The Mysterious Book Club Lady

I work at Starbucks. What I mean is, I schlep my computer, power cord, books, phone, and other detritus around to various Starbucks locales in the city and get most of my "business" done while numbing my ass on one of their oh-so-comfy chairs.

I particularly like the one on Park Avenue and 29th street.

This one is my recent favorite for many reasons. Although it's within walking distance, it's far enough out of my immediate neighborhood to be relatively free of the "Murray Hill" vibe. Lisa works in the building upstairs, so sometimes she'll pop down to say hi and hang out for a little while. There are a ton of tables (several big ones) and a plethora of outlets. But best of all are the characters.

There are these two older women who frequent this location. They dress all in black and they lug giant rolling suitcases behind them. They sit at a table and apply blush. Always. That's all they do is put on makeup. Like a POUND of it. Their cheeks are so pink it's like they got hit in the face with a clown.

There's the 2by2.net or yorvoice people. They're a scam operation pyramid MLM scheme. I like to mess with them. I interrupt their sales pitches and tell all their marks exactly what's up. Oh boy do they hate me to pieces. On the other hand, the manager hates them and loooooooves me. I haven't seen them in here since the last time I made a scene at them. Hee. I think I scared them away.

Then there's the book club lady. I've only seen her twice. I'm guessing she comes once a month (typical book club thing). She arrives with satchels and spends at least twenty minutes arranging the space. She pulls together tables and chairs and lays out a veritable FEAST of food. She brings fruits and candies and cakes and crackers and chips and a whole host of goodies. She props up the books, and last time she even put out a sign. And then she takes pictures. She marks the occasion by photographing her spread. I imagine she's got a scrapbook or even a website somewhere. "Our Group" - April 2007.

The first time I saw her, the club yielded a good turnout. There were probably around eight people who showed up for the evening. I eavesdropped a little bit, because it was such a curious conglomeration. I surmised they had all responded to a post on craigslist, and hadn't known each other before that meeting. They were a weird crew, but it was kind of sweet how they all came together that night.

Tonight wasn't such a good showing. In fact, nobody showed. She set out the buffet, took her photos, and positioned herself squarely within eyesight of the entrance. She sat there for at least an hour with glasses perched on a nose buried in her book. She had one small slice of her giant lemon-iced cake. She ate a couple of Pringles and a few green grapes.

She didn't give up easily. In fact, I don't feel she gave up at all. She stayed here for so long, I imagine she must have stuck around for the entire appointed meeting time. She never got impatient and she never looked disappointed. She didn't sit there, drumming her fingers. She didn't check her phone to hunt people down. She sat. She nibbled. She read. Then she packed everything back in her bags, wiped the table clean, and walked out. She didn't look sad to me at all. She might have even had a faint smile on her lips.

After she left the Starbucks, she stopped. Right out front, on the other side of the glass directly in line with my table...she stopped. Sitting on the pavement there was one of the city's many indigent. You know, a homeless guy. A bum. The book club lady reached in her bag and began to give. She gave him the cookies and the chips. She handed over crackers and cake. She took the grapes out of the tupperware and gave those too. She stood on the sidewalk and gifted this man with all her food; the food meant for her book club full of no-shows.

I wasn't the only one who noticed her generosity. A whole group of girls who had noticed her earlier stood to marvel at her through the window. It really was stirring. The book club lady and the bum.

My eyes watered and welled. Her actions--her presence--they moved me. It was sad, beautiful, and joyful all at once. I'm so glad I was here to see it. I hope her next event has a warmer turnout. I hope she has a fulfilling night. Mine feels more fulfilled for having had her in it. Thanks, mysterious book club lady.

What A Long Strange Trip It Still Is

I have pictures pictures pictures But not yet not yet not yet.

That's the problem with this house...my laptop to internet connection kinda blows.

You know what else kinda blows? The fact that I was stuck on the runway at JFK for almost eleven hours. Yeah, ya heard me. Joie and I were on one of those horrible JetBlue flights. JetBlows. Then we spent the night on the floor of the airport. Mmmm...JFK carpet. THEN we spent the next morning fighting through more lines (the lines the lines oh god so many lines). We gave up eventually and headed back to my place. Got some sleep thanks to Benadryl and then headed out in the cover of darkness for Maryland. Maryland! Because THAT WAS THE ONLY FLIGHT WE COULD GET. We went from Maryland to LAX. Fiasco is one word. Dumbass is another.

