Home Sweet Home

I"M GOING HOME! I'M GOING HOME! I'M GOING HOME! I'M GOING HOME! Tomorrow night, the Wall sisters will be out in full force, so watch out Burlington!

I've had a wonderful holiday season, full of treats and goodies galore. Saw Cirque Du Soleil under the big top, shared Christmas with Brian and his Family, discovered new fun cheap gifts to make, and have enjoyed a general floating spirit.

But now I am manically excited. Because I'm going home and it's going to be snow city and I'm going to wear my snow pants THE WHOLE TIME! I get to meet the infamous Cooper, who I lovingly refer to as Cougar, only he doesn't know it yet. Cougar is Em & Kev's black lab. I get to see all of my friends and family and I'm super excited that my ding dong bff Isaac will be in Newport for the MASSIVE BONFIRE on new years eve!!!!!!

HOLY COW I'M SO EXCITED!!!!!!

Pasta Presto!

My new favorite thing is Pasta.

I know, I know. I couldn't be more surprised myself. For years now, I've quietly loathed it, knowing full well how much joy it brings to the people I love. But I cannot support a food with virtually no nutritional value that doesn't have a taste experience to make it worthwhile.

Take chocolate cake, for example. Thousands of calories, pounds of saturated fat, enough sugar to kill an army of ants. Why bother? Because chocolate cake is amazing. Not only does it taste like we imagine heaven to taste, it makes you feel so good, even when you KNOW that it's so very BAD.

But Pasta? Stupid texture. Most jarred sauces are disgusting, even the "good" ones usually need some doctoring up. And I had finally given up on ever replicating the one sauce I do love (Trattoria Delia's spicy pan-fried tomato sauce.) I have always thought of pasta as food for people who are too lazy to cook, and too unimaginative to try something more adventurous. Until now.

Last week, I went thrifting. And I found a little book hiding in a musty corner. It is actually called "The Joy of Pasta", funnily enough. And the authors have written for many worthy publications, so they instantly had my esteem in that regard. And now they have my gratitude for changing my mind and adding a whole new factor of "Joy" to my kitchen.

First, I tried making as simple a pasta as possible. The way they have written the recipes makes it easy to make do. They don't call for all of the crazy machinery that I always thought was necessary, but they show you how to implement them if you are lucky enough to have a well-equipped kitchen. I made linguini. And it was easy! Very basic ingredients that most of us have at all times in the kitchen. Flour, eggs, salt, olive oil, water. Mix, knead, rest, roll, slice. Boil and toss. I used a hearts of palm and artichoke heart bruchetta topping sauteed with a shallot and some mushrooms as a sauce. Topped with a little cabot extra sharp and voila! Homemade pasta. And it was divine.

Then, last night, I got adventurous. When I worked at the half lounge, we got this genius of a pasta chef in the kitchen, Hillary. She made these little pasta's that she called ricotta gnocchi. I remembered her telling me the recipe and that there was no flour or potato in them. So I found a fun recipe in my new favorite book called Cheese and Spinach Dumplings that seemed like it might be similar.

First things first. I made a sauce from scratch and it was GREAT! Once again, very simple ingredients: Tomatoes, onion, carrot, olive oil, salt and pepper. Simmer for 40 minutes until you've reached perfection.

The dumplings were a bit of a challenge. The texture was very gooey and sticky, and to roll into a shape of any kind required lots of flour and patience. Thank god Brian had both! Together we conjured up an amazing, new and exciting meal like nothing we had ever tasted before.

I am anxious to try the potato gnocchi next, but think I should wait a few days and have a break from all the indulgence. Too much of a good thing might make us unappreciative of our creative genius in the kitchen. Our standards become so high, we find ordinary food unacceptable, inedible. Maybe that's a good thing....

winners and losers

I'm languishing in the aftermath of yet another South Coast Plaza event. This time, the annual retailers holiday party.

I almost didn't go. I'm feeling sick. Sleeping is scratchy and waking is lazy. But, at 2:30 after spending WAY TOO LONG on my new polyvore application on facebook, I realised that I had to leave the house, one way or another, and donned a trustworthy ensemble. LBD vintage, hounds tooth b&w tights and my best thrift yet in So Cal. Claude Montana stack heeled short boots. Wrapped a grey belt around the upper half of my midsection and put my best foot forward. In this case, both feet were looking pretty amazing.

We went. Stan bought us each 2 raffle tickets. We didn't know that we should have each bought at LEAST 20.

There was food. There was wine. There were prizes to be won. I knew that something was wrong when I found myself wishing against the Louis Vuitton bag, and for the Black Starr and Frost earrings. No, I didn't win the deluxe spa package, or the Donna Karan bag. But a kind soul who won FOUR TIMES with all her tickets took pity on me and let me have the centerpiece that she had won. It was an ivy grown in the shape of a Christmas tree, and I gave it to Brian because he's wanted a little tree for the holidays.

We have a big huge real tree here at the house, and it's covered in lights and glass balls, which are strategically hung at a higher level to avoid too much temptation for the felines.

I will have one more chance to win big this season at the Quicksilver Holiday party. Brian told me that he's ready to win the trip to Europe, and I assured him that I will be on my knees praying every day until then.

*********************

The spirit of Christmas has been elusive this year. I see the lights, I hear the music, everyone is wearing red sweaters, but I don't feel any different. I've been trying to analyze my lack of enthusiasm, honestly asking myself what is the difference between this season and last. There is the obvious missing family and friends, but if I am honest I will remember that I am usually too busy this time of year to really spend time with anyone. And I will be spending a LOT of time with family and friends only four days after Christmas.

Well, I got my answer in the unlikeliest of places. Disneyland. I went to Disneyland this past Friday night. A friend of Stan's is the Stage Manager for one of the shows there, and he took us all around VIP style.

And as we were approaching the line for the Buzzz Lightyear ride, he said "Here's this Season's lighting of the Castle," and suddenly, it was snowing. The have rigged up snow makers on top of the buildings. Fake snow in Fake Disneyland. And I felt all warm and cozy inside.

Suddenly, I've got the Christmas spirit.

Jack

We have a new kitty in the hizouse. His name is Jack. He looks like a stripey Bengal tiger, and acts like one, too.

Jack dropped out of the sky, over the wall into our back yard one day. I saw something dark fall out of the corner of my eye, and Natalie and I rushed outside to see what it was. And there was Jack. He had "naughty" written all over him. But then he meowed and jumped on Natalie's lap and didn't leave and it was true love. Say "mew" in the highest pitch that you possibly can and then imagine it even higher and cuter, and that's Jack's little voice.

But Jack's appetite is anything but little or cute. He'll eat anything and won't stop until it's gone. Mister has lost a few inches due to his own dignified eating pace.

Jack had a few minor and major mishaps in the beginning, encouraging a strong sense of mistrust within the house. But in spite of the worms, urine and poop, he's come out on top and has begun his climb up the kitten tree into the branches of adolescence. He is very good with his litter box, a luxury suite that has an entry hall and spiral staircase leading to the main room. And although Mister seemed to have the upper hand in the boxing ring at the beginning, Jack has swiftly outgrown his teacher. So now the challenge is trying to teach him to respect his elders and to know when and when not to use his claws.

Today, we found out that Jack is 6 months old, which would make him 3 months old when he arrived. Also today, Jack got "fixed". I've always thought that "fixed" was a strange way to say castrated. It's as though he was broken before, which doesn't make any sense, because technically, he "worked" before being "fixed". And even though he can't "do it", he is not a neutral gender. He is a Tom through and through. So neutered doesn't work for Jack, either. Perhaps "surgically altered", or "woolly-cherry-less". Or "life bachelor", although he certainly is swinging around this house with the love, between genders and species.

Mister would never admit to being enamoured of Jack. But I can tell that he is. He sleeps through the night, exhausted from play. They now nap peaceably beside each other and interchange food bowls frequently throughout meal-time. Yes, there is hissing and howling at peak fighting moments, but it is not necessarily hostile behaviour. It's like a friendly joust, Jack just needs to learn the code of honor. I'm wondering if his newly lost fur-balls will entice him to seek higher levels of dignity. We shall see...

if you have a new computer now, why aren't you blogging ho?

That is a very good question, yo, and I will attempt to answer it with eloquence and embellishment fit for the demand.

I have been working. At work, I have discovered a new aspect of myself. I am anally retentive. I get very IRRITATED when things are not in their proper place or when things do not go smoothly. This is a challenge, because at work, as in real life (work isn't real yet), things never go smoothly or as expected and I must be FLEXIBLE and STRONG in order to deal with the things that pop up in the clear path I'd imagined. Not stiff and unyielding, or else I will break, snap, shatter and stab the people surrounding me.

A coworker was discussing the challenges of trying to collaborate with people who don't know the art as well as you. He was speaking of sports, in order to relate I imagined trying to sing in a chorus of people singing off key. And the word I used to describe both of the scenarios was IRRITATING.

So my daily challenge is to be like a duck and let the water run off my back while I keep swimming and diving. I think of a strong storm and remember that the trees that are always left standing are the ones with deep roots who bend.

I also started yelling at everyone around me before I realised that I was the guilty culprit. So now would be a good time to remember to pull the log out of my own eye before trying to pick the splinter out of my brother's, and to remember that people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.

In my real life, I stayed up until 2 am last night cleaning and organizing my room. I have discovered the joys of modern life in streaming Internet radio. Have yet to try wruv, that's next. I miss the Sleepy Strange. And Friday brunches with Slomo.

I found two little pen knives that I forgot I had. I'm not sure that i ever really knew that I had them. They are very old and rusty, so I looked up methods for cleaning them. I've always wanted my own little knife, I guess I'm taking care of myself better than I know.....

