Deep Links

The Yarra River

The Australian accent is best explained by saying the main river in Melbourne. Over and over I attempt the pronunciation. I open the edges of my mouth, Cheshire cat grin like and swallow the vowels, but they still come out as crisp as a bite into a cucumber sandwich. 

Yeah-rah. I'm told to say "yeah", drawing out the eehahh. That strange bending of the tongue on palate and teeth. Another tip, I am told, is to talk like a pirate. Yeah-argh. Speaking with either instruction, the sound out of my mouth still feel too uptight. After a few attempts I become self-conscious and it all goes sideways.

One thing going for me is my high rising intonation aka the Valley girl accent. The rising tone in most languages is reserved for questions, but Valley girls, Aussies and the Dutch all use it with statements. It softens things. To land the end of a statement without it, is like a punch. It's a consideration for the listener. 

My California accent becomes a boon. And here I've always associated negativity with it - tried to train it out of me to increase professional credibility. Because who takes advice from a valley girl? (Certainly not the international banking community.) But here, in Oz, I feel more at home than I do in Europe. I hear the roundness of my accent. I do not try to hide it, instead, I revel in the California words pouring forth from my lips. The sound of my voice... unlike anything around me, even while I feel a familiarity with the words flowing into my ears.

It's my last night in this country and I am sad to leave. I have found much in common with the Aussies, and also differences. Melbourne is a dream with its food, fashion, wine and cool weather. Sydney was fantastic, a huge city with much to offer that I quite enjoyed; but as an Angelino, I found the beaches lacking. Still, I know hours just outside the city is a wine country to be explored and coastline and beaches and the bush. Perhaps Sydney is like LA, you have to scratch the surface, and I certainly did not have time to go deep. 

To Australia's immense credit are the avocados. And the coffee. And the wine. And the cheese. These might be my four food groups, and Australia excels with all of them. Even the regular food is more healthy than in any other country I've visited. It's like clean California eating all over. Then there is the many interesting and unusual animals. Today I saw my first Koala, Kangaroo, Tasmanian Devil, Wombat, and Platypus. I can't wait to get myself lost exploring in your desert regions. 

Then there is something about the men. This different mixture of soft, and .... not so soft. There's a sensitivity I previously ascribed to European men, and yet, there is something else, some raw, ruggedness, something out of the rocky mountains, but??? It's hard for me to put my finger on it. Yes. I am more than intrigued. It's probably a good thing I'm going home tomorrow... 

However, I will return. And I hope it is sooner than later.

Thanks Oz, for welcoming this Purple Tornado. While the four winds will blow me safely home to my California shore, I know I can return by clicking my heels on the tiles of LAX anytime, boarding pass in hand. 

The Bitter, sweetens

Brunch today was a test. I wanted to see how I would feel in your presence. Was the levity, the laughter I made at the devastation you did to me, true? (I was just as surprised as you.) Had I forgiven myself? (I have.) You? (As much I would like to hold a grudge, I do not.) Did I still taste the bitterness? (Barely a touch a sadness truth be told.) Was there still affection? (A familiarity, but not an affection I could define.) Could I be pulled back under your spell? (Apparently not.)

I was curious. I have observed that one takes on the characteristics of certain individuals of strength in one's life. In the past year, I have noticed a ghost of you inside me. As part of me. Integrated. (We did have one of the deepest connections I have had with anyone, part of what entangled me to you so long.) I could not help to wonder, what aspects of me you might have integrated into your self?

It was nothing so much as self-reflection, or commitment or getting over your fear of death. But the purple streaks in your hair did amuse me. I am glad you finally had the courage to do that. (Does that mean you have the courage for other things?) Not that it matters. It really doesn't. I am as much a composite of my past lovers, as my lovers have integrated aspects of the Vescent.

The answers to my questions, yes, I got them. No longer am I under your spell. Yes, I have forgiven myself. And you. (Although I suspect you have not forgiven yourself. It seems not.) You looked with terror, as I laughed at what you put me through. What I allowed myself to get caught up in. I understand your confusion. I admit, I do delight in torturing you so with the echoes of what occurred, but I am not the first, nor likely the latest who has tasted... this experience. I know you never meant to hurt me, or the other women you certainly did. But you didn't learn. If there was any part of me that integrated it into you, this was the one aspect I wished for. But why bother to expect. I do not expect it. You do not strive for self-awareness or enlightenment. Bodhisattva you are not.

It's ok.

I am grateful.  For this lesson (that I cling to so that I never forget, the edge of the pain in which I paid so dearly - yes, deep down there is still that coin). In that, perhaps I will not forget you. At least not for some time. (Isn't that what you wanted?) You are the baseline upon which others are compared. Is this one like him? When do I walk away? Or perhaps, I will give it all up. Forget the memory, the lesson, give it to the sands, upon which the ocean constantly washes, to be truly unfettered by the aspect.

I have internalized and neutralized the bitterness. Like the poison a Reverend Mother might drink. The part of you, that became part of me, is me. I am free again. 

 

 

Heart in hands

Over the past couple weeks, I've had this image pop up at random times in my mind. Cradled inside a pair of hands, much like a baby animal might be cocooned, is a human heart.

