Pointy Birds

Consequences

2011-05-24T20:28:00.000-07:00

I just left a comment for Allie, the wondrous author of Hyperbole and a Half. And immediately, I thought, FUCK, I really hope she doesn't come look at MY blog...(though it's pretty vain to think she will, but whatever.) I feel like I just invited eighty people to my pigsty apartment (including every guy I've been interested in for the past three years), and they'll be here any second, only to find my heaps of clothing and dirty plates and CD cases and unopened mail, all punctuated by pockets of total crap every few feet. Jesus.

Allie Brosh, iHigh Mistress of Funny, if by some horrible miracle you happen to come here and read this, please be gentle and merciful and leave quietly. Thank you.

Oh, offseason...

2011-01-04T06:52:00.000-08:00

From this side of the holidays, the baseball season looks FAR closer. And is it just me, or did the holiday season seem to last forever this year? I mean, I felt like the holiday frenzy revved up well before Thanksgiving, which I guess isn't new, but there was a sort of weird intensity to it this year. It makes me dislike the holiday season more each year...let's just all calm down, shall we? Christmas would be so much more fun if everyone actually did what they wanted to do, instead of continuing to see people they don't really want to see, buy presents out of obligation, and generally wear themselves out because that's the way they've always done it.

Anyways, baseball. It's coming. Target Field may be a block of ice right now, but still, it's coming. While we all wait for spring, all we have to amuse ourselves is the off season shuffle of players from one team to another, and the grand chess match that is the assembling of the roster for the coming year. Oh, the drama.

First of all, let me say I'm intrigued by the Japanese kid. I know, that's not a flattering or PC way to refer to him, but I promise I'll learn his name soon. I know he hasn't played in the majors yet, I know he's an unknown quantity, but attitude goes a very long way with me, and his is good. Team player, hard worker, good-natured and ready for anything: that's how we roll. I'm eager to see what he can do.

As to the other decision in the infield, I'm less than thrilled. Letting BOTH Hudson and Hardy go? Hm. We are not amused. We are even less amused with the putting of all our eggs in the Casilla basket. I'm not convinced on that one. I liked Hudson and I really, really liked Hardy, so this is a tough one to swallow. But in the spirit of trying to live more in the present each day, I'm going to give Casilla a chance. And I can see where that money we saved is headed...

Working on keeping Pavano and Thome. VERY GOOD CHOICE. Pavano fits here, he likes it here, he was a leader on our young staff. We need him. And the fact that he is great here and was a colossal waste of time and money for the Yankees is something I will never get tired of. And Uncle Jim...we must, must, MUST keep Uncle Jim. It was so nice to have a legitimate DH last year, someone we could actually count on to get the big hit when we needed it. I don't care that he's getting old. I don't care that he can't field his position. I don't care about any of it. Because I was SO GLAD to have a DH that actually made pitchers nervous. And if there's a better example for young players to look up to, I have no idea who it would be. The man exemplifies class and integrity, and that's the sort of guy we want on this team. That's the sort of guy EVERYONE should want on their team. So yeah, if we have an aging DH with a few shortcomings in Jim Thome, I'll still take him. HANDS DOWN.

And lastly, the pitching. Don't get me wrong, I'm not exactly comfortable with the rotation OR the bullpen thus far...we don't have an ace, the rest of the starters are shaky, the bullpen is pretty patchy, blah blah blah. However, I am here to tell you that when I heard Jesse Crain was leaving, my first thought was: FINALLY. FINALLY I don't have to watch him schlep into the game to give up some gigantic hit and blow the game. And before anyone starts squawking about the great last half of last year, let me just say, THINK BACK. Think back to BEFORE that time. Think back to every time he came into the game and left something hanging over the plate like a big grapefruit, and all the times you groaned in disgust. Think about it. Happened a lot, didn't it? And even when he came in last year, during his blaze of glory (which I don't remember as being that impressive, frankly; I still got a hot, sick rush of panic whenever I saw him trotting out to the mound), were you ever REALLY confident? I mean, REALLY? Of course you weren't. Because if you remember his entire tenure with us, you'd remember that in his hands, the baseball is a land mine, just waiting to explode its way over the fence. There is a reason I have a physiological response to his presence in a game. There is a reason I break out into a sweat and rub my hands over my face in terror. There is a reason I'm happy to see him go. And that's because it was past time for him to leave. And if you still, STILL think I'm nuts and you STILL say he was brilliant last year, I would submit that even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in awhile (like Brett Favre last year) and that it's very, very unlikely that it will be repeated in the next season (like Brett Favre this year.) And sure, we might not have much in the way of replacements for Jesse Pain, but honestly, if I'm going to watch a disaster on the mound, I am ready for a NEW disaster, instead of the same one I've been watching for the last six years. Particularly since any new disaster will likely be younger and have lots of room for improvement, unlike Jesse Crain, who isn't getting any younger and whose full potential has already been seen. And as if there were any more hint from the universe that this man is not meant to be with the Twins, he's now with the White Sox. As a closer. A position previously held by Bobby Jenks, the grossest, most thuggish creature in the majors. I won't go so far as to paint Crain with the same brush, but I'm just saying. That team, that position? I'm going out on a limb and saying our hitters will be licking their chops to get on some of those big fat sliders (which is his (only) out pitch, and everyone knows it).

So. Just going to soak up some winter sun, and keep an ear to the ground, hoping to see Pavano and Thome back for more this year. Oh, and maybe read some Thomas Boswell or Roger Angell to keep me in the baseball place...I don't think it's any coincidence that the most eloquent writers in sport are baseball writers.

"Don't tell me about the world. Not today. It's springtime and they're knocking baseball around fields where the grass is damp and green in the morning and the kids are trying to hit the curve ball." ~Pete Hamill

Soon.

On cleaning the kitchen

2010-11-13T14:06:00.000-08:00

I am about to clean my kitchen. I actually enjoy cleaning the kitchen; I'm good at it. I've only become good at it, because I have to do it quite often. When I cook, I manage to dirty almost every mixing bowl, every bit of cookware, every wooden spoon I have. But whatever comes out of the chaos tastes great, fills me up, and leaves me utterly indifferent to the piles of dirty dishes cluttering my very limited counter space.

I'm not a neat person, I've made my peace with that. I don't particularly enjoy cleaning, though every once in awhile it's cathartic for me. Except the kitchen: when it's a disaster, as it is now, I enjoy putting it back together. I like turning on some music that moves my body, and singing along as things become clean and find their homes again. And when I'm all done, I have no compunction whatsoever about finding a new recipe and immediately 'dirtying' it all up again. Maybe it's because a clean kitchen is nothing more than a space that hums with potential of the next experiment. Apart from the obvious part about needing my pots and pans ready for the next recipe, I don't clean the kitchen because I need it to be clean (as my mom does.) I clean it because it already feels like I'm creating something new.

Maybe I can apply this to the way my closet regularly disassembles itself into the rest of the house, or the way my books levitate off the shelves and set up residence in a huge heap next to my chair, my couch, my bed...

Tech

2010-11-11T23:29:00.000-08:00

I'm not a director. Or I could be, but only in the sense that I like to help my performers (kids, not my peers) unlock ideas with their own creativity and instincts. I don't like driving the juggernaut of a show, making sure it's coming to fruition in a certain period of time. Some of my kids have never done a show in their lives, and Ifeel like this is overwhelming for them--it was overwhelming for ME, at age 20, doing my first show, much less being in that horrible insecure, self-loathing place of middle school. I don't have a vision for the show, a certain take on it that I'm trying to get my kids to perform. That doesn't matter to me, and anyways, it seems the playwright had a pretty good idea about that anyways, so I'm going with what he had in mind.

Having said that, I've arrived at that horrible time in tech week where it seems like nothing is working, where we're under-rehearsed because I have spread myself too thin, trying to do too much...lighting set, props, costumes, publicity. I only hope my own fears and subsequent desperate need for control haven't come at the expense of my actors, some of whom are fragile and just shyly emerging into the work. Please let me not ruin this for them.

And all on a Sunday

2010-03-21T21:01:00.001-07:00

Today we:

1) Got Joe Mauer for pretty much the rest of his life.

2) Enacted the most broad, sweeping domestic social justice legislation in decades.

I am very relieved, proud, and jubilant.

Big day.

For Dawn

2010-02-24T21:38:00.000-08:00

A woman died today at Seaworld. An orca (can I just say I HATE the term 'killer whale?' Good god, why don't we just put 'killer' in front of every carnivore on earth.) dragged her into the tank and thrashed her. It wasn't provoked, it was getting a belly rub, and suddenly just switched moods into aggression.

Someone died, doing what she loved, connecting every day with such immense, intelligent, sensitive animals. It is very sad. And all I can think when I look at her is..."God, wouldn't that be the most incredible job there is." She was just killed by an animal she loved and I STILL envy her. Isn't that odd?

Maybe it's because I want so badly for the animal not to be demonized. After all, it is not domesticated, and thus isn't as predictable as dogs or cattle or cats (and we have enough trouble with those, after thousands of years of direct association with humans.) Yet these incredible animals share so much with people, both in the wild and in captivity. They have massive brains and no one can really fathom the depth of their intelligence. Which makes this occurrence bewildering, because we all want to ardently to feel we are connecting on a deeper, conscious, emotional level with these animals. There is something about them that captures our imagination for what mysteries the animal world still contains.

That is ultimately the reason for keeping them in captivity. There is the commercial side, yes. Money is made off the peolpe who come to see these animals perform. And the habitats we create for them are pitiful in comparison to their lives in the wild. On some level it is very sad. But ultimately, that inspriation, that wonder, that absolute awe and breathtaking exhileration that people get from actually seeing these creatures...that is something we simply can't recreate in a book or on a DVD. I remember how it felt when I went to Sea World with my family. I was standing alone by the big plate glass window, in one of the tanks off to the side of the big performance area for the orcas. No one else was nearby, everyone (my family included) were waiting fort he show to start, and I had begged to go stand by the window for one last look. These animals captivated me, riveted me, I would have happily sat motionless the entire day in front of that window. And I stood, peering into the aquamarine blankness, wishing for just one more glimpse. And across the pool, I saw some vague fuzzy shape moving; I couldn't even tell which direction. And then it began to take shape as it drew nearer...the blob slowly coalesced into a baby orca, probably only ten or twelve feet, and swimming right toward me. It had seen me, and I knew it was coming to look at me. My heart was pounding as it approached the glass and paused there, giving me all its attention, watching and gently undulating in the water as we gazed at each other. I put my hand to the glass and felt the vibrations from its sonar, and it drifted closer to the window until its nose was all but touching the glass. I could see the bits of grey skin flaking off its smooth, supple, black nose, and I could hardly breathe.

This encounter could not have lasted more than three minutes, and look how indelible it is in my brain. Moments like these connect people with creatures they will very likely never see in the wild, and it is that connection that changes our view of them as a society. The knowledge, the enlightenment that comes from learning about the truly astounding capabilites of all animals, not just cetaceans, is what enables us to feel compassion for them when they need us. To make choices for them instead of strictly for ourselves. It is what gives us the Southern Ocean Whale Sanctuary and the international moratorium on whaling. It is what gives us national parks and wildlife refuges. It is what makes us see the animal kingdom as something to be treasured for its beauty in life, rather than commercially exploited through its slaughter or displacement or abuse or neglect.

This woman spent her life in and around a community of highly intelligent, powerful social animals...she built mutual trust with them, and I'm willing to be they learned from one another. She had the bond that transcends differences in size, strength, species and habitat. The partnership that creates fearlessness, not out of hubris or arrogance or tyranny, but out of love. She still died. And despite all that, I still believe strongly in the power of places like Sea World. Without well-managed zoos and animal parks, most people would not only be ignorant of the incredible wonders in the animal world (and we all know the fear and hostility that ignorance breeds in people), they would also be devoid of the wonder that inspires us all to learn more and to individually make a difference in the way these animals live in the wild.

Before I forget

2010-02-07T21:38:00.000-08:00

Lotus prints. Erte. How to grow fresh air. Franz Marc. Up.

Couldn't find my post-its.

Ball talk

2010-02-06T12:03:00.000-08:00

So I've moved, and am enjoying the late-winter sunshine in the top corner of the building where I now reside. It's nice here, and I have to say that having a space that is entirely and unequivocally mine is pretty delicious. I'm only slightly overwhelmed with the decorating possibilities.

Anyways, seeing as we're gaining a little light every day and the back of my throat no longer freezes when I step outside (though it is only February, which tends to bitch-slap us at least once), it's time to reflect on baseball.

First of all, I am excited as hell about outdoor baseball in the new palace, despite my guilt about public funds being used for its creation. And yes, there are going to be large portions of time when it watching outdoor baseball is going to suck. However, I have decided to implement the same rules I use for fashion: you may wear whatever you please, at any time of year, regardless of the temperature or the elements, but once you have left the house and have no further opportunities to change your wardrobe, you have forfeited your right to complain about anything related to the weather and its effects on you. Same with baseball: once you're in the park, that's it. If you don't want to deal with the elements, stay home. Everyone happy?

I'm also pretty tickled with our offseason...bringing back Carl Pavano was a smart move, I'm thinking. Maybe he just didn't belong in New York and his body refused to pitch for him until he got the rock outta there. I don't know this Orlando Hudson character at all; anyone from the NL may as well be from Mars, for all I know about the entire NL. Nothing against them, I just barely have time to keep track of the AL, much less the NL. I leave that to people who keep track of those things for a living. And then there's Jim Thome, or Uncle Jim as I like to call him...awhile back, I started a list of Guys Who Would Make Great Uncles (and/or grandfathers, so I could include Donald Sutherland), and Jim Thome was the first entrant. Perfect, right? He's the sort of guy who'd be at the family get-together on the 4th of July, barbecuing and bullshitting with my other uncles, or maybe performing magic tricks for the 10 and under crowd, or maybe just seating himself next to the older cousins and clapping us on the shoulder, with a 'Well _________, tell me what's new with you!' And he'd really listen. I'm telling you, we should all have Jim Thome for an uncle. He'll be perfect for our clubhouse, good veteran presence, team player, all-around good guy.

And then there's the Golden Prince, who for all intents and purposes will be with the Minnesota Twins for the rest of his career. (Can we get some ink on that piece of paper soon, please? I know it all sounds good and imminent and everything, but really, we'll all sleep better knowing that it's done.) And maybe I'll have a schadenfreude party once we have Mauer forever, and the Yankees and Red Sox (the rest of baseball, really) will have to content themselves with wet dreams of Joe Mauer crouched behind their plates on the East Coast. Too much? Too soon?

What else...ah, book reviews. The absolute first thing I did once I had all my crap moved into my apartment was put the books on the shelf. Not only because I got rid of about a dozen boxes that way, but because contrary to popular belief, there are parts of my life that simply HAVE to be organized. And the books come first. Having gotten most of them in line, I had a shelf I could devote to the partially-or-totally unread portion of the library, a chunk of which is baseball writing. A couple volumes in, I have a couple thoughts:

Mark Friedman, Columbus Slaughters Braves

Ooooof. Short, fiction, easy read, but deeeepressing. Tale of a pair of brothers, the younger of which is a ridiculous baseball megastar, and the elder of which is a fairly normal human being. You can guess the persepctive....told in the first person, and there were times I wanted to get out a paint scraper and peel some of the bitterness and repression off the pages, it was so caked on. Dark dark dark. The writing itself wasn't bad, but it was a little too much. The fact that I'd recently polished off The Poisonwood Bible probably didn't help my low tolerance for morbidity.

Micheal Lewis, Moneyball

As usual, I'm a few years behind on things. I avoided reading this partly because I thought it would be stat-heavy and impenetrable, and partly because I'd heard all the caustic remarks about it and subconciously avoided anything else that gaves me more angst to wrestle with (Barry Bonds, A-Rod, east coast bias, the Yankees, losing Santana...there's plenty of crap in baseball without me hunting up some MORE things to make me doubt the game).
But I was wrong. This book is a fascinating read: part narrative, part research findings, part case study, part economics, etc. The interplay between the objective economic concepts and the unpredictability of the elements of the big chess game of building a baseball team is remarkable, and Billy Beane sounds like a totally crazy mo-fo. Makes me wistful for the A's of old (Barry Zito, anyone? Remember the time BEFORE he went to hell?) And this book made me hate cold-blooded stats slightly less, if only because I can see more clearly how they make sense of the formerly nonsensical. Knowing myself, however, I know that I could never buy and sell horseflesh like Paul and Billy. Too much baseball romance (not to be confused with romantic attraction to certain players, which is totally different and NOT what I am talking about at all) influences my decisions. Happily, being a fan, that's a luxury I can indulge in, without guilt or needing to explain myself.

It's also what separates me from people like my dear friend J, who roots for the Mets (despite his insistence that he's done with the Mets and is converting to Yankeeism.) We differ in the sense that he wants a championship at all costs, and I do not want it if is bought with ill-gotten gains or won by a team of profoundly arrogant, disgusting and otherwise unsavory people. And that's why I'd make a terrible GM and a great fan.

movement

2009-11-12T17:00:00.000-08:00

Whooof. That was a lot. But it feels good to get it out.

On to other matters. I think J is right, there is a lot of cosmic shifting going on out there, and the resistance to it is pretty incredible. It's present on the national level with the health care debate, it's at the micro level with personal relationships, and I think it might even have something to do with the rather extraordinary number of deaths in the past six months or so. I have never had seen so much loss in so many areas of life, so quickly. Add to that the fact that if you make a conscious choice to live your life in a certain way, the forces that resist will show up that much more. People erupting without just cause (or provocation), people running away from connection in utter terror, people hunkering in their own shallow grasp of the systems around them, afraid to dive below the surface and find that there is richness and abundance. To go there is to open and to be too vulnerable, and no one wants to soften that much. I think that women tap more easily into this intuitive energy, and they see beyond the obvious more willingly. At least, that's what I'm telling myself in an attempt to understand the outrageous behavior of one who ran in panic last week. I know, I know, it's useless to fathom the motives of others; it's information we'll never have. And honestly, I've (mostly) come to accept that about this person. But it's hard not to wonder, because I KNOW I didn't misread him this summer. I KNOW what I saw and felt was real, and all the signs leading up to that awful night reinforced what I'd read in him previously. My bullshit meter has been wrong before, but I don't think this is a case of well-disguised buillshit. It's a case of fear, distilled to crystalline perfection.

In other news, it's time for a move. And the one good(?) side effect of the imploded economy is the lowered rent in the neighborhood in which I want to live. Which is good, because despite being a girl of very modest means, I'm pretty choosy. Lots of natural light (and decent non-natural light, I cannot STAND shitty lighting, nothing kills a mood in a room faster than terrible lighting!), a generous bathtub, no upstairs neighbors, and woodwork, if possible. I know. I'm not easy. But would I be any fun if I was?

Kind of like when I put my hand through the window

2009-11-08T18:52:00.000-08:00

The shards have to come out. The sooner they're out, the sooner we can put in the stitches. (Actually, I think I'll refrain from medical analogies for awhile; doctors are not high on my list right now. And every time I see an ambulance I snort in disgust and force myself not to think about THAT MAN.) But anyways. I have to get it out. It will take awhile, but I have to process it somehow. And I'll do it MYSELF, emergency medicine, thank you very much. I do not need you to save me, thank you. Not that you were worried about that when you just abandoned me in Manhattan in the middle of the night. God, what a testosterone-charged branch of medicine. A bunch of problem-solving jocks, getting an adrenalin fix as they stabalize someone, and then they get to pass off the real suffering to another physician, the doctor who gets to know the patient and helps them through the crisis in the longer term. As professionals, emergency doctors have all sorts of qualities that I admire immensely. As relationship material, they SUCK.

So as if it wasn't galling enough to be in New York the DAY of the victory parade, as if it wasn't enough to come out of the subway near city hall and see the wreckage from the parade and the celebration and the gigantic baseball-shaped sign with 27! in huge numbers, as if all that wasn't enough, I apparently needed to be totally sandbagged that evening.

I had prepared for every contingency, every possibility. Except, of course, the one that showed up. The one that included a lovely dinner, a walk through Times Square, cocktails and live jazz, sparkling conversation, all of it. Right up until the sheepish, scared admission that there is someone else, and thus we cannot be anything. And then to be left there, alone in a strange city, under the influence of two generous martinis, heartbroken and lost, at one in the morning. If it hadn't been for the nice motherly woman walking her airedale, god knows how long it would have taken for me to actually find the 7 train. And what kills me is how I didn't see any of this coming. My alarm system has clearly been disconnected, because I was TOTALLY unprepared for that bombshell. However, I don't see how I COULD have seen it coming, seeing as this was NEVER eluded to, not ONCE in three months of correspondence, the days leading up to my time in New York, or the entire evening, until the very end. How do we put ourselves out there, how do we make our selves vulnerable, knowing we have the potential to be devastated each and every time, and are powerless to prevent it? It does not seem like a good bargain. The possibility of love is so promising, it feeds that yearning that everyone has for connection and intimacy, someone who really GETS you, but my god. I would very much like to know why the universe gave me THIS experience, because I cannot see any lesson in it for me, other than 'if you are open and honest and respond to the cues and information given to you, a man can still trample our heart, even when you thought he was in your bucket. Just an FYI.'

