I found this written on the whiteboard of a local (Albany, CA) high school circa 2003 or 2004.
How to live a Happy Stress free Life
| | | |
|
(another one, from another time)
I was driving the N. Virginia back roads. I'm stalking the battlefield I recently visited. A technique I've found myself doing is going back to places twice, but never from the same route or necessarily the exact same place.
It's misty. Been raining. There is the misty fog on the road. The pavement is black. Slick. Sleek. Inviting. The lights from my car do not penetrate very far into the darkness beyond the mist. I have the windows down. The mist and rain is flying into the car and my hair is flying around. I can feel the power in the air. The wind. The moisture. I drink it in.
I'm backtracking and I don't know it yet. I follow roads and turn onto new ones at the slightest flicker of direction. I find myself pulling into a parking area. It's very dark. The sky is that cloudy grey. The trees are black against the grey. I get out of the car. I hear the rain falling from the trees, yet it is not falling from the sky. The field is open and I hear creaking noises (almost like branches rubbing together but deeper) coming from it. I peer into it. I see flickers of light. I realize they are fireflies.
The strange creaking, the mist, the black outline of the trees, the flickers of lights. I walk out into the field to be surrounded by it.
| | | |
|
Seeing We Live in Public a second time has brought up a wash of TV memories. If you've caught me in a belligerent mood at a party you know my two favorite things to faux-brag about are my unbelievable introversion (everyone just sees me in extrovert mode) and the fact I haven't owned a TV for 15 years.
I have a deep hatred and aversion to television and the content and media produced and distributed on/with it. Of course, there's a much longer story to this. You can't hate something, unless you've loved it.
I don't believe I consumed more TV than average - probably less. I spent much of my prime TV watching years in Iowa - where we were lucky to have 3 or 4 channels. But I did spend loads of time from when I was 10 until 14 consuming television - many hours every day. Prior to then, it was cartoons and nature programs. A few Harryhausen stop animation and fantasy films. Around that time TV networks and cable really took off. I remember when Nickelodeon was launched and when MTV used to play music videos. (I still remember seeing Axel Rose crooning and swooning about his sweet child.) I'm a gourmet cook and can whip up the most complicated dish with only a few sips from the Joy of Cooking. That comes from my years of watching Jeff Smith's Frugal Gourmet. I had perfected chocolate souffle when I was 13. My absolute favorite show was You Can't do that on Television. Even then, I was attracted to the interrupters. It was horrible Canadian Television with lots of green slime. But better than anything created in the US.
Shortly after that time though, something shifted. It was about the time I discovered philosophy and decided I wanted to be in control of who I became, not shaped by the world around me. At that time, I became selective of the media I consumed. Already I started the long and tedious process of re/unwiring my programming. Of course, first you have to realize what your programming is. There was also the added challenge of being an adolescent girl of divorced parents living on her own.
I didn't say goodbye to the tube until college. Of course, I just switched drugs - preferring the interactive black and green BBS chatrooms and limited 5 line profiles to passively watching programming. When 12 baud dial-up was unbearable I saved up the money from my art modeling gig to buy a 28 baud modem and installed it myself. I briefly had a boyfriend who studied in the broadcasting and TV group and one late night conversation led me to the realization that those who create the media do not consume it. You couldn't. You had to be beyond it. That's when the nail went in my TVs coffin. I wish I could say I took my 13 inch out to the backyard and introduced it to my sledgehammer or used it as target practice - but I wasn't into guns and violence at that time. I merely sold it.
That was 15 years ago. Since then, my TV interactions have been few and far between. I never bought another one, although for about a year, I rescued a huge push channel, big box TV from the street and left it on my Berkeley front porch pointed out to the street with the "snow channel". It was some form of art or rebellion or commentary on something deeply philosophical I forget about now.
The television is very powerful - because it programs you. The internet is the same. The media may be different, but the activity it does is the same. You watch, you learn. Mirror neurons. Creating and building neural pathways. You become/evolve what you surround yourself with. Television isn't in my trusted network.
| | | |
|
I've been remembering a lot of memories from my Iowa days recently. Last night, as I was reading a Jonathan Carroll novel (after returning late from the Geek Dinner) his descriptions reminded me of a typical friday or saturday night in Ottumwa Iowa.
I would meet up with my small group of friends and after driving around, pretending that there might be things to do in our small town, we always ended up at Parkview Plaza, the all night hotel diner. We had a little money and would ponder over the cheap and sweet items on the menu. Inevitable we'd order coffee and their giant cinnamon rolls.
I've been feeling a pull to go back to see that small town. My grandparents still live there, but all other ties to that place (beyond my childhood memories) are gone. I had a love hate place with Ottumwa. I loved the nature and back roads and huge old brick buildings. The river, the trails, the railroad tracks. The sunset and whipperwhills and solo hikes deep into the woods where I'd visit the dilapated homestead with a cistern and caves carved in rock. The cemetary on a hillside. The cliffside I almost jumped into the sunset.
It's all changed I know. Jonathan Caroll writes about that. Visiting towns from your youth as adult eyes. When I lived in that town, I created the same surreal adventures he writes about. I could fill books with those magical stories. So reading his, remind me of mine.
| | | |
|
Several years ago I went though several months of reading most of Bruce Chatwin's work. He is one of my favorite authors along with Italio Calvino and Jonathan Carroll. At that time I collected and read most of his books - but not all. A collection of short stories stared it's title at me most mornings. (I have a bookshelf facing my bed in the bedroom) called "What am I doing here?"
I pulled it out the other night and started reading. Immediately I was taken back to the delight of reading his prose. I came across Chatwin's writing just when I decided to make my writing both more non-fiction as well as fiction. The line between truth and reality is often fuzzy perception. I prefer to fuzz the line in the direction of fiction as far as possible while keeping the story activities in the truth. That's why for the past several years I've been walkabouting through intense activities - creating the borderlands. That and the novelty factor.
But there's something about coming back to a place you know well. A place you not only know but love well. That includes the writing of Bruce Chatwin.