Inside this image is some hard pain. I think back to someone who did not treat my heart very well. The metaphor I use is his Blendtech + Heather's heart = Kale Smoothie.  Meaning, it was pulverized beyond recognition. That might sound harsh, but so is heartbreak born of denial. Of course, I gave him my heart to pulverize, so I am not an innocent bystander. I take responsibility for my lesson.

This thing, so tender, fragile and vulnerable. Not unlike a baby animal one might cradle, caress and sooth. Precious. Divine. When you hold a tender, trembling heart in your hands; how can you not cradle it like a perfect endive from that French film? How can you, even if you do not feel the same, not approach this trembling vulnerability with compassion, respect, a reciprocal tenderness? There is more strength in that vulnerable, tender heart than all the stones in the Mojave. And it's your hands that have the power to lovingly caress it or crush it to an irrecoverable pulp.

That's the power in my hands. I'm reminded of this image, so that I might make the conscious choice. So I might be aware of my actions. I choose to caress, soothe, stroke. You can trust me with your heart.

Fear of the Unknown

I've been kicking ass on a couple really amazing projects the last few weeks. One project I have wanted to do for years. The work has been a pleasure and while there are challenges and work to be done, I have mostly completely the items plenty before their deadlines. 

But then, there is this other project. It is a p2, by necessity. Project 1 is happening first, so I have to make sure it is taken care of and have made it my primary focus. Project 2 has been given attention, but not as much, although I am more or less at my desired point in the schedule. 

However, this week (and last week) I had wanted to put in some pretty serious work on project 2. Last week's focus slid away from p2 because I was taking care of other important things... and allowing myself some delightful distractions. I told myself I'd make up for it on the weekend. But then, I took the weekend off to hang out with friends and recharge. I was feeling social and I wanted to enjoy that social feeling.

So here we are on Monday morning. I knocked off the little items that were easy. I allowed myself a sufficient distraction. And then I told myself I would get started on Project 2. All the while, I felt this growing anxiety. Unrelated things have also added to this growing anxiety, causing me to jumble up what is really causing this feeling. I want to run and hide from this anxiety. Which I did last week, without really realizing what I was doing.

So what is going on? I stepped out of the house, an excuse to take the dog for a walk under the moist overcast California sky. The air was beautiful, but I was only taking shallow breaths. I felt this tightness in my chest. Rather than run away from these feelings, run to distractions, I let my self breathe and feel uncomfortable. And wow, I felt really uncomfortable. I still do. An underlying nervous energy. Shallow breathing. A grasping for the known and comfortable. I gently understood what was going on.

I was afraid of the unknown.

This project 2 is something I really want to do. But I'm afraid. I've never done something like this before. It's new to me. I have very high standards. It's going to take work. I can't (nor do I want too either) wing it. I want to do a really good job. So I have put myself under a lot of pressure.

It's all these things that cause these uncomfortable feelings. That cause me to reach for the known and comfortable. And yet, I feel paralyzed. Stuck. Fear to take a step. Fear to begin. 

I don't think I've consciously identified the feeling of fear of the unknown. But here it is. I'm right in it. Most of the time, my bravado, my curiosity and my excitement carry me to do things others might be afraid of. But just like everyone else, I too am afraid. I still fear unknown things. Even thought they will become known in time.

Return

I've been looking for a new place to live. While I have loved my time on the mountain - the quiet, the fresh air, the winds, the roughness -- I miss the beating heart of the city I love. I miss the moist freshness of the air. The grid of streets, the palm trees. The bustle of movement and the pockets of serenity. I miss my friends, the ease of escape velocity. My rocket can do short blasts of 30 minutes or long hauls of 3-5-9-15 hours. 

The past few days, I've been looking at places. I've got an open mind. I don't need to replicate what I've had in the past. As much as I miss my last place in West Hollywood - a gorgeous, huge, beautiful house - plenty of room for me and D, I need something different. My life is different, and I am different too. As much as I like my independence, I like to live with someone. And let's be frank, the boyfriends haven't worked out. 

I've been thinking about my time with Gloria. When I moved to LA - over 10 years ago - we met when I subletted her place in Venice. It was my soft landing in LA. She was/is a writer, and we became friends, through my early blog. 8 months later we were in escrow together, buying a house on Future St. Yes, I do spontaneous things at times.

Living with Gloria was an amazing time in my  life. She inspired me, by seeing first hand, what it was like to live life on your own terms. To see the ups and downs, the struggles and creative freedom. When I think about that time, I learned so much from her. And I continue to - we're still good friends. 

This memory, this experience, I remember. Is it possible again? I am 12 years older. I am not that young woman. I am experienced. And like Gloria had, when we lived together, I have my dog, Mr D, on the older side, but still full of life and love. Have the roles changed?

They have. 

--

The city wants me back. And the city, she shall have me.

To Reinvent, yet again

It's a dark night on the mountain. My days are numbered. I search for new places to live. I pour over budgets, trying to understand what I can afford. Steeling myself for the worst. It's not as bad. Of course it's not. My situation is not desperate, although I feel desperate at times. 