Thanks, universe. Seriously. And while we're at it, thanks for all the socially awkward men that you keep tossing into my life...the ones who make it painfully obvious that they are attracted to me, but are incapable of normal polite conversation, thus making everyone involved very ill at ease. And while I feel compassion towards these men, I cannot help but wonder...the cannot speak to me, so what on earth makes them think dating me would work? What is going on in their heads that makes them think that would be anything like an equal partnership? I am noisy, opinionated, gregarious, and extroverted. This is not a good match for the shy, socially nervous, introverted men out there.

I am flummoxed. And already starting to envision myself at sixty, living in a gigantic old house with house rabbits and a big cage full of brightly colored finches, with my massive gardens in the backyard, and the Twins blaring on the radio because I'm too cheap to pay for cable. Le sigh. It doesn't sound like a bad life, but there would be a gaping hole in it that I'd have to willfully ignore every single day.

In other news, Gomez is gone. Thank god. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. Seriously, I'm SO GLAD we traded away the best pitcher in the universe for that adolescent. Can we just get to work on signing Joe Mauer for the rest of his life? I'd be satisfied with that this offseason. It would help water down the horrid Yankee flavor I'm still trying to spit out.

Not quite like last summer

2009-07-18T08:28:00.000-07:00

I'm a little in the mud right now...lots of exciting things happening, and really not quite the drive I had earlier this summer. Part of it is the long, frustrating recovery from laryngitis, I think...it's so hard to just shut up and let the edema in the cords just go down. Particularly when you like to talk. A lot.

Another part is the continuing drought of my people...they are scattered to the four winds right now, and it's rather lonesome here at home. I need people who GET me, and they are few and far between this summer.

But the biggest influence has probably been the loss of my uncle. We all knew it was coming, or at least we had the vague idea that it would happen. But when someone gets ill and recovers so repeatedly, you just get used to the pattern, and when that terrible day comes you are that much more devastated. My mom is taking it hard, and it's hard to know that your parent is suffering, particularly one who made so much effort in helping my uncle become well. And the thing that really enrages me is the attitudes of the morbidly curious or the tactless ignorance of those who have never dealt with either loss or addiction. The former are the ones who actually call my mother under the guise of support and sympathy, when all they really want are the sordid details about the death. I want to yell at them: "If the only thing you want is gossip, go to the telephone tree like any busybody with a teaspoon's worth of sense. I know you're all disappointed it wasn't suicide, so you don't have something REALLY juicy to discuss. Now leave my mother the fuck alone, you jackals." And to the latter group, I am torn between contempt and pity. Most of the time they are good-hearted people, simply trying to say the right thing when it's exactly the wrong thing. And for those who have never dealt with the loss of someone close, their ignorance is to be pitied, because sooner or later they will lose someone and will be in the same place we are in, and will then know what to say. I can't say I really wish that on anyone. But it's hard for me to swallow the acidic words I have for those who don't understand the disease of addiction. We don't need your opinions, thank you, seeing as you speak about what you don't understand. This is an illness that does not discriminate...all ages, tax brackets, IQ levels, social sets, it can take hold anywhere. And like mental illness, it has nothing to do with strength of will or quality of character. It is a horrible, crippling disease that claims so many every year, and I will not tolerate blithe, stupid remarks about it. "Why don't you just stop? How can you just not quit if it's killing you?" My god, don't you think they WOULD if they COULD?! Jesus fuck.

The upshot of all this is, a gentle, sensitive person was taken by a terrible illness that plagued him for most of his life, and my heart aches for the him and for my mom. I had forgotten how long and hard grief is. And it is this that has taken my unqualified joy this summer. I still find happiness in my gardens, but performing is hard, and may be for some time.

Time to go bake some muffins.

Birds and words

2009-04-26T21:02:00.000-07:00

There is something wrong with my computer. I think it has some noxious infection, but I am ignoring it because a) it's recital week and b) my ignorance frightens me and makes me reluctant to truly find out what the fuck is happening in the bowels of my PC. Why, oh WHY did I not get a Mac to begin with?!!! So I am just avoiding buying things online or entering in anything scarily personal, until I have the time and inclination to find out what it amiss...

I need a Johan moment. Is it ever going to stop hurting? Is there ever going to be a time that I see him and don't feel a spasm of pain? He just keeps getting more magnificent. I mean, I'm a fairly astute observer of the game, but I'm not that great at recognizing pitches offhand. I always have a rough idea of what a pitcher is throwing, (unless it's Tim Wakefield or a gigantic Barry Zito curve or something else that's pathetically obvious.) But a fastball with motion versus a hard slider? I am sometimes lost (and it's kind of embarrassing, because I feel like I should know them instantly.) It's one of my goals for this season. But with Johan, I always know. I can recognize almost without fail which pitch he's throwing, and they're all equally beautiful. Watching Johan Santana pitch is like being in an aviary full of small and beautiful exotic birds. They move quickly, effortlessly, and it's impossible to know what you'll see next, but each one is a jewel-bright marvel, more lovely than the last. In fact, if I ever have my own aviary full of tiny exotic finches, I might name them after Johan Santana's pitches. Circle change, Four Seam, Slider...good names for small, quick-moving, beautiful things.

And just to be clear, having finches does not make one a Bird Person. They are quiet and active things, only to be looked at. They are NOT big screechy stinky parrots that need to bond to someone for life and try to bite everyone else they see. Ah yes, yet another step on my path to being That Lady on the block. Though I think I may have a good decade or so left before I fully embrace that role.

And it finally, finally rained, which means I can really start getting excited about the growing season. I have at least two yards to create, and am already fantasizing about tomatoes and peppers and sweet pea vines and moonflowers and evening primrose and about nine thousand other things that I'll get to sell people all summer long. Now, if only the rabbits and I could reach some sort of understanding...

Smells like spring

2009-04-11T14:09:00.000-07:00

Gracious me, I didn't do my usual rhapsody for Opening Day!! (Well, not that the game was anything to write home about anyways, but that's fine, seeing as we SLAUGHTERED the Bitch Sox last night, meh heh.) But it is past time to get into plant talk and such, spring gives me the ants in the pants, though never really any urge to do my grad school assignments. This may be due in part to the fact that they're useless, aggravating, and remind me of profs that are full of misconceptions and biases that run utterly opposite of the principles they think they're teaching. Yep, that's about it. Only a month more of the S.O.M madness....

But my recital is going to kick ass. Kick. Ass. Wolf is my bread and butter, the man loooooves the richness and complexity of the mezzo voice. Smart guy. And the Argento has so much character (and Even rocks the guitar part, great musician and a very steadying presence onstage. We work well together.) The French is the first French I have really connected with since Poulenc...why is it I love to listen to most French art song but don't want to sing it? I went through Debussy, Faure, Chausson, Duparc, Ravel (which would have been great, besides needing a chamber orchestra), and Bizet before I finally found Reynaldo Hahn. The French was the hardest set to choose, but I am most deeply connected to it now that I have. And the Turina is just hot Spanish music. Why don't people do more Spanish song? Is it another midwest thing? Too sensual and scary for us here? Wouldn't surprise me.

And OperaBob is in FULL SWING, we are getting fundraising plans in motion for the Fringe. God, to work with people who share the same artistic philosophy and don't try to do anything beyond bring out the drama in the music. I feel like we can show the world that honoring the composer's dramatic intentions is exciting and moving. And speaking of, I was so pleased with the performance the other night. Anna and I were both on our game, and it felt good to share the stage with someone I respect. More to come.

Just think. All summer, all I'm doing is singing, working in a fledgling opera company founded on the principles that we all believe in, getting audition arias in place, and getting paid to mess around in the dirt. Shaping up to be another excellent summer.

Healing up nicely from the painful end to the budding romance. Left a letter in his box, saying a) coming up to me and chatting is not only horrifyingly awkward, it's painful, selfish, and utterly ridiculous, seeing as I explicitly said I need time and distance, and b) this is the consequence of choices we make. You picked her, so you don't get me. At all. And thus far, he's complied...he's been a ghost at school, I haven't seen him since. Feels good to stick up for yourself.

2009-03-23T09:09:00.000-07:00

Over. All over. It was awful and painful and unfair and confusing. He didn't get angry, I didn't get nearly as angry as I had hoped. We both just hurt and it was very, unfortunate and sad. I've gone over it so many times with others that I just don't have the energy to do it again. But it's done. We aren't dating, we aren't friends, we aren't anything. For my own sanity, we can't be. And it's a damned shame, but not one I have any control over...you can't force people to see things before they're ready.

At least I have closure and can begin moving on. And I am, surprisingly well. Maybe because we'd been effectively breaking up all week, last week. I still haven't run into him yet, which is inevitable. And I still don't know if I want him at my recital. And I still might take Janet's advice and write him a letter, with everything I didn't say (or said poorly.) But in any event, it's done.

Bears

2009-02-11T17:16:00.001-08:00

Forgot to publish this one, from mid-February when I was home with the plague, just before Valentine's Day.

So I was under quarantine at home and was momentarily between movies, and for a brief second, CNN was on. Well, commercials on CNN were on, anyways. And normally I just mute it while the DVD figures itself out and then I'm happily watching Planet Earth. But the snippet I heard was enough to make me stop swigging tea and hacking long enough to witness something so bizarre and heinous that I nearly choked on my own phlegm (though that's been happening a lot today anyways.)

It was a commercial for the Vermont Teddy Bear Company, attempting to peddle its teddy bears as legitimate Valentine's gifts for women.

Let me preface what I am about to say with this: I am not here to hate on Valentine's Day. I do think it's primarily a figment of the commercial imagination, designed explicitgly for the purpose of drumming up some business in the barren months of late winter, before Easter and the spring fashions truly hit their stride. We all get that. And for awhile, yes, I was an ardent Valentine's Day basher. But over the past couple of years, I have come around, and not because I've tumbled into a romantic heap of my own. I've come around because with so much chaos and fear and hatred and indifference in the world, a day to celebrate love, in any form whatsoever, simply cannot be as toxic as we cynical singles would like it to be. A day that carries any hope of more love or friendship or faithfulness or commitment or anything of that nature is really only a decent thing, in my opinion. (And the whole single-on-Valentines-Day spitefest is just too exhausting. To generate that much bile toward that many people, one has to practically be a gladiator, as well as entertain the notion that all the lovebirds in the world are out to rub their us-ness in the faces of everyone else. I just can't believe that, I know too many nice couples.) So while it's still a slightly silly holiday, I just embrace the best of the intentions behind it, connect with those I love, and leave it at that.

But there is one thing I simply cannot ignore or condone, and that is the giving of teddy bears to women.

STUFFED ANIMALS. For grown women. I can honestly say that I cannot find any witty way to say the following, because the whole thing is so outrageous and embarrassing to me: No grown woman wants a stuffed animal as a gift. There is no occasion for which a teddy bear is a thoughtful and special token of affection. None. It's insipid, denigrating, and downright creepy.

I mean, let's just think about the logic, shall we? In fact, that's probably the best tack to take, seeing as the main objectors to my argument, the guys most likely to see women and teddy bears as perfectly compatible components, are the ones who also subscribe to the male brain being the province of the rational, the objective, and the concrete-sequential. Even if we were to entertain this notion of male superiority in the field of the rational (a hilariously constant theme throughout history), what boggles me is how such logical, concrete-sequential creatures would decide something so utterly useless would make a suitable gift for their lover. Because seriously, what would I DO with a teddy bear? What function does it serve? I am not going to set it on my mantle, I am not going to carry it around with me, I am certainly not going to sleep with it (that, presumably, is what the male companion is for, is he not?) There is no appreciable function for a teddy bear in my life. None. Because teddy bears are for CHILDREN.

Which brings me to my next point...why would a man get a gift for a woman that is clearly more appropriate for a child? The kindest answer would be that said man underestimates the woman's intelligence, which is a widespread and well-documented phenomenon. But the other explanation is that it's another manifestation of the male obsession with taking and possessing young women. And forgive me, but if a man seriously believes that a woman will genuinely enjoy a teddy bear, there's some sort of Lolita thing going on. I honestly think that Vladimir Nabokov could have given the Vermont Teddy Bear Company seed money. Seriously.

And the third problem (perhaps the most disturbing in a chain of unsettling things) is that I saw this bilge on CNN. In prime time. CNN!!!! I would expect this trash from a third-or-fourth-rate cable network at four in the morning. But this was 6:30 on a weeknight, on CNN. And it was a revolting MINUTE LONG ad--not even a THIRTY-SECOND, no, there was SIXTY FULL SECONDS of this claptrap.) The fact that the Vermont Teddy Bear Company would assume that its target audience is watching CNN in PRIME TIME (and is willing to pony up to get a time slot) is so beyond horrifying to me. Either they're wrong and need to seriously re-evaluate their target audience, or I'm wrong and things are a lot worse than I thought.

If I ever, EVER get a TEDDY BEAR from a man I am seeing, for any reason (except maybe as a toy for my future Great Dane), I think that would be egregious enough to give him his walking papers. Not even kidding. I would rather receive lingerie in a totally inappropriate size, I would rather get a box of generic and disgusting chocolate, I would rather get a cable subscription that allows me to see EVERY NFL GAME ALL SEASON, than get a teddy bear.

You've been warned.

sondheim again

2009-02-03T16:25:00.001-08:00

What am I doing? What is going on? Just once, ONCE, can I be attracted to someone who doesn't have some impossible circumstance?

I can't remember how long it's been since the guy I liked, liked me back. And fighting that is the sense that I don't know if I can trust this one. I mean, he kissed me the other night. Or we kissed. Whatever. But he's taken. He's seeing someone, who has, in fact been halfway across the continent for six years, but seeing her nonetheless. You cannot have your cake and eat it too. That must be clear. The problem now is that I want MY cake, but I can't have it if I'm going to play by the same rules. I may not have a significant other, but I have to uphold my own standards if I'm going to protect myself in this situation. And even in the obstacle is no more, how do I know that I won't be cheated upon? It's not a good situation, and if I were giving advice to someone in my situation, I would say, without question, ABORT MISSION. Because this looks, sounds, and smells like bad news bears.

He makes me laugh. He listens to me and remembers what I say. He's intelligent (current behavior notwithstanding.) We have a lot in common. And we have mutual attraction. I cannot remember the last time timing like this worked out. But it's very, very seductive. And now it's up to me to hold onto all the above, without tumbling back into that land where the rules are suspended...it's like being high. If that's what being high is like.

Right and wrong don't matter in the woods, only feelings...

Yeah. Leave it to the prince to say that.

It's up to me to be the Baker's Wife:

Wake up, stop dreaming, stop tramping about the woods!
It's not beseeming, what is it about the woods?
Back to life, back to sense, back to child, back to husband, you can't live in the woods.
There are vows, there are ties, there are needs, there are standards, there are shouldn'ts and shoulds.
Why not both instead? There's the answer if you're clever!
Have a child for warmth, and a baker for bread, and a prince for...whatever...never! It's these woods!
Face the facts, find the boy, join the group, stop the giant, just get out of these woods!
Was that him? Yes it was. Was that me? No it wasn't, just a trick of the woods!
Just a moment...one peculiar passing moment...
Must it all be either less or more, either plain or grand, is it always "or," is it never "and?"
That's what woods are for, for those moments in the woods...
Oh if life were made of moments! Even now and then a bad one.
But if life were only moments, then you'd never know you had one.
First a witch, then a child, then a prince, then a moment, who can live in the woods?
And you get what you wish, only just for a moment, these are dangerous woods!
Let the moment go...don't forget it for a moment, though...
Just remembering you've had an "and" when you're back to "or..."
Makes the "or" mean more than it did before...
Now I understand - and it's time to leave the woods.

answers to unasked questions

2009-01-11T21:11:00.001-08:00

Pretty good. Getting ideas and formulating plans for summer. There are some cool-looking programs, Maryland, Atlanta, San Francisco, and then in the long term I'll be looking at the Britten/Pears Institute, with other things TBA. The whole thing feels really open and positive, like I have a lot of freedom and possibility and am not locked in or trapped. S has been a great partner in this, since we are in the same place in our respective programs and are looking for the same sorts of things once we get out of school.

Kind of a lot, actually...my cousin's miserable ex-fiance has turned back into a current boyfriend, much to everyone's dismay. Another cousin is battling cancer, and a third has returned to family events after a considerable estrangement. My brother tore up his knee (ACL and MCL), and has surgery this week to fix it, hopefully. Oh yeah, and then there's prostate cancer. That surgery is in a month. Let me tell you, that little c-word will bring you to your knees.

For about four days. They've known much longer, actually, but didn't want to say anything until a) they had a date for surgery, and b) the holidays were over. (I can actually see their point, seeing exactly one year ago from today I was lying in bed at home, in the deepest, darkest part of the valley that I was to venture through, and since then they've been careful not to heap too much on me at once.) But that's the worst news, it gets better from there. It is super duper early, it's extremely slow-growing, and the specialist (who does this crazy, much0less0invasive robotic surgery and is the best in the nation at it) said that even if he did nothing about it, he'd have another ten years. And he's all but certain that it is entirely contained in the prostate. But we'll all be glad when the surgery is over, and the pathologist's report come back with a detailed idea of where exactly the cancer was. It was a tearful night, I'll tell you.

Wild. Ridiculous. The party, of course, was fantastic, their parties always are, but it was again one of those nights that I shrugged as I walked out of the house, claiming that it was highly unlikely that I would really have anything happen. Boy, did it.

Sigh. Yes, and no. Not as much as I'd like. Not nearly enough conversation. But there's still hope--I still find him attractive, and he still looks at me in that way that makes me think he might be attracted to me. And he still makes me laugh. I don't know, we'll see, there might be another opportunity.

Never better. Though I haven't had a lesson in awhile, but I think I'm getting better at retaining and solidifying concepts, and not reverting back to old habits. Or at least I know when I am, and I stop, check in, and correct them.

Right now, my Grapes of Wrath recording!!! It finally came. I know, right? Other than that, I kind of have an old-school musical fetish, and I want them on vinyl. Not only because I can afford them all that way, but because there's something so much more satisfying about listening to Cole Porter or R&H or Lerner and Loewe on a record. And of course, I have GOT to get going on recital repertoire, it looks so much closer on this side of the new year...Turina, Argento, Wolf, and some French or other. I've got to nail down the Argento first, seeing as that will be performed in February. And Ainhoa will be chomping at the bit to work on the Spanish rep, and I'm planning to cash in on free coachings with Andy Fleser (trading favors after having done the Carter on his recital), so plenty to keep me busy. Plus applying and auditioning for summer stuff, of course.

It's good to talk about all that, thanks for asking.

2009-01-07T08:39:00.000-08:00

Cancer.

It was caught very, very early. If nothing was done, he would still live another ten years. It's THAT slow-growing. The best specialist in the country will be performing the most effective and least invasive surgery that has worked on both my uncles.

But it's CANCER. The word that is too horrible to utter aloud in my family. It's like the mention of witchcraft in the middle ages. I feel like I should do some superstitious thing to ward it off every time I mention it.

Why can we not solve this? Why does cancer still almost totally mystify us? We have three different pills to give a man an erection, we implant fat into certain areas of the body and siphon it off of others, we can clone things, but we still have cancer. Or it still has us. It stymies us. It has been around for ages and ages, we know how it works, but we don't know why and we don't know how to stop it. With all the advances we've made, we still have NO IDEA how to conquer it. I mean, I understand the arms war of infectious disease. We find a drug, the disease adapts to resist the drug, we come up with a new one, etc. That's an evolutionary process. But cancer has stayed the same in its horrible systematic destruction of the human body, and we are no nearer to discovering a safe, effective way to stop it in its tracks and ensure that it never returns. Yes, we have chemo, and yes, we have radiation, and yes, they work. But somehow I think we can do better than low levels of extrodinarily poisonous substances that kill healthy cells along with cancerous ones. I think we can do better than thowing the baby out with the bathwater, thanks. I think we can do better than a treatment that eventually addles the brains and destroys people who have used it too much. I am watching the descent of a good woman my family knows, as the radiation works its way out of her brain, like worms coming to the surface of the skin. It's awful. She's a shadow of the woman she once was, sometimes she cannot stand for the shaking in her body, sometimes you can't understand her speech, sometimes she forgets where she is.

We can do better than treatments like this. We have to.

Two turtledoves

2008-12-26T21:35:00.000-08:00

One of the more interesting Christmases of recent memory...long lost portions of the family returning, an unsuitable ex-fiance-turned-boyfriend reappearing on the scene (and no real opportunity to shame him, curses), a friend of a cousin who is without family of any kind and thus without a place to be at Christmas (a perfect gentleman), and my super awesome Japanese great aunt. All in one house. Fun, but draining.

Still moving through the grief. At least I know what it is and can honor it, instead of fighting it and making it into something it's not. It's the time of year when I do things like that.