My inspiration to travel has returned. I use to feed that wanderlust by traveling to the furthest, exotic, difficult, rugged locations. I've flown into tin shack airports in the south pacific in the middle of two political coups. I've traveled 5 hours over sand dunes to get to a remote beach in the north of Brazil - twice. I've boated up and down the Nile, picking through Eqyptian Temples and hiking into the pyramids, not to mention navigating haggling for belly dancing costumes in the largest bazaar in Turkey.
But those locations are no longer foreign. The most dangerous and exotic small locations in the world are right here in our backyard - it is a small town America.
This first occurred to me when I went to a small town outside of Reno to demolish some cars. Let, me take that back. This idea first occurred to me in 1996 while driving the gravel roads in fecund Iowa summer. It was a comparison of the fields, forests and plains of the midwest to the savanna of Africa. The only reason we don't think the things around us are exotic is because they are so familiar.
That is why I think the small town is a most exotic place. If you've ever lived in a small town - it's freaking hard to make a living. It's much harder to make a living in Cedar Falls, Iowa than New York City. Hard to believe, but true.
Anyway, I've meandered. My point is that in my travel revival due to Chatwin's wonderful writing I've restarting my exotic travels - to the most exotic locations on earth - small town America.
| | | |
|
Eight hundred miles in the past three days. (A total of 1300 in the past week.) Three states. Many states of mind. Much stimulation of the brain. Meeting new people. Getting to know acquaintances better. There are not enough words in my exhausted brain to even begin describing all that transpired the past seven days. I returned to Los Angeles a few hours ago - a car full of packages and a bit more worn for the wear. Both my fog lights were blown out Friday night after hitting a raccoon just outside of Sedona and a rabbit about 30 minutes south of the Hoover Dam.
I will try to pull out some snippets from my memory.
Most recently I returned from Death Valley this afternoon after a sleepless night filled with stars and conversations. A friend brought up two concepts I realized during our conversing I don't really know or use: Mercy and Happiness. I am not motivated to live my life with Happiness in mind. I have other emotions that motivate me. And about Mercy, well, it never even occurred to me. I don't think I even know what Mercy is. I generally wield the ax of justice and it definitely severs relationships. So this concept of pondering mercy and how to be more merciful, is intriguing and something I will meditate on - and perhaps practice.
Hiking at dusk in Sedona. I wanted to go to a magical place and instead the trail I chose went along an Indian resort. I was irritated and frustrated. It was getting dark, and it was not my idea at all to drive 5 hours to Sedona only to be surrounded by the sounds of cars and air conditioning and civilization when I was supposed to be in a magical place. I guess the Indians need to make a living too.
When I stopped to catch my breath on the trail at the twisted juniper right where the sign was posted "You are on camera, so don't jump the fence you stinky hikers" complete with industrial lights destroying the natural darkness. I spied a ledge - right in the middle of the light. I had a flash of inspiration and went straight to the spot - straight in the middle of the spotlight under the surveillance cameras and proceeded to meditate upon being in the spotlight. And so, instead of fighting my self about NOT being in the spotlight because that's not where I thought I wanted to be, I understood why I need to be in the spotlight because that is really where I must be. Inner conflict resolved.
I can't even begin to express how much the conference I attended in Tucson effected me. Over the next few days I'll try to write up some notes. I attended the conference to learn more about what science is doing around the study of understanding and explaining consciousness and the human brain. I left with the beginnings of a new language and awe for ourselves and awe for science. I plan to explore my interest in this subject more and more in the coming years.
I love driving in the desert at night. I put the top down and looked at the stars, felt the wind in my face as I drove back from the official conference dinner Thursday night at the Desert Museum. I put on Orbital Blue Album and took in the wind, driving fast and taking the curves. I am happiest at the wheel of my car, alone on a dark two lane twisty highway. My car is an extension of my body - I feel the vibrations of my tires on the road through my stick and wheel. I listen to the motor as I increase RPMs and slow down, shifting accordingly for speed or coast.
I wondered, why does this make me so happy? To be alone, a bullet speeding along. But then I stop thinking and enjoy the ride. This is truly something I love.
I felt the same way when I came upon the Hoover dam past midnight. I had spent hours driving through Arizona. Napoleon Hill was speaking to me in those midnight hours (and when the rabbit met her death under my wheel). I passed through the check point and then was upon the dam. A huge bright lit construction was being built above me. I was in awe at modern engineering. I slowed and looked at the new bridge. It was beautiful and massive.
A moment later I crested a hill and a city of twinkling lights unfolded below me. It was beautiful. And for once in my life I saw the beauty of Las Vegas. I found my way to the Strip and a posh hotel filled with friends. A strong difference of my last days in the desert.
There are many more stories to write. Many more things I want to share with you - my anonymous readers. But tonight I sleep. For tomorrow another adventure begins and I must tend to my dreams.
| | | |
|
So my new favorite blog is starting to get some traction. It's by Jonathan Shaw - who could be called the "father" of modern tattooing. (Disclaimer, JS is one of my clients.) He's pretty much the guy who broke tattooing into the mainstream and tattooed a bunch of celebrities. He's also the inspiration/real character behind Captain Jack - from Pirates of the Caribbean.
Over the past 3 months, I've worked with Jonathan and his assistant Alessandra on all the standard things I do: branding and online marketing specifically for his upcoming book about his crack-whore girlfriend from Rio de Janeiro.
Now, anyone who knows me, knows that I have a passion for Brazil and the Brazilian life. I won't go into my several life changing experiences I had within her borders, but needless to say, she is probably my favorite country in the world. Brazil - she is full of possibilities.
Anyway, I digress - Jonathan is in Rio right now, with Narcisa - his girlfriend (whom the book is about) and he's writing about his day to day experiences. It's not just the day to day, but the pieces of enlightenment hidden between the cracks of the mundane. Take this for example:
I’m out on the street dropping her off later and I look around and see the people running amok like it’s the goddamn Mardi Gras, my people, ignorant little replicas of Narcisa with her tv eyes and childlike mind and it hits me, it’s not just her, it’s the world, it’s Brazil, a whole mind-warped brainwashed culture, a nation of whores and beggers and petty thieves and crooked liars and pipe dreaming slaves, with or without the crack habit, its all the same ratty fairy tale happy ending mind of slavery to ego and self and the belief in eternal satisfaction at the end of a magic consumer wand or a machine gun or a beer can or crack pipe or a polititions promise or a whirlwind of romantic love boat wedding chapel angel cake whiter than white flouride toothpaste smiles and shit eating grins on skulls that will soon be rotting in the ground no matter fucking what. Whatever whatever, so maybe Narcisa’s right to just burn it at both ends like she does and do the best she can to live as intensely and dangerously as possible and so what if she fucking dies, at least she provided me the inspiration to write a fucking book cuz she is that interesting and authentic and beautiful and that’s more than I can say about 99.999999 percent of the fucking human race.