The latest dream didn't work out. It's not because I didn't try. It's never because I didn't try. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but then I accepted the situation, the new reality. I'm good at adapting. I'm good at change. I'm good at finding the silver lining. Time to reinvent myself once more. I'm an expert.

I've been the sum of societies parts. I've consciously created myself. Who will I be this decade? It almost doesn't matter. 

The Zone Survives

At first, I was looking forward to using this afterword to tell the story of publishing the Picnic: naming once-hated names; jeering to my heart’s content at the cowards, idiots, informers, and scoundrels; astounding the reader with the absurdity, idiocy, and meanness of the world we’re all from; being ironic and instructive, deliberately objective and ruthless, benevolent and caustic all at once.

And now I’m sitting here, looking at these folders, and realizing that I’m hopelessly late, and that no one needs me – not my irony, not my generosity, and not my burntout hatred.

They have ceased to exist, those once-powerful organizations with almost unlimited right to allow and to hinder; they have ceased to exist and are forgotten to such an extent that it would be tedious and dull to explain to the present-day reader who is who, why it didn’t make sense to complain to the Department of Cultural of the CC, why the only thing to do was to complain to the Department of Print and Propaganda, and who were Albert Andreevich Beliaev, Pyoty Nilovich Demichev, and Mikhail Vasilyevich Zimyanin – and these were the tigers and elephants of the Soviet ideological fauna, rulers of destinies, deciders of fates! Who remembers them today, and who cares about those of them who are still among the living?

So then why bother with the small fry – the shrill crowd of petty bureaucrats of ideology, the countless ideological demons, who caused untold and immeasurable harm and whose vileness and meanness require (as they liked to write in the nineteenth century) a mightier, sharper, and more experienced pen than my own? I don’t even want to mention them here – let them be swallowed up by the past, like evil spirits, and disappear….

- Boris Strugatsky, Roadside Picnic, afterward

 

Roadside Picnic was the source material for Andrei Tarkovsky’s film, Stalker. This film, inspired the Cacophony Society to go on Zone Trips. Zone trip #4 was a visit to Black Rock Desert. This turned into the annual event Burning Man.

The maize kernel for a cultural revolution was sown so many years ago, half way across the world.

Poetry

I stalk around my house
like a tiger in a cage.
But even if the door were open
the world outside is just the same.

Dear Heather

Dear Heather,

You don't have anything more to prove. Over the past 24 hours, I've gone through our files. I've remembered a bunch of things we've done. You did. I found the folder with more than 10 years of goals and dreams for consciously creating your dream life. Look at me now - we DID it! You did it. I did it. Past and Future and present moment me. Damn, it was hard. It was fun. It was really dark at times. Those bitches who stabbed you in the back. Those fucking asshole men. But you had way more friends. Coaches. Guides. Non-Guru Teachers. People who saw you for who you are. Accepted and loved you. And really, you only ever needed one. Me. You. The multitude of present moment Heathers through our life. You knew you'd get here. There was no choice. Here, now or death.

I'm so struck at who we are. I am. Sifting through these boxes of files, letters, papers, photos. I've had amnesia. I forgot who I was. I was so caught up with the PRESENT, and changing it.  I forgot what I had done. You did. We accomplished. The power of the past. The path I have created, as I created myself.

I'm really in awe. This is really me? This is really who I am? Who I wanted to be, and who I created myself to be? 

Yes. Yes it is.

So Heather, those dark days are over, for now. No one can take away the things you've done. Even if you forget. But it's better if you remember them. Because then maybe you're realize you're stronger than you think, and you're absolutely not the loser you think you are. 

That chapter is over. And we are back where we were before. You know the next steps well. Create the path where one has not trod before. Of course there will be people following. They will have no idea you are the one who created this path. And their feet will widen it. It will be hard at times. But you love watching the forest. The wind in the leaves. Having a blank slate of possibilities to savor. Where to step. And, least you forget, you too follow in someone's footsteps. Sometimes whom, is a mystery. At other times, the whisper of a name on the wind. A tuft of fur in the bramble.

More forward as best you can. With respect. Sincerity. Honesty. Integrity. 

I'll be waiting for you at the end. I'll be here with you always.

Love,

Heather

Fire in the Hole Mojo

The desolation of the desert. Deep silence. The outer edge. Beyond. This temporary place, as permanent as anything. Autonomous Zone. Free Zone.

In the night, the beacon is a structure my own hands helped create. Almost a decade has passed. Bright red neon pops from the full moon illuminated sky. Stark lines. A perfect permanent home.

Even at night, the desert is hot. I feel the tiniest lick of coolness on the under edge of the wind. The warm fingers caress my face and hair. I breath the air. Taking the freedom of the wind into my lungs. It can not be captured for too long. Trappings of traditional social structure evaporate like water. 

Fire is not necessary for warmth, but for entertainment. On the bluff the crowd watches. There are just a few of us in the wash. The danger zone. For explosive expression. There is something about the compressed and compact - pressure fading away - unfolding in blooms of flaming exhalation. A cinder cloud rises for a moment and shimmers away. A beautiful explosion. Pressure released.