You've never lived until you've heard a pilot announce over the intercom:

Uh, folks? Our toilet tanks are at about 99% capacity right now. So, if you don't mind...anything less than "Number Two", PLEASE DON'T FLUSH.

Dude.

But we made it. I think my bodyclock is still adjusting. It's not even jetlag. It got to a point where my entire sense of time and place was fucked. Time was just a number. (Age ain't nothin' but a number, man.)

But now we're in LA LA Land. Strange place, this. Strange stuff, this. Here I am helping my friend do what I don't want him to do. I don't want him to move. Not at all. I want him to stay in NY and be my friend and live happily ever after. But what am I going to do, throw roadblocks in his path? No. I want the people I love to be happy, even if their choice is not my choice. So I'm helping. It's a bit of a mindfuck, though.

We've done so much already and we've only been here two and a half days. And there's still so much to do. Plus now my own opportunities to explore. I'll be sittin' with swag at the Kodak theatre Thursday and Friday. And I'm more determined than ever to develop the next workshop. The standalone.

But there are multiple conundrums. Conundri? Priorities and timelines are kicking my ass a little bit. Then we get into the essence of it altogether: what the fuck is it, even? Because I don't know what I'm working towards and it sure as hell don't spark me. Sometimes it does. Little sparks. Glimpses of the sparkly possibilities. But just...not.

Time and time again I've said that I don't care
That I'm immune to gloom, that I'm hard through and through
But every time it matters all my words desert me
And anyone can hurt me
And they do
So what happens now?
So what happens now?
Where am I going to?
Where am I going to?
Call in three months' time and I'll be fine, I know
Well maybe not that fine, but I'll survive anyhow
I won't recall the names and faces of this sad occasion
But that's no consolation here and now
So what happens now?
So what happens now?
Where am I going to?
Where am I going to?

Okay, that's not exactly appropriate and it's not exactly the whole song, but there are a few lines in there that fit really fucking well. See if you can figure out which ones. You get a lollipop if you guess right.

I Hugged

I hugged Krishna Das. I hugged Krishna Das. I hugged Krishna Das.

It was a big, heart hitting, firm-armed, squeezy, long, nourishing hug.

He'll probably never know that listening to his voice those years ago was my first realization and desire for true spirituality. Not religion. Spiritual. Meaningful. Soul-feeding.

It had been a long time since I had last shed tears of joy. Walking home was like floating down the street.

Taking It Back

I came back from my Omega retreat feeling energized and empowered and lightened and enlightened and lovely and wonderful and glorious and sure. I wasn't completely whole or healed or fixed, but I was back in my power and feeling beautiful.

So of course that was attractive to him. He found it alluring and interesting. He was drawn to it like a (god forgive the trite cliche) moth to a flame. He was in awe of it, actually. Was in wonderment.

So of course he had to do everything in his power to destroy it.

So of course I let him.

Wait. I let him? I let him? I LET him?

How did that happen?

I'm taking it back. I'm taking it ALL back. Taking back my power. Taking back my energy. Taking back my glory glory glory. It is a sad sad human being who needs to destroy others to feel better about himself. He doesn't think he's cruel? Oh my god that is a laugh and a half. He's so unhappy...so fundamentally unhappy...so blind to that...so blind to his own inadequacies...so blind to himself. He claims he's driven to be a mirror for others, to hold up an honest look to others, but he's unable to see into the mirror and witness his own face.

Please remind me to let that poison be. Please remind me not to take that drug. Please remind me that I am better, so much better, than that.

It's About Time

The weekend was a soaring roaring success. Not healed, but healing. Not fixed, but on the road the path the route the track.

But oh my oh my are charismatic men hard to resist. I still find myself eyeing him across the room. And talking on the phone for three hours? What's that about? Do I need a cosmic slap across the face? Snap out of it!