It's about authenticity. It's about being real. And sometimes that authenticity is too much for people - and goes against the grain of "good morals". But it reminds me of something I used to think about. And I was reminded of this when watching Bjork's video on Declare Independence. If the most authentic thing for you to do was to do drugs - then why should anyone stop you from it. If that is your most authentic self - then you should do that. And screw anyone who should "intervene".
And, although I have not met Narcisa, I like to dream that she is that person.
| | | |
|
I occasionally attend a multi-day gathering with friends at an old homesteader cabin in the Mojave. The area is desolate, and for one weekend we bring in generators and DJ equipment, a stage and about 80 people camp, party and generally have a good time. We shoot guns at the private range and generally engage in standard desert activities: eating, drinking, esoteric conversations and taking in the natural beauty of the desert. At night it is cold, so we have fires - inevitably started by yours truly.
In this particular weekend, it was unseasonably cold and as the sun set, everyone was gathered in and around the cabin. It was crammed in there while no one was paying attention to the cold desert beauty at dusk. So I went outside to start a fire. At first, it was just me and Sam, and a friend or two stopping by. We chucked more wood into it and really got it going. Then others came out and started adding wood and pretty soon there were a lot of people by the fire. The fire was going really well and people were enjoying adding wood and taking care of it. Since there were 2 other fire pit possibilities and plenty of wood, I moved onto start another fire in another location.
Same story as the first one. At first it was me and Sam (my firestarting partner) stacking the wood, the newspaper, twigs and lighting the match in several locations. We always get the fire started on the first try. Again, we were alone with the fire, but slowly folks moved from the first fire and others from the cabin came out to be around the second fire. It was closer to the stage and dance area so people would stop by to warm up between dancing and wandering.
The same thing happened for the third fire. At that point I would occasionally need to add wood to the previous other fires.
I feel like that's what happened here in LA Tech. There are tons of people around adding fuel to the fire, chucking on their own pieces of wood. Making a fire bigger and even starting their own. The fires are beautiful and roiling. It's very hot and going quite nicely.
| | | |
|
I've been following Chicken John's San Francisco Mayoral Race since it began. As soon as I found out he was running, I immediately went to paypal and sent a chunk of virtual dollars. I don't live in San Francisco and I can't vote in the election, but I wanted to show my support to Chicken John, who I have known (not well) for almost a decade - or maybe already a decade. I wish I lived in SF right now to participate in the experiment, but I watch from afar and throw my thoughts and money into the support.
This morning I was reading the latest on the campaign and the end is really what it is all about.
In the end, it’s the possibility that “anything can happen”. That’s what theatre is all about. That’s why you go to a live show. You wanna be there for the magic of possibility graduating into a confluence of now. And that’s why improv is even better. Because without a script, the “anything can happen” part becomes a bonus multiplier.
Things are about to get interesting…
What he describes is what I live on. The magic of possibility. Of snatching an idea out of the air and making it happen. It's been gorgeous to watch this happen from afar.
| | | |
|
TikiFkos were playing "Tigre and Bunny's - cars go boom" mashup and I couldn't help myself. Jenna caught my classic car-b-que activities on film. The "Heather" she is complaining to, is me. Thanks for taking one for me Jenna. xoxo, your BBF (your bad best friend)
oh yeah, and I this was one of the times I blew the door off the car-b-que. Perhaps you can imagine the effect at 3:30 in the morning. The sky lights up with a flash of boom, and then I pull a pizza out of the pizza oven (on the other side). pps. notice the unicorn hood ornament!
| | | |
|
I've been having conversations about the Me Generation. Over the past year, it's become pretty obvious to me that there's this entire generation that has a totally different outlook about technology. I, of course, want to understand this, the motivations, the attitude. Because every generation is a reiteration from the previous one. It's growth. But in what direction, and is it the growth that that trunk wants to go in, or the branches? I have no answer, but lots of questions.
Anyway, while checking out my stats, I found a link to Amy LeBlanc's blog, where she posted this great poster.
I've been seeing Marilyn pop up on Melrose for a while,but she's wearing sunglasses (typical Hollywood). But I like the sentiment in the poster. It's depressing - angsty you might say - and a reality check, against a reality that is increasingly changing. I don't necessarily disagree with the poster, but I don't actually agree with it either. It's perspective.
Why would you want to be a rock star? Is that really what you want to be? Or do you have some other passion that is aching to be expressed. That needs no adulation or showing of applause?
| | | |
|
How did I miss the Invisible Pink Unicorns? (All this time I have been talking about invisible pink elephants...) Unicorns on wikipedia. And more invisible pink unicorns?
The Invisible Pink Unicorn logo represents atheism.
It is a fusion between the mathematical void symbol and the stylized representation of an unicorn.
The void symbol (empty set Ø) is an allusion to nothingness and in this case meaning "no faith" or "no god". The unicorn is a reference to a kind of story that atheists often tell to make their point.
Very delightful - but I am far far far from being an atheist. In fact, I had a delightful conversation with two Christian missionarys when I was in Sedona. The part that freaked me out the most (but really didn't freak me out that much) was that I could completely understand and agree with most of what they were saying. In fact, I live my life pretty much exactly the way they live their life. The big exception, I don't think Jesus is the only bridge. The other exception, I have no interest in going to heaven (or hell for that matter) I have my eye set on something .... else. The other exception, I don't quote from the bible (although I was quite interested in what they were quoted and totally understood the point of the quotes).