I found the little rocks that Brian collected for me when he went surfing in New Hampshire so long ago. I looked at all of my rocks, and remembered where they came from. The grey one with the white lines shaped like a door on the side that Soupy collected for me in Dorset. The dark grayish brown one with a greenish growth on it, one of my favorites, from the back hill where Mummy and Papa used to live. The weird crab shell that Isaac collected for me on a strange luxury adventure to Florida. And the wonderful bones. I have a skull that my old vet thought was a raccoon, but I still think it's a cat. The cow vertebrae that looks like a bird in flight. One of my old beaus was very indulgent and helped me fill a whole box with bones when we chanced upon them in his back woods. I used most of them for a mobile that I did bring with me, but hesitate to hang for fear of frightening the roommates... not much made it across the states with me, what did is very special and beautiful.

That is one of the best things about trying to put your entire existence into one little car. You realize quickly what really matters. For me it was special vintage clothes, instruments, and rocks. Oh, and my sewing machine. That took up a lot of room... I did leave behind some irreplaceable winter items, a special piece of furniture, some pottery and inherited tableware, and my book collection. My book collection, even when trimmed down, is pretty obscene. Thank the good lord for Mummy and Papa's storage unit!

And, of course, the illustrious Mister. For those of you who have referred to his highness as "Snaggletooth" for the past few years, you will be sad to know that the name no longer fits as he's lost his last tooth. So now we call him "Gummy" when he's not around.

So that's that for now, hope it's long enough for you, Em. xo

My lovely boyfriend gave me a computer, but I haven't set it up yet. I just read my sister's blog and it made me cry. And I realised that I haven't posted in a while. I missed my family this Thanksgiving. But my lovely boyfriend has a lovely family and they have their own Thanksgiving rituals, and I was lucky enough to participate in them this year.

Brian's family goes camping up in the mountains every Thanksgiving. By family, I mean about 50 relatives. By camping, I mean everyone has a trailer with a kitchen and shower. In my family, it's always been just the 5 of us, mainly because all of the relatives live so far away.

Brian and I stayed in a tent, we are very proud of our ability to "rough it". We recently became "luxury campers" with the addition of an aerobed to the check list, but to our credit, the aerobed had a slow leak that became increasingly faster over the course of the trip. So there were some creaking bones and bruised backs....

Everyone cooked something for the big feast on Thursday, we contributed my famous "beer corn", a lucky discovery from a high school camping mishap. All you need are some corn cobs, tin foil, a fire and some beer. You make a sort "boat" with the foil around the corn and then pour beer in and seal it up, throw it on the fire and let it cook! It comes out best if it burns a little, Brian figured out that it starts to make popping noises when it's ready. I didn't believe him at first, but sure enough, the beer corn pops when done!

Thanksgiving Foster style reminded me a little of a church dinner. There were so many fun and interesting dishes that I'd never tried or heard of! Everyone seems to have a signature dish, and it was all so good! There was a mashed potato casserole topped with corn flakes! And a divine Asian slaw topped with uncooked crushed ramen noodles! That was my favorite for sure, it somehow validated my habit of eating all the noodles before the water boils.

Sitting at the table, I looked around and felt very warm inside. Although I miss my family very badly, it was comforting to be able to share Brian's for a few days.

If it's any consolation...

I've been writing a heap, on paper, with pen. I still don't have a computer. So this extension is a luxury. I'm fixing to pose a right good stock of entertainment once I get some honest access to the inter-web. But don't hold any of those tales against me, for they might well be lies... xoxo

Magic

I woke up dismal, and decided that today would be as good a day as any to search for magic. I used to see it everywhere, but lately... not so much. It's an experiment to test a theory that I have, that the magic is still there, I'm just not looking for it, so it isn't visible to me. Like fairies, and wise crows that want to tell you something. The way the wind rustles the leaves in a pattern to remind you of what you've forgotten. The way your dreams seem to come in these overwhelming waves of insight, every five years or so. I mean, I can't think of any reason why today isn't a good day to do that.

October 22nd

is my birthday. Yesterday was a day like any other day, really. In the past I have followed certain rituals on my day, like taking a walk in the woods, buying myself a present, saying "yes" to myself all day, these sorts of things.

Well, there aren't any woods around here, so I walked to work. And the sky was so strange. California is on fire right now, it's really awful. A lot of people are suffering. The sun was rising through a black horizon, through the smoke into a clear blue sky. And it smells like a bon-fire. I took some pictures, but my phone doesn't do it justice. I also found some cool sticks and seed pods on the walk, I'm collecting things for a holiday centerpiece.

I decided to use my lunch break to look at these Marni pumps I've been coveting. Got distracted at shu uemura, they've really got some amazing lashes up in that piece! When I finally made it to Marni, I had a realization. Just because something is expensive does NOT mean that it is well made. This is the second time I have fallen in love with a shoe, even considered saving up for it, only to discover upon closer inspection that the article does not warrant the price. I really do understand that you pay for quality. I think that good artists should be compensated for their mastery. But it is insulting to mark something up just because you can. If I am going to buy something that is badly made, I can get it at a hoochy mama store! BLECH! p.s. the other item was at YSL. No joke.

On my way home, I bought myself a 7.00$ dress that was made in the U.S. and looks amazing on me.

I got home and had a glass of wine in my luxurious Simon Pearce cavendish glass, and decided on shoes to match my new dress. Then, my Knight in shining armour arrived on his white steed and whisked me off to the fancy sushi joint I've been wanting to try FOREVER. It was really fun, they had tasting flights of sake! I got the Geisha flight, and he got the Samurai, we couldn't help laughing as we ordered! We tried lots of new things and it was lovely.

The funny thing is, I don't feel any older...

Eat Peas Weekly

My sister Penelope has a wonderful blog called Eat Peas. You must check it out, it's a weekly posting on nourishment, and she recruits different authors each week. This week, our Brother(in-law),Kevin, wrote a beautiful essay that you need to check out. Then read all the back posts!

making a dress for a party is difficult...

I know, I've tried it so many times, and more often than not unsuccessfully. I've lost count how many hours I've put into this thing and it's HIDEOUS! I'm giving it one more full night of work and then,if it still looks like a pillowcase, I'll have to wear my new year's eve dress.

The problem is that I really have no idea what I'm doing. I just try things and see if it works. My standards aren't that high, it's for my party so I can wear whatever I want.

I need a dress form, bad. Now THAT would revolutionize my life.

That Dress...

I forgot to tell you about the event I went to two weeks ago.

The place that I work is holding a month-long celebration of all things Italian. The restaurants are having special wine and food pairings and tastings, there are boutique locations with museums of costumes and shoes from classic films made by Italian design houses, there is a showing of art in the medium of fabric by Italian Art students, and there are special events every week.

Last Thursday, at 4:30, my boss looked at me and said,"you're going to the event with me tonight." I replied, with passion, "I can't go like this! I need to go home and change!" So off I went. What a glorious feeling to finally have an appropriate occasion for the Pucci blouse! I came back to fetch Stan, adequately coiffed and as Italian as anyone who isn't can be.

Free Booze! Free food! And Fashion Fashion Fashion!!! The Italians were out in full force that night. I received my stamp of approval from a Gal who works in the main office whose workplace style I admire greatly: "Love the Pucci," she said as an aside to me whilst trying to corral the VIPs into the front row seats and evict the squatters, grace maintained, I might add...

Stan & I sipped martinis and waited for the show to begin. And then I got to see in real life and moving some of the most beautiful clothes I've ever seen. My favorite piece was a Roberto Cavalli dress that I'd seen photos of in a magazine earlier that week. It was exquisite. The fabric rippled and floated like thick cream and smoke with the movement of the model down the runway. It was a turquoisey green and blue almost opalescent sheer silk, with a beaded bodice in the shape of a bird. I think that I took a huge leap in understanding the magic of couture. A picture may say a thousand words, but in real life on a body speaks billions.

I saw Gucci, Valentino, and a host of other fabulous designers. It was truly a wonderful evening. After the show, I sipped prosecco and indulged in the bite-sized desserts- Heavenly! I met some very nice ladies and we chatted for a while until I had to go, with promises to remember each other and hopefully see each other soon.

This coming Tuesday, I'm attending another event. This one is focused on new and up-and-coming Italian designers...

Beauty, Je T'aime!

My sister Penelope got me a wicked cool present on her last visit to Paris. Shu Uemera feather eyelashes. I've yet to rock them, the moment hadn't arrived until now. My birthday party, next weekend. I couldn't sleep from 5-7 this morning thinking about the outfit I'll have to build around them.

Ideally, a pair of fuchsia satin covered platform stilettos with a huge floppy bow that drags in the dirt and gets tattered and dusty, combined with a dress I've been trying to make for eons out of an over sized grey sateen oxford shirt. We'll have to see. One of my very favorite things to fantasise about is potential outfits. And let me tell you, these lashes are a force to be reckoned with. You can't just throw them on as an afterthought. You must create a mood about them. I'm definitely wearing my seashell tiara, I tried them together and it would be a sin to separate them.

My biggest challenge will be creating the dress, and resisting the urge to buy a new pair of shoes.... I totally skimmed guiseppe zanotti this afternoon. I'm going to hell. p.s. Is anyone else infatuated with prada's multi-colored block pumps this season? I'm going to hell three ways.

Beauty: je d'eteste

During my walk to work today, I contemplated the idea of detesting one's culture. Or, I tried to say it over and over to myself in French, because j'adore to say "je deteste". It just feels so good, you can really spit it out. My train of thought wallowed in the deeps for a while, and then, as part of my never-ending endeavor to see the good ("for you will surely find it"), I pulled myself up by asking myself what I like.