The space is different, more empty and open. But it's good...steady. Must practice more. Seriously. And have a good long sit down with SW, since the two of us are thinking along the same lines. But I often think about the summer and Too Far to Walk Opera/Aria Bizarria, and smile in excitement and anticipation. How satisfying to think about that and NOT the Jenufa that's looking more and more like a black hole of death every day. One of the title roles dropped (not surprising, but still a major blow), so that makes at least SIX that have withdrawn from the engagement. This is what happens when A) an academic director doesn't cast according to the singers available, B)the faculty is too chickenshit to stand up to terrible directorial notions, and C)there is no dedicated music director to side with the singers (just the conductor whose swollen head is too full of glorious visions of his orchestra playing the score, which will completely drown the singers into oblivion.) Someone could really get hurt here, and no one gives out medals for martyring yourself to a director while still in school and blowing your voice to smithereens for the sake of stage experience.

Anyways. Robot love gives me faith for love in general.

Soiree tomorrow evening. No idea what I'm wearing.

down the stretch

2008-12-12T16:05:00.000-08:00

Just a little further. Just a little more and I'm done. Just a little more dealing with stupidity, myopic views, and self-righteousness. Last one, last classes, and a cool recital. Oral exams, and a Masters degree. Yusssss.

Grief is odd. I always thought I knew what it was and where it came from, but sometimes it's not as clear. After doing some grounding and processing with J, I now have a better understanding of when it's present. It's so physical, so deep in the body. Once you know that feeling, you always know when you're grieving. It's like finding the appoggiare, once you've got it, you know how it feels and can always recognize it. It's been a long grief, it's moved in and out, and I feel like I'm been in the same phase for awhile. But now I can move to the next one, the one that starts the climb back up.

It's not me. It's not me. It's not me....

still real

2008-11-11T12:15:00.000-08:00

It still doesn't seem real to me. The fact that there has been an enormous sea-change in American politics, and the way we will go forward in the world. I'm sure there were lots of people who had just had enough of Bush's disaster and we're freaked out by Sarah Palin (rightfully so), and weren't entirely sold on Obama. Those were likely the same people who cost us the election in 2004, because they weren't quite ready to embrace The Smart Candidate. But things are grimmer now, people are finally feeling the pinch and are scared for their livlihoods, their homes, their jobs, their health, and their kids. The world does not look very sunny from where a lot of people sit, and they're nervous. And this time, the fear wasn't some bogeyman created by the right wing propaganda machine to scare them into voting for a bunch of fat white men that were looking to take over the world. The fear was finally coming from the right place--from the bad policies and worse logic that got us into all this. And finally, FINALLY everyone saw the difference and voted with their PREFRONTAL CORTEX and NOT THEIR AMYGDALA. Everyone saw that we have a really, really smart guy running for office and remembered that it's really smart people who solve problems. Yussssssss.

It is finally - FINALLY - cool to be smart.

And I got another shot in the arm of togetherness and inclusiveness and a government by and for the people today...with this. Oh, I love this man.

2008-11-10T21:00:00.000-08:00

Done with the show. It feels good and bad in that way that it does: nice to have one's life back but after just hitting a stride in performance mode, it's hard to end it. I feel technically solid in a way that I've never felt before, and got feedback to confirm it. I feel like it's forward motion and influences where I go from here. That's a good thing.

In between great plains there are cracks. Cracks are full of motion, full of instability, and full of rage. They're hard to live in, few life-forms can. They're hard to predict, and move to their own accord. The best we all can to is try o live with them and not manage them, because they can't be managed and anger is absolutely pointless: lava flows whether or not you argue with it.

How far does one go before one gets sucked into lighthouse abuse? She has had the most horrific things happen to her; I've only heard about them in melodramatic films. And she hurts even more now...but the first move towards self-love and acceptance and renewal is the purge of toxicity from one's life. N and D, GET OUT.

Oooooo, Rahm Emanuel. I think I like you.

Oh, my.

2008-11-05T00:04:00.000-08:00

It's 2 in the morning. I have a dress rehearsal tomorrow. Very few things can keep me from self-preservation performance mode. But this is one of them: the most historical election of my generation.

There are few things in life to match the feeling of being part of something bigger than yourself. To know that your dreams are possible, and that so many people believe the same thing: that we are in this together, that we have the privilege and responsibility to help one another when we can, and to work for a better future. We can trust one another, and we are bound by what we have in common.

There are not red states and blue states, there are THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

And I have never been prouder of them. YES. WE. CAN. And we did. And what's more (and what's BETTER), we will. All of us, together. It's so beautiful. Feel the hope, everyone. There will be work to do in the days ahead. But tonight, just bask in the hope and remember that what we dream is POSSIBLE because we all are part of this, together.

2008-11-02T15:39:00.000-08:00

Here's the latest batch of things that I'm planning to acquire/visit/experience/learn about. After telling my friend T about the elephants, he just looked at me blankly and said, "You've lost your goddamn mind."

Ah well. I'll admit that some (most?) of these are long-term goals, and will require time, patience, and my own living space. Or a very tolerant landlord.

1. Acquire a hive and learn the art of beekeeping.

2. Research and obtain a house rabbit...preferably a gigantic sand-colored one and name it Moses.

3. Find a perfect space for the gorgeous bamboo aviary I've been lusting after for months, and house a pair of spice finches.

4. Watch the elephants paint.

5. Care for the aging elephants for a week or more.

6. Have breakfast with giraffes at Giraffe Manor.

7. Visit Tsavo, where Patterson hunted the maneating lions.

8. Learn more about SCUBA diving, so I can visit the great marine ecosystems of the world.

9. See Machu Picchu, and the Atacara desert in Chile.

That's all I can think of for the moment. I am seriously going to get to work on raising funds for some of those treks. Particularly to Thailand.

And another thing

2008-10-21T21:21:00.000-07:00

Those women you said were from N.O.W.? Yeah, I'm thinking that's a big fucking lie.

Don't make me use the C-word, Sarah. I don't like it. But I will if I have to.

Go away. Just GO.

2008-10-21T20:37:00.000-07:00

God I hate this woman. I haaaaaate this woman. This is a woman who throws gravel into the slowly turning gears that power the rise of women in this country. Just because you have a uterus, Ms. Palin, doesn't mean you empathize AT ALL with feminism.

Now, I believe that feminism is something white straight men do not understand. They can pretend that they are feminists, but at the end of the day, the have to recognize that feminism is a threat to their place atop the hierarchal structure that suits their purpose so well. Some of them are even smart enough to grasp that if women run the show, a strict hierarchal, pyramidal power structure isn't in place at all. Intelligent, progressive women are not fond of pyramidal power structures.

But the game changes when a man has a concept of Other. Men who aren't white, men who aren't straight, even men who aren't Christian have a better idea of how that feels than WASPs ever could. Men like Barack Obama. Which is why I'm prepared to say that Barack knows more about feminism and has a deeper appreciation for it than Sarah Palin. She is totally Stockholm syndrome--sympathizing with the captors. She's that bubble-gum feminism that makes my teeth hurt (and makes me want to liberate her teeth from her jaw and let some daylight into her Crest Whitestrips grin.) It's that double standard that says women can be objectified and be empowered simultaneouly. It's the brand of feminism that says women are capable of all things, which includes life as fashion models and pop stars, as if that is somehow equal to being the POTUS or a Supreme Court justice or a CEO of their own corporation. It's the feminism of Britney, the Spice Girls, and Ann Coulter. These women are OK with an image-obsessed culture and thing plastic surgery is just fine, thanks. One problem: this is male feminism.

I'll give them credit, the mysogenists in this country were clever. They realized that they couldn't bring down the empowerment of women, too much was already in motion. So they changed tactics and decided to mold the movement into something they could use. And at the root was sexual expression. The notion of women having sex like men had been doing for ages, without repercussion, seems like a victory. For the men. Women get to have sex with more partners, in more places, and don't need to feel obliged to have emotional attachment. They can hit and run, ad they're no longer whores, they're empowered. Because isn't that what feminism is, achieveing that which men already have achieved? Maybe if you're talking about wages and other strictly quantitative measures. feminism is about the acceptance of female systems, female thought, and female practices as legitimate and valid. It's not about getting to do what the boys do. Because who the fuck would want that?! Women don't want to expand the empire and we don't want to fuck like men. It's a different system, and damn if I'm going to be suckered into thinking that WASP sex is the sort that satisfies me. But some women have drunk the kool-aid, which makes it that much harder to get everyone on the same page and use the right language to express the real issues.

And Sarah Palin is a sterling example. Ignorant, naive, and male feminist to boot. Honor killings are not a part of Islam. Go talk to a Muslim woman about it. I did. And yeah, Barack didn't pick Hillary. But you know what? I'm cool with Joe Biden. I think he's a better choice. I don't vote with my uterus and neither do smart women in this country. Speaking of, don't you ever, EVER compare yourself with Hillary Clinton. You are not fit to be her secretary, much less think you can command ANY of the women who supported her.

Why don't you head back to Alaska and be a hockey mom. Take care of your disastrous family and get ready to be a grandma, why don't you.

Boiling over

2008-10-06T13:20:00.000-07:00

I yelled at my director the other day in rehearsal. Well, maybe not yelled. More like spoke clearly, loudly, and with a sort of spitting quality to the words and a really angry look on my face. Not my most prudent moment, or my most professional, or even my most mature. But the situation came up and I just had to take the opportunity while it was there.

The problem with David is that he thinks he's a feminist and he's not, he thinks he's culturally sensitive and he's not, and he thinks he understands the complex dynamics between men and women. (I think four marriages and four divorces are evidence that he doesn't understand that at all.) And on Saturday, all this came to a head for me.

I mean, for starters, I get what he's trying to do with the setting. Updating Britten's 'Rape of Lucretia' from ancient Rome to modern day Iran/Iraq is a choice. But it's so easy, so over-the-top, so tawdry. It's inelegant and so facile for someone like David, who is more sophisticated than that. Or so I thought. But no, the women will be in headscarves and the men in military dress. A commentary on the U.S. occupation of Iraq, so it becomes the U.S. raping the world. Great. Subtle, original, thought-provoking? No. Old, tired, overdone, overstretched, all of it. It's way too easy to do that, and it's...cheap. That's the best thing I can say about it. Cheap. But the bigger problem is that it creates an opera that is NOT about what Britten intended. This is a story about men conquering women because they CAN, and a woman who chose a life for herself (fidelity and chastity, when she could have been a total whore and gotten away with it, because Rome was like that) who had that choice forcibly taken from her, and thus couldn't be restored. This isn't about empire-building any more than rape is about sex.

And this anger started simmering early on in rehearsal, when David was showing us the set model and giving us an idea of what the stage would look like. This led me to ask him for more clarity on the setting, which he danced around...."the Middle East...I don't want to put too fine a point on it..." Yeah, well, there are some fundamental differences going on in the Middle East, and they need to be addressed, particularly if you're doing it in the present time. Are we in Syria? Turkey? Dubai? Iran? Kuwait? Yemen? It's not like it's generic pan-Arabic culture, that is offensive. So he finally said, "Iran/Iraq." As though they're the same place. But I let that go. For now.

Things really came to blows later on, when we were at the scene when Collatinus returns home. David asked our Collatinus (Ben, harmless young kid), why Collatinus comes home at this point in the story. Ben gave some lame-ass generic answer, and David began to probe further..."You are on the front lines of a battle and suddenly you get a telephone call...come home at once." At this point, I realized that David was arguing that the messenger had actually reached Collatinus in the field. And I had to speak up.

"David, are you saying that the messenger reached Collatinus? Because if that's the case, there's some things that don't add up. In the first act, Tarquinius has this epic ride that lasts quite awhile, so we know the journey back to Rome isn't a brief one. And then when I ask Lucia if the messenger has left and I tell her to stop him, we know that he's still in the house. And after only a few moments of me talking to myself, she returns to say that it was too late to stop the messenger, because Collatinus has arrived home. That hardly seems like enough time for the messenger to get to the battle lines, tell Collatinus and have him ride home."

David said yes, but then why did Collatinus come home? And I said because he was afraid of Tarquinius and what was happening at home. That he didn't trust Tarquinius. And David asks, "Does he trust Lucretia?"

I felt my hackles rise. "Why shouldn't he?"

And that was the beginning. "This seems as good a time as any to ask if you think that Lucretia was giving out some sort of signal to Tarquinius. That she wanted this to happen."

And David responded that while she wasn't asking to be raped, and that it certainly doesn't excuse Tarquinius, there is something in her that is unfulfilled. That's why she never tells him directly to get out.

And I said, "So that's the green light, she doesn't point-blank throw him out so it must be OK to rape women."

"Maggie, you're connecting a lot of dots here..."

The man went on to say that there was nothing Lucretia said or did to provoke the rape, but that there was also a lot of ambiguity in the text to suggest that the relationship between Tarquinius and Lucretia is a lot more complicated than it seems. I demanded his proof, and the first bit of text he presented was when Lucretia had just woken to find Tarquinius in her bedroom, he asks what she fears and she says, "You! In the forest of my dreams you have always been the tiger!" To which I responded, "Yes, well, tigers are large, dangerous predators that eat people. Tarquinius is dangerous and Lucretia's always known it, and here's the proof." He talked about the sexual symbolism of the tiger, blah blah blah.

I remained stonily unconvinced, so he trotted out the next bit of evidence, the fact that Lucretia never, during this entire exchange, asked Tarqunius to go. She says, "What you have taken, never can be given!" And Tarquinius counters with, "Would you have given?" and she responds with, "How can I, Tarqunius, since I have given to Collatinus, with whom I am wholly...etc etc." And I shot back that the question is a moot one; it's like some guy asking, "Hey, if you weren't dating him, would you be dating me?" If you're with someone else, it's not an answerable question, it's not one you even entertain, it's a non-issue. But David, like alpha males everywhere, believes that such an answer is evading the question, and thus a loophole to keep pressing the advantage.

I was seething with frustration at this point, when he continued his argument: that Lucretia doesn't order him to go, she begs him to go (I interrupted that perhaps, since it's such an oppressive patriarchal society, she knows that she's already compromised and is terrified about the consequences of throwing the crown prince out of her bedchamber), and then he pointed out how Tarquinus says, "The linnet of your eyes lifts with desire, and the cherries of your liips are wet with wanting..." (couldn't possibly be an egomaniac seeing what he wants to see, could it?!), but I was out of arguments, because I knew if I opened my mouth again I'd accuse him of trying to live vicariously through Tarquinius and being an apologist for rape cleverly disguised as a male feminist, not to mention an abuser of power in his relationships with young women in his casts.

And, of course, the rest of the room was dead quiet, no one backed me up, no one agreed or disagreed or even tried to distract us. I tried to make clear the fact that rape is about power and control, not about desire or sensuality or anything of that nature, but it was just more of David's Hypothesis For All Women:

"I am not saying that Lucretia asked for this. It was a horrible, brutal act of violence. But I do believe that there is something fundamentally unfulfilled in her, something missing from her relationship with Collatinus, and if it had been present, this wouldn't have happened to her."

Just like Don Giovanni, just like Traviata, just like every fucking opera he's done. Women are all sexually repressed creatures, and are unable to express desire in an open, honest way. So the men who come and ravage them, emotionally and physically, are really doing them a favor in the long run, because through their experiences with alpha disasters like Tarqunius and Giovanni, they can transcend their repressed existences and be...free?

I'm so glad I have David Walsh to tell me what's wrong with my inner self. Where would I be without his insight? Naturally I went to Janet and Phil's afterward, where they shared their dinner with me and spent a bunch of time processing the information, poring over the score, and hunting for other takes on the piece. They both ultimately agree with me, as do the rest of my cast (none of whom spoke up, the cowards). So at least I'm not crazy.

One week following, the man sat down with each cast in rehearsal, and there was a discussion about these same issues. However, if I had been hoping for greater clarification or some slight change in philosophy, I was disappointed. It was just the same points wrapped up rather more neatly than they had been the other day, when he was just desperately defending himself from the salvos I was delivering from across the room. Highlights from that particular day include his assertion that this opera is all about desire and what is permissible for desire in women; Lucretia is a virgin; Lucretia is pregnant with Tarquinius's child. How David can be certain about preganacy less than six hours after supposed loss of virginity is unclear.

But I didn't lose my temper, and even developed a poker face throughout the whole ridiculous exchange. And went on the record as doubtful (at best) about the cultural sensitivity ofthe piece, as well as the setting--I expressed my concerns that it would be viewed as a political commentary, which would overshadow the effectiveness of the piece in general.

It's all I can do. That, and encourage people to see the show...and give honest feedback.

resume the ridiculous

2008-08-28T13:42:00.000-07:00

Task for fall: ignore the U. Ignore megalomaniacs that makes life difficult in rehearsals. Ignore unsolicited advice. Ignore the 'need' to learn obscene amounts of repertoire. Ignore the paces of others. Ignore drama. Ignore one-upmanship. Ignore underhanded, destructive feedback. Ignore, ignore, ignore.

There are very few colleagues there. There are almost no allies. Do what you do and leave it there. Practice at home so at least that can remain yours. Your process is not that of the practice rooms. It's better at home. The bullshit cannot follow into your own work. So let it stay at school.

The glass self will be very useful. Put it on as soon as you leave the house.

There's really no need to waste any time with people who don't get you. Some of them will at some point, some of them can't at the moment, and a whole lot of them never will. And you don't need anything from them, so just exist with them for awhile and let them be ridiculous like they are.

It was ME this time

2008-07-30T09:11:00.000-07:00

What a summer for learning. It has been so beautiful, probably because I didn't attach any giant expectations to it. Maybe that's the secret--being where you are, living in yout own rhythms, and not apologizing for it. Apart from the massive amounts of vocal growth and the continuing, unwavering enthusiasm for practicing (!!!), the biggest lesson has been the discovery of my pace.

I am not a fast-paced person. I like to do things slowly, with time to reflect and to process. Growing up in a classic Midwestern work-ethic household, it's incredible that I escaped that influence at all, and I'm pleased that I've made such progress. And I used to think I was just lazy, but I don't think that's the case. I have made ENORMOUS progress this summer as a singer, I have transformed a dozen different yards, and learned the bulk of the opera for the fall. These are not the hallmarks of a lazy person. I accomplish a lot, and love my life and have so much more creative energy if I just travel in my own orbit and don't get sucked into the frenzied energy of everyone around me. There is simply no need to be busy all the time. And I'm learning to cut back if I've overstepped. I say no to things. At night, when I'm lying in bed, I say, "OK brain, you have had the run of the show for most of the day. Body, what do YOU want to do?" And the body answers slowly and quietly that it wants to rest. And it does, taking my mind with it. J is right--all the things the universe puts in my path are about listening to my body. It's always about that, for all of us, I think.

On a different note, I was at the game last night, as the benefactor of unused seats at K's office, and not only did we beat the White Sox (coming from behind, always a triumph), not only were we sitting next to the world's best baseball enthusiasts: nerdy guys, little boys, and sweet old ladies that keep score on CLIPBOARDS, but in the eighth inning, my man Brendan Harris steps up to the plate. I like this kid. He's fast and solid in the field, not too bad at the plate, and he wears his socks the right way. When he's playing short, he just looks so damn competent. It's like I can trust the middle infield again, which hasn't been the case for awhile. You see him start to crouch, and if there's a runner on first, he'll hold his glove up and deftly signal to the second baseman, and just like that, you know the DP is taken care of. No doubts about who's going where on a grounder up the middle. It only takes a moment but it makes me feel safe, just before he dips down into a springy, energetic squat, ready to move in any direction. Watching a plucky shortstop makes you think anything is possible.

Like when that same shortstop steps to the plate, and you're sitting up and off slightly to the first base side, with your glove in hand, because that's where the foul balls come when a righty is in the box. And on an 0-1 pitch, he swings and it sails high up behind the plate, in this huge, tall arc, before plummeting back down again, and then your standing and reaching your glove up and leaning back and jumping and you feel yourself crash into some people but you don't flinch and when it's all over you look down and THERE THE BALL IS IN THE CENTER OF YOUR GLOVE. And you hold it up like you've made the final out of a no-hitter and everyone around you cheers, even (or especially) the jolly guy behind you whose beer you spilled in the effort. You sit down and let the fact that YOU CAUGHT IT sink in, the fact that you brought a glove to the game every time as a kid, hoping maybe a ball would sail your way, because by golly, you were ready and you'd catch it, no matter how hard it was hit or how fast it was coming. And now you've done just that--you've always wanted to, and may never get another chance again, but it doesn't matter, because YOU CAUGHT THIS ONE. There's a big bruise on it from the massive cut Brendan Harris took at it, and you try to imagine how hard it must have been smacked to reach you. It was meant to happen: your favorite player on the team, the fact that you brought your glove (something you haven't done in at least a decade), and the serendipitous and generous free tickets. It all lined up to a chance, and you didn't drop it, or wince, or duck, you stood up, jumped, and caught it. Kind of like the summer. You haven't planned for anything, you haven't come with expectation, you've just shown up and let it happen. And you've gotten something equally marvelous: time with your most beloved friends, lots of self-awareness, and a reaffirmation that you can do things on your own terms. That might be even better than the baseball.

smoke and mirrors

2008-06-13T13:38:00.001-07:00

I was right. I WAS FUCKING RIGHT.