I do believe that I speak a different "religion", "spiritual" language. The problem is, I can speak many languages... but people don't all speak my language. That's ok, because I have a direct link/line to "G-d" which I call something different.
My favorite part of the conversation was when we were talking about good and evil and they were telling me how deceptive Satan was and I said, exactly, the whole concept of good and evil is a deception (because well it is). It is a method to distract us and get us to play on sides against each other - when really we're all one big thing. The deception is that there is no good and evil (and yet, there is most definitely good and evil).
Anyway, talking with them crystallized my possible explanation of this paradox (at least in my mind). Back to the circle with a dot in the center. Or, when you peel all the layers of the onion- where is the onion? (ps, it's the layers)
| | | |
|
So last night I made Kaliya (who was in town visiting) meet me at LA Angst. I dug out two of my old journals 10 minutes before I left. One was the infamous Brazil journal - which is green and falling apart. The other was a journal I occasionally write and give updates to (it was started in 1991 and there are years between entries) - hey, who says I have to have only 1 journal? I mean, I've got this blog, my paper journal, my nav log, my GTD notebook and a variety of other notebooks. Anyway, I even found some poetry stuffed into the brazil journal (amazing because I burned all my love letters and most of my writing 2 years ago)
Here's the line up from last night. It was a total blast! Thank you to Leah (top o the list) for organizing it.
Yay for us!
| | | |
|
I slept dreaming of other lives. Waking up at my friend's house in Austin to childish giggles and laughs. I rolled out of bed and showered for the first in several days, purple running down my back and into the white basin. Coffee, fretting over my packing, calling the cab. Waiting, waiting, late, waiting. The plan was to stop by the airport, drop off my luggage for my 5pm flight and head downtown to catch a couple movies before heading back to LA.
Cab arrived. I piled my luggage in the back. It was heavy. Made fast friends with the cab driver who was from Nigeria. He tried to hit on me (as usual) and I started talking about the boyfriend. He wasn't really my type. My friend Suz had more in common. I prefer the quiet geek type with secret superpowers. During the drive to the airport, I told him I would need another cab back to the airport later in the day. He offered to pick me up. This could be sketchy, right? But he was a sincerely nice guy. MBA, considering Law degree. Used to work at a semi-conductor company in Austin until it relocated to Korea. Maybe this was a sign from the universe. So far, I had not had one second of trouble finding a cab when I needed one, despite the explosion of SXSWers. I took this as yet another boon from the universe - the tricky part was finding a cab on time who would be able to rush me from the movie to the airport in time to catch my flight - and here I was - sitting in his cab. He dropped me off, and we made arrangements for him to pick me up later.
Then I went to check in my luggage. This was much more difficult than I had planned. I should have known, with my liter of Tito's Vodka and the bullet belt in my carry on. Then there was the 4 hour pre-flight check in limit. And no lockers. I had to think on my feet and be creative. I rebooked on a flight that would leave in less than an hour. Twenty minutes later, my luggage was on it's way to TSA's security check. I had my boarding pass in hand. 30 minutes. Could I get downtown in 30 minutes? I had nothing to lose. I decided to give it a try.
| | | |
|
Here are a couple pictures from my Naked Sushi Party, celebrating the 33rd year of Heather. It was a lot of fun. Thanks everyone! All photos by Kmo. More photos available on request.
| | | |
|
It's mah birfday, it's mah birfday. Let's have a par-tay. A par-tay. Well... ok. Maybe not. We already celebrated. But I always like to take the day off and focus on myself and do what I want and not work. In the past I have spent the days with a friend or two, introspecting and planning the coming year. Maybe a motorcycle ride or several hours at the day spa. This year I spent it in my car with the boyfriend. I was showered with presents, but the best, was the present that has not appeared yet.
So the boyfriend jumps up early this morning and is getting ready to leave. I'm like, hey? where are you going? He has that glint in his eye, like he's up to something - and he is. I just don't know what yet. So he's out of the house and I'm hanging out, trying not to check my email, making coffee in the kitchen, reading in bed with a steamy cup o joe, when he arrives back.
I'm all ears. I'm wondering what is up. (But for once in my life, I'm not overly anxious to get showered with presents. I just want to see what's going to happen.) He has a not necessarily sad, but mixed look on his face. There were concerns because of the 80% chance of rain today that maybe I wouldn't want to do what he had planned. I was like - well, whatever. Then I found out what happened.
The boyfriend rented a Lotus (!!!!!) for the day and when he went in to pick it up there was bad news. Apparently, yesterday afternoon someone came in to rent the Lotus because he was considering buying one, and apparently dude considering the Lotus totaled it! And according to the rental guy, this is not an unusual experience, as this particular one had been crashed 3 times, although, he feared it was really totaled this time.
With a totaled Lotus and an 80% chance of rain the boyfriend gave me a rain check and we took Ingemar up to Mt Wilson to catch snowflakes on our tongues. (Oh and so I could make some phone calls too - because I have a fetish with the Mt. Wilson phone booth.)
Yay. Birthday H. Welcome to the Jesus year.
| | | |
|
I celebrated my upcoming (tomorrow) birthday this past weekend. Last year I spent several weeks planning my karaoke party. This year I threw it all together in 8 hours including shopping trips across town in rainy LA/war protest traffic. For all the work, I was totally stressed when my guests arrived, but the sake flowed and I was wearing a jaunty Kimono and the tables looked great, and we were going to eat yummy sushi off naked flesh - how could bad could it get? Well, it didn't. If you're interested in photos, you'll just have to wait until the photographers get them posted. Thanks to Kevin for having the crazy idea to collaborate and opening his doors to all my crazy friends.Thanks Sam for running around with me. Thanks to Art for my most favorite stuffed being ever! (I love you Art!) Thanks to Elliot for the 3rd time's a charm beer run. Thanks to everyone who came and ate sushi and looked fabulous and came and celebrated with me. It was great to see everyone. xxx
| | | |
|
My father's name is Rick. He's named after my grandfather and my younger brother also holds the same name. I wasn't given the traditional family name to pass on, although I do hold true to keeping the rick close at hand. It's because I'm a maverick.
Maverick: a lone dissenter, as an intellectual, an artist, or a politician, who takes an independent stand apart from his or her associates.