"Beauty is nice," I thought.

But what is beauty? This is what it means to me:

Beauty is Art. Beauty is considerate and thoughtful. Beauty is deliberate elevation, but also spontanious perspective. Only you can create your own beauty. Someone or something cannot make you beautiful, it has to come naturally from within and without.

I constantly question my fetish-like obsession with fashion, particularly the pieces that are priced "luxury". I see people adorning themselves with luxury clothes and shoes and makeup and having thier bodies surgically altered. All in the name of beauty. Believe me, I know the powerful feeling that comes from sporting luxury items. But it isn't beautiful when you are going out of your way to try and cover up who you really are. That's ugly to me. And sad. It is heartwrenching to hear and horrifying to observe what people willingly do to themselves in order to look like a robotic doll. Am I the only one who thinks it is strange?

I guess it all goes back to "je deteste". I imagine a place where people are calm and peaceful, and they love themselves the way that they are, and are more interested in the beauty of what just is than what a car or bag or injection will do to make them more beautiful. MORE MORE MORE. I think Americans are so trashy, I think of a big pile of garbage as we throw away our past, our future and even our present in the never-ending consumerism and purging. Like the Roman vomitoriums we buy and buy and buy and then we have to get rid of it to make room for more new stuff. Blech. No one wants thier great-grandmother's hand me downs, they want new stuff. New cars new handbags new shoes new clothes new new new and where does all the old stuff go? "Not in my back yard, thank you very much." I'm not saying that I live a life free of these sins, I'm just saying je deteste

October in California

It's October, and I'm in California. For the past ten years, October has been a saturated month. Birthdays, parties, plays, shows, and all other whatnot's somehow start the chaos twister that usually ends with a thump on January second. And there is the season of autumn. The smell and the chill, mostly. The cider, the apples, the sweaters and scarves. Thank the good lord that my friends have blogs to remind me, because there is none of that here. I know it's fall, because the ants are hungry and it's colder at night. I put my duvet back on my bed. I bring a sweater if I'll be out at night. I don't know the signs to look for in the desert. Different flowers? Different birds or butterflies? (Note to self, must ask native.)

I've started walking to work. It only takes half an hour, and it's only my second day, but already I can feel a tension leaving me that had built up from driving everywhere. It makes me feel kind of helpless to rely on a car. Especially Jeeves. If there ever was a reliable vehicle, Jeeves must be it. We're almost at 200,000 miles and going strong in spite of many, many, problemos. And I just can't swing the mulah to fix it all. So walking....

The air is sweeter at the moment, symptom of Fall? And the walk makes great east coast phone call time.

My computer is still broken. I've been watching way too much t.v. Addicted to TCM at the mo... last night the original "Diabolique"... Fantastique!!! And this morning "White Heat". Dear god I love Gangster movies. "Spider Baby" the other night. I thought that would make a great costume: Tease and snarl your hair, put on hot 60's make-up, a silky vintage slip. Get a fishing net and two fake knives that slip into themselves. When someone asks you who you are you say "I'm Spider Baby and you look like a big, juicy bug and I'm going to give you a sting! sting! sting!" then you throw your net over them and stab them like the knives are your spider fangs. Great idea, right?

Ta-ta for now....

My Computer's Broke

So I'm not the best blogger in the world, by far. I'm an avid taker and I don't give back. My 'puter's broke & I haven't figgurd a solution yet. Thankfully, there isn't much that needs to be reported on, other than my new decision to be vocal about how irritating it is to listen to people's racist and sexist comments. I swear, it is a constant in my daily life, and I guess that if people feel comfortable speaking that way around me, I'm gonna feel comfortable saying that I think it's stupid.

I'm at work and this behavior is highly illegal, so I'll sign off for now. Until next time, try this: walk somewhere instead of driving and count how many wonderful things you notice that you would have missed in the car. (This is directed at myself, but if you want to try, go ahead.) TTFN

San Diego, part 2

I thought that it was fortuitous to see a play called "San Diego" on the eve of our departure to that city, especially considering that it was my firtst time. Going to San Diego, I mean.

I found a hotel that was really cheap, and instead of thinking that that indicated a "to-good-to-be-true" situation, I truly believed that the world of travel had finally evolved to give me a no-frills, clean, modern, chic, option. The web site promised me these things, and the gentleman on the other end of the line seemed to promise them as well.

We started our journey in a leisurely fashion, and, thouroughly enjoying the idea of not having an agenda, we took the pretty way. Stopped off in Encinitas for a little surfing and music at the roxy jam, then dipped ourselves in the ocean for a quick pick-me-up. I found out that my shiny lame (avec un accent grave) bathing suit doesn't work when wet and showed some skin to the yokles, much to Bri's enjoyment. I mean chagrin.

We arrrived at the hotel, and found that they had misplaced a letter. S. The newly renovated historical building did boast some glorious architecture, and a colorful blend of traveling students, crazy old women, recently single middle-aged men, and recently released criminals. "Didn't I tell you about the shared bathrooms on the phone?" innocently quested the "concierge". No. "So this is really like a hoStel?" I smiled back at him sweetly.

I quickly placed the bf on the bed and ran to the corner market for a bottle of wine and some appetizers.

We drank, we nibbled, we were going to be ok.

We got hotted up and left the building. At the front desk, my same "Guy" told us where we could catch the trolly. After scaring the bejeezums out of us about ending up in "the wrong part of town", a place that he couldn't actually locate on my map, we found the trolly and made our way to the Gaslamp district.

The Gaslamp district is party central! There were so many resaraunts and bars and people just spilling out everywhere. We finally found an inviting thai place and continued to drink and eat. It was really good, but I think Georges Thai Bistro in my hood might be better. Then we went to the oldest bar in San Diego, formerly owned and operated by Wyatt Earp, complete with brothel upstairs. We switched to liquor and I smoked a cigarette. I'm beginning to realise that I can tell if I've had too much to drink if I think it's a good idea to smoke. We hobbled back to our luxury suite.

This morning, Bri needed breakfast fast, and somehow we convinced ourselves that it was okay to go to the cafe attached to our hostel. It was very good! Yay! Then we walked down to the ocean and looked at the boats, it was cool. Then we went to little Italy, and that area is very hip.

Then, we went to Old Town. This was a big highlight for me, because I love old stuff. We walked around and looked, we had margaritas ay the Cosmopolitan, we bouight shot glasses in anticipation of my b-day. I found a little shop that had dip your own candles! I made an owl. We had dinner at this amazing restarant I had a chile relleno that knocked my socks off.

A wonderful, adventurous weekend! I will definately go back to San Diego, but next time we're staying at the W.

Standing Ovations

I went to see a play last night at the Rude Guerrilla Theatre. It is right up the road in the historic arts district of Santa Ana, and in my mind, this is my town's answer to the much missed and irreplaceable Shoe Box Theatre at 135 Pearl in Btown.

I have only been to one other play since I've been here. (I know, I'm rapping my knuckles with a switch as I write.) It was Hamlet, at the South Coast Repertory. And that was amazing! Big money, big acting, big architecture it was very very big. We drank champagne out of flutes in the reception area and everyone was fabulous.

But this was different. This was subversive, offensive, and made no apologies for any of it. The play is called "San Diego". The actors were invested, some more than others, but all enough that I was IN it. That is one of the best things about small theatre. You are within feet of the action. You are a part of it. The subtle nuances of expression that are lost in a large theatre, they are right there for you.

A quick review: The play begins with a sort of acting exercise; a physical and emotional run-through with no dialogue for about three minutes. Then begins the author's tale of a traveler in San Diego and some of the people he comes into contact with. There are many themes that are touched upon: small comforts, coincidence and synchronicity, the way people treat strangers and loved ones, what family means, what crazy means, and over all what it means to reach for god/love/a sense of wholeness. The rhythm of the play has a soap opera feel in the timing of the scenes and how quickly you are moved back and forth between them. This worked well for me, mostly because I am unaccustomed to that style, and the play was long, 2.5 hrs. It would have dragged without that speed. There were some characters that seemed extraneous, and the play would benefit from their removal. Namely, the scene and characters from the airline company. The concept was interesting, but didn't have enough to do with the rest of the play, and only seemed to serve the purpose of drawing obvious lines for the observer. But this was a beautiful play, executed with love and fervour. I thoroughly enjoyed it all.

At the end, the applause was enthusiastic, but there was no ovation. I thought that the actors deserved an ovation. I think that most performances do. But the thing about ovations is that they are a lemming-like action. Someone has to start it, and then the fire catches and slowly others stand. Granted, an ovation is an expression of movement, how the experience affected you and compels you to stand and shout "BRAVO!" But actors work so hard, directors, lighting people, sound. They slave for peanuts, mostly, and give so much of themselves, that's why I think we should stand for every performance. And in this day and age, there is so little real spirit in entertainment. More reason to ovate.

First Show

Last night I had my first show in California. It felt really good. There were a few minor mishaps, but they didn't interfere with the amazing feeling I get from being able to play my music. And some very special people showed up to support, it was a great time.

I'm really excited to get electric again, we've been playing all the songs accoustic for this show because Bass Mike was gone. But I want to add some synth and try some new things now that the songs are written. I really busted my butt to get them out, it was good to have a fire lit and put my nose to the grindstone. Usually I'm so all about letting things happen naturally and not forcing things out that aren't ready. But it's nice to see that there is a lot there that is ready when I need it.

Next step too is doing a myspace page. Dear God.

