happens, or ideas for things I want to make. But again, these are just for me so I don't jump in a worry hole when it comes to spelling or intent. I don't need a big shiny point for my private stuff. I'm not trying to follow my own narrative. I'm just catching some of the butterflies for later. With the understanding that not everyone gives a shit about my butterfly collection, and those who do shouldn't be subjected to the wing smashing mangle parts. I have been hoarding words without a plan for offloading them. I have always entertained the compulsion to save thoughts for later, but so far I lack the discipline to make something substantial and interesting out of all the scraps. They aren't even organized. I am annoyed at myself for already being 35, self-identified as a lifelong writer and collector of stories, whose only claim to fame is a few plays, a stack of journals, a few pieces on a dusty old website and the occasional ability to be really fucking funny at parties. So see, right there I could back away from the keyboard and sulk off to the kitchen to stew in my own mediocrity, where I have vodka and dishes to do and a chair I want to paint. But I won't. Maybe after this.
The act of sharing my reality also trips me up. This is not my first go around the Internet. I remember what happened the last time I wrote in public. I found an audience. That was emotionally and intellectually thrilling at first. Then, usually with awesome or sexy results, some of the people stepped into my real life. Then more people. Then that thing happened. That moment when our Best Selves stepped aside to reveal velvety smooth or pockmaggoty underbellies. That moment was either a big fat trans-formative YAY or it sucked the suck that can't unsuck itself. Sometimes, Real People snap you right in half. Twang! And that's an audience.
I also worry about hurting someone's feelings. Do I include or not include? What about being called out on a mis-memory? What if I reveal that some of the things that have been said or done were actually much worse for me than I let on. It's hard to be busting with stories and words but also worried about feelings. It's also kind of dumb to use that as an excuse not to write. I'm calling myself out on that in my sassiest Inner Mama voice. I can always sleep later, I plead to the gods of a five day writing jag...
I have already spent too much time trying to nail down my own intentions. When it comes to writing I love/hate so hard on the planning part that I burn myself out before I get to the doing part. I write my witty bits in notebooks, concentrated little things that are really only for me. I start wee documents with notes about stuff that interests me, or stupid shit that happens, or ideas for things I want to make. But again, these are just for me so I don't jump in a worry hole when it comes to spelling or intent. I don't need a big shiny point for my private stuff. I'm not trying to follow my own narrative. I'm just catching some of the butterflies for later. With the understanding that not everyone gives a shit about my butterfly collection, and those who do shouldn't be subjected to the wing smashing mangle parts. I have been hoarding words without a plan for offloading them. I have always entertained the compulsion to save thoughts for later, but so far I lack the discipline to make something substantial and interesting out of all the scraps. They aren't even organized. I am annoyed at myself for already being 35, self-identified as a lifelong writer and collector of stories, whose only claim to fame is a few plays, a stack of journals, a few pieces on a dusty old website and the occasional ability to be really fucking funny at parties. So see, right there I could back away from the keyboard and sulk off to the kitchen to stew in my own mediocrity, where I have vodka and dishes to do and a chair I want to paint. But I won't. Maybe after this.
The act of sharing my reality also trips me up. This is not my first go around the Internet. I remember what happened the last time I wrote in public. I found an audience. That was emotionally and intellectually thrilling at first. Then, usually with awesome or sexy results, some of the people stepped into my real life. Then more people. Then that thing happened. That moment when our Best Selves stepped aside to reveal velvety smooth or pockmaggoty underbellies. That moment was either a big fat trans-formative YAY or it sucked the suck that can't unsuck itself. Sometimes, Real People snap you right in half. Twang! And that's an audience.
I also worry about hurting someone's feelings. Do I include or not include? What about being called out on a mis-memory? What if I reveal that some of the things that have been said or done were actually much worse for me than I let on. It's hard to be busting with stories and words but also worried about feelings. It's also kind of dumb to use that as an excuse not to write. I'm calling myself out on that in my sassiest Inner Mama voice. I can always sleep later, I plead to the gods of a five day writing jag...
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