The problem I think is that while everyone else (the people who are prescient) know (they know) that it isn't one of those "meant to be" and is in fact "meant to be WRONG"...I don't buy it. I don't! I don't believe it. I don't feel that. Maybe I do a little. Teeny tiny bit. But is it the hope I'm still clinging to or the fantasy?

On another note... My poor little lost friend. If you ever read this (which you don't) I truly truly hope you find the peace and stillness and strength and joy and sanity you seek. I wish I could help you, but I can't. And I won't. It's not fair to anyone if I do. Where did you go? Where are you headed? Are you going to fade away or self-destruct?

Love you.

Love me again, too. So that's cool.

Do I have to not love him? I do, don't I? Fuck.

At least it's right-sized now. No longer is it bearing the burden of my childhood wounds and ancient primal damages. It's just about a guy. He's just a guy.

Now on to more important things, yes?

3, 2, 1...Done.

This is it, man. I am DONE. Three days ago I gave the universe three days...three days to fuck with me. Three more days to ream me up the ass. Three more days where I would respond only with a "Thank you, Sir. May I please have another?"

And now I'm done.

Got it? The universe, the universe is no longer allowed to screw around. I've been dealing with friends' meltdowns, family's health, family's death, family's feud, my heartache, my health, my career, my parents' marriage falling to shit... The hits just keep on coming. I'm so fucking tired. I don't sleep. I finally started eating again.

It's like having a bad cold. You know how when you have a cold, your throat hurts worse in the morning and worse at night, but during the middle of the day you feel kind of okay? It's like that. During the day, I'm coping pretty well. I even have fun sometimes! There are actually instances of laughter. But early in the morning, and GOD especially late at night, it's bad. Bad bad bad. I've never been one to cry myself to sleep, but fuck if I'm not crying myself to sleep. Well, that's kind of a poor description. I sob in bed until I get aaaaall tuckered out. Then I pass the fuck out.

Aren't I fun? Aren't I cute? Don't you want to hang out with this? Fucking hell.

Hey, I think I might be tapping into some anger here. That's a good thing. I could use that power.

Humpty Dumpty Sat On A Wall

Alright then.

Well, not alright then. But, yeah. Alright then.

I feel obligated to write something a little less...morose. I've been told morose doesn't suit me. I beg to differ. Bitch never saw me all gothed up. Gothed out. Gothy. Gosh.

I need to rebuild my candy-coated shell. I keep thinking of myself as a giant M&M. Seriously. This is the way my mind works. I'm a red one, thanks for asking.

Remember smit shit? Yeah. But beyond smit. And beyond shit.

I've been assured, though, that it is only by touching and accessing and experiencing those primal wounds am I accomplishing the growth and "fixing" I've been wailing about. Primal doesn't begin to encompass the feeling. My reptilian brain is seared. My organs got electrocuted and burnt to a crisp. I felt an ache all the way through to my spinal fluids. Strangely enough, although my logical mind disagrees, it wasn't an overreaction. It's the first reaction. It's the only reaction. It's the reaction I've been fighting against for years. Possibly for ever. Clyde says humans aren't cut out for this. I don't disagree...but without it, what is there?

Here's an interesting thing: Even while still holding the belief of no other and the fantasy of future, my eye is roving like a starving prostitute.

Hey, Joie? Thanks for "fat girl brain in a skinny girl body". Like so many of your sayings/songs/truths...it keeps running on a loop through my thoughts. And it actually helps.

Ladies of my life...you've been amazing. Thank you thank you. I know you're taking care of me. I'm not used to being the one that gets taken care of. It's hard to reconcile myself with myself. I know some of you have seen my weaknesses (Lisa you know them intimately) but ever since I first grew my ice castles, I like to think I'm hard as nails.

But so many of you have seen my squishiness lately. Maybe it's time to completely discard that persona, huh? Fucking hell. I liked the badass. I liked the hard crusty bitch. She served, she served. But when I'm being scraped off the sidewalk at Sidewalk I guess I can't maintain that any more. Once again a new shape.

Hmm. Perhaps not any less morose I think. But possibly less deadly.