I've been writing. Just not here. I've been writing lyrics and poems and sorting through prejudice in my written journal that Hurricane gave me ten thousand years ago. Soe just posted about the fall, and believe it or not, I can feel it here as well. I was still in my bikini all day yesterday, but there was a cool breeze blowing through our little hood, and the color of the sky seemed crisper.

I pulled one of my tomatoes, and replaced it with an avocado that's been shooting on the windowsill. I have some sprouting purple potatoes that are next in line, I'm letting them shoot inside and hopefully the last two tomatoes will be finished bearing by the time they're ready to go in the soil. Mummy said to just put them in the dirt, but I'm not ready and I want to try this experiment, we'll see...

The other day I stepped onto the back patio and I saw something dark writhing on the tile. Upon closer inspection, I found that it was actually a mouse being devoured by an army of carnivorous ants. The mouse looked like Swiss cheese, it had so many holes in it, and there was a strange halo of grey fur all around it, as if it were floating on a cloud of the remnants of it's own demise. I'm sure Mister was the initial killer, but this event has caused me to pause and look even closer at the activity of the ants in and around our house. I've found that they have become alarmingly aggressive, and numerous. Yesterday I saw that there is a veritable superhighway leading from an inconspicuous crack in the garden wall to the trash bin, a length of fifty feet, and at least thirty ants deep. Caroline and I named the forks at the end after some busy highways that surround our neighborhood, and had a good laugh about it, although the mirth was colored by a minor uneasiness.

For the ants are not confined to the outside, oh no. I came home the other night to a drunken swarm of them lusting over the crusty drops around the rim of a bottle of Southern Comfort. A bottle that has not been moved, touched or opened all summer, I might add. Why the sudden interest? Do ants hibernate? Or have a storing season? They've even been at the lemons that fall on the ground. Natalie suggested that we might wake in the dead of night to find ourselves being carried away and shoved down some hole out back. I slept restlessly last night.

I Miss You

I really miss my friends and family this week. Not that I didn't miss them before, but it wasn't as pervasive as how I feel this week. I'm painfully aware that I've made no effort to meet new people, and I've convinced myself that no one will ever be as good as the ones I already have. Stupid, I know. And I've also realised that I am actually not a good candidate for the hermit life. It is good for me in small doses, but not as a rule. Funny I would come to suburbia to see that.... there is a little theory growing, that people actually go to the city to get away from other people, to wrap themselves in anonymity, to feel closeness without connecting. And people go to the country to become part of a community. Everyone knows who you are. Period. The only city that I've been to that seems to have little neighborhood communities is New York. I guess I need to explore some more to disprove my theory.

I wish I could go to the Art Hop this weekend. That was always one of my favorite events in Btown. And now Wasuck is presiding over a paintball blasthole, will someone shoot a print and send it to me? xo

How Vermont Are you?

WARNING! Read or take this quiz before you continue perusing this entry!!!!

I just took an online quiz called "how Vermont are you?" It says I'm 85% Vermont and that really gets my goat. Granted, it does begin with a disclaimer claiming the quiz to be Burlington-centric. But as much as I adore Btown, anyone who's from Vermont knows that Burlington is the least "Vermonty" town available. And, HELLO! A Vermont redneck, or 'rierd, is not a dirt-bag!!!! I mean, their bags may have dirt in them, but.....

The disclaimer also suggests for the offended NEKer to make their own quiz. Well, I may do that, but I feel the need to defend myself before attacking the root of the problem.

Like I said, Vt rednecks are not dirt-bags. I'm not sure what it means to be a red-neck in other parts of the country, but in Vermont, it is a title to be proud of. It indicates a first hand knowledge of the land, and your truck, which you use every day with purpose. And while there may be some vanity surrounding the afor-mentioned vehicle, it generally has a LOT more to do with it's function than it's form. And there are a hell of a lot more red-necks in Milton and Saint Albans than all the transplants in Winooski put together. No self-respecting red would live that far from good hunting ground. They've got a family to feed, and family comes first! Followed very closely by drinkin' and huntin' buddies.

Even though there was a bitter rivalry between the rednecks and the crunchies in my High School, I knew at the time that we were over-generalising each other. My friends were always a generous mixture of both. The rednecks more hippie in their knowledge of living off the land and their love of fresh herb, and the crunchies more country in their love of loud vehicles and the keg parties that were always happening in some one's back field. That was where I saw the best connection. We were all bored and loved to party. And when it came to the generous bounty of nature in that arena, we all could agree that the good lord had blessed us. (wink!)

If I really wanted gravy fries, I would ask for poutine in Quebec.

There are so many amazing Vermont beers that kick Magic Hat #9's as$, that most real Vermonters either drink Budweiser or know someone who makes better beer than that.

A better question to ask about Champ is: how did s/he survive the ice-age? Maybe I'm biased because I know the answer.

Of course you're going to swim in lake Champlain if you live in Btown. But there is some of the best, cleanest, leach and algae free swimming to be had all over the state, and most "real" Vermonters know of a few. The real question is: "how many shots does it take before you're skinny-dipping at north beach with acquaintances you've always wanted to get to know better in the middle of the night?" Or "how many Vermont waterfalls have you been to & can name off the top of your head?" Both are legitimate questions that will reveal one's true origins.

Now, on the question of tourists asking directions. This is a tricky one, because if the destination is a legitimate, economy-boosting tourist trap, most Vermonters are somewhat proud of it and want to get the tourist to go there and spend some dough. But, if the destination is considered a local treasure in danger of being overrun, a true Vermonter will either lie and say they don't know the directions, or make up a story about some strange outbreak of flesh-eating bacteria and direct them to the nearest tourist trap instead. In all instances, a real Vermonter will at the very least think "flatlander" if they don't caw it aloud with a hearty chuckle.

Now, the skateboarding question. I have a problem with this because I have personally seen all three of the answers occur, well, not the money part, but the writer so clearly has made that the highest scoring answer solely based on the nature of church street's performance crowd, that you almost have to pick that answer! When in reality, most people who skate down Church Street are trying to get away from the crowd. They are on their way to work, on the way to meet friends, or get a coffee. But, the truth of the matter is, if they didn't want people to see them, they would pick another route. If you are under age, and drunk, and have a skateboard, you might get arrested on Church street by certain police deputies. I've seen that. It made me lose what little respect I had for that group of public servants real quick. Yes. it's true. The most violent acts I've seen in Burlington were committed by the police force. And I've seen a lot of violence in such a small town. On the other hand, I've seen some awful situations that were helped greatly by the service of police.There are good cops and bad cops, it's true. The good cops are heroes. And the bad cops are worse than most "criminals", I believe. I digress.

So, there are some essential topics that have not been covered. For example: the Maple Syrup scare, when some underhanded sugarers were adding stuff to the syrup that didn't belong there. And cheese! Vote for your favorite and we can all judge each other based on our vote!!! Ice-cream, milk, favorite farmers market! Best pick your own berries, apples. Highest moose population, Vermont Accent interpretation. Vermont state car. Annual events! State rivalries! There is so much to take from for a REAL "How Vermont Are You" quiz. I'm calling for questions. When it seems complete, I promise, I will write it.

forms

I hate forms. And money. Can't we just all live and breath art? Why aren't they handing out caviar and champagne on the street corner? Red Luxury! No, f*@# the Reds. Anarchic luxury! They should GIVE me those Chloe peeptoe twist heels, because I actually APPRECIATE them. Or maybe I should GRAB them! Yeah! Stealing! Theft is the new black! Don't even bother cloaking it with terms like "confiscation" or "borrowing". No. Steal it and call yourself a sticky-fingered kleptomaniac.

It's late and I'm filling out forms. Here's some art by one of my sole beneficiaries. pigeon52.com

Strays

There is a stray cat that lives in the front yard of my house, it's name is moo moo. A friend in passing dubbed it thus because of the kitty's striking resemblance to a cow. I buy it food and we all take turns feeding and watering moo moo. But s/he hasn't been granted house cat status. I really cannot afford to care for another cat, financially or emotionally. And neither of my room mates seem too interested in that idea, so she stays out front.

Last night, a little chihuahua came bounding up to our door. Yipping and bouncing, recently made a mother as was obvious by the swollen teats and protruding vaginal area, I was placed in a quandry. Call the pound? Go up & down the street looking for a parent? Adopt? Try to forget about her? She wasn't wearing a collar, and was very thirsty, but not hungry. I decided to just play outside with her for a while.

The main difference between a cat and a dog is that a dog needs much more care and attention. So where I feel somewhat comfortable with moo moo living on the front porch, this little yipper needed more immediate and conclusive questions and answers. Adoption is just out of the question for me at the moment. And the last time I went against my better judgement and let a dumpster cat win my heart, my sister ended up with a pet, (hence the illustrious Au Lait).

I'm of the opinion that it is generally better to adopt than to purchase, but there are certain obstacles that come with adoption. You really have no idea how traumatised the animal is, or how it will react to certain situations that it might have encountered before your time. Like with children, or large men in boots. And it takes a while for the essential nature of the creature to surface. Once it realizes that it is safe, and fed, and loved, it might begin to show it's true colors, and they may be somewhat violent, as in the case of Au Lait (And Mister, for that matter.)

It turned out that the little yipper ran over to a neighbor's house when they came out. "Is that your dog?" I called over. "No. Is it yours?" "No." Chichi didn't come back to me. I didn't really feel a connection with her, but had decided to take decisive action today if she was still hanging around.

As I was driving away this morning I saw little Chichi, trotting along at a fine clip with a young girl, and Chichi had a collar on. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Home

When does a place become home? How many memories must you collect, local shops must you haunt, people's faces must you recognise until a geographical location earns the right to be called home?