This suits me. Or as the boyfriend told me at lunch today: "They pay me to disagree with them." Now that's a great attitude. The point is not to disagree to disagree, but to disagree because that's what's the right thing to do.
| | | |
|
So I am here in Mammoth for a few days of vacation. So far, it has been horrible. Why?
1. I hate the cold.
I spent way too much of my life in cold freezing places. I have an ongoing argument with a friend of mine on which would be worse - to be too hot or too cold. I would rather be too hot. My argument is that you can always take clothes off. His argument is that you can always put more clothes on. We each have our own positions, and being up here where my car temperature gauge read 6 degrees last night (and I had my headed seat blasting) just reminds me how much I hate the cold.
2. I hate snow.
I love water. I think water is the drug of humans. But I prefer it in its liquid form. I love swimming, scuba diving, snorkeling. Jumping and splashing and playing in major surf. I love rain and thunderstorms and rivers and streams and agua de beber. Give me water, but do not give me snow.
3. I hate ski boots.
As far as I'm concerned, wearing ski boots is about as comfortable as having my feet amputated. Well maybe not really, because I've never had my feet amputated, but I wanted to nuclear bomb all snow areas and all skiiers while I was wearing them. And then I wanted to build a huge bonfire with sticks of dynamite inside ski boots covered with kerosine, gasoline and other liquid flammables. And then warm myself by it's exploding brightness. Ski boots are the devil.
I could go on about how I hate people and being places where there are many of them. And how I can barely stand or walk in the torture device ski boots, but it's all just venom. I would consider snow shoeing or snowmobiling or even cross-country skiing (although that's low on the list). But never, never, never again am I going to attempt to ski. Or snowboard. I've tried them both. I'm not impressed.
I should have known. As someone who is passionate about the desert and hot climates, why would I remotely enjoy a snowy mountain village? But I thought maybe I'd change my mind. Skiing sounded kind of fun. Maybe I could try it again and like it this time. But no.
I'm just fine if I never see snow ever again or put on another ski boot. I do know, that as soon as I get back to LA, I'm starting my search for a new motorcycle, with some hard luggage. Because I hear the call of the desert and the wide open road. Fuck this snow bullshit.
| | | |
|
Sometimes life happens so perfectly you couldn't script it better.
It started out as a normal Saturday night. The calendar was triple booked with party possibilities. A few hour before party time and my phone rang. It was my pole dancing partner telling me that there was a pole dancing contest at the upcoming party. Was I planning to enter?
This was the first I had heard of the contest and it was 4 hours prior to the party. I hadn't practiced in months, but it was a chance to show my skills and first, second and third place prizes included my own pole. That was very tempting, but not worth the anxiety of performance. For about $100 I could go out and buy one. Was the competition worth that anxiety? Enter the start of my waffling.
I thought about the probability of entering and then decided it was pretty slim. Like I said, for $100 I could buy my own pole without the embarrassment of performance. Regardless I agreed to help my friend practice before the party. I brought a change of clothes and my shoes in case I changed my mind or was heavily coerced.
Practice went well. We even had a few minutes on the pole. I remembered how much I loved spinning around that thing, hooking my heel or calf on the pole and blasting off into the spin. It was at practice that I decided I would enter. I decided to perform first because I didn't want to get nervous or change my mind - and also so I could get it over with and enjoy the rest of the party/performances.
The moment finally arrived. The DJ knew my music and I was back stage psyching myself up. Three minutes on the platform, just me, the pole and Journey. The song started slow and I looked out into the audience of awaiting faces. I wondered if anyone would get my little joke with Journey. I picked "Don't Stop Believing" because it's become a recent community favorite. I wondered if anyone would hold up a lighter. Then it was off to the pole. No one outside of my pole class had seen my moves - not even my boyfriend. And now was the time to show off.
Walking and falling and catching in the spin. Hooking and falling and spinning and falling again. Strutting and circling and arching and spin. I was flying. It was fun! I was just starting to wonder how much time I had left when it happened. I was mid spin when something fell from the top of the pole and hit me on my head. It bounced off my shoulder and down my right side as I landed my technique at the front of the stage.
What had happened?
The pole was standing, but something wasn't right about it. My first thought was, could I still dance around it. I stopped for a confused moment, unsure what to do, and that's when I raised my hand to my forehead. It hurt a little bit. And when I looked at my hand, it had blood on it. My blood. I was thinking "that's not supposed to be like that. It's just a little blood though, I wonder if I can finish the song. But what happened to the pole, is it ok to use anymore."
Believe it or not, that's exactly what went through my head, before my friends in the front row jumped up and helped me off stage. It was a good thing, because almost immediately blood was gushing down my face.
I was stunned. A piece supporting the top part of the pole had become unattached and fallen on me mid spin. I didn't know if I if I was injured, and if so how bad. I sat in shock as my friends stopped the bleeding, gave me ice and painkillers.
- cut to later -
The pole was fixed and the competition went on. I recovered although I was still stunned at what had happened. I had been more concerned about slipping in my shoes and twisting my ankle.
- cut to even later -
The pain killers kicked in. The bleeding stopped and I had been examined by various medical professionals at the party - my head was barely scratched. No need even for stitches. And even more important. I was one of three finalists.
The idea was that the three finalists take a final round and the audience judges the best. There were prize packages for all finalists - so I was definitely going to get some good swag regardless. No one asked me to perform again. But I was feeling good and I had an idea up my sleeve.
They started my song and I stepped on the platform again - this time donning a motorcycle helmet for protection. As my song spun up (Journey again!), I inspected the security of the new rig. I took some test spins around the pole - with the helmet on. And then I went to the front of the stage. I opened the vision and looked out at the crowd. They were wide eyed with anticipation. Watching my every move. I snapped the visor shut and started to take the helmet off. The crowd went wild. This was the biggest shock of all. Only I of all the finalists could make this joke. Taking off the helmet would make me more vulnerable than taking off my clothes (which I had no intention of doing). And the crowd loved every moment.