If You Can't Handle Raw Thoughts Don't Fucking Read This

I can't connect my heart with my pussy.

It's already happening again! When the hanky panky first started, my body responded as it should (could would) but now that my spirit is getting involved, my tingles shut down and my juices stop flowing.

Shy? Scared? Self Conscious? Or just Conscious?

My therapist found it interesting when I said many weeks ago that I wanted to work on "sexuality" and "dating". He thought it was odd that I would separate the two as if they were not connected. But the thing is, for me they're not connected and never have been. I've only had great sex with guys I've never dated. And when I've been with someone...let's just say the sex life was never the draw.

So yeah they're separate. I don't want them to be. Some of what attracts me to someone in the first place is the chemistry. But then, I don't know, it dies. It dies! It goes to sleep and hides away and dries up and vanishes and pisses me off and pisses them off and causes anxiety and frustration and rejection and pain. This isn't what I want.

How do I keep the two connected? I think I need to attain an even greater level of authenticity. (Possible?) I feel like I keep evolving. Mutant authentic. Maybe one day I'll be see-through.

The Universe is Responding Too Strongly to "Open For Business"

You have GOT to be kidding me.

One I love, but not in THAT way.

One I don't know and don't trust. Not really.

One I enjoy tremendously.

One I call stupid...to his face, no less. Or his ear. What disconnect could possibly take a year?

Today was awful. Tonight was fun. Later tonight was interesting and a bit annoying.

This isn't usual or normal or the typical pattern in any way. Unless you're considering draught and deluge normal. Which, I suppose, has been the way it's gone.

(In)Dependance

There's something I got used to doing for myself every day (or nearly) and I didn't do it today and I'm feeling its absence.

Where can the line between self-care and dependance be drawn? I fear that healthy reliance can morph into addiction.

I am a seeker of healers, helpers and therapies. I am proud of this, to a certain extent, as I feel it reflects my constant desire to grow, expand, learn and change. But can this unending search be nothing more than a distraction, much like the interminable student?

What isn't a distraction, really? Any interest, hobby or activity could be labeled as such, I suppose, if these events are pursued with the desire to take us out of ourselves. Conversely, extreme self-exploration can in actuality become an avoidance of self. Navel-gazing syndrome as it were. Or more perhaps we fall into avoidance of life rather than avoidance of self.

The unexamined life is not worth living...but the over-analyzed life is not free to really LIVE.

What My Tea Told Me

Mmm. I love Yogi Tea.

Tonight my tea bag said:

The beauty in you is your spirit. The strength in you is your endurance. The intelligence in you is your vastness.

Lovely.

Tripping on my own Empathy

Being a sensitive person is a good thing. I didn't used to think so. I used to think that being sensitive was a weakness. I felt it made me too vulnerable. It didn't serve me.

Or so I thought.

Then I grew to appreciate my sensitivity. I saw it as an asset. I noticed things and felt things that other people didn't necessarily experience and that made me a more complete human being.

But where that sensitivity still trips me up is when I am too susceptible to the emotional states of those around me and subsequently take their feelings on as my own. If the person I'm with is anxious, I start to feel their anxiety. If they're sad, I get melancholy. If they're elated...well, thank god, because then I'm thrilled!

So again I guess it's a question of balance. I want to maintain my ability to be sensitive to others' emotional states...but I want to stay with my own experience independent of theirs. How do I care about them without caring too much?

Contrary to Popular Opinion...I Don't Eat Babies

This is me doing something completely out of character.

It's amazing what men with tattoos and lip rings can convince me to do. One even convinced me to volunteer Saturday with Creative Arts Workshops, which brings visual and performing arts to kids in East Harlem. Yup. I spent a Saturday working with inner city youths.

Anyone that knows me will find that surprising. Cuz kids? Not. My. Thing.

Here's the deal: It's not that I don't like kids. I do, to a certain extent. And it's not like I don't know how to relate to them or deal with them or that I'm scared of them or whatever whatever whatever. I'm juuuuuust not enamored. I like them, generally, in small doses. Small doses where I can have brief, fun little interactions and then HAND THEM BACK TO THEIR PARENTS very quickly...before they get cranky. And that's just with well-adjusted suburbanite children. Throw in the underlying issues inherent in a group of "at risk" kids? The vying for attention? The behavioral issues? The sheer cultural divide? Um. YIKES.