This is not a triumph. This is a disappointment. Disillusionment. Most of all, I am filled with the rage of unfairness, subjectivity, and the disgusting blindness of men in power.

I expected better. I stayed here for the wisdom, genius, and knowledge that I could glean. More than that, I refused to buy into the rumor mill, the gossip, the slander. Sure, there had been a relationship, but it was long ago, with a phenomenal woman. And she was, after all, an incredible performer. I could see the bedazzlement, but I could also see the logic. She was very apt, it couldn't have simply been a muse fantasy.

Wrong.

She is incredible, that much is true. She's a delight to watch onstage. But now there are others, who operate continually at the height of selfishness and naiveté, and they are getting the same treatment: shows picked specifically for them, extra time with coaches to help them through, and rehearsals free of well-deserved reprimands. The injustice is staggering. If I have to share the stage one more time with someone so abysmally foolish, I may take matters into my own hands and leave rehearsal when she is ruining it and wasting my time.

And him. Oh, the horror. This man, who continually espouses his desire to help the entire world--writing letters to Congress urging universal health care, doing everything possible to live a life that promotes the welfare of the planet and preserves it for others, and all the rest of it. This is the same man who spent a four-hour trek saying not only these things, but passionately declaring his yearning for an artistic community like that of Brecht and Weill. "Where are those people?? I want to find them and be in their circle forever!"

Passion for art is all very well, but when it turns to blind self-gratification at the expense of the art and the artists, well, we have a problem. I learned so much from the man--I am more comfortable onstage than I have EVER been. I have a feel for movement on the stage, I know which details to stress and which to ignore, I now think so much is possible and believe in my ability to do it, and I know I owe it to him. And to know now the depths to which he will sink...I am disgusted. I am sickened. And I can't quite shake the nagging feeling that I was somewhere on the list of potential muses for him. But I take quiet triumph in rejecting that advance (if indeed that was the case), which could have easily turned into another C situation (but worse.)

So now I have to decide on a course of action. Do I address it now or later? Do I address it at all? I can't not address it, because then I'd be no better than him. Part of me feels I should withdraw from the shows in protest altogether, that working for him is perpetuation of the problem. But (I hope this is a reasonable argument and not just rationalization), I then realize that to deny the shows is to deny the only part of him that I can still respect--his ability to make me a better performer, which he can undoubtedly do. The hardened, cynical part of me thinks I should learn how to cope with such iniquity in my field, seeing as it's rampant, but really, should I? To acquiesce is to permit further outrage, it seems. But then again, such is the subjectivity of art (who knows what the hell is 'good?'), that it is impossible to always know if agendas are at play, or if feelings are indeed honest in the choices that are made.

So what is to be done about such a disturbing situation? formal complaints to the U of M? A sit down with the perpetrator of bullshit casting? Direct, dramatic confrontation of the stupid betch in rehearsal, speaking for the silent majority of people who are sick of her shit? (That last one has its merits, I have to admit.) I don't know. I really don't. The only thing I DO know is that this will not go unremarked upon...happily, I still have my principles and I must stand by them. That will be remarkably unpleasant, but it will have to be done.

2008-05-28T14:04:00.000-07:00

So I'm no longer afraid of New York. Maybe it's because I was with my friends, some of whom have lived there and know it well and shepherded us around with ease. Maybe it's because I was staying on Long Island with said friends, where there are trees and grass and gardens and the mind-numbing rumble of the city is absent. It was filled with hilarity and dazzlements and really really good food (no one does food like the Jews.)

And I left reluctantly, wanting to stay and drink in more of that city, see and taste and smell and listen. I made new friends and new contacts, and reinforced those I already had.

The most interesting thing is how I think of J. He's the sort of person that I usually am very fond of and only occasionally drives me nuts. I can now dismiss the times when he is brusque and know-it-all, because I know it's the front he puts up. He's on the very short list of men I trust, he listens well and is perceptive. He's funny in a dry sort of way, and I've learned to read when he is intimidated (something he'll never admit.) On the whole, he turned into one of my new favorite people over the course of the trip. I don't feel any romantic tension, just that glow of mutual admiration and respect, which is so lovely. And I think this time, I can actually trust it. Which isn't to say I won't have a weather eye out for signs things are brewing...I've ignored those signs to my own peril before. But I've learned, and am determined to keep this a good friendship that can be counted upon. Those are worth a lot.

Moving tomorrow, new space, new dynamics. But now, it's time to sing and swim. I miss school.

patience is a form of action

2008-04-24T10:57:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting and watching. I have remembered that all is process, which keeps me from driving myself into the ground and/or losing sleep and sanity over that which I cannot control or influence. My own work is enough to be going on with.

But I'm also keeping an eye on some heavy weather that might be brewing to the west...there's something amiss, something shifting. It's evolving and moving, and (I just typed 'loving' by accident and maybe that's part of it too) for a change I am taking my time with it, instead of charging headlong towards it with the need to fix fix fix at once. Either it will work itself out, or it will be taken apart and examined in due course.

The dual nature of things is sometimes invisible, but it's always there. And it's not really a choice: you accept one, you accept them both. All we really can do is try our best to keep remembering that--for ourselves and for those we love.

I officially hate Natalie Dessay

2008-04-09T10:51:00.000-07:00

Shut up, Natalie Dessay. Just shut up.

I had enough trouble with your Lucia at the Met, and I really roll my eyes when everyone gushes about your big acting chops and how you'd been an actress for ten years before you started doing opera. But after reading your latest blunt, borderline arrogant and rude interview in Gramaphone, I officially want to tape your mouth shut.

You want to revolutionize opera, do you? I agree that a shake-up is due. And I'll even agree that a lot of it has to do with a need for more and better dramatic choices. Singers do indeed need to be responsible for the text the sing and knowing its dramatic function. That is indeed imperative. But what YOU are talking about, Ms. Dessay, is DECONSTRUCTION, not REVOLUTION. Because opera is not a pure form; its blend of music and text is both its greatest strength and greatest weakness. It's why music directors and stage directors end up wanting to kill each other all the time. It's the flux that keeps the form a living, evolving organism. It's a problem that will never be solved.

But you have this weird attitude that the voice is not that important in opera--and whatever else opera is, the voice is its main vehicle, for both the music AND the action, so I'm sorry, but you have GOT to have competant singers up there. "I spend a lot of time with singers, and yet I don't think it's right that voices are considered to be the most important thing." First of all, stop referring to singers as though you aren't one. It's like you feel you need to apologize for being one. It's like you have some sort of sneering contempt for singers, so much so that you don't even admit to a voice type--you like to be 'an actor who sings.' As though you just sort of casually sing the coloratura for the Queen of the Night or Lucia or something. Give me a fucking break--you know how many people slave and work and audition and cry at night, trying to develop half the gift you were born with? Stop treating it as though it's beneath you. You keep working in opera, and you keep on singing, so you must have some sort of love for the work, or are you just enduring the packed houses and the glowing reviews until you can engineer total dominion of the form? You're either in or out, sister. And someone who makes so much fucking money as a singer had better not bite the hand that feeds her.

Homegirl, you need some Wesley Balk, because for all your smug knowledge of opera, what you fail to understand is that it's NOT like theater. Straight theater methods do NOT WORK for opera, because there are things like repeated text and manipulation of time, all sorts of unrealistic things that are fundamentally part of opera but NEVER happen in the realism-based theater world. So get over THAT, please, and perhaps consider a new set of tools for this form. Why do yo uthink singers come into the professional world without a clue of how to do the work? Because NO ONE TEACHES US. We learn to sing from voice teachers, we learn diction from language specialists ("For example, it's not right that singers are allowed and even encouraged to perform works in languages they don't speak." Oh really? So I shouldn't sing Mozart, then. Or Verdi. Or Puccini, Weill, Bizet, Beethoven, Donizetti, Rossini...and how fluent are YOU in Italian, German, and English? And Russian, if you want to do Prokofiev, or Shostakovich? Do you turn down the Met if they're doing Lady MacBeth of Mtsenk because you don't speak Russian? You should if you're not a filthy hypocrite.

We're not done here, Ms. Dessay, but I need to catch a bus.

good good

2008-02-28T15:00:00.000-08:00

Well, I created a mess and cleaned it up.

I had a watered-down version of late June occur the other night, and while it was fun at the time (and in some ways necessary and triumphant in terms of parts of me returning that had been noticeably absent for awhile), it had consequences. And by a few days from the event, I was starting to feel them. And even more frightening, I was feeling myself sliding back towards that horrid place, the place where control feels like it's sliding away and I want to hunker.

But the boards are over the pit, and they're strong. JB was right...they are very strong, even if I don't think they are. Today is proof. I am proud.

And I overcame my apparent love for drama enough to have a grown-up interaction and get some closure. Yay.

work it out

2008-02-20T14:14:00.000-08:00

So I will never ever EVER be David Walsh's opera TA. Never.

NEVER.

The man is unreasonable beyond belief, and we've already established that too much of him is very unhealthy. So if and when he asks me, the answer will be NO. N-O. And I have the sneaking suspicion that he will ask me, because he likes me (still not sure exactly what capacity), but knowing what I know, from a vast array of people, it is something I will not do.

But at least I am affirmed in knowing my shit, espeically seeing that lots of people around me do not. It's not schadenfreude, really, just reaffirming that I had things waaaaaay more in hand than I thought. Especially because it seems I'm the only one who has translated and learned my music and text effectively enough to make it read on a stage. It's not that I like seeing my peers struggle and whatnot, but at least I'm vindicated for my feelings of overwhelmedness last semester. I felt like I was going to lose my mind, but it was because I was doing at least as much (if not more) than the rest of them.

*end childish sneering*

redemption

2008-02-17T14:01:00.000-08:00

Soooo pleased with myself. Have navigated my way out of a massive pit, and while it's still terrifying to realize that I have that part of me and was totally ignorant of it until now, I am finally starting to entertain the notion that I am triumphant and have survived something. I have myself to thank for the upward struggle that has taken me the better part of two months to fully appreciate. So that's pretty satisfying.

It's nice to have energy and enthusiasm and persistance and gutsiness and sauciness and sensuality again. It's nice to take on projects with gusto, to be confident in my work, and feel the rewarding respect of others. It's also nice to not give a shit about the opinions that don't matter. It's really great to not feel so trapped and so stupid and so lost. It's great to just do what's in front of me and stop flagellating myself over questions that have no answers.

That, and it's great to feel strong. It's great to have the ritual of going to the pool, swimming a mile (a MILE!) and feel so competant. It's great to love the look and feel of one's own body, and marvel at the things it can do. And it's really good to have a hot shower, and bathe in Palmer's Cocoa Butter to save the skin from the relentless, drying chlorine. Mmmmmm.

Beethoven and Stravinsky knew about redemption. They understood second chances and triumph over demons. Makes me glad I get to listen to them.

You Can't Be Serious

2008-01-30T09:27:00.000-08:00

"Where does the courage come from? Where does the terrible faith come from?...Strange things happen to them, some bitterly cruel and some so beautiful that the faith is refired forever." --John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath

I am a strong woman. I just finished the most intense semester of my life, including two major roles in operas, as well as a set of songs with my teacher and the New Music Ensemble (in Polish, a language I know nothing about), and over break I was first an insomniac and then a neurotic and then a very scared and depressed girl who was planning on quitting school to do I don't know what, and now am into my second semester which is involving two MORE roles in the opera, as well as class, my church job, and (most signifcantly) continuing navigation through a major depressive breakdown (though that seems to be somewhat in hand, thanks to a great many people on my team.)

However. It seems the universe is trying to test me, yet again, as I get the phone call yesterday to discover what is the most horrifying chapter yet in this fucking gong show of an offseason: Johan Santana, at long last, is truly leaving us forever.

Do not sneer at me. Do not scoff and tell me it was a matter of time. And for fuck's sake, if you gloat, your laughter will die one your lips because I will rip you apart in a towering rage. I am not stupid. I know how the world works. But I am also an idealist, a socialist, and a romantic, so I think I am allowed to feel deep and terrible shock at the loss of Johan Santana. Being a Twins fan (and a baseball fan in general), I have learned to live on audacious, irrational, and totally illogical hope. With the dawn of each Opening Day, I wake with the optimism of a six-year-old, because I believe that all things really ARE possible, because that's been TRUE for the past few years, despite the sneering and scoffing of the rest of the baseball world. After the darkness of the mid to late 90s, the Twins blossomed into that most beautiful of creatures: a mostly homegrown team, scrappy and hard-working and without drama, without a big payroll and big egos, who pitch well and play defense and hustle, and WIN. With this team, I could forget all the other bullshit that breaks my heart in baseball. The ruthless capitalism that makes my socialist heart quake with rage and injustice. Baseball has turned into a big, slimy business and I hate that part of it. But since the free agency was (and is) of little to no consequence for us, I could pretty much ignore that part of it and just delight in the relative purity of the soprt, without things like bottom line and profit and all the rest of that horseshit that should have NOTHING TO DO with the game.

Which leads me to my current state of mind: I am looking, desperately, for someone to vent my spleen upon. (Sad, because right now my debate skills simply aren't as sharp, which will return but at the moment is a confounded nuisence.) Bill Smith has officially become the object of my full, unforgiving hatred; undeserving of my trust. He was handed a difficult situation, yes, but has made some of the largest errors I've ever seen anyone make. I will never forgive him for getting rid of the best pitcher in the universe and getting pretty much nothing in return. 'Oh, surely not NOTHING,' you scoff. 'Surely these young players will develop into something we can use.'

Let's see what we've gotten, for the man who won two Cy Youngs in the past three years, with his best pitching years still ahead of him.

First, let's remember that NONE of these were the top prosepcts for the Mets. The closest we got was #2. And his name is Chris Gomez, apparently, who started the year in A ball and ended up starting 20 games in the show. (A ball to the majors in one season, a la Nuke LaLoosh? Sounds like a stupid idea.) Apparently he's fast, good in center, hits for average at the moment because he doesn't get his lower half into his swing.

Then we have the 25-year-old Phil Humbar, who was the 3rd pick overall once upon a time, and has already had the Tommy John (great. I'm sorry, but am I the only one who's not thrilled when pitchers have to have Tommy John surgery by age 25? Am I?) And before he had that surgery, he was projected as a 3 or 4 starter. Will he be able to fill any of the enormous holes in our rotation? Well, he'll compete for a spot, I guess, but beyond that...

And then we have a couple of 'all projection' players. Which translates into 'Russian roulette.' One of these characters is a Mr. Deolis Guerra, who is barely old enough to shave at age 19, and apparently has a changeup to go with his fastball. Whatevs. And then there's Kevin Mulvey, who's not much better at 22, but I guess has four
pitches.

The problem with all this? With the possible exception of Mr. Gomez, NONE OF THESE GUYS ARE READY FOR THE BIG LEAGUES. Thanks to Bill Smith's actions (or non-actions, as the case may be), we now have a gaping hole in center field, a problem at shortstop, and at least two holes in the rotation, possible more. And what we got, for the best pitcher in the universe (and one of the best left-handers of all time) is SOOOOOOOOO unsatisfactory, considering all the desperate questions that need to be answered by April.

And while I'm at it, what, exactly, was so insane about thinking we might KEEP Santana? What was so outlandish about thinking maybe, just maybe, Old Man Pohlad would cough up the cash to have Johan Santana throwing the first pitch in the new stadium in 2010? I mean, we somehow found the change in the couch for Kirby back int he day. And don't give me that whole 'we'd won the World Series' argument.' Yeah, we haven't won since than, but how, exactly, are we supposed to win it if we get RID of the very things that will get us there? It's not exactly a trick question. I think Gina, Jim Caple and I were the only people on the planet who were honestly entertaining that notion, and I don't think we were too insane. Just full of the outlandish, audacious, crazy hope that is the only thing that sustains baseball fans through the ages.

I'm sure I'll add to this horrible rant as more information trickles down, but right now it's just a deep, serious wound, one whose pain cannot fully be felt and will not be totally present until the new season dawns.

...

2008-01-04T09:28:00.000-08:00

Wow. That's all I can say. Wow. I thought age and experience trumped everything. I have never been proved so ridiculously wrong in my life. And I have never been so happy to be wrong. That's all I'm doing today, as I try to get through the IPA and translation of my next show: feeling strangely awake and refreshed, occasionally drowning in flashbacks, and being absurdly pleased to be wrong.

convalescence

2007-12-23T10:48:00.000-08:00

It's too icy for me to seriously contemplate a leisurely trip up to the bookstore I like, and I am tuckered out from being social (for a change), so I am going to look out the window and read books and nap all afternoon. And then I'm going to make meatloaf and potatoes and watch some Christmas movie or other.

I love E.M. Forster. Reading Maurice and can honestly say I haven't been transported by a book like this one in quite awhile. That stifling, suffocating feeling of hiding something from the world, some essential part of yourself, and then having to go through all the motions of form for form's sake that Britain was and is so fond of. The decorum that we seem to find charming over here (because we typically have very little decorum, for better or worse), is a source of constant silent, screaming pain for him. I really love England written by the English. Can't wait to find Passage to India or Room with a View. The British and their love affair with class and station and breeding and all the rest of it, fascinating. How do you ever see who someone really is when it's all wrapped up in that?

Trying very hard not to think too much of the first gentleman to pique my interest in ages. It helps that when I am attracted to someone I've just met, the details of their face suddenly become hard to recall. I can picture everyone else of our party with perfect clarity, and this one...no. He was satisfyingly tall, wearing a dusky shade of orange, and (this is odd) I remember he had lovely eyes that were part kindness and part sexy, and they crinkled at the corners when he smiled, which was often. And it was a lovely smile. But why can't I put his face back together in my brain? Parts of it just swim around, nebulous, and never quite assemble themselves in the way they should. Maybe it's a defense mechanism on my part. Or maybe it's a gentle reminder from the universe that the distraction is not appropriate right now, the timing is bad (I'm up to my eyes in my work and he currently lives in Grenada and then who the fuck knows, once he gets his residency). It would be best to push him to the back of my mind for some other season. But then I remember how he liked talking politics and philosophy, and how he bantered well and dished my insults right back to me. And how, when I pulled up a stool he rested his feet on the bottom rung and I had to physically stop myself from moving in.

If he wanted to see more of you, he would have said so. He would have brought it up. He didn't. So go finish your book, drink your tea, take a nap, and have done with it. It's not the time.

Prelude to the Winter Meetings

2007-12-03T14:45:00.000-08:00

I feel a little betrayed here.

I mean, I THOUGHT that finalizing plans for a new stadium meant that (despite allocation of taxpayer dollars to a lucrative private venture) we would be able to invest in our team for the future, what with all the dough the new house will rake in. I THOUGHT that if and when Torii left, he'd be part of some big trade and we'd get a handful of the young-and-promising in return. I THOUGHT that when TR stepped down, an in-house promotion meant that things would continue to function essentially as they had been: nurture a strong farm system, maintain status as best scouts in the world, put faith in fundamentals and hard work, and avoid the bullshit of the free agency.

It seems I was mistaken. Or misled.

I mean, what exactly is going on here? When I heard the stadium was being built, I breathed a quiet and guilty sigh of relief. Being a hardcore leftist, I can't honestly say I enjoy watching libraries close and bridges fall down while a billionaire miser and his millionaire employees get shiny new digs. But I am also a hardcore baseball person (which means I will sit outside and not bitch about the weather; everyone managed to enjoy the games without the benefit of climate control until the year 1965) which means that I am pleased to see that our team won't be 86'd anytime soon.

But I was reckoning without Bill Smith, who, it seems, is determined to fuck everything up as quickly as possible. I mean, what has happened here? Torii is LEAVING, which is bad enough in and of itself, seeing as he's the only one with a good sense of wit on the team, a stand-up guy who sets the proper tone for the clubhouse (i.e., work hard, do your job, remember it's not all about you, laugh a bit, and don't be a prima donna.) Oh, and he's the best CF in the league and finally discovered how to behave at the plate. And not only do we all have to wistfully sigh as he heads off to join the most annoying team on the left coast, it looks, for all intents and purposes, that we didn't even TRY to sign him. Now. There may be a fine reason for this. I'm not included on the conference calls over there at the HHH Metrodome, but I wouldn't be surprised if there was a good reason involving allocating the resources to one of our other question marks for next season and beyond. But you know something? We've all heard nothing. NOTHING. And to not get a good explanation for watching our star CF leave? That's disquieting. VERY disquieting. It adds to my inkling that Mr. Smith has no idea what he's doing.