Because I've lived in many places, and my sense of home has constantly shifted over the years, my definition of what it means has changed, moved with me.

I'm in Winter Park, Florida at the moment, visiting my Grandmother. I took the afternoon down to Park Avenue, the main drag, at the top of which looms the entrance to my Alma Mater, Rollins College. While I was there, I never considered it home, Vermont was home. But today, as I walked down the familiar street and wandered under the big old trees hanging with Spanish moss, it struck me that I've been coming here since I was little. If there is one location that has remained constant in my life, it is Winter Park.

When we were young, we came here almost yearly. I went to summer camp at Rollins. That was when Mama Sonia and Papa Roger lived on Pennsylvania Avenue, before all of the new developments. Now Uncle Jerry and Tia Maria-Luisa live in that house, and the neighborhood has sprung up with nuevo-riche mushroom-mansions.

Park Avenue is a member of a dying tribe in our country, the small-town main street. Where most of the shops are locally owned, the restaurants are small and ritzy, and everyone seems to know each other. I went into the "designer consignment" shop and the woman recognized me from the last time I was there, in February! I went into the over-priced women's clothing boutique, and as usual, everything was beautiful, cheaply made, and stained with foundation. I got an iced espresso at my favorite coffee shop, Pomello's. I walked around the campus at Rollins and noticed the changes, and that they are remodeling the oldest building. I remembered standing in the President's rose garden when I got the award for making the presidents list my first year there. That was weird. I walked back down Park avenue, drenched in sweat, and almost panicking over my body temp. Then I walked into the wine shop on a whim.

Greeted by the token blast of AC, I asked if they had a Vino Verde. The gentleman that came to my aid led me around the store, giving me all sorts of samples, talking about the wines, and helped me to pick one that I really liked. He fetched a cold bottle from the back, wrapped it in tissue, placed it in a cute little wine bag, and bade me return soon, which I most certainly will.

Driving back to the Mayflower, I veered off at Alabama Drive. The Alabama is a historical building, I believe that it used to be a hotel. Now it has been segmented into Condominiums, and my great Aunt used to live there. A rambling old monster of a building, covered in ivy, echoing days of yore, when this town really was a retreat from the cold for wealthy New Englanders. Across the road is a beautiful little park, and then there's the lake. And hidden in the trees is a little amphitheatre that many years ago, I discovered is an Echo chamber. So if you stand in the right spot facing the columns, and make sound, it is amplified in your ears as if you were in a cathedral. It is a little tradition of mine to come here when I visit, and to sing a song. Today, I made one up as I went along, and I sang about home. And I meant here, Winter Park.

For me, my sense of home is connected to the people who live there. So that, for example, no matter where my parents live, their house will always be home. Home is created by chance. I never loved Winter Park before, never allowed myself to see that a giant part of my history resides in this town. It was always for me a coincidence that I came here so often, that my family chose to live here, that I ended up at school here. I didn't choose it, therefore it was not home. But now, I think, when have I ever really chosen to live somewhere deliberately based on the virtues of the location? Never. Those choices have always been motivated by chance and/or love of a person. And sometimes I stayed, and the place became a home. And sometimes I left, and the memories are of a time of transition, not stability.

Quite often, it takes me a long time to see what's right in front of my face, to know what I really feel. And I'm glad that I'm finally able to see past the cold familiarity that covered my love for Winter Park. I value this place for the people that I love who live here, the deep rooted knowledge of a place that comes from years of returning, and for the gifts that the town has given me. And I hope that I can begin to see these things sooner in the other places that I call home, perhaps I can begin to call a place home while I'm living there, instead of ten years later.

Slash

Last Friday evening, I met Slash.

Many times I've wondered if there is a celebrity that I would like to meet, or ones who I would truly tremble in front of, and it's hard for me to think of one. I generally think that the whole practice of idolizing celebrities is ridiculous.

I went to a party in Hollywood with a friend of mine. I had no idea what to expect, I only knew that there would be an open bar and I didn't have to pay to get in. I almost didn't go. I was sitting at home, all dolled up, but dreading the drive, and the idea of trying to find parking on Sunset Boulevard on a Friday night alone just isn't quite a motivational factor. But my roommate lit the proverbial fire underneath my rear end. "You never go out, and this is an opportunity that won't come up again for a while." I saw the reason, hopped into Jeeves (the tried and true vw jetta), and headed for the 5.

I found parking! I found my friend! We traipsed over to the legendary House of Blues. Caroline informed me that there would be some musicians performing, but she seemed to know more about the athletes that the party was held for than the music. We got our drinks and went outside while we waited for the music to begin. And then, someone joined our group and said "Slash is upstairs and Dave Nevarro doesn't have a shirt on."

All of a sudden, my heart started beating very fast, and I could feel the blood pumping through my body. I knew that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And I quietly slipped away and went upstairs.

And there he was. Slash, someone I have idolized since 7th grade. Someone who's music has truly shaped the way I feel about Rock and Roll. The epitome of irreverent genius. Standing in front of me, having a beer. I waited until there was a crack in the conversation and went up to him. All I can say is that I made the biggest fool out of myself, and I don't care. Everything that I've always considered inappropriate and declasse about fans, the most generic compliments and gushing, I said it all. "You're my rock & roll hero! You're the best guitar player, ever! I can't believe I'm standing in front of you! Appetite For Destruction changed my life!" etc, etc, etc. I will say that he very graciously received my disgusting display, and shook my hand, and asked my name. I told him, said I couldn't wait for him to go on, retreated to the safety of the people I knew, and started screaming.

The show was amazing. It was sort of an all-star cast of Rock & Roll legends playing covers. I was up at the front, dancing and screaming all night. I suppose that my elation was partially due to the fact that I haven't been to a show since last December. That's a long time for someone who is made partially of rock and needs to replenish to survive.

Oh, my band has a name now. We are Fairview. And I can't wait to rock.

Mister

Mister has been sleeping a lot today. A few minutes ago, he was sprawled out on the wood floor in the dining room. Now, he's on the carpet next to me in my room. He really is a magnificent beast. He bathes regularly, always crosses his paws, and doesn't take cheek from anyone, including me. I've often thought about what I'll do when he dies. I told Issac that I'll have a hat made from his fur so that I can wear him in the winter. But I probably won't really do that. There is a pet cemetery in Huntington. But I probably won't do that either. The funny thing is, I don't really think that he's ever going to kick it. He may have only one tooth, but he can still leave a mark when he bites. He's very protective of our back yard. There is a spunky young Tom who likes to climb the wall and taunt my old man. In a flash, there is a swirling ball of fur and howling snarling scratching cat fury rolling across the well-manicured lawn. And Mister still always wins. As the naughty invader runs for the hills, Meow turns toward the house, mouth full of another's fur, tail puffed, thoroughly annoyed.

I am a little bit concerned about the raccoon that seems to live on the neighbor's roof. Mister had some problems with coons some time back, and it turned me into quite the cat nurse. I came to know quite a bit about dressing open wounds and forcing pills down the feline throat.

Mister is supposedly "retired". The only reason I let him out back is because it's enclosed. And because I know how much he loves being outside. For all of his dignity and refinement, he really is a wild animal at heart. I think that when he finally goes to that big backyard in the sky, I will give him a burial befitting a true warrior. A funeral pyre with catnip sprinkled around to send a sweet aroma up to the heavens, to ensure a safe and effortless journey to the other side.

Yeah right, that cat will outlive me, I'm sure of it.

La Fin?

I finished book seven yesterday. And no, I don't think it's over for good. And no, the end did not include my ultimate prediction, but I was right about one important thing that shall not be divulged on this page.

Is it a vice to be an addict? Does the answer truly lie in the source? Or the outcome? Do we measure evil by the number of victims?

If the latter is so, I can count the ones who's calls I ignored as I reached pages 133 & 556, for example. Or the stories that fell on deaf ears as I relinquished my soul to the outcome, and didn't much care what happened yesterday or the day before, or what was happening that moment, if it wasn't a part of her world. JK's, of course.

I saw the new movie this week as well. And that didn't help in the glazey-eye and disconnected-brain department. But isn't that what Harry Potter is all about? Becoming fully invested in the possibilities that are held in the realm of fantasy?

To quote an old friend: "Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"

The Red House

I had a dream last night. I was in the house that we grew up in, the red one that burned down in Pawlet. Each room had layers and layers of wallpaper coating the walls, and I was looking for a specific one, cream background with brown illustrations of ladies in hoop dresses. There were so many different patterns, and I was peeling them back to find the one I was looking for. In our bedroom, (all three of us shared one little room) I peeled and peeled until I got to the last layer and it was A.A. Milne style portraits of we three girls.

The red house. What a stock pile of memories. The laundry room that was unfinished and the insulation was always coming out of the walls. The bathroom where I first learned about what sex was from a porno mag kept under the sink. The kitchen where I found little Soe Woe having a convulsion and I ran to tell Mummy "Soe's doing something funny on the kitchen floor and she won't stop!" The living room where the record player and my treasured collection lived: Willie Nelson, Donna Summer, Don Francisco, Captain Beaky. I would steal Emmy's beautiful flowery dress that was too small for me, put it on and dance till I got caught and was told to take it off. The living room that housed the potbellied iron wood stove, the table and settle, the picture of weather vanes. This room was the background for our family portrait right before Mummy took us away to England, because she'd finally had enough of living the life of the wife of a drunk. The back shed, where the wood was kept, and the laundry was hung. When the river flooded one year, all the nappies that hung on the line were whisked away to the dam. And the upstairs. When you stepped up the front steps onto the porch, there was a door. When you went through the door, there was another door on your right that led to where we lived, but there were stairs on the left. These led to the "attic". I remember going up there only once, and it was one big huge room the size of our entire house. And it was full of light, owing to the tall, broken windows that lined every side. One big, empty room full of light and the wooden floor was carpeted with broken glass and bird poop. No mystery, no darkness, nothing. One pure place on top of our house.