Bareheaded, I proceeded to rip up the pole. Well not literally rip it up. But I had so much fun doing the tricks and techniques I had learned. I love the feel of the wind on my face. Falling and being caught by gravity and my locked arms. I forgot there was an audience. It was me and the wind and my blood soaked hair. I stopped for a moment and looked into the crowd. Lighters were a flame and a few cell phones were raised in reverence. I nodded. The song faded out. I saw it in their eyes. I was remembering that feeling.
That anything is possible in this twisted fractaled world.
Oh, and I won second place.
| | | |
|
I dreamt of my first first-person VR experience. You know, like in eXistenZ, that Cronenberg movie? It was so vivid the wake up call barely pulled me back. I choose a different body type but something that was still somewhat like me and went up an elevator, alone into a new world. Since it was my first time, I could only start at floor 2. So I went up and started exploring. I found some party friends, who were really partying it up. And then I started exploring the city. I was walking around and this couple was standing together, and we started talking. I recognized them from my waking life. They recognized me, although I was not myself. It was Sean, whispering to Erika (although I could hear him), you know, that person is a lot like Heather, and I gave a look of recognition, and he immediately got it and said something like, Ah, it is you Heather. And then we went on about talking about VR, the environment and why/how I choose who I did and how my essence still came out.
It's probably one of those random dreams mashing up my recent re-start reading of Trouble on Triton (which I think should be bundled with Mez's More than Human) and my travels yesterday.
But I got me thinking. What if there was a way to transport the essence, the soul, your consciousness into a virtual reality? There will be a way someday. (Just read Kurzweil.) And actually there is a way you can do it today. It's called magic. Sorcery. And the stories are hard to believe, but why not? (Because there are more things in Heaven and Earth, than are dreamt of in your philosophy, said the Old Baird.)
I've heard stories of people channeled, their essences trapped (or placed) in objects. A small shard of pottery found in central Mexico held the memories of a sacrificial slaughter. These are power objects. Energy infused beyond the regular object make-up.
I could go on with this, but I have to be disciplined and jump in the shower and get ready for my day. But I'll be thinking about this topic, even as I discuss business opportunities 30 stories above the city.
| | | |
|
About a month ago, I got an IM in Portuguese from a name I recognized, although I had never seen in print. More than 10 years ago I spent more than a summer living in Fortaleza, Brazil. It was a life transforming experience.
Most of those relationships didn't stick to the states. This was before pervasive webmail and social networks. Only a few university students had email. I only kept in touch with one person back in the states, and after a few years that relationship connection wained.
So when Orkut went Brazilian, my old friends started to find me. It was a trip to get random messages from friends I hadn't spoken to in 10 years. Recently I've been IMing with one of my friends from down there. It's cool to be back in touch, although my typed Portuguese is probably far worse than my spoken. But we understand each other enough, and it's somewhat comforting to have that connection again.
--
After that story, it's hardly worth a mention, but when I was in Boston last week, in a swanky hotel restaurant waiting for the rest of the crew, in walks the sister of one of my x-boyfriends. She didn't act like she recognized me, but it was quite a surprise for me to recognize her.
--
It makes me wonder of all the people I haven't met, who will blast me from the past, in some future.
| | | |
|
So I've been making these cross-country trips from LA to Boston quite a bit this month. It's been hard on the schedule, slightly disrupting but exciting none-the-less. This morning I spent another 5 hours in a metal tube.
This trip I entertained myself with bad hair rock videos (Poison, Cinderella, White Stripes, and other the like I don't even know the name of) and reality TV shows. I think this is the most TV I've watched all year.
Even though this stuff is complete and utter crap in my book - I still got a lot out of it. It was a walk down history (although not mine) and a view into current television. And it was inspiring. I took notes the entire time.
| | | |
|
I've sent my share of goodbye letters. Generally I end them
with "have a nice life" and I truly mean it. It's the cutting free of
a friendship or relationship gone down the wrong path. When you get a goodbye
letter from me, I mean it. I'll give you a certain number of chances. But when
I've reached then end, out comes the sword.
I used to try to always leave the door open. If the other person wanted to come
around again at some future time, maybe I would be interested, but no longer.
I've learned I'm a person who does not turn back. A fallacy I used to believe
about myself (to make me feel better about sling-shotting myself into new and
further locations) was that I can always take a step back. Yeah, I spent a lot
of time keeping that one last step available to me, and never once, did I take
that step back. Once I made a leap, I never looked back. So I'm removing that
piece of code from my programming.
It's hard to realize that some people in your life are not going to be in it
for the entire time. Or often even for a moment, but as I get older and wiser I
realize that is the case. And that's fine. The right people come into your life
exactly when you need them. And until you make room for new fabulous people and
projects, those things won't be able to come into your life.
So here's to flushing out the soul-sucking drama. Here's to flushing out people
who suck suck suck only on your blood, giving nothing in return, but recurring
drama. Here's to flushing out clueless business partners who will take
absolutely everything they can from everyone.
Here's the space for new collaborators. To create amazing projects. To execute
on dreams and desires that will change the lives of billions of people. What
that is, I'm not specifically sure. But I'm aiming for it. And when I fly solo,
I always hit my mark.
| | | |
|
If you're not following Gloria's challenge in healing her sister after she dropped on the street into a coma, which are pretty amazing, Marina just woke up. It's been just awesome watching this unfold and I continue to be impressed with the amazing things we can do in this life with determination, energy and abandon.
I'm happy to have friends like this in my life, and to support them as I can, whether I be near or far.
| | | |
|
My recent trip to the desert was as soft and cushioned as a feather bed. We rolled in just as the sun had set and the desert was as quiet as I have ever not heard. Not a sound. Not one bird, not one bee buzzing. The only sound I heard, was one that I made myself.
I decided to check out the ancient petroglyph cave. The ground was covered with droppings again. The last time I was in the cave, I washed the floor with a bottle of Verve Cliquot champagne and a scrub brush. I stood in the cave, looking at the facing rock. The two holes that swallows usually fly in and out of. Completely silent. No sound. No movement.
Gradually I heard a buzzing. The sound reverberated in my ears and grew louder, taking on a heavy quality. It resonated in the cave. I couldn't tell where the sound was coming from and I could physically feel the vibration. As the sound got louder and reverberated more I re-cognized it as the sound of an airplane. But it had already done it's damage on my perception.