So does this: TRADING OUR PITCHERS. Did you learn NOTHING from TR, Mr. Smith? NOTHING???!! We NEVER trade away our pitching talent, because, in case you haven't been paying attention for the last six or seven years, THAT'S HOW WE WIN. Good pitching beats good hitting. EVERYONE KNOWS THAT. So could you please explain what the meaning is of trading away not ONLY one of our most promising young starters, but one of our dependable relievers as well? In exchange for WHAT? A bat. Right. We all know how this script goes. Twins beat brains out in offseason trying to find a Big Bat. Twins sign several unlikely candidates. Candidates are abysmal throughout season, leading to their jettison from team, while team combines pitching, defense, and small ball to finish well despite no Big Bat. How long is it going to take for us to learn this lesson? I mean, even TR, who I will defend even MORE vigorously now that he's gone, got sucked into the hunt for a good DH. Who the fuck cares? I mean, yeah, it would be nice to have a guy on the bench who can reliably put the ball in play, but we've managed to win the division four out of the last six years WITHOUT such a creature. Is it just some male obsession with the aggressive violence of offense? Are the more passive pursuits of pitching and defense simply too much of an anticlimax for the testosterone crowd? Because I'll tell you something, only the witless, the drunks, and the uninterested forced attendees of baseball games sit in the stands and continuously pray for homers, no matter WHAT the situation on the field.

I had hoped Mr. Smith would respond to the tutelage of TR by continuing his fine, subtle work in scouting and the farm system. There has been something so satisfying about watching our success and knowing that it's been the product of YEARS of intelligent, patient planning. Of faith in young guys, of doing the work the old-school way, instead of becoming part of that money-fueled hydra, the free agency. It's not like we had that many choices anyways, since Carl Pohlad is still running the show. But whatever has made it happen, I am loving the way our team runs. It's organic, it's hopeful, it's without the jaded business end of things. Guys move all the way up in our system, and that's pretty special. I mean, you start in the Yankee farm system, where are you going to end up? Fuck only knows. Not here. Here we have faith in the guys we scout and train, and they come up together and have a connection.

And Bill, if you fuck with that, I will personally visit your office and tell you where you are going wrong. If I need to bring along my nicked up Louisville Slugger, I will. Because if you'd ever watched Spiderman in your life, you'd understand that with great power comes great responsibility, and the moment you forget your responsibility is the moment someone shows up to help you remember.

Choices, choices

2007-11-25T19:30:00.000-08:00

Oh, Torii. I miss you already. Baseball, like all the great loves of my life, breaks my heart yet again.

I am reading about Verdi, and I feel as though I'm the only one who doesn't understand why he is so controversial. I mean, Wagner was an extremist (and ridiculous to boot), but I just don't know enough about Verdi yet to formulate an opinion. Ah well, that's why I'm at school. Happily I have Peter to ask about this, who never makes me feel like an idiot. He would make an awesome uncle.

The Democratic candidates make me mad. All of them. Hillary is not the woman I want for the first female leader of the nation. Barack said it was OK to invade Pakistan and refuses to call gay marriage by name. John Edwards has the best global warming policy I've seen, but he still buys into ethanol (big mistake), and 'clean' coal (bigger mistake.) But he's the only one willing to talk about universal health care, poverty here and abroad, genocide not only in Darfur but Uganda as well, and a whole lot of other shit not covered by Obama and Hill. Edwards is still my guy.

I had a lovely chat with Marcus today. He's so well spoken for one so young. Saw someone else today and was seized with the impulse to chat with him as well. I resisted. So did he. It was good. But part of me wants to tell of my success this fall. I feel I'm beyond the madness of June. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that you can't see it while you're in it, whatever it is. On the far side, it all becomes clear, but in the midst of it, you cannot see where you are or where you're headed. But I don't know if I am on the far side, or if I've simply dived into something else that creates the illusion of being beyond him and all his hypnotic pull and danger.

Like right now, I know I'm learning a lot. I know what growth feels like--whirlwind, pain, fatigue, and a bit of exhilaration here and there. But I think much of the growth prior to now wasn't as deep as what I have now. I am coming through this with less trumpeting of my own triumph and more quiet grace. I have less cocksure shine to me and more thoughtful lapses of silence while I work out exactly what I want to say. I'm a bit more cautious. Real growth, the kind that changes you and means something, brings out this trait, I think. It's the sort of maturity that reminds one how little one truly knows at age 24, and how one should act with appropriate humility, and above all, listen.

Most importantly, avoid the illusion of entrapment. There is no oppression anywhere here. The world is still nothing but possibility, you have many things that delight you, and any one of them can be pursued. You are pursuing one intently, but that is not to say you won't pursue others. You are not a one-dimensional creature, you never have been. Luxuriate in that. There is nothing but choice. And there is no right or wrong. It's all just a choice, as it always has been. You just didn't really know it till a few months ago.

whew...

2007-11-05T21:40:00.000-08:00

Another moment of clarity.

This is great work. Tech week sucks, it always does. And so does that horrid feeling that you aren't ready and never will be and when you open your mouth no sound will even come out and you'll just collapse on the stage or fall intot he pit or something. (This is a new nightmare for me, can't say I'm a fan.)

But lo and behold, I come into tech and work like a dog and figure things out, like you always do, and it's stressful and everything, but everyone more or less figures things out (a job I would never, EVER want, stage managers have my utmost respect and pity) and you know what you're up against and everything works out in the end. One way or another. David inspires and exasperates me. How anyone can keep something like this running is utterly beyond me. No idea.

An audience is still mildly scary, but at least I'm finally taking things in their proper order; I can now organize things the way they need to be organized, I know what to do with all my things, I know my music (and have reaffirmed that I know how to sing, always a good feeling), and my blocking is in my bones and only needs that little bit of tweaking that happens when one gets on the stage. My sense of space needs to improve, as does my sense of my place in overall visual effect. I wish we had more time to do it, but unfortunately it's already dress.

Very, very glad I am the later of the two shows; we can use that much more rehearsal on this piece. It feels moderately insane. One week in the theater is not enough. I suppose it's all part of getting used to challenging working conditions. More to postmortem before the next show.

Reaffirm: This is work I like. I am good at it. I work hard and will not suck when I open on Friday. It will come out fine, and show me what I'm made of. And everyone else too.

SCREAM

2007-10-29T19:04:00.000-07:00

Since roughly three people know about this blog, and none of them are my director, I can say this. I can document it for posterity.

I am in over my head.

No, wait. I'm fine. If I can just not allow the alligators to get me before I step onto the stage. If I can just stuff the doubt and fear in a box and let it happen, it all flows like it's meant to. But how does one give oneself to the text...to the PERFORMANCE...when there's so much that can go wrong? Just the simple act of putting on a coat, picking up a suitcase, walking across the space. It's all timed, there's so much that can go wrong. SO FUCKING MUCH. It's so hard no to think ahead to the next move, the next line, the next cross, the next scene.

The next show, 15 min after the finish of the first.

God. What was I thinking? Why the hell am I doing this? Am I the only one who thinks this work is insane? It all has to look effortless, when really you're projecting more energy and concentrating harder than you ever have in your entire life.

And then there are times when it seems I will manage it fine. There are times when I feel like it will all work out.

I so desperately want this to be a huge, rousing success. I want to feel at home up there, like nothing can go wrong because it's all easy, effortless, and full of life. I want to sound great above the orchestra, all my words to be heard, intent in every expression, every gesture, every move. I want the character to change with the show, the physicality to progress. I want to be on and present for every motion, and have the audience hanging on my every word. That's what I want. So why does it never happen in rehearsal? Why do I never feel like those things are working? And why the fuck are we getting notes about the hall NOW, when David should have been preparing us for the sort of sound we're going to need in the space FROM THE BEGINNING?

Time to go work some more. On the OTHER show. The transition from one to the next. And none of it matters unless I can do it when it counts.

I should amend that. ALL of it matters because that's what makes it possible for me to do it when it counts.

If I make it through these next weeks alive, it will be a miracle.

Muchness

2007-10-21T20:11:00.000-07:00

So none of the leading presidential candidates for the Dems are against the death penalty. THE DEATH PENALTY. We are, embarrassingly, the last developed nation that still allows capital punishment. As K said, if we are ever going to truly move beyond barbarism, we will get rid of capital punishment. NOW. Thus Mr. Obama has been removed from here as the Real Deal, that's just too disgusting for me. The more I learn about these supposed hopefuls for the next presidency, the more I am convinced that none of them are REALLY the one for me. Oh Mr. Kucinich, if only the rest of the nation were ready for you!!

Home last weekend, very delightful. The rhythms are different, and make the frenzy I live in seem so manageable. K went with, it was perfect. Glad I had it before the mayhem of this week. Am being added to a second show, the week before tech. S-C-A-R-Y. Am going to have to trust that Sins is in an OK place and get the fuck going on learning about Kabuki theater and memorizing a bunch of Italiano. 'Talented people just need to be pushed, indeed.' Herr Director. I am glad to be doing it, but am still confused...what the hell is going on here?

However, while home stumbled across some unsettling photos. Evidence of twenty-four years. It was jarring. Just a little more reinforcement of the need for caution in what I say and how I say it, because it isn't one of those things that the passage of time lessens. But I don't feel oppressed by it anymore, which is good. Time and removal have been good. Just did a little more mental math, and realized a baby was born later that same year. How totally fucked up.

Oh, this again

2007-10-07T20:19:00.000-07:00

So I'm at that point (again) where I am surrounded by people in relationships. And most of them are in GOOD relationships, to boot. This is affirming most of the time and only occasionally disheartening.

The one difference this time around (because this tends to happen quite a lot, I am ever the single girl among couples, comfortably so, but single nonetheless) is that the couples are all gay men. So it's not like I could potentially date any of these people I envy. But all the same, it's mildly aggravating that I have not met anyone in recent memory who could even BEGIN to be that person for me.

I am pleased, however, that this is the first time that I've felt this feeling in a long time. Part of that probably has to do with an intense detoxification process in the latter half of the summer, which kept me away from all men for a good month and a half, and then I cautiously began inviting their presence again. And now I am back to normal, more or less, and realize that I am hunting a counterpart on several levels.

Damn it.

Because a quick fuck would be easy enough to come by, but I don't operate like that (which sometimes I think is unfortunate; on the one hand it would be nice to just be able to satisfy that need and move on with my life). In any case, I can't derive very much satisfaction from someone who doesn't thrill me on a variety of levels. So that course of action is out.

Also not an option--dating just for the sake of dating. Because I could also be in some milquetoast-y sort of relationship with some bland, generically nice guy. The NICE guy. UGH. I've already voiced opinions on nice vs. good, and 'nice' guys are simply not in my bucket. They bore me silly.

What I am looking for, unfortunately, is something unreasonable. I want someone who will make me laugh so hard I cry and argue with me. I want someone who votes the way I do and gets outraged by things in the paper. I want someone who isn't intimidated by me (FOR ONCE), and does his own work, instead of waiting for me to do everything. I want someone who knows how to wear his clothes and likes to cook. I want someone who speaks another language (if not hails from another country entirely). I want someone who likes learning about things, is confident in his own masculinity, and isn't afraid of what other people think of him. I want him confident and compassionate and driven and intelligent. I want to be ridiculously, scarily, outrageously in love with this person. Which is a big admission. Huge, actually. But there it is.

I will have to create him in a lab. Because he does not exist. He never will, at least not in nature. I should get to work on that. Project for next weekend.

In the presence of giants

2007-10-05T22:43:00.000-07:00

Just saw the most inspiring acting performance I've ever seen. And may ever see.

King Lear, at the Guthrie, with Ian McKellen in the title role. IAN MCKELLEN. Got to say hello after as well. I was shaking. He was so beautiful onstage, the text just flowed out of him with perfect ease, and his portrayal of a king's descent into madness was so stunning. So many colors and facets within the character. Breathtaking. Ranting and angry and raving, and then gentle and guileless, like a young child. It was heart-wrenching. And the way he could shift his focus, totally change his motives with such fluidity. Some actors seem to go through this labor when a new thought strikes them, it's like watching something in labor when they have a new thought, then need to proceed along a new line of action. It's almost painful, because it feels like you're three steps ahead of where they are in the course of events. But Sir Ian was always ahead of us, like a madman should be.

Renewed commitment to my own craft. Big time. I could have sat through another four hours, easy. I am so lucky.

And CLICK

2007-09-28T14:56:00.000-07:00

Just like that, everything has fallen into place. Or at least closer. Not that things have gotten miraculously easier, but I've just remembered how it works. My director is still and enigma and I'm not sure he likes me at all. I don't think I'm one of his favorites. It's only annoying because I know who his favorites are and they DON'T reflect his philosophies at all.

And while red-haired Russian guitar players may be off the market, the red-haired guitar players from North Carolina are not. And they seem a bit more accessible of late. Excellent.

Must be careful about how much I say at that school. It's vindictive and a hotbed of gossip. Oh boy, another chance to work on tact. Goody.

Groping

2007-09-26T19:16:00.000-07:00

Brooding, flame-haired Russian pianist: taken. And not a fan of singers, apparently.

Am I the only one who feels overwhelmed by the pace of my life? I feel like I'm not even that busy, comparatively.

(Let's see, first major role of your adult life, with a new director who is full of ideas and a relentless perfectionist, not to mention intimidating and unintentionally sometimes a bit cold. On top of that, three other grad-level courses, lessons, coachings, required recital attendance, studio class, and half a dozen new art songs to get in your voice. A church job, life revolving around the bus system, and a house to sort of keep clean, so at least you can 1) find things and 2) not lose your mind in a clutter-induced spasm. Not to mention you're the only one who keeps track of the bills in your house, and you like to eat real food because processed food is so fucking bad for you, so you have to sort of cook something reasonable every other day or so. And you spent most of the last weekend and the bulk of Monday re-landscaping someone's yard.)

No. Not busy at all.

Welcome to a life of process. Not doing your own work or trying to keep to the pace of others, but simply working your own pace. Your coursework will be OK. It comes together, it always does. One at a time.

Bath, some art song, and a little Magritte. And a good, full night of rest. Empress of Russia retires to her chambers, in the massive bed that is only for her. She is mighty and guarded well, and wakes to a day waiting to do her will.

2007-09-23T14:12:00.000-07:00

So the work I do is hard. FUCKING HARD. But I love it. I have only just realized how much I don't know, but also how much potential I have to learn and improve.

I need distraction. A new one. I've been having the alarming urge to reconnect with the last distraction, and while I don't know much, I know that would be a spectacular mistake. So I wait, looking hopefully at the flame-haired, brooding Russian pianist and the drawling, grinning southern guitar man, neither of whom hold the sort of real fascination for me, but they hold enough to at least draw me away from...others.

I am also getting better at non-reaction. Non-reaction to invalid criticism, non-reaction to frustrating rehearsals, when they occur, and non-reaction to the entitlement issues of others. Good lesson for me. So glad I still can see J sometimes and tell her everything that's happening, and get her take on life.

Totally snarled at one of the bari section leaders today. Couldn't help it. The man is hopelessly insincere and seems to think he has life figured out because he starred in Street Scene last year, he's now married, and studies with that over-dramatic George person. Sorry, buddy, not buying it.

My team has broken my heart this year. Shattered. No more TR, and now we're all staring at a very ugly offseason. Torii, Santana, Morneau...and what about Liriano, what's going to happen there? No one knows anything about anything, but it looks grim. And we also have a really unsatisfying postseason shaping up...the Indians are the most annoying team in the AL Central, the Angels are the West Coast version of the Indians, the Red Sox make me want to throw up, and after delighting me by spending the bulk of the season in the toilet, the Yankees have pissed us all off by making a serious run for the Wild Card. As Dark Star says, that's very unattractive. Honestly, I'm picking an NL team to root for. And it's not going to be the Mets. I want to like the Mets, I really do, but when it comes right down to it, as I found out firsthand the other day, their fans have the same money-produces-results-and-anything-less-than-the-World-Championship-is-not-enough mentality that prevails on the other side of that town. It's like a cancer. The Yankee philosophy has spread to the Red Sox, and now it's working on the Mets. You used to be able to tell the difference between the Yankees and Red Sox, but not anymore. The Mets are next, mark my words.

So that leaves the Cubs (I will not cop to rooting for the Cubs, thank you very much), the Phillies (with their barbaric fans...again, I'm not that desperate), and either the Padres, the Brewers, and the Diamondbacks. Hm. I think I'm going with the D-Backs, because they have Eric Byrnes, whom I love. Yep. I'm pulling for the Diamondbacks this year.

More transformation

2007-09-12T20:42:00.000-07:00

Should be in bed. Am not. Am instead munching on hard-earned hummus and those veggie-flaxseed chips I like (they really are good. Really.) Still feeling mildly mutinous after 1) going to rehearsal at 2:30, despite not being called, with intent of confirming that I was NOT needed, this was confirmed by director, who then proceeded to keep me for two and a half hours anyways...and 2) going to a dance rehearsal where all I did was sit around for the entire two hours. Herr Director. Please.

Rehearsal is still hard, but there is very little of that initial inferiority complex of working with 1) dancers, 2) a cast hat just worked together last spring, and 3) slight differences in attitudes. Thanks to team I can now think of the word MANGE and laugh my head off, if it come to that.

But mostly I am pleased to do my own work, without comparisons. I still don't really know how it works, but I thihk I'm doing just fine in figuring it out. Helps that I can do anything, ANYTHING you want musically. I get what you're asking for and will do what you want as soon as you ask me to change it. The drama is my challenge, but that is what I'm here to learn. The audience will be able to understand my words and it will sound natural and easy and slinky and slidey, like Mr. Weill wanted. James likes me, which makes me happy, and I think Tim does too, which makes life worthwhile. I see J on Friday, which is always good for what ails me.

I do get to strip. Like take my clothes off and dance on a stripper pole. Wow. Nothing like diving right in, right?

Rehearsal

2007-09-05T20:24:00.000-07:00

I am consumed by the desire to do my work and do it well. I think I live on a wavelength that swings wider than some, between absolute, desperate love for this thing I'm doing with my life, and doubts about whether I can and should be doing it at all.

These are the times I have to keep with me when I doubt...the inability to keep my mouth shut in rehearsal when I have some insight or other, the way the show takes shape in my brain as I hear my director's vision, the predatory desire to do the best I possibly can, the need to give and take information on the satge from others, the interaction between all of us, the incomparable intimacy of connecting with another person on a stage, so totally private yet in front of an entire audience. The feel when everything is lined up and there is nothing to derail you from what you are doing. The deep, therapeutic massage of praise from a critical director, and the dogged perseverance when he doesn't like whatever he just saw.

The struggle not to compare yourself with others, positively or negatively, and striving to be all business, even in the face of laziness and lack of commitment.

And underneath it all, the rock-solid RIGHTNESS of portraying human experience on a stage, to make people feel, to make them think, to make them examine their own lives through theater. GENIUS. If I ever thought this lacked merit, I must have been temporarily insane. It wouldn't be the first time. It seems to swirl around me like a cloud at times, in the form of a crazy old voice teacher I'm so glad I don't have guiding me, and an unpleasant surprise from Mensa.

Welcome back, team, from the tropics.

2007-08-19T10:20:00.000-07:00

I noticed him at first because I thought he kind of looked like Andy Pettitte. And I love Andy Pettitte, even if he is a Yankee, and even if he is BFF with Roger 'Asshole' Clemens. He pitches like a demon and looks like a Roman general or something. Put him in Roman regalia and the guy is Marcus Aurelius. So of course, when I saw this creature I had to scrutinize him a little more than usual--and really, I was mistaken; the guy was a bit duck-footed, shorter and slighter, and his eyes were not the big deep wells of inky black. Tragic, really. But what made me think of Pettitte was the authoritative way he moved across the room. I watched with approval from my place in line at the Blockbuster near my house, as I waited with my little stack of cheap used DVD treasures. Now, HERE is a guy who knows his mind, confident, decisive, how refreshing from the wafflers out there in the world! We'll see what he picks, I'm interested to know...

And he whisks right past all the movies and marches straight toward the video game section.

Grown men and video games. Really? REALLY?!! It's so bewildering to me. This is a phenomenon that I will never understand. I will openly stare with mild disgust at a man in his early to mid thirties scouring the Xbox rack at Blockbuster. I will tilt my head to the side and exhale as I try to fathom what the fuck is going ON with that man. It is one thing to play video games while you are an adolescent, and your whole life revolves around your allowance, your homework, and whether or not you're going to get to go to the movies this weekend. And even college is understandable, seeing as college is just another extension of the highly structured home/school life. But when you are out on your own, and have your own health insurance, cook your own food, pay your own rent, and have more than five bucks a week to spend on entertainment (well, maybe, depending on your chosen profession and your loan payments), I don't think I'm crazy in expecting something a bit more enlightened in terms of a recreational choice.

That's the worst of it, I thought as I stared with blatant incredulity. This man is at least seven years older than I am, and given that I am without question at the bottom of the income ladder in this particular neighborhood, chances are good to excellent that this guy is pulling down a good 50 or 60K a year. And what does a man so impossibly rich DO with his time?

I'll tell you what he does. He scans the racks at Blockbuster, and then asks the clerk if they have Halo. (I, of course, have no idea what this game is, only the vague inclination that it probably involves killing people/aliens/zombies.)