And our bedroom. Papa made my bed and it had no mattress. I liked sleeping on the hard wood, it reminded me of being a cowboy and sleeping on the ground. I had one doll and her name was Victoria. I had to give her to Emmy at one point, and I believe that this was the first strand in a long rope of resentment that held us for many years. But we would play with her together sometimes. We pierced Victoria's ears at least eight times in each ear.

And Mummy & Papa's bedroom, where I could spend hours in her wedding dress, and going through the plastic bag that was full of treasures, all the gold and silver from England, a constant reminder that although we were very poor, we sprang from wealth and nobility. In this very room, my mother told me many years after the fact, an angel stayed her hand from an awful deed that seemed like the only answer for a woman at the end of her rope. The rope that had held her together for so many years of struggle, disappointment, betrayal finally snapped, and the one time that she was capable of committing an evil act, mystery stepped in and saved us all.

I was on the loo at Marston Magna Manor, the one by the kitchen with the water container up above and you had to pull the chain down to flush. "Papa burned the house down!" I remember talking to him on the phone, but I don't know what we said. We'd been in England for 6 months, I was growing fond of exploring the haunts and nooks of Marston, my little school where we had to wear a uniform and a tie. Gaffa's garage with his old cars and various projects. All of the grand old rooms filled with the family's antique furniture, a life of heritage and history, a solid sense of who we were.

But Papa burned the house down and found Jesus, and we were moving back to Vermont. Mummy decided to give him one more chance.

Good thing.

Four Days Away

I went to some amazing places this weekend. First off, Santa Barbara is a wonderful town! After 8 hours of driving around searching for this camping area that ended up being not only full (they don't take reservations), but snooty AND sucky (don't bother with Jalama Beach, whatever you've heard: The 45 minute drive in beats the actual campground), we drove the 1 hour back to Santa Barbara to find every hotel booked and overpriced. But I was praying for a miracle as fatigue, hunger and frustration were threatening to blow the vacation into smithereens. And lo and behold, we found our haven of rest at the Hope Ranch Inn. And right next door was the best, cheapest Mexican food I've had yet. And the best, strongest, margaritas I've ever had in my life. For 5$!

We wandered around downtown on State street for hours that night, looking in shop windows, reading the menus posted outside of the numerous cafes that line the street, and I kept thinking how much my sisters and parents would love this town, and if they come out to visit, we should all just meet there!

Then, we noticed a light shining down a darkened alley, and it looked like an antiques store. It was 9 o'clock, so I was naturally curious. We crept closer and saw the most magical, wonderful shop with two old ladies running about. It was full of amazing and wonderful treasures. And it was surprisingly organized for containing so much stuff! We were thoroughly enchanted.


The next day, we journeyed up north to our very special secret spot.
There was no running water, outhouses, and complete peace. We went skinny dipping in the ocean because there was no one there to be offended. We saw a group of seals sunning themselves on the rocks, I saw two more dead seals, and one of them was in the process of being enjoyed and devoured by a band of turkey vultures.




We went hiking in ancient sand dunes, we collected rocks and I'm going to make a necklace out of them because they all naturally have holes in them. We further explored the culinary delights of campfire cookin', and although my famous "beer corn" still wins out every time for me, the marinated and flame grilled asparagus came in at a close second. We used the aero bed in the tent, and it was sheer luxury!

This morning, we went into town for hot coffee and breakfast at a garden cafe nestled in the crook of an overgrown nursery. Then, we went to Hearst Castle, and that was a trip and a half, figuratively. My favorite part was the outdoor swimming pool. The sky was so blue and the water as well, and the marble statues so white and smooth, and the view looking down the mountain to the ocean, it was all quite breathtaking.

We got milkshakes on the way home and I have to say that I will treasure this time that I had for a long time to come. I'm feeling grateful.

This week

Tomorrow, I leave for a four-day camping trip up north. It will be good to get away, or more, to go toward something. This week has been like an emotional cheese grater, and I'm feeling raw, like when your knuckles get too close and some skin falls into the cheese. (That never happened when I brought a dish to your dinner party, I swear!)

I'm thinking about loss. Lost chances, lost places, lost people. I never think when I say goodbye to someone that this could be the last time we see each other, this could be the last time I hear your voice, put my arms around you and feel your body, your physical being. I'm always so caught in my heart, in my head, and feel as though I will always be with everyone I love, forever.

There is a lot of truth in that sentiment, at least in my reality. But upon reflection, I worry that there is an automatic detachment that occurs, a defense mechanism honed by years and years of saying goodbye for good. I remember one morning when we left a town in a big U-Haul, and my friend was standing there in our driveway, waving good-bye. She was a mess. Tears everywhere, sobbing uncontrollably. I don't remember if I cried. I have had a hard time crying when I'm meant to. I get salt water performance anxiety, and it snowballs. The more I feel like I should be crying, the more it doesn't come. I can't feel fully in the moment. Maybe I'm more concerned with what others are feeling than my own feeling.

Now, when I do feel the moment, and I can't hold it in, I feel proud of myself, and relieved. Getting better at feeling, or allowing myself to feel. It's so messed up. So backwards. Or forward?

I'm going to go into the ocean and let it roll me around. I'm going to collect some rocks. I'm going to blow my boyfriend's mind with my campfire culinary skills. And I'm going to get to the root of what has happened this week and let myself feel it all.

I'm Holly Go-Lightly. I fly by the seat of my pants. Live in the moment. Drawn equally by chance and curiosity as by my ideals and my idea of destiny.

I'm bad with money. I hate money, so as soon as I get it, I go out of my way to get rid of it. Especially via hot dates and luxury items that are well beyond my means. It's very exciting and dramatic.

At night, I can hear people screaming at each other in their houses. Why do people scream at each other? Do they feel like no one is listening?

There are a lot of bugs that live in my back yard. They don't scream, they chirp or sing. Recently, I decided to let go of my feelings of animosity/ambivalence that I've harboured toward the roses in the backyard. I don't know why I don't like roses. It's not just the roses, it's every plant that was here when I came, that isn't mine and I wouldn't have chosen. So, I let go and decided to water them. One plant in particular hasn't been doing well. It's a miniature palm of sorts, and I gave it a good drenching, it seemed like it needed it. I went down the row, giving up my peace offering to the jasmine, mint, roses,and many unknown etcetera's. When I came back to the palm, however, I noticed some activity.

Unknowingly, I had caused a state of disaster for the ant tribe that had made it's city in the heart of this palm, and every able-bodied member was desperately trying to save the eggs from the flood. Thousands upon thousands of frantically scrambling insects all working together to help save the next generation. It was truly awe-inspiring, in spite of the heavy guilt that colored my unabashed observation.

I like watching ants. Especially ant wars. I've only seen those on the sidewalks in Vermont. First, you notice something dark up ahead. Then, you see that it's moving. Finally, you realize that it's a writhing pile of ants. And upon closer inspection, (you're down on your knees with your face less than a foot away from the activity at this point), you see that every ant is paired with another but the color or size of it's partner is slightly different, and you see that all the ones that look one way are coming out of one hole, while the others are from the hole on the other side of the crack. And they are fighting to the death, the martyrs carried back down the holes for funeral or food. Probably both.

Funny, the idea of insects killing each other doesn't bother me, but the idea of me killing insects fills me full of sorrow. And war, reading about old wars doesn't usually bother me as much as reading about current ones. Old wars seem more civilised. Like an ant war. Hand to hand, face to face combat. Puts a tangible price on what you're fighting for.

I need to find a good way of thinking about money. A new way. I think I'll look for books. At the library.

Once again, I am faced with the fact that I haven't written in a while. This quilts my endeavor with a sense of obligation to myself; to write something meaningful that encompasses what I've been experiencing in my daily life.

But that's not what I'm going to do right now. The only thing that I feel like writing about is food. So I'd like to impart my new method of home-made fast-food.

I work in a place that is saturated with ways to spend money on food and drink. Water, coffee, salads, sandwiches, burritos, etc. What you want for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, you can buy here. The problem is, I don't really like any of their food options. Every time I have "treated" myself to a meal in one of these restaurants, the experience has been less a treat than a treatment in realizing that I cook better than they do, and I know what the ingredients are in my cooking, and it's cheaper, by far.

So this is what I do: I have a green San Pellegrino bottle that I fill every morning with water from my Britta filter and stop up with a cork from a wine bottle. Drinking from glass is so much nicer than drinking from plastic, it is cooler and more refreshing. I bring this bottle with me everywhere.

I make my coffee at home. There is only one good coffee shop in the area, and that is where I buy my freshly roasted beans. Kean Coffee is the baby of the former owner of Dietrich coffee (the latter recently bought up by Starbucks), and there is only one location, and it's not in my neighborhood. So I go there once a week and save tons of dough via this extreme act of self indulgence. Paying 2$ for a cup of coffee at Joe Shmoe that tastes like... nothing good, that's for sure- seems so ridiculous weighed against the option of enjoying a cup of a dream for a fraction of the price. We are paying with more than currency for these "coffee shops on every corner" - every time I settle for convenience over quality, I sacrifice a piece of the good taste that took so many years of experimentation to cultivate. It is simply not worth it.

I make a big batch of some grainy tofu veggie thing, with different spices, sauces, what have you, every few days. These concoctions are stored in reused glass jars- meal-sized portions that I can grab out of the fridge and throw into my lunch bag in the morning. Add an avocado or some carrot sticks & hummus, and I am living it up for peanuts.