And I don't get that glowing, joyous feeling from kidlets, either. You know those people. They're the folks that just LOVE children and find them adorable and precious and God's gift and blahdy blah. The ones who squeal at babies in strollers and squat down to talk to toddlers before addressing the parents. I am not one of those.

I'm not sure from whence the disdain sprang. I think it coincided with when my mother started pressuring me to have babies. She wants to be a grandma so bad she fucking OOZES it. Last Christmas, she said to me (in all seriousness!!):

Honey, if you get to be 35 and you still aren't married and you don't have any children yet...will you PLEASE consider freezing some of your eggs?

I told her to get the hell out of my ovaries. You see this abdomen? It's got a biiiig red circle with a LINE through it.

But back to volunteering...

It was definitely an interesting day. I really was fascinated by the behavior of the kids, even if I didn't exactly like it. I found myself very curious to know where some of their behavior was rooted. Why did one little girl insist repeatedly that she was a boy? Why did one little boy suddenly go from laughing and hanging all over me to crying and refusing to make eye contact? Why did another older boy act out so badly to drive me away, and then once he succeeded, try to draw me back in by showing off his artwork?

I was so impressed that the guy who convinced me to do this actually DOES this all the time. On a regular basis. All year 'round. And LOVES it. It takes a very special person to find this kind of frustrating, demanding, exhausting work rewarding.

And as much as I kept and keep saying "this isn't ME"... Well, earlier I was recounting my experience to a friend and I found myself actually getting excited by the retelling. So I guess that means I was a *little* into it. Oy.

But, mom--this still doesn't mean grandbabies are coming ANYTIME soon.

Lookie What I Made!!!

Ooooh, such a good day and such a good night. I'm diggin' December 1st.

Tonight at the New Moon Ceremony at the Chapel of Sacred Mirrors (I know, I know, I'm a New Age Hippie Dippie PUNK), we had such an amazing creative meditative experience. The drawing above is what came to me after a guided visualization meditation on future self. I would LOVE someone to turn this into a fantastical blue-hued tattoo.

Below is what I wrote after a long (25 minute) silent meditation on unity. It ain't my best work, but it somewhat expresses part of a vision I had.

Hands cover my body.

Some support. Two grip my upper thighs--I feel strong fingers press into my flesh. Not so hard that I fear spotty bruising; but hard enough that there is no mistaking their presence. These are the hands of an older woman.

Other supportive hands hold the back of my neck. Firmly, they cradle me so that holding my head is no great effort. They prevent me from straining and so I am free to look forward without pain.

Hands of tougher love are pushing me along. A gentle pressure on my lower back is a motherly fatherly prodding into life.

My shoulders, too, are subject to this force. For once I do not desire to resist being shoved from the nest...I've far outgrown it.

Atop my head rests a hand of assurance. A calming flow of chi enters my crown and suffuses my body with a warm golden glow. This is not an earthly hand.

Nor is the hand over my heart of this world. That radiant hand also ignores the assigned chakra hues; instead imparting a red warmth into my chest. I can't help but sigh.

The hands on the tops of my thighs caress my skin. They are loving hands--both sexual and neutral. They make me tingle and make me smile.

Tickling my upper arms are more hands in motion. The gentle excitation of my flesh is such a pleasurable feeling. I'm so glad they want to touch me.

Baby hands. Old hands. Young hands. Male hands. Female hands. Craggy, smooth, bony, plump.

I never knew they were there.

And I hope they never leave.

Ahhhh. I have to say it again, especially since life's been a little difficult of late: I loved loved loved today.

And, of course, once again as always...I cried throughout the meditations. It isn't about being sad...it's about tapping into an energy so huge that I can't possibly contain it and it just comes leaking out my eyeballs.

And I love that too.

Stage Sickness

Ugh. Experimental theater.

Again I say ugh.