Honestly, if I worked at Blockbuster, I would keep a stack of good books behind the counter, and every time some thirtysomething man tried to rent a video game, I would throw the game over my shoulder and give the guy a book instead. I'd give them the same treatment I give to people who don't discipline their monster children who are causing a massive public disruption: if no one else will shame them into changing their behavior, I guess it has to be me.

2007-08-15T22:09:00.000-07:00

Thank God/Goddess/whatever for the people in my life who bring me back. The people who have taught me how to listen to my body and not my brain, the people who remind me that there is all the time in the world, the people who process with me and praise the progress I've made (the learning curve is slow, but it's there), the people who honestly believe that it's all just a choice. Isn't it funny how as soon as you treat everything as valid, all of a sudden things are not as scary as they were before? Not NEARLY so. Like by giving them some legitimacy you take away the power of the things that scared you before. It's amazing. Almost as amazing as the fact that two tablespoons of apple cider vinegar will save you from food poisoning. No lie. When you wake up in the middle of the night and you feel those distinctive knives in your stomach, slowly and surely increasing in intensity, just like they did the last time you ate something odd and it haunted you like a demon for twenty-four hours, you simply down this magic potion (and it is like nothing you've ever swallowed in your life), it will cure you in ten minutes flat. And while some may argue that violent vomiting should be the punishment for someone who recklessly ate a bunch of cookie dough six hours prior, I would first wish food poisoning on THEM, the bastards, and then would tell them that the remedy is not pleasant either, but boy does it work. Even if you do have to rinse your mouth out with baking soda water to make sure the apple cider vinegar doesn't TAKE THE ENAMEL OFF YOUR TEETH. I'm pretty sure it just KILLS EVERYTHING IN YOUR STOMACH, it's such a potent acid, which it mildly frightening, but hey, if it saves me from the salmonella, I'm not complaining. Just make sure that you don't put baking soda in your mouth while the vinegar is still there, lest it start to foam out your mouth in a sizzling acidic froth. Not as fun as it sounds, believe me.

Also. I read something truly glorious recently, something that really warmed me and that I'll keep with me as I bumble my way through this wonderful experiment I'm doing with my life. It was beautifully written, perfectly genuine, and one of the more eloquent things I've seen in a while. Most of all, it was affirming. I am deeply grateful to the author.

2007-08-12T16:30:00.000-07:00

Some days I just want to bathe in my own limitless potential for the rest of my life. Never have to delve too deeply into anything, to confront my own limitations or my own frustrations with anything. If you don't deconstruct things too much, the shine stays on them forever. And you never have to wake up frightened, wondering if you love whatever it is enough to keep doing it.

Yep. No idea who I am.

(The above was written in a moment of despair. The following is written in a moment of release.)

I am listening to Nessun Dorma, and for just a moment I stopped feeling oppressed and just listened. JUST LISTENED. No judgment about what I should or shouldn't know, what I should or shouldn't feel when I listen to this music. It's just beautiful, and Italian and wonderful and all the interconnectedness of music comes back and I don't feel like I'm locked into the fustiness of opera...I really do love it and want to do it and want to learn how to emote onstage and make people empathize with my characters and fall in love and get drawn into their lives. What is it about me that enters these periods of loathing classical music and then feeling guilty about that and then getting drawn into the argument with myself about why I'm doing it? Where the hell does that come from? Why can I not just remember Grapes and how blissful that was and how Sarah and Brandon and I just went out on the stage after the last show and just looked at everything and were reluctantly shooed from the stage by a crew who was weary from the demands of the past ten days and just wanted to get it packed up and moved on. And those feelings, when I feel them, aren't just passing feelings of blithe, surface bliss. It's not trivial. It's something I'm so sure of, and then every once awhile it just rears up against me and snarls that I can't make a living at this, I don't love it wnough to sacrifice financial security and live in ambiguity and instability for the rest of my life, and anyways it's not like I'll ever be remembered for it, and it's not like it does anyone any tangible good in the world, not like going to Kenya and saving peoples' lives and helping empower women. It's not like it has a quotient of nobility to it. What if you are doing something that is all wrong for you? What if there is something better? What if you are wasting your life and you're just too chicken to stop, up and move, and not come back until you've figured out who the fuck you are? It's not like you ever CHOSE this at any point. It sort of chose you, midway through undergrad, because you never really sat down and thought about what you were doing with your life. It was too terrifying, because there was nothing else that seemed a viable alternative. But it's not like you really looked. It's not like you really explored other avenues. Was that because you were too afraid, or just took the advice of others and were seduced by their very well-meaning flattery? Or did you honestly just love the work enough to keep going with it?

Is it possible that it was more than one of those reasons?

And is it equally possible that all this is surfacing because life is changing a lot, again, and that's never comfortable, even if you thought you were ready for it?

This is the moment where I wish I could go back to being abroad, where I woke up and my only job for the day was to explore, experience and savor as much of a new land and sensibility as possible.

And it's also the place where I honestly wish for someone to love me deeply and completely, just to listen and treat all things as valid, and not be aggravated or irritated or dumbfounded any of this. Express confidence and affirmation, but not brush off all my fears as nothing. There is one who could do all this, one who believes me capable of all things would move the earth to erase my doubts. But I know better than to turn to him, because the price of that connection is still much, much too high.

While I ponder the possibility of the appearance of such a man, who can be what I need and not simultaneously destroy me, I look, as always, to my lighthouses: K, J, and S. All of whom are indomitable, limitless, beyond judgment and assumption, and whose journeys intertwine with mine; all our paths running alongside, us talking as we walk separately, and together.

Oh, and I really love Magritte right now. Really a lot. His paintings make a lot of sense to me. Really loving Empire of Light (unabashed escapism on my part), Elective Affinities (who doesn't love a big egg in a birdcage? WHO?!), Portrait of Edward James (benefactor of the Weill/Brecht production that I'll be performing--WEIRD), and Promenades of Euclid (because I can visit that one whenever I want). I think I need a book on surrealism. And maybe a book on Magritte.

Overthrowing the empire

2007-08-09T10:15:00.001-07:00

I'm not patient. I try really hard to be, because there's nothing more repellent than someone crowing about their own faults and then not fixing them (stubborn people tend to do this a lot, as though admitting their stubbornness gives them an excuse to dig in their heels like my Hereford bull Howard when he doesn't feel like getting into a trailer.)

Anyways, despite my honest efforts, I am a little bit impatient, especially when there is a need for broad-based change and it's not happening fast enough to suit me. And right now, there are a few things in baseball that need a change. NOW. So for posterity, I think I'll set them down. (Or maybe I'm just making a little laundry list I can reference later after I overthrow the current system in a bloody coup and enforce my suggestions in a more persuasive fashion...)

1a. All ballplayers will wear their socks the right way...UP TO THEIR KNEES. What exactly happened to make tall socks the exception and not the norm? Where, along the storied history of baseball, did someone spread the rumor that pajama pants are the garb of choice? No more. Back to basics, thank you.

1b. All ballplayers will wear a uniform that FITS. I'm talking to YOU, Manny. And YOU, Sabathia. And turn your hat around while you're at it.

2. If a team should reach the playoffs, they shall be allowed to take their usual broadcasters with them. ESPN is not allowed to install its own people who know miserably little about anyone who isn't from New York or Boston.

3. The Wave shall be illegal, in all parks, everywhere.

4. The tests for performance-enhancing drugs shall be random, more frequent, and applied at every level of the ballclub. Anyone who tests positive for something that may possibly be inocuous (like cold medicine or something) shall be banned for a year. Anyone who tests positive for HGH or something else that cannot be anything but a performance-enhancing drug shall be banned from the game for life.

5. If a team's pitcher has a brilliant outing--like eight innings or more, one or two runs allowed, and maybe a bunch of strikeouts or something--and his lineup fails to score the run or runs, or scores enough to tie the game but leaves 265 on base, the pitcher shall not be charged with the loss. In other words, the pitcher shall not bear the sins of the lineup.

6. On to money. If any team, anywhere, wants a new stadium, they shall pay for it themselves. If the rest of us want to build a new house, we go to the bank for a loan. With the salaries they make, those men are in a substantially better financial place than the rest of us looking for new digs.

7. There shall be a salary cap, and it shall be extreme. I don't care that the Supreme Court ruled on this ages ago. If I go to the trouble of staging a bloody coup, I get to redistribute wealth. That's how revolution works, ask Lenin. No one, anywhere, is worth the sort of money that athletes get. Maybe if you'd found an end to communicable disease or cancer, or restructured the economy so it was based entirely on a renewable fuel source, or got rid of AIDS in Africa. I love sport, I really do, but we can all agree it's out of hand. The old guys actually WORKED in the offseason to make ends meet. I think if you can't get by on less than a million a year, society doesn't really need you and we can thin you from the herd.

8. All baseball shall be played outdoors, on grass.

9. Water shall never cost more than a dollar. Maybe two in New York.

Huh....

2007-08-08T21:09:00.000-07:00

So Bonds is the new home run king. Or something. All I feel is a dull sort of disappointment. Working on a piece about how the shine has gone out of baseball for me at present, and what can happen to bring me back to the fold. It's a lot of things, from a lot of different places, not the last of which is the disturbing increase of philistines and plebeians at the Dome these days. Beach balls. At least half a dozen of them, every goddamn time I'm there. Just saying.

What else. Theory isn't looking entirely insurmountable. So that's good. I've just had a major role for a Kurt Weill show fall into my lap. Frightening and exhilarating. Channeling Lotte Lenya for that one, for sure. I'm guessing it's going to be provocative and shocking. My family has been warned.

I've also come to the realization that my 'no involvement with men' rule for the next two years may not work. Especially since, if I'm totally honest with myself, I do my best work after some sort of sensual encounter.

Bed.

Oh, welcome back, offense. Thanks for giving Johan a win this time around. Let's make that a habit from now on.

Today's foolishness, brought to you by the Y chromasome

2007-08-05T16:14:00.000-07:00

Sondheim for the day:

Must it all be either less or more, either plain or grand, is it always 'or,' is it never 'and?'

Why is it always something? The ridiculous quotient is getting out of hand. All the previous (and rather serious) issues of the summer have settled back to the bottom, and now we are left with the (mercifully) ridiculous inanity of the persistent would-be suitor. Goodness, tenacity and risks are to be commended for the most part, but there comes a time when it's just fruitless, annoying, and redundant.

On another matter entirely, hearing from a publisher that one's writing is good is wonderfully boosting. I am looking forward to my next piece, I've been rejuvenated.

And in case anyone was wondering, the beats were a stupid, self-absorbed, smug, bunch of bourgeois. A deliberately unwashed Old Boys' Club with rainwater in tin cups in place of brandy, pot instead of cuban cigars, rucksacks instead of the Rolls, but the same self-satisfaction. Very telling that none of the beat poets were women, no intelligent woman would waste so much time as the beats. And generations later, they're still inspiring idiotic young berks to follow their example and abuse the lighthouses of others. That's what the beats did best, exploit the benevolent energies of others, simply to benefit their own self-absorbed travels, through the country and through their own psyches. Idiots, all of them. Look what they've spawned. *snort*

christ almighty

2007-08-02T08:03:00.000-07:00

The 35-W bridge collapsed yesterday. It just FELL DOWN. I still haven't internalized it at all. It's like hearing that your house has blown up or something, and not being able to see it immediately. It's so frightening how many times in the past year, the past month, the past WEEK I was on that bridge. It's more frightening to realize that bridge can just drop out of the air.

There are so many cars still in the river. So many people just trying to get home from work, trapped at the bottom of the Mississippi, and who knows how long until they can be brought up from the water and mourned. The news people are everywhere, the blame is already flying fast and thick. I want to scream at everyone murmuring about terrorism and looking askance at the immigrant communities who live near that bridge. Let us bury our dead and treat our injured, please, and then turn on the man who refused to raise our taxes. He is not solely responsible, but he's a start.

Once more, with feeling

2007-07-26T09:02:00.000-07:00

I think we're all on the same page now.

Finally.

The rules have been set down, explained in detail, and now the growth and repair can finally begin in earnest. Each time it's still like getting hit with a hammer. If it were possible for me to feel the sensation of a Portkey, I think this is about the closest it gets. Being inexorably yanked to another place entirely, spinning round and round and landing hard.

But that won't happen again, until I am ready for it. So I can now devote my full energy to practicing and staring down the theory and history exams waiting for me at the start of school. Some love from the UK is good for the morale, as is rearranging furniture and creating musical spaces. I am so good at bringing order to that which is not mine.

Twenty-four years on the planet tomorrow. Have I done enough at 24? Whatever the answer to that is, it's good to feel the outpouring of love in trips to the theater (and late night ice cream), holding court at lurcat, and getting to pick out what I want for dinner...pork chops and fresh beets. YUM.

Illumination

2007-07-22T21:02:00.000-07:00

It's so shocking to recognize that someone you were once very close to is now someone you don't really understand at all. And then suddenly, all sorts of things that used to intimidate you no longer scare you, and you can see how downright ridiculous they are. And how repulsive. And you want to say, who are you?? I don't know you at ALL. Didn't we used to GET each other? I was sure we did. But now it's like meeting a perfect stranger. Actually, meeting a stranger would be more comfortable, because at least we could start from neutral. Here, there's that weird way you never ask how I am or what I've been up to or if I enjoyed a month abroad or anything. I'm pretty sure, in fact, that you think I'm some sort of irresponsible, mildly flaky, sort of reckless person. I don't bother to try to make you think otherwise because not only is it not worth it, but you will refuse to discuss it due to your chronic inability to discuss anything deeper than people we know. And you really are very negative, did you know that? I never really noticed it before, but you ARE, and it's very tiresome. I'm very glad I don't have to be around it. Yet more distressing lack of romanticism, though I'm sure she'd disagree. The all-practical influence is one I'm going to limit in my life, I think. It's simply too draining for me.

Oh my. Flashback. BIG flashback. Singing Ned Rorem in the kitchen, reveling in the truth of every word, especially 'I was twenty, and a lover, and in paradise to stay...' Aching to stay and envelop myself in that place, that sensibility, forever, and let the ambiguity hang in the air without the anguish of judgment. I want to stay long enough to see the changing of the seasons.

But also there is the need to resist putting a label on it, or trying to explain, or name it. A draft of an email, explaining what I need and why is a good exercise but the gut is saying a good strong NO. Good girl. Listen, and continue to do so, preserving that which is most important...YOU. This is your time, and you will do what you need to to in order to keep it yours. You don't have to think about it, you don't have to worry about it. No need to plan. Just pause a little more than usual, to make sure you are sure what the gut is saying. It doesn't speak as quickly or frenetically as the brain. It's a calm, easy, slow influence, and it's always the way to make sure you are taking care of yourself. Good girl.

Dear Lineup: Do Your Goddamn Job

2007-07-19T16:34:00.001-07:00

So Jason Kubel is dead to me. DEAD TO ME. Bases loaded, 2 out, down by 2. And the idiot LOOKS at three big fat fastballs. No doubt that they were strikes, right down the middle. He keeps the bat resting lightly on his shoulder and gets rung up like the TOOL HE IS and we all feel our hearts break, and watch THREE baserunners trot back to the dugout. 14 left on last night. FOURTEEN STRANDED RUNNERS. Jesus fuck. I can't believe I had to witness such bilge. And who gets the loss? Santana, of course. God, I'd be pissed if I was him. You do your job, work hard, and there are NINE other guys who don't do theirs and YOU end up getting fucked.

Now, I'm with the Geek when he says it's time to calm down. Yes. Let's all just calm down. But after last night, I am ready to throw Jason Kubel under a bus. A BUS. And J-Bone, you're on my shit list too. God, the lineup in general is such a disappointing group. Go away, sit in the corner and think about what you've done (or DIDN'T do, I guess that might be a better assessment), and don't come back until you're ready to get it in gear.

My heart can only stand that kind of pain so many times. Don't push it.

And another thing...I'm guessing that when Sergei Rachmaninov woke up in the morning, he'd fix breakfast and think, "You know, today I think I'll do the same thing I did yesterday...write melodies that rip peoples' hearts out with lush, aching bittersweetness."

Mr. Rachmaninov, thank you. And fuck you.

Cosmic massage

2007-07-18T07:27:00.000-07:00

Just had the most redemptive conversation yesterday with J. She levels out the mountains of good and bad into the flatness of JUST A CHOICE. She introduces possibilities and I can just see them for what they are without judging them. She helps me to know myself and realize that I may not really know myself at all. When I process with her, I can finally get beyond the right/wrong shit and just get into what is useful for me, what information I need, how to take care of myself going forward, and what I want things to be in the future. All done in the warmest possible way, in a gentle, cosmic sense, with much love and the idea that if I were to take the craziest possible path, she would still love me and accept me completely.

There's a lot she said that makes perfect sense...the idea that everyone is searching for something in this situation, the lack of stability on the other side (along with the inconsistency of words and actions), and the notion that we have to relinquish control sometimes to find out who we really are. The only thing she was firm about was that a life built on secrecy and lies was impossible and eventually leads to destruction. I know I'm not cut out for that, it's one of the few things I do know. Or at least I think I know. So whatever happens, it must be something that is the same all the time. Something that everyone can see, and doesn't involve looking over shoulders to check who's in the room.

Self-actualization is a messy business. Every now and then it's good to bathe in a big pool of acceptance.

Release via Legend

2007-07-12T20:19:00.002-07:00

Got some Monteverdi today: two recordings of Poppea, cheaper than I could EVER find online. Score. And some Ray Charles, a little Unchain My Heart is good for what ails me. But what's better, of course, is team, and the reminder that I own some John Legend. He's been the best influence so far, with one song.

John's got me remembering the clean mornings and the freshness and the right within the wrong, how the sky was never anything but blue, and the air and water were sweet, and there was healthiness, and it was like I was never leaving. It was exploration and a place to come back to, and it felt like home so delightfully fast...my little cabin in the woods with all the laughter and warmth and ease of family life a little walk away. People and nature, the way there was never really night...it all felt so far away. Sunnersta feeling cool like the north shore, leaves rustling with the breeze at the bus stop...Uppsala all cobbly and green, but university too, the energy of lots of young people figuring their lives out...Stockholm, big but instant home, buildings in warm custard yellows and dusky roses, clean and friendly and assured, harbors everywhere, train into town in the evening, knowing where I'm going and feeling so competent so far from home and alone...the rainy day in Sigtuna, with umbrellas and a grumpy Siri, the old crumbling church that needs another visit (for at least an hour, solo), ducking into a shop for coffee to take the chill off, while we discuss information and knowledge...I miss a place that knows itself, through the countless generations that have lived and died on that land...None of these words are right, but maybe someday I'll find the right ones, just like maybe someday I'll find the right way to go.

The wall is still up, and I'm more certain than ever that it's a healthy thing to have. But it's nice to remember that there were other things besides what threatens to consume everything else. There were so many lovely things that make my heart ache with happiness that I got to be there and see them. It's hard to see them right now, within all this. But at least I know they're still there, waiting comfortably for me to dance through them again, when I can finally lay all this to rest.

But we really are just ordinary people, we don't know which way to go. Just ordinary people, take it slow. And it feels so good to finally cry. There is energy that stays locked inside me that no amount of running can take away, no amount of sweat can ease, and it finally loosens with tears.

Good morning

2007-07-10T21:25:00.000-07:00

So, now that you are staring bleary-eyed at this post, having written it last night in the 11:30 surge of creativity and purpose that seems to surface, here is what you are going to do.

You are going to eat some breakfast, (are there any more raspberries?) then put on your running clothes, stretch out, and go run.
You are going to take a shower and stretch out again, slowly, with lots of good deep breathing.
You are going to take your opera books and go practice, at the church. And you're going to walk there.
You are going to check your email exactly three times, to see if anyone wants their gardens looked after or their dogs walked.
You are going to pick an opera to research and spend an hour reading about it. Carmen is fine, but the Monteverdi would probably be a better use of your time.
You are going to research recordings, find three, and send Janet an email asking which singers you should be listening to. And thank her again. Actually send her a card, maybe.
If the radar stays off, do not be alarmed. That's actually probably a very good thing, at this point. It's strange because it's always there, underneath it all, but perhaps that's one of the lessons. That this time is about you, totally, and there isn't really room for anything else right now.

You are going to frame it in terms of YOU. K is right. Looking back will not give you any new information. And the sort of information you want is the sort you will spend the rest of your life waiting for, because it won't come. The work is what empowers you. So find new projects, find life within them. The waiting and thinking harder are fruitless tasks. So go outside, use all your senses, and live into the answers. The empowerment is waiting for you. And that is what will give you the clarity you seek, and the security, the forgiveness, the hope, the strength. It will come back to you, because it's never really left.

Thank God for team.