Not only is the content and quickness of my meal important, the presentation has taken on new meaning as well. I have a flowery dish-towel that I use as a place mat. I have a set of wooden chopsticks. I lay out my place mat, pull out the sticks, open up my various jars and bottles, and I have presented myself with a personal luxury experience. An experience that has a very small monetary value has endless spiritual value to me. My lunches are now a time of self-expression and rejuvenation.

And once my tomatoes start turning all shades of red, pink, and orange... this will be a truly amazing ritual. One that does not eat up my money, or my time. Spending money does eat up your time anyway. I encourage everyone to try to incorporate a tiny piece of self-indulging personal luxury into your daily life. (And don't say that you can't cook. Try eatingwell.com or epicurious.com for some recipe ideas. If you can read, you can cook.) Oh, so this entry is about my daily life. duh.

this week

I have three new tomato plants in big terracotta pots on the patio. They are lined up in a pefect row. On the left is the heirloom. In the middle the yellow pear. On the right is the cherry. And then, all the way to the right sits a smaller and lower pot filled with basil, lavender, savory, and thyme.

My band still needs a name. My ideas are too literary and dramatic. Chris came up with one: Shiver. I like that. But there are others who think we can do better.

I'm in a bad mood. The tomatoes made me so happy and content, I think the only solution is another plant. A pepper, perhaps?

Or, hanging flowers? Yes, that's it!

twelve days

I haven't written in twelve days. I haven't really opened the computer in twelve days. It's not a deliberate action, I've simply been absorbed with other things.

I'm listening to old music, and remembering times that I didn't value as they happened. Times that were fogged by my idea of how they could be improved. I value them now, at this moment, because I see how fleeting they were. How important they are and always will be because they are a part of what has transpired to create who I am.

I remember when we were recording this album, and how critical I was of myself, and the music. I couldn't listen to it without cringing for a long time. And now, I hear this sound that was, and is, so important. We made the music that we wanted to hear, the songs that told the story of what we were at that time.

I'm soaking in memories.

I remember how focused I was on the room for improvement. Somehow I didn't see how descriptive we were. This is something I am guilty of, not seeing the truth until it doesn't matter anymore and I can only learn from my error.

To my credit, I do try to trust my gut, and we all know that the honest gut is worth trusting.

I'm missing people. People who I've lost, people who I'll always have, people I never had to begin with.

I'm listening to new music. New music made with new people who I don't know as well. And I'm approaching it with apprehension, I expect to not be able to listen to myself. I'm scared of the story I'm telling right now. I think that I won't know the real story until a good two years have passed.

Strange, I like the sound of the song I'm singing. And I like the way we strangers make a story together. If I'm always singing a song to myself, and it's the true song of my life, even the lies are good lies. And it doesn't matter if others hear this song and it resonates or not. It's good to just sing.

And it's good to just be. To be simple and try to be true.

Les Trois Soeurs

There is a photograph that is right next to my computer.

I have a few of my photographs framed, and they are lined up on the ledge above my mirror-doored closet-wall. These are images of the people that I love, who without, my life would have far less meaning. I would be such a different person.

But the picture by my computer is of me and my sisters.

I try to describe to people who don't know us as "The Wall Sisters" exactly what it means to be a part of this magical trio. But they never get it. To have a relationship this strong is rare, and between siblings, rarer. It is as though we are three in one, and together equal something that transcends earthly matter.

Don't get me wrong, we are earthy. We were raised in the garden, naked in the wild, left to our own devices in the forests and rivers and ocean mud flats of New England. Poor as dirt, deprived, or blessed, by the absence of television and pop culture, we were forced to create our reality, more often than not a living fantasy. And as part of a semi-nomadic family, we were forced to cling to each other.

Don't get me wrong, we didn't always love each other. I won't go into details here, just know that some serious offences occurred between us, and I will continue to apologize for the trauma I willingly inflicted until the day I breathe my last. But let's get back to this photograph.

We are in white. It is the pre-party for a white party, and we are all a little drunk. Em is wearing a white men's undershirt with a hot pink bra peeking out and long white pants with fuscia stilettos. Soe is wearing a black suede skirt that she painted white with a paint-brush except for the word "white" across the bottom and white thigh-high lace stockings with a rock t-shirt tied in a knot. And a blonde bob wig. And I'm in a white Mexican wedding dress and my hair is black with bangs. And we are obviously enjoying ourselves immensely.

I have looked at this photograph hundreds of times. But just now, I noticed something significant that I'd never seen before. If you look closely, you will see that we are all leaning on each other. That twisted in a circular knot we are balanced on each other. In this pose that we struck spontaneously, we would fall if anyone moved. Emmy's arm is braced around my shoulder and leaning above me, while her leg is resting on top of Soe's shoulder. Soe is equally balanced by her arm which is coiled around Emmy's leg down to her foot, and by my leg, which is balanced on her thigh.

Hannah. Emma. Penelope. Each facet of this beautiful and precious jewel so different, catching separate rays of light and refracting it back into the world, and onto the others. We reflect each other, we support each other, we love each other, and as three in one we are stronger than just one.

Not only are my sisters unbelievably drop-dead gorgeous, they are supremely intelligent, and stylish, and thoughtful, and successful. They are true to themselves, they follow their dreams.

It is hard being away from them, but I know and they know that distance doesn't weaken our bond. What we have is supernatural, and only strengthens with time. That's because we nurture it. We value it, we respect it and feed it.

Mostly with wine and dessert.

Allow Me To Answer Penelope's Compelling Question

"So you finished the book, what do you think?"

The book in question is The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde. Right before I left Burlington, my sister gave me her copy of this book, which she had recently chosen and read with her book club. Luckily for me, she left her bookmark/note card in the book, revealing to me all of the secret and spontaneous thoughts that her reading adventure inspired. HA! Bet you didn't know THAT, Soupy! But, true to my own philosophy of not allowing the opinions of others to color my experience, I didn't read her notes until I'd finished the book.

On a very basic level, this book deals with the pros and cons of vanity; a timeless topic, one that it seems has and will forever plague our kind. There is also a lot of the nature of love, and passion, and lust, and self-gratification, and reaching for perfection, and how we define perfection. Dorian Gray, the main character in the tale, chooses to live a life spent in the pursuit of sensual pleasure; forsaking the well-being of others, in fact misleading the young and the innocent, for sheer entertainment. He follows a philosophy that was quite popular among the Dandies of the time, they called it aestheticism. Some of the books that influenced the movement were Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du Mal , and Joris Karl Huysman's A Rebours, the latter of which is referred to throughout the novel as the little yellow book, and I intend to try my darnedest to get my dirty little hands on a copy of it as soon as I possibly can.

Here are some quotes that struck me:

(At the beginning, when Dorian is yet an innocent young buck...)


Lord Henry went out to the garden, and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac blossoms, feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him, and put his hand upon his shoulder. "You are quite right to do that," he murmured. "Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul."

(...and later, when he's had some years of filthy living to stain his soul...)

Then, suddenly, some night he would creep out of the house, go down to dreadful places near Blue Gate Fields, and stay there, day after day, until he was driven away. On his return he would sit in front of the picture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other times, with that pride of individualism that is half the fascination of sin, and smiling, with secret pleasure, at the misshapen shadow that had to bear the burden that should have been his own.

Then, there is a lovely exchange between two characters that is so quick and smart, and the word-play is so fun and subversive, I immediately wished that we spoke that way still, and took pleasure in each others' witticisms, without so many criticisms. Verbal fencing, I call it. (I'm sure I didn't come up with that). It reminded me of a movie that I saw years ago called Wit, about the parlour games of the french aristocracy, before the revolution, I think.

Here's the end of that bit:

She laughed. "I still have the mask."

"It makes your eyes lovelier," was his reply.

She laughed again. Her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet fruit.


At the end, Dorian Gray commits an act of mercy. Or, it is by his definition, based on his experience, an act of mercy. Let's say that because he consciously decided to choose differently, he considered it a good act. But when he allows himself to truly reflect, he acknowledges that vanity motivated the act. This is a problem that often comes up when people discuss good actions. In the christian philosophy, a person can spend their entire life committing acts of goodness, helping the needy, giving their riches to the poor, aiding the sick and disadvantaged and still not be good enough to get through the pearly gates. Goodness truly lies within your soul, and if your soul is good, you will naturally do good things. Your conscience won't allow you to commit evil without suffering. Your actions are not separated from your conscience. And many people try to alleviate the guilt that they suffer from by committing "good" acts. Somehow they feel it will balance things out. Sort of like this new trend of the wealthy buying green time. To alleviate the guilt they feel for the damage their daily lives inflict on the environment, their "footprint" as it were, they fund renewable energy enterprise. And I must admit that I have spent some time now asking myself some difficult questions about my motives for doing good. Do I want people to think that I am a better person, or do I truly care about these things? How do my actions reflect my words, and better yet, my true person?