I collected dead cholla and other firewood. A pot of boiling water for hot tea. The ephedra bush that I once drank tea from. A straight stick for roasting marshmallows. Dinner consisted of tea and roasted marshmallows. I even shared the sticky white sweetness with the desert mice. We've got a great video of one carting off a marshmallow. I'll upload it shortly.
The sky gradually got darker and needles of light appeared. The cloud cover softened and the wind blew it away to show the galaxy of stars. I sat on rocks as the fire burned into embers and watched the Milky Way, catching a shooting star or two. I slept like a baby into the bright hours of morning, head buried in my sleeping bag.
Lazy morning awake. A walk about to the other side of the canyon and we found a great treasure sparkling in the bright sun. The blue sky was Hollywood unreal. Fluffy clouds for as far as the eye could see, sitting on the flat edge of atmosphere. It was surreal with the inclined desert plain.
Although it had been almost a year and a half since I returned to this location, it was in some ways, just a moment. An instant. Nothing had changed much. Although I have changed. Gained more power. I am more seasoned. The silence and quietude of the desert was much welcome to me. So quiet my ears didn't know what to do. So quiet that immediately my standard frame of reference was broken and I was acting from a totally different world view.
| | | |
|
I had a best friend once. We used to trade books and CDs,
stories and URLs and for a time, we shared the same dreams.
One of the best things about this relationship was the unspoken one. The one we
never commented on. We pretended never existed. This was the relationship we
had with our trades.
It started out simply. He was as voracious a reader as I was. We had similar
tastes in many mediums. We were decades apart in ages, but those years disappeared
with the music or the words on the page translating into pictures in my mind.
With the movies we never watched together but discussed. He would bring me some
books. I'd exchange them for some CDs. We'd go about reading and listening in
our own lives. Grab a coffee between discussions.
The books I read always meant something to me. They told me of a secret storyline
- a separate life - a possibility that existed only in fiction. The fiction of
P.K. Dick, Dan Simmons or Jonathan Carroll. These stories were enough for a
time. But more often than not, there was some strong character or plot
development that hit a little too close to our reality. Possibility. It stung
when I read those sections, written by authors who had no knowledge of me, yet
described my situation perfectly. It was not just synchronicity. It was a big
fat arrow with flashing neon lights. I had trouble breathing.
Drama happened, as is often the case. We became badly bruised and went
limping to our corners, licking our wounds.
2006 arrived and with it: two books by my favorite author. To read Carroll's
words is like adventure to Pippi Longstocking. Vibrant, full of life,
passionate, unexpected. He sent those two books down.
I've been hesitant to open them. To turn the page and read the words. To see
what world he's created (Jonathan this time). It's not just reading the stories. It's reading descriptions of my friend, reading descriptions of myself,
written by an author I have never met, and probably never will. (Although he
has an outstanding drink offer.)
I will finish reading Glass Soup, but I fear what synchronicity comes next. But it's too late to get off this rollercoaster, and even if I could, I doubt I would. There are still many wild cards waiting to be discovered.
| | | |
|
entrepreneur =
A risk-taker who has the skills and initiative to establish a business.
entering before the new?
sitting on the edge of the seat?
in the front row of the roller coaster on the Santa Monica pier?
I like it!
| | | |
|
It was dark. And the fluorescent lights on the ceiling were not on. Instead the lights that found its way into her eyes came from children dancing in hologram shadows to musical dance beats. As she moved to the computer generated rhythms, her dress, the one with the lace ribbons on it, flirted out among the crowd. It was made of spandex, velvet and lace and hung limply from the tips of her breasts, creating generous folds around her thighs that caressed them in ways only cloth knows.
The spotlight, however, was not on this girl in the purple velvet dress. It was on the drag queen in suspenders with the tallest cat-in-the-hat hat that all eyes were drawn to. His swinging arms and legs reminded her of dancing trees from Alice in Wonderland. The thought made her think that she could be a lost girl in a musical enchantment. The wonderland of musical ecstasy and flinging the body's muscles to the point of exhaustion and then beyond. The colors of the lights flashing and swinging in palpitating rhythm with the must. They were globules lollipops of color and sound.
Suspenders, wide swinging dresses, not those that Scarlet O'Hara wore, but ripped torn shredded remnants of Victoria hospitality throbbed with dangling braids and spiked hair, some of which was blue, orange and burgundy. White t-shirts hung limply on young boys' chests as they swayed to the music coiling and winding around itself like a wounded snake.
Some delighted in ingesting drugs of choice to get a full effect of the driving force of the music. Drugs that open the mind for some and close it for others. But she needed no outside influence to see the musical colors and hear their meanings. It was the total freedom, an abandonment of everything she was, everything she could be and living as an organism, not as an intellect or tool of society or religion. Her hips swinging, flinging her elbows into the unknown. Feeling the ache in her gut, screaming to stop the mad gyration, but the continuous frisk of her life force mingling into one with the beat of the music and blazing lights.
Face burning she ran outside into the snow and felt the cold in a new way, not with her standard predisposed dislike, but the cooling effect. Feeling the cold and yet, not feeling the cold. Outside the warehouse the air was so cold, so still. The sky was bare and offered no comfort, unlike the summer sky with its moist breath. She felt her skin tingle, the cells in her body reacting to the outside air, yet she felt no bitterness. It was refreshing and the silent night was contrasted with the savage activities in the building. It was the hot steamy voice of summer, reds, yellows and oranges of summer sun and the glimmering unknown of the ocean full of brightly colored fish.
Back inside the spinning rhythms of the music she felt unsatisfied. She felt the cold, or lack of coldness and the lights felt strange to her. She no longer felt the blood life of the beating music in her heart. The cold had penetrated her and she could not escape it.
The dark corners of the room provided no retreat from the hot sultry rhythms and her hair sent slow beads of sweat trickling down her neck, sending shivers up her back. She felt alone, alien and hostile. How could the short time outside change her entire being? She did not long to go back outside, she easily felt the cold on her skin and wet snow in her zippered combat boots. Even the place at the door, standing on the thin line separating the cold outside from the hot inside did not appeal to her. She wanted to leave, but the comfort of her car or the drive home gave no consolation. So she stayed where she was, malcontent, but without motivation to move, watching the shadows the tall cat-in-the-hat hat made in the moving lights and circling rhythms.