Repair

2007-07-09T20:03:00.000-07:00

Wall: UP. Try to listen and process. Try to sift through it. Try to hear the voices of J, K, and S. Do not listen to C. Also, James Taylor is not very helpful right now either. Try to resist him, along with Sting, pretty much all your jazz standards, and Rachmaninov. NO RACHMANINOV, for god's sake. Stick with Joshua Tree, Monteverdi, Lauren Hill, and Sondheim. The guilt and the shame are not useful, that's not what any of this is about. See yourself and how you feel, and then see yourself in the bigger picture and what karmic lesson is happening here. It's come about before, though not on this scale, so there's something to be processed, for certain.

In the meantime, let your brain have a rest. It's not something you are going to solve in one night, even if it was a night spent with J and P, a night in a place blissfully devoid of judgment. Have some strawberry pie and HP, a big glass of milk and a cat. Forgive and process. The fog will lift and you will know yourself again. Think not in terms of fix and bad, what ugly conservative terms. Just be content with knowing the first step in taking care of yourself.

Muffled thunder

2007-07-06T18:19:00.000-07:00

Pounding the shit out of the Bitch Sox feels very, very good, especially when you are feeling the rumblings of confrontation in the future. Makes me want to go back to the downs near Kingsclere, find the rabbits, listening to nothing but the wind.

Uncle Jim. Seriously. You know how I love you and I think you're the only loveable thing on the White Sox roster, but my love is not without limits. LIKE WHEN YOU LOSE YOUR BAT TWICE IN ONE APPEARANCE AND IT HITS MY CATCHER IN THE HEAD. And now we have no DH and our pitcher has to hit. Jim Thome, right now you are a bitch.

And the game before this was strange for different reasons. There was a bad case of hitting hemophilia going around...the bleeding just wouldn't stop. 20-14 is not a baseball score. It's a football score. But a win is a win (and 5 errors by the Bitch Sox always feels good) and now we're into the second. 5-0 us, the Garz doing his job, which is good, since the bullpen is probably feeling a bit worn out.

Anyways. Kind of waiting. Feel like the water is backing up behind the dam yet again. It was too soon, I thought it was going to be fine, but clearly I was wrong. The iron curtain has to descend again. I need more space, much more than I have right now. The problem with this is that the conversations can never take place when they need to. I have no freedom to call and say what I feel, I have to wait for someone else's schedule. But the West Coast was an alarm that has finally awakened me to this fact: if I don't make the rules, it seems there ARE none, which is reckless at best and nuclear at worst. I will try to wait and see what the conversation is like in the days to come, and if there is no admittance of complete idiocy, it will be time for serious chastisement. In fact, it may be time for that as it is. As I wrote last night (why can't this conversation come in the evening, when I'm at my most eloquent!), once AGAIN it appears I am going to be the one doing all the work, God, will there ever be a time when I'm not doing the work of others? Apparently not.

There is no arguing the impossibility of the present. So it must either be changed, or be nothing. And I cannot live comfortably on the knife edge that is currently my home, which is apparently possible in other realms. (Disgusting and upsetting, because how can there not be anger and frustration?!) And the only way I know to bring things back into balance (for me, anyways) is, for starters, an indefinite iron curtain. Beyond that, I don't know. But we don't need the whole damn book yet, just a couple of chapters.

Whoooooof. So now it's the wait. That's the worst. The wait, and hope that I will be ready and in the right frame when the time comes to put all this out there. I think one of the best things I came up with last night was this: there are types of craziness that I admire: dancing with abandon, traveling to marvelous places, standing up for idealism in the face of cynicism. But there is also craziness that is nothing more than shortsightedness, misdirection, and selfishness. There is no honor or merit in that sort of insanity, nothing admirable at all. So glad I wrote so much last night. That will make it easier when I need to have all that on hand, to give me strength.

Throw it down

2007-07-04T22:51:00.000-07:00

There are things in this world that are OK, and things that are not, and a lot of things in between that you just have to sort of look at and decide as you go, with the information you have at the time.

Well, I had all the information I needed to decide that this was NOT OK and I wasn't going to do it. I wasn't going to get trapped by my own romanticism. I listened to the first thing my gut told me, which was, "YIKES, this is SO NOT ANYTHING LIKE the first episode. It's like jumping from involuntary manslaughter to first degree murder. There is premeditation involved!"

Bad example, I know. And why is it that manslaughter is supposed to be lesser than first-degree murder, but sounds SO much worse? But the point is that I actually listened to my gut this time, which is something I'm getting better at all the time. And not only that, but I listened to my gut despite nearly drowning in total impossible perfection. This was one step too far, I saw it for what it was, and said, NOPE. The yucky feelings that come with loss of control (or PERCEIVED loss of control) are what make the following renewal of power so much more delicious and satisfying. Not that it's QUITE worth feeling out of control in the first place, but the compensation is pretty good, I have to admit. Conspiracy is that much easier to bear when it at least doesn't feel like it's a juggernaut getting away from you.

And a day after the line in the sand, things seem pretty much the same as they were before the disturbing possibility was introduced to me. Which is ominous, seeing as everything I said yesterday should have been enough to cow anyone into submission or at least some sort of sheepish apology. Huh. Keeping a wary eye on that situation, and ready to widen the gap again, feeling too much energy being diverted into this again. Planning to say that the next time I have the chance.

I will have to comment here, that K is one of the loveliest people, inside and out, in the universe. Not that I have met the greater portion of the universe's inhabitants, but sometimes you just know.

BACK

2007-06-28T10:11:00.000-07:00

So I've returned. And my God, am I changed.

I am going to try really really hard not to be one of those obnoxious people who talks about their travels incessantly and name-drops and whatnot. Because those people suck. And so do the people on the other side of the spectrum, those people who act like world travel is no big deal and 'the world is their home' so they are comfortable being bored in any situation. Met a bunch of THOSE and boy do THEY suck too. Nope, just going to try to get used to being home and relating my stories when I'm called upon.

But some morsels I should put down...

Nothing like being in Europe to make you feel very small and very young. Everything there is a good thousand years older than anything here, and it adds to my 'what the fuck to we know about ANYTHING on this side of the Atlantic' vibe.

Things that rock: really good public transit. WOW. Free admission to art museums--thank you London. Really good suits. Gelato. Gondoliers. Cheap wine. Watership Down, even more impressive than I imagined. I thought it would be a tiny place that looked really big and exapansive to rabbits. Nope, it looks big and expansive to people, too. York boys. York in general. The way everyone walks everywhere and thinks nothing of it. Quiet cars and buses. Small roads. Big trains. Cities that house a lot of people but are really clean, smell good, and keep big expanses of green places. And men who sit in their gorgeous suits and eat their lunches in the grass in those cities. Really good herring. Kandinsky. Dancing in the dining room. Four hours of almost-darkness and then the sun coming up again. Escargot snails all over the lawn. Being mistaken for a local. Ballet. Handel (I keep forgetting that I like him!) Accents, including your own.

Alright, enough smarm for awhile. Perhaps the biggest lesson: the realization that moments in the woods happen, to EVERYONE, there's no need to try to plan them or prepare for them, because there's no way to do that anyways, and we just take what lesson the universe is giving us and add it to our knowledge. How happy that I can be that philosophical.

Anyways, it's very very good to see everyone again. Now let's all pack up and go back together, so I can be where I belong and still have all my lovely friends around me. Ready? GO!

2007-05-19T20:08:00.001-07:00

Nellie McKay, I Wanna Get Married, for the man with the soap and the floss.

I wanna get married, I need a spouse
I want a nice Leave-it-to-Beaverish golden retriever and a little white house
I wanna get married, I need to cook meals
I want to pack cute little lunches for my Brady Bunches, then read Danielle Steele

I wanna escape this rat race I've created
I'm feeling enervated
I don't care if I make it, I just want to bake a sugar cake
For you to take to work in the morn
And I'll stay home cleaning the dishes and keeping your wishes all warm
I wanna get married
That's why I was born

I want to partake in bake sales for the classroom
I want to hear the sweet tune of Sally's little vroom-vroom
As she zooms around my broom as I exhume the gloom
Of my shallow life
I wanna be simple and honest and dimpled
Cause I am your wife
I will never tarry, I'm not even torn
I wanna get married
That's why I was born

The evils of soap

2007-05-19T12:47:00.000-07:00

This unpleasant realization is brought to you by the letter S.

S is for the suburbs. The suburbs are like the backwaters of the Amazon--placid on the surface, but teeming with nastiness underneath.
S is for soap. And scrub, sterile, and sting. God, I forgot how much soap can hurt.
S is also for six...more children than anyone anywhere should ever think about having.

Wow. Someone who's not only scared of the human body (particularly the female), but is not even FROM this country and has totally bought into the American illusion of 'work hard, stick to the race, and everyone wins!' Total capitalist cheerleader. Christ almighty. I tried to write something abstract and painful about this, but I've never been good at that. NOT MY BUCKET.

Two more mornings till the grand adventure...packed and nervous and excited. Mere and I are relying on my fellow baseball friends (ahem: G, K, and PAB) to send me worthy morsels from the baseball world. Maybe I'll miss Barry Bonds breaking the record. That'd be fine.

Good News/Bad News

2007-05-16T07:07:00.000-07:00

OK, bad news first. My team is in the crapper, with little to no offense (Sunday night's game notwithstanding) and the rotation going to hell. I mean, I sort of expected it, particularly from The Boat, but Ortiz has gotten alarmingly bad very quickly. Oh yeah, and half our team is on the DL, which I guess I should be used to by now, because that's how our team works, year after year, but I'd really rather not have our All-Star, batting-champ catcher be one of the casualties. You know, just about everyone else makes me nervous when they step into the box--we have a few free-swingers on this team--but Joe Mauer steps in and I relax. He's just so quiet as he waits for the pitch, and you know he's not going to swing at garbage, he never does, and usually, one way or another, he's going to end up on base. I never thought I'd say this (and Joe Mauer is STILL not hot, no way), but boy is he my favorite to watch.

So on to better news. Jerry Falwell is dead. I know that's horrific to put that in the good news column, but it gives the President one less zealot to call him on a weekly basis and tell him what's best for the country. And I can't really shed too many tears over a guy pushing for a theocracy in America where women are sent back to the kitchen without the power to make decisions regarding their own bodies and where homosexuals would have likely been burned at the stake. Nope. Not gonna feel even a little bad about that. Although I'm thinking the afterlife is something of a surprise for Mr. Falwell, rather unlike what's outlined in the Bible.

Tim Pawlenty, after vetoing property-tax relief measures, increases in secondary-education funding, and a gas tax increase that would help improve our road system, is signing the statewide smoking ban today. And all I can say is IT'S ABOUT TIME. Now the field is leveled for everyone in the state, smokers can't just flee the city to smoke in restaurants and bars. Good work. We'll see what happens with the rest of the legislative agenda, seeing as the session wraps up on Monday. God, how I wish Mike Hatch were running things!! But no, we're stuck with Pawlenty again. HATE HATE HATE that man.

In other good news--actually we'll put this in the FUCKING AWESOME news category--Meredith got into seminary in NEW YORK, so she'll have her second Master's by the time I have my first. Mere--you rock, betch.

And also in the FUCKING AWESOME category, I leave in less than a week for a month-long sojourn in Europe. A week from today, I'll be running around London. Whoa.

So on that note, off to the U to get my ISIC card. And then to Target for some last minute carp to put in my big lovely backpack, and then home to figure out Skype on my computer.

In the gate and waiting for the bell

2007-05-08T20:56:00.000-07:00

Need to go...need to get out, need to see, need to listen, need to smell, need to taste.

Need to laugh, need to argue, need to figure it out, need to write it down, need to move when I hear the music.

Need to touch.

Need to be alright with ambiguity. Need to find the pace between the sprint and the stop. Need to rest and wake.

Need to stop trying to do everything at once and put off everything at the same time.

Listening to the rain and thunder and luxuriating in them. So lush and sensual and satisfying the rain is. Moisture in the air feels like being painted with a renewing paintbrush, feeling the brushstrokes wash over you and wriggling with delight and looking around at all the new, vibrant colors.

Brain vomit

2007-05-02T20:02:00.000-07:00

Me = walking explosion of sharp remarks. I'm giving them to everyone. And I'm not even sure why, and usually when I'm mean, I at least know where it's coming from. Feeling young and naive and self-involved and greedy and spoiled. Ashamed. Embarrassed. Not sure if this is something new or if I've been like this for awhile and everyone has simply not told me and has been waiting for me to grow up. Sorry, guys. You know who you are.

I do not feel mature or self-assured. I ALWAYS feel mature and self-assured. Even when feeling inadequate. But this is different, because I'm getting defensive and mean to the people who normally make me feel powerful and strong again. Trying hard to swallow own pride and just grow up already. Disgusted with self for wasting time and energy on a whole lot of NOTHING each day. Where is the ambition, the direction? Why do I just float my way through the days, not quite sure of what to do next?

When in doubt, go get some Walt (Thoreau will do in a pinch.)

Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage
For fear I effuse unreturned love.
But now I think there is no unreturned love
The pay is certain one way or another
I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not returned
Yet out of that I have written these songs.

Shout out to Mere, who defended the hell out of her thesis today. Bravissima!!

Buckets...buckets...buckets...

2007-04-28T00:59:00.000-07:00

Why do I not listen? Because I'm a masochist?

I like to think it's because I'm a Leo and there are certain aspects of my personality that cannot be reined in. But finally, pride gets the upper hand and prevents the onset of some irreversible and premature action. If boring and inane and NICE is the prerogative, well, there's nothing to be done about that. It must run its course, despite the unresolved searing sexual energy. I can wait as long as anyone. It may damn near kill me, but I can.

Honestly, it's getting worrisome. A mauling is imminent, thanks to this evening's non-events. K was right. I knew this all along. But I torment myself, because we're coming to the alarming point where my body stages mutiny and locks the brain in the closet, so the body can pursue that which it needs. The hunt has been fruitless, but it won't stay so for long, not the way things are going.

I'm glad that pride overpowered the body's wishes this time. It wasn't time. Not yet. Maybe I'm finally learning to choose my times and places...

(Pretty lucid for three in the morning and a LOT of chardonnay.)

Truth #3

2007-04-26T20:51:00.000-07:00

Am I sure I'm not attracted to women? Am I SURE I couldn't fall in love with a woman and live happily ever after?

Once again, still sure. God dammit.

It's not a scorned-lover bitterness thing I'm doing here. It's really not. I'm just irked after three or four rapid-fire examples of the general cowardice and immaturity of males as a group tonight, from a variety of different quarters. I mean, it was from such a diverse pool that I have to believe that the problems are common to the species as a whole, and are not as isolated as I thought. Disheartening, I'll admit it. But I just have to remember the buckets. Buckets are the one thing that keep me from going round the bend at times like this. It's a little difficult after being hit with a barrage from four different men that are SO not in your bucket in any way, shape or form, but it ultimately only proves to strengthen the theory.

And just because it feels good to write when I am frustrated, I think I'll set down the Third Truth...concerning Nice Guys and Good Guys.

TRUTH #3:

Nice guys DO finish last. Good guys, however, do not.

The Nice Guy, according to legend, is doomed to a life of wistful, unfulfilled hopes and a lot of great female friends, none of whom are interested in him romantically. He's supposed to have all these great traits that women pine for but are mysteriously unable to see displayed in his apparently superior being. He suffers nobly, never complaining about his lot in life: perpetually picking up the human emotional wreckage that the bad boys always leave behind after their glorious exits and never (or rarely) losing his patience with all his supposedly gormless female friends who cannot see him for the treasure he is. Conversely, these same unenlightened women (that is, the women who aren't aware of buckets and are still laboring under the pyramid scheme of 'lots of jackasses/very few quality men in the world') sigh and lament over wanting a 'nice guy...just a nice guy...where are all the nice guys?' Apparently they're everywhere, and women are too blind to see them, so it's our own fault that we are frustrated and discouraged, because we have these perfectly NICE MEN all around us and we're not capitalizing. And once again, the problem is in the definition we're using.

Allow me to introduce Mr. Stephen Sondheim, who is a fucking genius (and if you want to fight about that, I'm happy to oblige. You and me, in the alley, throwing blows.) He outlined the difference between 'nice' and 'good' TWICE in 'Into the Woods, and the one I like is toward the end, when the Witch is sneering at the rest of the characters who won't sacrifice Jack to the giant to fix the mess they're all in...

"You're so nice...you're not good, you're not bad, you're just nice..."

Perfect. Because 'nice' is this weird, nebulous, milquetoast-y concept of vaguely pleasing qualities that pretty much adds up to non-offensive and generally agreeable. Also known as: BORING. Nice is boring. Nice is all safe, all the time. Nice is without principle. Nice doesn't have any opinions. Nice is what inhabits the home of Ward and June Cleaver. Creepy. And because nice doesn't really stand for anything except the preservation of surface pleasantry, nice is rather nihilistic. Try to force nice into taking a stand and nice will get bewildered and frightened. And that's why we're not content with the Nice Guys. The Nice Guy buckets are overflowing, honestly, because the Nice Guy just doesn't have enough for most women. Where IS the beef? Not in the Nice Guy buckets, I'll tell you that much. It's in the GOOD guys.

GOOD guys, on the other hand, are not always nice. This doesn't mean they aren't pleasant to be around. A lot of them are. And Good Guys can be nice. They can. But I prefer to think of that as 'politeness' or 'tact' or 'diplomatic,' because Good Guys are less concerned with being agreeable than they are with being honest about what they think and believe. They'll debate. They may argue. Good guys aren't really concerned with the perception of others, so they may piss people off, but they've got passion and they aren't afraid to use it. Good guys aren't perfect--in my experience, they can be awfully stubborn, which isn't attractive, and they might be bad communicators (which is a problem across the board anyways), and just like any group, there are other things that will probably annoy you at some point or other. But the common thread that all Good Guys share is a fundamental sense of compassion, fairness, integrity, and the balls to back all that up with actions. They reject pretense and the need to impress, they are not so overcome with their own insecurities that they need to compensate for them, and as a result they're free to buck the conformist lockstep that hobbles men in this country. This makes them easier to identify, happily, because the good guys never match each other. Nice Guys are concerned with being all things to all people, and it makes them pretty homogeneous. But the quirks of the Good Guys are often just under the surface, if not on the surface, so it's easy to tell how they roll.

And you know, I'm sure there are women who are in the buckets of the Nice Guys, and that's great--it really is. Different strokes for different folks. But the nice buckets is not the only buckets there are, and it's time to reject the Nice Guy as the Holy Grail of Happily Ever After. Give me a debate with a Good Guy any day. Even if it turns into nothing, it's immensely more satisfying than enduring the presence of a Nice Guy. I never know what to do with them, because there just isn't any conversation.

So let's stop saying 'nice' when we really mean 'good.' Because Good has all the best qualities of Nice, but without the fear and the indecision and the beige-ness. As we embark on the quest to find others in our respective buckets, let us be mindful of the chasm of difference between Nice and Good, and choose accordingly.

...I was thinking the end of this post was a little weak, and now I have a strong note to finish on, thanks entirely to my hotmail account that I should just 86, because I get trash like THIS. Now, this is not only a glaring indication that more people need to know about buckets, but it completely proves my point about Good vs. Nice. I mean, pretty much all these traits are NICE traits, and waaaayyyyy too general. (I know I shouldn't expect much from msn; taking anything on msn seriously is like reading USA Today for an accurate account of the news. I mean, they used a story from a girl whose guy spent 45 minutes looking for the New York Post in LA for her, which she apparently actually reads. I didn't know anyone would actually admit to that, really.) All together now: Nice is different than Good. Learn the difference and know what you're looking for.

Steve Philips = The Suck

2007-04-25T08:48:00.000-07:00

You know who sucks? Steve Philips.

Not news, I know. He's just another ESPN shill, a cog in the east-coast machine. I shouldn't be wasting the time on him. But this is too much to leave alone. Steve Philips is insisting that Barry Bonds HAS to break the home run record in San Francisco. He insists that the damage to baseball would be deep and serious if Bonds break the record on the road (right, because you're worried about the good of baseball, aren't you, Steve? Just say you're worried about the ESPN ratings), in front of people who would very likely boo him and throw things on the field and generally act as though this were not something to celebrate, but to mock.

Well you know something? That's what it is, so let's call a spade a shovel, shall we? Barry Bonds sitting out games so that he can break the home-run record at home not only feels completely insincere, it reminds me of the 2004 Presidential election, when Bush would speak before carefully selected crowds, lest one of those ugly protesters get in and ruin the photo op. And whenever anything reminds me of the Bush administration, I know it's gotten out of hand. Not only that, but I think we're all in agreement that Barry Bonds has used steroids, and that it's something he should be ashamed of. I don't know a single person who thinks Barry deserves the honor of the home run record. And if that's what we all think, why not be honest about it? No one's doing anyone any favors by insulating Barry Bonds in the safety of AT&T Park, the only place in the country he is (pretty much) safe from the hostility of the rest of us. I'm not a fan of elephants in the room, and that's how MLB is treating Bonds--as a big, mean, HGH-filled elephant, tiptoeing around him and hoping nothing really damning comes bubbling to the surface. It's gross.