Let's think about how one's friends and one's enemies can act as mirrors to us. How do we perceive ourselves through the perceptions of those closest to us, or our perceptions of their perceptions? And how do we act accordingly? Why are the people we hate our enemies, do we fear the reflection? And the ones who love us, are we flattered and justified by their approval? I hope that my friends will not flatter me unjustly unless I specifically ask them to do so. And I hope that I can see the truth behind my own hate. There is the old adage that we hate in our enemies what we hate in ourselves. I don't necessarily think that that is always true, but if you try to force yourself to see in yourself the traits you hate in others, it keeps you on your toes.
And then there is Art. People have a lot of strong ideas about Art's place in society, how it should be used, the artist and his place in our culture, what is good or bad art. What is art? Art is strong, it offends, it soothes, it unsettles, it explains, it hides things. In the book, there is a desire in the characters for art to stop being connected to ideas, and for it to just be beautiful for the sake of beauty, not to mean anything. One of my best friends Isaac once said of his paintings that they aren't about anything, they don't mean anything. But I don't think so. Perhaps it is because I know him too well, but I can see stories, places, events, people and his relation to them. And here is another problem: Art cannot ever be one way or the other, because a large portion of what art is lies in the perception of the viewer. So the piece that is produced by the amateur in a flurry of emotional passion can have as strong an effect as the piece of the master committed to canvas in a studied obsession over the course of years. And vice versa. And this applies to all human endeavor, not just fine art.

In conclusion, I loved the questions that this book asks, and that I subsequently asked myself. I loved the slice of post-Victorian London Dandyism that was presented. And, I simply adore the writing style of Oscar Wilde, although I must say the pages and pages describing the jewels, tapestries and books that Dorian collected deserved a little more patience and slower reading on my part. It was mildly tedious, but wonderful unknown facts and legends for me.

THE END LA FIN

What is in a Name?

My band needs a name. The guys asked me what I thought. I've never really been in this position. It's a very strange sort of on-the-spot. On the one hand, it's flattering to be asked to come up with a name, and empowering to have that sort of input. Because a band's name is very important. It should reflect the sound, and the character of the people involved. It should be intriguing, so that people are curious to hear the music, and it should validate one's loving the sound. So that if someone hears the music and incorporates it into their life, they don't need to feel the hot shame of telling their friends that their favorite auration du jour comes from the likes of "The Fartheads" or "Vomitorium Banquet". (Two names I considered briefly, but then discarded for one of the above reasons...)

I have one idea, but it's from the book I just finished (with a flourish of "holy shit"'s). And I need a moment to recover and process before solidifying my reaction in that way. Does anyone have any ideas? So far I have Monstre Charmant. Hee Hee. That's my brainstorm.

Unwinding

I am beginning to see a new theme in my day to day. This is the theme of going backward, of taking apart the things I have wound around myself to see what is underneath. To feel what it's like to be me and just be.

For many years, I have stuffed my days full. I have more often than not overextended myself, hating to miss out on any opportunity to be involved. Bands, plays, parties, performances, eves of debauchery, bike rides, rock shows, outdoor adventure, friends friends and more friends! There is always something wonderful to be doing! And then there's work work work to fund the fun!

Now, I'm in a new place where I know very few people, and so instead of these things being placed at my feet daily, they are things that must be searched for. I spent some time looking for them, somewhat desperately, and came up with little that didn't involve a major drive or intense active planning, something I detest.

Then, the other day, I spent two hours unraveling old knitting projects that I don't like any more and rolling the yarn back onto the ball. And baking. And being very still and quiet. And I think that my new life is really an extended vacation. It has taken me 5 months to realise that I actually needed to unwind. I knew that I needed change, but I couldn't imagine what that would look like.

I have become clean. I clean up after myself. I have become neat and tidy. My sewing projects are in order. I am practicing my instruments with more diligence. The last time I was this successful at life was my first year of college, I was miserable. This feels different. I actually want to live my life more deliberately, not losing flexibility, but learning to not always say yes.

On the radio the other day I heard a special about vacations, and that while some people try their best to squeeze as much vaca out of their employers as possible, there is a large chunk of others who don't ever use their vacation time. And the experts say that you need to take at least two weeks off at a time, because it takes one week for you to really relax. This is even more true when you are trying to change the life habit of constantly doing something. I know lots of people who suffer from this one (myself included), and they can't stop, because they'll get sick, physically or mentally, they don't know what to do with themselves and can't just be, not doing anything. It makes you feel guilty, you can't stop thinking of all the things that are being neglected by your inactivity.

I don't think that one way is better than the other, they both have aspects of beautiful living. But each must be given it's own time, and not clung to with too much fervour, perhaps.

Sounds of the Day

There are sounds that I hear every day at my house. The birds chirping with excitement when the sun comes up, Mister meowing that it's breakfast time, the band practising across the street (they are getting quite good!). And underneath it all, the constant hum of vehicles.

There is one vehicle in particular whose sound I hear every day, and it is the neighborhood ice-cream truck. Ice-cream trucks usually have a melody that is amplified just enough to entice the children to it, a modern day pied piper of sorts. But our melody is Fur Elise, one of the saddest, most haunting tunes on record. I don't get it. This is a tune that evokes images of lost love, friends whose ghost lingers, the tragedies of human existence. And someone decided that it would go well with ice-cream. Wouldn't The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies be better? Or the Sesame Street theme song? Perhaps the strategy is to gently sway the children into such a state of woe, that ice-cream is truly the only medicine, like in Harry Potter with the chocolate. I must say that vanilla with chocolate sprinkles sounds pretty good right about now.... excuse me, I must run after that truck.....

today...

Today I am in a funk, and I don't feel like talking about it so I''ll just write a few things.

Someone said that they don't like to watch movies and it got me to thinking about what motivates people to go to the movies. What do they get out of the experience? Do we watch movies differently, just like we listen to music differently, using different parts of the brain, allowing different parts to be stimulated, allowing others to rest?

I developed the music theory a few years back when I realised that two of my closest friends had the same strange resistance to listening to music they'd never heard. I would try again and again to introduce them to something new that I was sure they would love, to no avail. They continue to this day to listen to the same music over and over again. And I think it's for nostalgia. They listen to music to reconnect with feelings or events from the past, and that is their primary reason for listening. They listen to music with their memory. I do this also, but it is more often that I listen to music to have a new experience, to reach for new emotion. I like to hear new sounds, new note and chord combinations, new style combinations, new voices. Not necessarily new time-wise, but new to me. And eventually, if I like something enough to incorporate it into my daily life, it becomes nostalgic. Like Electrelane's The Power Out will always remind me of a certain summer and my sister Penelope and a lot of garage sailing. There are lots of other ways that people listen, I'm sure as many ways as there are different people who listen.

And movies, well I haven't yet put much thought into this theory, but I can speak for myself. I actually enjoy some really bad movies. I really enjoy good movies, too. I try my best not to pay for bad movies, and to spread the word when I see a good one. Like Paris, Je T'aime. This film is for everyone. Go see it, that's all I'm saying. I know that I am usually completely absorbed, especially when in the theatre, and so I can say that I go to escape my own world and to enter another. I go to travel, to have adventure, to be shown new ways to sympathise with unsympathetic people, to laugh, to cry, to be frightened... I used to enjoy really disgusting and horrible movies, the more gory and graphic and horrifying the better. In my old age I'm less drawn to those stories. Perhaps I'm becoming more like my mother, that's a good thing.

I'm going to start asking people about thier own experiences in visiting the theatre. What are your reasons for going, and what do you get out of it?

hollandaise

I've been thinking about imagination. Specifically, how does our tendency to color things in our minds affect the actual experience?

Let's begin with cooking. A few weekends ago, I became curiously hell-bent on making eggs Benedict with smoked salmon for a Sunday brunch. The idea came early in the week, and I spent the rest of it researching fish markets in the area and scanning recipes on the Internet. I'd made a hollandaise sauce before, and although it is tricky, with the right amount of care it will come out well. I talked it up to the victim, my boyfriend, for days on end. I imagined us sitting on the patio with mimosas, and him tearing up for joy over my perfect creation. Well, the reality was not as sweet as my fantasy. I tried a new hollandaise recipe (stupid!) and forgot the blanc de blanc. We ended up being in a rush to get somewhere and somehow the whole point of doing something like this was missed. Not for him, he loved it, especially the o.j. he squeezed himself from my orange tree. But for me, the fantasy won.

Are the two at odds? Or are they places that should be kept separate, and each valued for their own intrinsic worth?

How about idols? The idea of idolizing people who we don't know is not a foreign one in our culture. In fact, it is encouraged. It keeps the pop-media-machine running smoothly. It sells movies, it sells health and beauty products, it sells lifestyles, it sells politicians; idolatry sells. I remember meeting an idol of mine and it changed my perspective. This was a musician whose music I'd listened to since I was a teenager, and I had held her work in high regard for years. I had held her in very high regard, placing her up there with the Greats. And when, by some chaotic luck, my band got to open for her band, I was in a state of severe mental turmoil. As I listened to the sound check, all of the emotion that her music had stirred in me before was amplified and I was shaken; I am that affected by it. But when I met her, I was disappointed. She seemed bored, listless, vapid. Nothing even closely resembled the passion that her music expressed. I don't know what I expected from the encounter, but I couldn't listen to her music for a while after that. It seemed, well, boring. But now I'm thinking: perhaps the music has a life of it's own and the musician is simply a conduit for something that already existed, only lacked communicable form? And also we should consider the importance of the chemical reaction in our own heart when the music hits it... how much of the musician is there at that moment? Ever since, I've tried not to idolize people whose work I admire, and to recognise that my relationship with their work is not a relationship with them at all. In fact I am frightened to meet those people in anticipation of my relationship with the art changing.

And so, if fantasy wins out when it comes to expectation, where does that leave life? Is this the curse of the optimist, to be constantly disappointed? But, optimism and expectation are not one and the same. Neither pessimism, for that matter. I should let go of a vision that is colored by fantasy at the moment that experience begins, and let life bestow the blessings of suprise and learning. For it is more often than not that I learn the most about myself through my reaction to situations that don't turn out the way I imagined them. And these are the moments that sometimes end up being sweeter than what my imagination has the capacity to convey. Like love.