I went to a friend's show tonight. It was a little piece of CRAP mounted on the lower east side. That kind of thing makes me glad to not be involved in theater at the moment. Good god I am so sick of seeing BAD theater. I can't even remember the last time I saw a good show.

I'm so not into theater right now. Was I ever, really? I was into doing it, just not so much watching it. It's like when I played piano. My favorite to play was classical; but I've always hated listening to classical music. And singing? Loved singing showtunes; but hated llistening to them. As a teenager I loved writing poetry. Never liked reading it.

What's up with that divide? Is it a common phenomenon? Common phenomenon. That's fun to say.

Now, when it comes to health and counseling stuff...I like doing it, I like reading about it, I like researching it, I like talking about it, I like the people involved in it.

Integration, I think, is what's happening here. And it's way cool.

The Starving Child Was Awakened

The last weekend workshop I took part in was a workshop on closure. something we all need and seldom get in the way we truly desire. At the time of the workshop, I had JUST broken up with my last boyfriend. So I wrote this closure letter to him--of course never meant to be mailed...simply an exercise.

Most of the content is no longer relevant, but there's one phrase I keep revisiting, because it wasn't so much about him, but more about my own repeating patterns. Anyway. Here's the whole thang:

Tim-

How surprisingly difficult it is for me to call you my "ex-boyfriend". Not that you were my boyfriend for such a long amount of time that now the added prefix is a hiccup in my speech...but that I never really had a definition for what we were, so how do I define what we now are?

There was nothing in our coming together that was completely whole--it was always lacking (Clyde's word, that, the "lack"). And now, in a way, it is still the same partiality, the same lack, that exists. But I do need a precise definition, I think, because the limbo is killing me.

We can't have lovely days anymore. We can't have evenings where we trick ourselves into feeling that a beautiful relationship still is there. Because then when we have the conflict and the ugly arguments, the contrast is for me too great. It is jarring and painful and confusing. It is unhealthy and it makes me behave unhealthily.

You are a good person. You are not toxic. But the way we are interacting right now is. Still--how hard is it to rip off that bandaid? Neither one of us wants to do it, but once again I'm finding myself the one whose shoulders that burden falls upon.

I'm a self-sufficient person. As are you. We've both spent so much time in our lives alone and needing no partner. So when we came together, we reveled in that luxury of "ally" perhaps a bit too deeply. Like a starving child, we gulped the feast down far too quickly--and so quickly we were sick.

Now we've got to go it alone once again. And what should be familiar and easy is somehow a challenge neither one of us expected. For me, to suddenly be "without", to have lost my ally, to feel the distance widen and the connection vanish--it has been so very painful.

We've talked about how sad this all is, how we wish it could be different. And we know that it can't be. We've talked about how we have no regrets and how the love still exists even if the reality doesn't work. We've talked about needing the other still in our lives. I do feel that way and I also know that it just isn't good. I cannot be with you and not be with you. I will be able to--but not now. It's wreaking havoc on my body and my mind.

I have no idea what else to say. I feel that it has all been said--in some cases talked to death--and all that's left is now to cope with and tolerate the messy aftermath.

So. Obviously in the intervening couple of months since I wrote this letter, the circumstances have greatly changed. The situation no longer pains me like it did. I have in fact seen him several times without any reverberating emotions. That in itself is a little sad, as it always is when love dies. But it feels wonderful to have let go of something that was very broken. I knew before he and I even started that it wasn't going to last; but I was curious enough to want to find out where it would go. I never expected actual feelings to be stirred!

But the bit that I keep going back to is the part about being a starving child and subsequently overindulging. Not in any literal sense, although my past behaviors mimic that as well, but more so in the energetic frame. It's as if once I get a little taste of something I discover I need or even simply desire, I am bent to go overboard. I meet someone who sparks my interest and I suddenly want to be near them all the time. And that's not just in the romantic realm. I get friend crushes, too. I'll meet some chick I think is just amazing, and I suddenly want to be her BFF. And am hurt when I am most understandably not!

It ain't logical. It feels veeeery young. I know some of the sources, but I'm still digging to find the real root. In the meantime I seek to cope with the feelings that come up in a healthy way, and to continue prodding so that the pattern can eventually fade into nothing.