- myself circa 1996
| | | |
|
I'm living life like I'm on vacation. What's that? It's a frame of mind. The sky was beautiful as I drove to work today with top down and the best hits of Duran Duran blasting out the stereo. I admit, I really like some Duran Duran. It's a guilty pleasure. I'm rocking out to Notorious, Girls on Film, the Union of the Snake and Rio as I cruise on PCH and then into Malibu Canyon. The sky is so clear. The air is warm. I've got my gloves on and I'm thinking about a bunch of things.
I decide to turn off Malibu Canyon onto Mulholland. There are some really amazing hills/mounds just west/north west that blow my mind. I noticed a white cross at a turn out and pulled over. The winds were gorgeous and skirting the cliffs like a tongue across teeth searching for the moistness. I stood on the edge and the wind lifted my hair. I looked down and thought of what might have been a final wild ride. Probably somewhat different from my own personal experience. They were 21 and 22 when they went over the edge. Her necklace swings on the cross. I wonder, were they star crossed lovers. Romeo and Juliet of Mulholland? Were they in a car or on a bike? Was it night or day?
So many questions to ask on the day of the dead. I paid them my respects. I do enjoy the company of ghosts. Then returned to my car, tipped my glasses at my faint colleague in the passenger seat and pulled out, not willing to kiss too deeply the lips of my cold self seated beside me.
Being on vacation, one chooses what one experiences. And that choice is a choice that happens at every instant and can be felt as the wind on the back of your neck.
| | | |
|
I took over 2 hours to go home on Wednesday. I couldn't help myself and I took Piuma Road again. At a nice pull off, I pulled over and stood on the picnic tables looking out into the Valley and towards the ocean. The sun had just set and the sky was a Richard Mizrach pallet. I looked at the orange slice moon rising just over the hill to the southwest. A path was pointed out to me. I remembered my travels in Virginia when I would go for work and inevitably find myself out on some back road in my business clothes. That happened again. Wed I had opted for something a bit more girly than I ever wore in SF. A flouncy black skirt (recently bought in Venice) and a shimmery black top, some kind of psuedo yoga clothing. I was also wearing these great new high heels. I haven't owned high heels (except for my thigh high stilettos) for years and years and I would never have ever thought about wearing them. But, hey, I'm in Los Angeles, I'm someone new, the shoes fit, so I bought them.
Anyway, I step out of the snob in my flouncy sheer skirt and 2-3 inch high heels onto dusty gravely mountain top parking lot. I see the path before me across the road. I walk with precise steps over to it. My foot steps sound differently on the pavement from the gravel/dust. I walk up into the scrub, chaparral, santa monica mountain wilderness. It's sunset time, which means hunting time for cats, snakes, hawks. I know this and ask if I should turn back. My response is a small bird fluttering further down the path. So I walk on. Wearing high heels gives me the chance to be very precise about my walking and walk from my front thigh. It's a strut. It's calling power.
The brush scratched against my legs leaving scratches. I hoped I would not snag my skirt. I found myself not far from the road and still in view of my car on a rock out crop. I stood there, feeling the wind in the sheer ribs of my skirt, blowing my hair across my face, along my back, up my legs. My shoes firmly standing in the uneven rock. I looked at the traffic on Malibu Canyon below. I looked at the mountains. The sky. At the cars passing by.
I watched the sun set on the last day of summer. And I told my dreams to the wind.
| | | |
|
Rob and I have been talking about Pippi over on his errata site. It's great to find someone else who is so into Pippi. I think she is one amazing character.
When I was in high school theatre class, we had an exercise where we had to do a character study. Pick a character, put together the costume, write a monologue and find a couple classrooms to perform in. Of course I picked Pippi. I wired my braided pigtails up with coat wire. I dyed a pair of tights: one leg green the other orange. I found fabulously large men's patent leather dancing shoes that were very long. I did not have a monkey. That was the catch - I was looking for Mr. Neilson in Mr. Slaymaker's Chemistry class and Mr Bemis's AP English class. I jumped on their desks - walked around on the desks in the classroom (while class was in session) and generally acted out a dream for 10 minutes. It was lots of fun.
A couple other stories come to mind.
In this time of transition, as I am specifically redefining who I want to be. Why not take my favorite things about Pippi and make them me? The things like, she always lived alone in a big house with a monkey and a horse and treated them like normal people. She had a suitcase of gold coins, but she didn't spend a lot of money. She liked to surprise storeowners by trying to buy lots of candy and toys and then flashing those fabulous eyes and pulling out a couple gold coins saying innocently, will this be enough? and then laughing uproariously. Her two square friends, Tommy and Anika, who lived next door with parents and all the kids wish for some of the freedom and stability of the other. Pippi has a connection with her world. She paid attention. She didn't try to be something she wasn't - she was a little girl with a lot of spunk and imagination. She didn't take shit from adults and required them to pay her attention. It's not that I want to be the living Pippi - but I want to take the best things from my perception about her character and incorporate it into my own hero with a thousand faces.
The other story I was reminded of happened the first week I was in high school. The scene is debate class. Our teacher decides that since there is some announcement that the whole school has to hear that it will be delivered in person to every class on a certain day. The debaters will be giving this announcement. It's about 5 minutes max, but it's probably most of the freshmen's first experience in "public" speaking. Debate teacher decided that the freshmen get to deliver the notice to senior and junior classes. Talk about jumping into the fire with public speaking. Here I am, all new to high school and everything that that mean. I'm the insecure 14 year old checking out the scene and just trying to fit in - not wanting to stick out or draw attention to myself. I felt like I was going to die. But I didn't obviously. I made the announcement without any mistakes and proceeded to have several senior and junior friends later that day in the lunch room. That experience wiped away my inability to act based on my own fear reaction. I was afraid to make the announcement, but I did it anyway. So now, when I feel that fear reaction (or a shade of anxiety) I acknowledge it, but I don't let it stop me from action.
| | | |
|