In Being Seen, There Is Care

The last 10 to 15 minutes or so of my yoga class consist of laying in the corpse pose in silent meditation. At the start of this final pose, my yoga instructor, J., chants. It's the most amazing sound

His voice vibrates and resonates on an auditory plane that cuts right to my inner energy. It's as if I'm an infant in my crib and my daddy is crooning a lullaby; I'm a woman in my lover's embrace and he's singing me to sleep; I'm pure spirit in a cloud-like nest and the universe is cradling me in its giant arms.

And after that...silence.

While the spiritual/physical connection is always wonderful, today I wasn't quite as "in" it as usual, which is why I think the following affected me as it did. During the silence, I heard people talking out in the lobby. I heard a man's voice, and I had a moment of panic. I thought, for a second, that J. had walked out and left me and my classmate alone. Suddenly I felt abandoned.

It only took a matter of seconds to realize that J. was indeed still in the room with us; but that fleeting moment of panic was enough to set my wheels spinning.

What deep fear did that moment tap into?

What does it mean to be seen? To be watched over? To be validated? To be protected?

What does it mean for someone to care?

As an only child, now grown into an single adult woman living alone in a big bad city...I've become quite used to solitude. I'm familiar with entertaining myself, mothering myself, disciplining myself, playing with myself--the basic gamut. But it's all easier when someone cares.

For Rob Brezsny to care to have us write down our most painful issues so that he could take them home, pray over them, and burn them...that moved me to tears.

For J. to care to stay in the room with us in our silence, holding the energy of the space to keep us safe...I need that.

For Samantha to care to call me because she hadn't heard from me in a few days and was concerned because "that wasn't like" me...it made me feel loved.

It would be nice to be self-contained enough so that I wouldn't care if others cared. I wish I could be that blase. But I'm not a good liar and my face never succeeds in concealing my true emotions. I CARE. I need people to care about me.

Earlier I indulged myself in a little pity party: nobody made sure I had Thanksgiving plans..Nobody wonders what I'm doing this weekend..Nobody is curious what I'm doing right now. Blah angsty blah trite blah poor fucking blah me.

I tried to type that crap in earlier, but I couldn't do it. Well, obviously I could cuz it's THERE. But I couldn't leave it sans self-referrential context because it was just too fucking LAME. I'm sure that in reality, there are indeed people out there who care. Not just my mother, but real live other people who aren't obligated to give a crap just because we share the same DNA. Sometimes though, especially when the days get shorter and colder and the season steals people away, it can be easy to forget.

The holidays fucking suck.

And it ain't even December yet.

Lisa -- I tried to write a positive post. But shit is up right now and although I can act, I can't pretend.

Take a Look

Recognize yourself. Take a look.

Okay, everything externally is unfamiliar. Okay, the interactions, the patterns, the structure, the style, the LIFE is unfamiliar.

But look in the cosmic mirror.

See that bubbling silver surface?

It wants to show you something. It wants to help you say hello to yourself. It's there for you.

Lean into it embrace it kiss it lick it make love to it worship it.

Fuck yourself with tenderness.

Viciously self-love.

Shock my Body

Lately, my sexual drive has been, um, highly active.

Not that I'm getting any extra action. But I'm feelin' the fire.

I think it's because I'm exercising more than ever, I'm thinner than ever, and I'm practicing yoga, which is linking my spirit with my body in a way I've never before explored.

I'm connecting the soul to the corporeal. The upshot is I'm freaking horny!

Okay, I really hate that word.

I'm sexually charged.

Like a frigging light bulb. I'm hormonally electric.

Zip zap.

An Oracle of Positivity

If you haven't picked up Rob Brezsny's Pronoia or Televisionary Oracle or at least checked out his astrology at Free Will Astrology...then you're MISSING OUT!!!

Tonight I was blessed to see Rob speak/perform/transmit goodwill at the Chapel of Sacred Mirrors in NY.

Well, that was the kick in the chakra I needed to get me out of the funk. He's such a gift. Empowering and sacred and profane and connected and singular and just fucking incredible.

Yeah. I drank this Koolaid.

And better for it.