And while we're on the topic, let me ask this question...what's the big deal about the home run anyways? I know that's why we brought in the DH, because there's this illusion that the crowds love the longball and get bored quickly with anything else. I'm with G when she says the home run is so overrated. It's over as soon as it begins. And I'll add the rest of that brilliant quote about the triple if you'll be so kind as to send it again, G, because I cannot find it anywhere in the piles of emails from you that I never throw away. Anyone who's into baseball for the home runs is probably someone who's into seven-minute sex--cut-to-the-chase, lacking in patience, and devoid of subtlety. No thanks.

So really, if the home run isn't all that important to me, I shouldn't really care about the record (I just happen to care about integrity in all things and get pissed when I have to watch someone celebrate their ill-gotten gains). But I take comfort in the fact that in a few years, Barry bonds won't even matter, because A-Rod will break basically every baseball record there is, including the home run record, and that's something I can get behind.

Snarl

2007-04-19T19:59:00.000-07:00

To quote K, Jesus fuck.

That's really all I can say about the state of things at present. It's like a very bad CSI episode or something. Seriously deranged/disturbed/depressed human being mows down score and a half of college kids and profs, and just as the nation catches its breath--and with the best dramatic timing possible--a parcel of multimedia goodies arrives at the corporate media's doorstep. And suddenly we're all awash in words and sounds and pictures that put a horrific exclamation point on an already ghastly series of events. The American public is so barraged with so much distraction from countless sources every day--I used to think (very sourly) that there was very little to shock the U.S. populace or even hold its attention for more than five seconds.

Until NBC decided to release all this insanity, and the rest of the news media followed suit. And to my surprise, the people were outraged. For once they reacted to something and denounced the media's choice to put these images on the air. I don't know what has prompted such a reaction--maybe people are irritated that their insularity could be so infringed upon, maybe they don't want to expose their children to such things, maybe they feel the victims and their families are being exploited, maybe they realize that such atrocity should not be given celebrity status and run around the clock on the news channels for us to see over and over again. Whatever the reason, I'm at least glad to see the public react strongly to SOMETHING. And they certainly should--all the corporate media are seriously fucked up and just proved it yet again. But I can't help but think how completely sad it is that people aren't even aware of other places where shit like this goes down every day.

And of course, now the topic is why. Why this happened, how it can be prevented, how we can recognize the symptoms, etc. (How about this question...where else in the industrialized world do students just open fire in classrooms? It's happening with alarming frequency here. How about a hard look at the things in our culture that foster this sort of thing?) Anyways, K and I were musing on this and we came up with an answer.

We need more TEAM.

Now, the problem with the concept of team in this culture is that it's not really team at all. Our concept of team is, ironically, built around all the things that REAL TEAM is not concerned with. Team is not about hierarchal structure. Team is not about winning. Team is not about dominance of one group over another. An team is certainly not a means to an end. Real team is an end in and of itself. Once again, the patriarchal system proves that it blows by completely missing the point, yet again. (Seriously, if we don't get some matriarchy up in here, it's all gonna go down the crapper.) Because patriarchy has taken the definition of team, totally fucked with it, and then started using it in places that it doesn't really belong (like the corporate workplace.)

It's time to get the REAL definition and start using it, and rejecting this ridiculous farce that is masquerading as 'team.' Team is about interdependence. Real teams are not chosen, they are found. You don't pick your team, not in the way that we do for any sport--which, by the way, is another pretty-much-inaccurate representation of team. It's by and large a representation of pack mentality. Those sorts of teams are more about finding and exploiting strengths and weaknesses. The real team is about stimulating and fostering and nourishing. It's ebb and flow. And while there are often goals that bring out the best of a real team, the team is not there simply to reach goal after goal. The team lives outside of achievements. It's flexible and nebulous and very vibrant. It's a lot like the economy, in a lot of ways--an unpredictable, chaotic, and ultimately female system (another thing ironically created by males, and very ironically, something that many of the most emasculated among them worship above all else.)

Which is why I have yet to meet a man who truly grasps the concept of team. Women get it. They have a much more sophisticated understanding of team, although lots of them don't know it yet. How could they? Look at the definition they're working with! If we can reclaim team and reveal the TRUE definition, I think we'd be a lot further along in this country. We have the same problem with relationships. Thanks once again to patriarchy, there's a whole spectrum of female relationships we can't define. We have the strictly platonic, and the strictly romantic has finally surfaced in mainstream society, but we have nothing in between. Complexity in relationships is hard to have when there's no societal structure to define it (and I'm pretty much ripping off K's words here, yet again). But it's so damn true. When we don't have a structure to put interaction into context, it makes it hard to define an interaction, which in turn keeps the relationship undefinable and therefore out of the mainstream...and therefore suppressed. Thanks again, guys. I've had rather enough of your way of running things. Give us a chance, please, I think we've learned a lot from watching you (not that we'd've tried HALF the shit you guys thought would work), and I think it's time for you to ride shotgun for awhile. Maybe then you can learn about team.

Anyways. Time for a bath. And clean sheets. Mmmmmmmmmmmm.

Satisfied

2007-04-18T08:07:00.000-07:00

It's kind of nauseating to say this while I read about the Virgina Tech disaster, but all of a sudden, life looks a-maz-ing for the foreseeable future. As in, I am SO HAPPY I picked the school I did, because I get to work with someone I who I KNOW won't fuck up my voice (not a small thing, considering there are a ton of bad teachers out there and most of us just go blindly into a school and hope for the best with whoever we get) and also happens to be an amazing German lieder/contemporary music coach--two genres I happen to love. And then we have my favorite opera coach that coached the SHIT out of the arias I was working on last winter--and happens to be working on his doctorate and will pretty much be my personal coach while I'm there--SCORE. And of course, there's also the best director I'm likely to encounter anywhere, ever (who, ironically, is the sort of guy that should be at the New England Conservatory, really), and I already know we work well together and I'll get a TON of stage experience (which is what your Master's is all about anyways), and there's also the matter of the fellowship they awarded me.

Yeah. Let's go with that.

On top of all that, I get to stay in my obscenely cheap and ridiculously fabulous pad, provided my roommate doesn't get any disturbing ideas about moving or anything, I can visit my cows when I want, check in with my mentor, and all my peeps can see my shows, which always feels good. And you know what else feels good? Just checking the mail like a normal person. And being able to take down all the pieces of paper I have taped to my wall. Although that might have something to do with the fact that K wandered into the computer room and commented that with a little red string, it would look like a room used by John Nash. Yeah, she might have a point.

Choice

2007-04-17T05:56:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I spent four hours in my computer room, staring at the wall. I also spent a good forty minutes walking in circles around my table in the dinging room. Just thinking. Considering. Trying desperately to find some way to sift through through the choices in my head. And having NO IDEA which one I would end up choosing. Christ.

But. Three days ago I was at my mentor's house (a place I've been haunting a LOT these days), and a great analogy came to light...the funnel. Being in a funnel and swirling around and around, faster and faster, but knowing all the while you're getting closer to the bottom and inevitably you'll come to some to some conclusion or other. Yesterday, with a couple of phone calls, I reached to bottom of the funnel. The swirling stopped (for the most part), and I'm finally not a basketcase anymore. And I feel very good about my choice, like it's indeed the right thing for me. (Even though there's no right or wrong, it's JUST A CHOICE, hard thing to grasp.)

Whooof. So that's good.

And all that garbage I just wrote is just so unimportant compared with such complete agony and horror. Oh my God. I can only add my own good vibes to the rest that are pouring into The Commonwealth, with a whole bunch for the witty and wonderful RK. Glad you are safe, my friend.

...And from my cache of quotes I like, something for everyone else who, like me, seeks out the game as a refuge and a harbor.

"Baseball is green and safe. It has neither the street intimidation of basketball nor the controlled Armageddon of football...Baseball is a green dream that happens on summer nights in safe places in unsafe cities." ~Luke Salisbury

God help me

2007-04-13T13:02:00.000-07:00

I don't know what to do. I don't know how to choose. I feel like there is no viable solution to the problem in front of me. There's just a bunch of choices that all include a hefty dose of entrapment. Every scenario makes me feel trapped. There is no answer to this question.

Closer

2007-04-11T21:01:00.000-07:00

I have finally found a good analogy for my life. I mean, it pretty much matches up with everything that happens since last January.

I am Alice in Wonderland.

I mean, last January (2006) I completely fell down a rabbit hole and it took me the better part of five or six months to be OK with that. I would later realize it was my quarter-life crisis, and I would admit that while it was maybe the most uncomfortable period of my life ever, I learned a whole lot in that time and grew and changed and all that good stuff. So there's that. And then there are the strange people I've met along the way...my last boss was certainly the Duchess, and thanks to a couple of very weird and mildly toxic string players I think I have a good pair of candidates for the Mad Hatter and March Hare, there's a good candidate for the White Knight and several rather unsavory candidates for the Knave of Hearts. Although I met K in this time and such a cosmic friend (and TEAM) should be a major character, but I don't know who she'd be, seeing as there's no real representative for that sort of person in Wonderland. Hmm. I'll think about it.

Anyways, right now I can really identify with Alice when she's in the White Rabbit's house and she starts growing and growing and is afraid she'll grow too big for the house. There's a lot of urgency and a sense of enormity (indeed), and isolation and total bewilderment. But at least now I'm pretty sure I've stopped growing (that is, stopped losing my mind) and can at least sit still and figure out what is to be done. And that is...NOTHING. As in, stop trying to figure it out and just let it surface. It will. It has today, on several occasions. Instead of trying to tear the house apart to free yourself, just be on the lookout when the pebbles come flying in the window and turn to sponge cakes, and then eat one and figure out the way from there. Works every time.

Good rule of thumb for everyone, Wonderland resident or not: Think less, and trust the gut instinct more. It's rarely wrong, and there's only so much good thinking will do you anyways.

"Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?"
"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to."

Pretty soon I'll know that answer for certain. The ambiguity isn't very fun. But I'm swimming through it, with all the mice and eaglets and owls and dodos and whatnot, and will find my way to some dry ground or other.

Oh, dear

2007-04-09T10:20:00.000-07:00

So the recovery from the financial kick in the gut from NEC has been quick, which is all to the good, seeing as I'm faced with a week to gird myself for financial war with the disembodied powers that be who control the purse strings. That and I'm on pace to leave about six messages a day with an admissions counselor, and I won't stop until I contact her and she can tell me exactly what it means when a school accepts you and then doesn't give you any scholarships whatsoever. Because from my perspective, it doesn't look very good at all.

And Bard says no. Won't pretend that wasn't a blow. I was so sure. Wow. Still waiting for it to really hit me.

And then there was the ugly, ugly pair of phone calls with NEC this afternoon. What did I learn from them? 1) Any lack of information about the school is MY fault, not theirs. 2) Everyone everywhere has loans to pay off, so I shouldn't really be complaining. 3) I was lucky to get into NEC and should just be thankful I was admitted at all. 4) I shouldn't question the money. Just because everyone pays 47K to go there and it's a small school doesn't mean there's scholarship money for everyone. I was not impressed and more than a little brusque, which is unusual for me, normally I am very tolerant and patient in telephone conversations, even difficult ones. But this was simply too much for me to handle. I wasn't aware that anything could make me less fond of east-coast bias, but I do believe my hatred of it has deepened. I appealed my financial aid letter. We'll see if it does any good, seeing as I pretty much bitched out two different people today, one of whom was the head of admissions AND financial aid.

However, it feels good to be proactive in spite of all the mess. It makes me feel like even though things are not coming together as I'd hoped, that I'm still the one calling the shots and this will be what I make of it. There are still options to consider, and like the madre says: we make the best decision we can with the information we have at the time. Still the best advice from anyone, anywhere, ever.

Lots more to unfold this week...

The Day So Far

2007-04-07T17:38:00.000-07:00

7:43 am: Awaken from dream in which I am in my kitchen with the garbage disposal mutinously spewing food all over the place in a cartoon-ish fashion...then at Nye's Polonaise Room with K and my old friend Melissa, where Mel and I both shrilly order a Sapphire martini with three olives while K laughs uproariously and her boyfriend (who was someone we both know and like, sorry dear I'll try to remember) claps a hand over his eyes and shakes his head. Fall back asleep.

9:41 am: Get up/eat breakfast/check all mails.

10:33 am: Take shower.

10:50 am: Emerge from room, dressed, and hear roommate mention that a big envelope has arrived for me. Feverishly tear into envelope from NEC.

10:51 am: Experience heart palpitations, blurred vision, waves of nausea, and the feeling that soul has suddenly been saddled with a lot of weight.

10:55 am: Call J, then K, then home. Leave messages. Sit back down on couch. Attempt to read fine print.

11:20 am: J calls back. Good sense. Plans made to have large talk about schools/money/what I want out of life. Pressure on brain begins to relax.

11:55 am: Leave house out of need for air. Call Mere, commiseration and reassurance. Go look at Europe shoes. Find lovely Keens, try on, waste saleperson's time by smiling and telling him I'll think about it, making mental notes of style so I can hunt for them on the internet for cheapo.

12:30ish pm: K calls. Much logic and reason given to unwilling, dazed, rather mutionous subject. Swallowing of pride. Deep breaths. Need for clarity intensifies, frustration results when there is no answer. K courageously continues advice and reason in the face of snarling.

1:14 pm: Cry a whole bunch. Write down thoughts, or START writing down thoughts, the need to go bawl some more overrides ability to see computer screen. Score: ambiguity 1, Uncontrollable Id 0.

2:05 pm: Home calls. Reaction predictable and demoralizing. Urge to scream over the phone suppressed multiple times. However, resolve not to let said energy interfere with ultimate outcome is strengthened.

2:40 pm: Lots of 'small fish, big pond' feelings. Pacing. Attempt to halt wallowing and judging self and approach problem logically. Fail. Grateful for small, furry affectionate cat.

2:55: pm: Beginning of baseball game, welcome distraction. However, baseball is almost as disappointing as financial aid letter. Michael Cuddyer is a boob on the basepaths (just for today), and this is so demoralizing that our team proceeds to make Vazquez look like Cy Young. The Big Sweat AND Sideshow Pat are alarmingly bad. Joe Mauer strikes out twice, at least. Much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Cat leaves room, alarmed.

5:30ish pm: Wander around house like a zombie. No direction, no drive to accomplish things (like making dinner.) Paralyzed by information and vastly differing opinions and advice. Attempt again to quit wallowing. Fail again. Ambiguity 2, Uncontrollable Id 0.

6:00ish pm: Home calls again. Hesitate before answering. Good conversation, reassurance and reaffirmation of support regardless of choice. Suspect madre was behind this call, but do not doubt padre's support. Dismay over green is eased with the knowledge that there will not be strong opposition from the home front. Entertain possibility that universe is not entirely malicious.

6:30ish pm: Begin to emerge fro the swamp of incomplete-decision paralysis. Attempts to stop wallowing are more successful. Renewed interest in finding Keen sandals online. Better. Not great, but better. Problem no closer to being solved--and doubts no closer to being resolved--but at least feeling less isolated. Rather big day.

Options options

2007-04-05T07:06:00.000-07:00

So the University of Minnesota has loosened the purse strings a little (which they very recently handed over to Carl Pohlad, apparently, because the flow of admissions and scholarships to the U has all but stopped), and let me into their program.

Iran lets the sailors go. That country is just waiting for the right people to pick a fight with them. And by the right people, I mean US, because really, is there any situation we WON'T blunder our way into? Actually, yeah--situations where lots of people are dying that don't involve any U.S. economic interest. We don't really let those bother us. If there were, oh, a massive amount of OIL underneath the human suffering, then suddenly we're interested. Besides, someone needs to bring Jesus into the lives of these poor heathens.

And now, NOW, I hear this trash about the President using a RECESS to shove a couple of his candidates into office. One of whom was a major Republican donor AND one of the Swift Boat Liars AND had withdrawn his name from the post when it was obvious that the Senate would never let him have the job. UNBELIEVABLE. Why does he even say things like 'we'll work together and collaborate' when it's obvious that he doesn't give a shit about Congress? And this is SO PAYBACK for Congress's forcing him to either pass the emergency spending bill for the troops and give them their money AND a timetable, or veto it and very publicly cut the funding for the war and publicly show that he is out of step with what the rest of us feel about this insane conflict. (I'm rarely an angry liberal, but I am this morning. It's the waiting, I tell you!)

So let's do what I always do when too much stress heaps itself on me...find some cows. Hello pretty girls. And strapping boys. Though my Howie is more handsome than any of these bulls, and intelligent and polite in the bargain. What a catch! Pictures forthcoming, I promise.

Living in endless possiblities

2007-04-03T21:20:00.000-07:00

So that was maybe the best Opening Day ever. It had drama, it had joy, it had bittersweet tributes, it had Brad Radke, it had homers (actually, it had OFFENSE IN GENERAL!), it had Johan sitting bitches down, it had the Big Sweat, it had humor (i.e., J-Bone pretending to be fast. TWICE.) it had inside jokes, it had delicious treats, and I had my favorite people in the world with me to see it all. Good day. I share BatGirl's sentiments about Opening Day--it reminds you that all things are possible.

There was a bucket moment outside the Dome after the game. To quote The Sandlot: 'We didn't know what that meant, but we were all pretty amazed by it." Just proof that the universe likes the theory, methinks.

Sadly, I did NOT see the game tonight (though tales of Jason Tyner's misadventures at second base have reached my ears via G on the voicemail.) I was at the opera (and I was standing in the rush line when some lady just came up and GAVE me some tickets, and they were GREAT seats), where my disdain for tenors who can't act was reaffirmed. Great set, good costumes, dancers--very spectacle-oriented, this show--but the chemistry between the leads was lacking. Actually, make that nonexistent. Rather a long show. Liked the conductor, though. And the mezzo. I've always liked her.

(And as a sidebar to Robert and William, I don't want your excuses. I don't want your claptrap about pedagogy and Stanford and lack of cable and thesis preparation. If I must suffer through three hours of bad opera containing a soprano whose eyes don't really focus and a tenor who clearly has no idea how to caress a woman, if I must sigh inwardly to myself all evening because I really love opera and hate when it's done so poorly, if I must do this instead of watching sweet-ass baseball, then the LEAST you can do is drop everything you are doing to provide me with nine innings of honest recap and wit. I don't even HAVE cable! I depend on WCCO (oh wait, some other stupid station), Batgirl, phone updates from my friends with cable, and you guys. Don't you dare abandon me ever again.)

More tomorrow. The FAFSA has been beaten into submission, and will hopefully translate into lots and lots of benjamins from NEC. Now to get the last school to tell me whether they want me or not...this living in the middle of too many hypothetical situations is not the most comfortable place I've ever been. But it isn't boring, that's for sure.

Batter up...hear that call....the time has come...for one and all...

2007-04-02T12:19:00.000-07:00

I swear to God, the U.S. Government makes it extra-hard ON PURPOSE to get financial aid, because they don't want to give the money away. If I have to go around one more time with some FAFSA person who thinks I'm an idiot, I may just lose my shit. Christ.

However.

It is Opening Day, baseball is being played all over the country, so nothing can really be THAT bad, can it? I mean, not only that, but the Yankees are having a hard time with the Devil Rays (and in front of their loving bunch of fans in he Bronx; I'm sure that's fun) and the White Sox are getting their asses handed to them by the Indians 9-2 (oh, excuse me, 11-2!) in front of their hometown crowd as well. That's always unattractive.

Use this on Jose Contreras for a laugh and a half. It comes out to something like 55. Ma ha ha.

New England Conservatory....IN

2007-03-30T09:41:00.000-07:00

I AM ACCEPTED AT NEC. Holy shit.

AUAUGHGHALKJGH!

And because no triumph is complete without some sort of complication, now I have to check my FAFSA because they say it's incomplete and they can't offer any money without a complete FAFSA. And I'm pretty sure this isn't my fault. Because Dad and I did the FAFSA in January, and if there's a more meticulous person to fill out a form than my father, I don't know who it is. Ahhh, bureaucracy! Anyways. We'll get it straightened out, and then hope like hell that there's some money waiting for me...100K in loans is not the sexiest thing I've ever seen by any means.

However, getting into New England Conservatory IS pretty sexy. I am enjoying it until I have to sober up and think about logistics.

Sports that suck vs. sports that don't

2007-03-28T09:02:00.000-07:00

Can I get a big WHO CARES about NCAA basketball? I mean, come on. It always seems like there's about a gazillion teams, mostly schools I've never heard of, and then it takes F-O-R-E-V-E-R for them to whittle themselves down to 16, then 8, and then 4. And hearing about the Final Four is about the most over-hyped nonsense short of the Super Bowl. Ugh. And all for COLLEGE SPORTS. I don't know, maybe we should have less ridiculous nonsense about the sports teams at a school and more talk about education. Just throwing that out there.

But I only have to think about it for another five days, because then it will be BASEBALL SEASON and I can just ignore everything else because I can finally pay attention to a sport that's worth the time. And there will be trips to the Dome when we can afford it and trips to Williams' Peanut Bar when we can't, and either place will allow you to throw peanut shells on the floor which I find fabulous, though the drink selection is certainly better at Williams'. And cheering for Santana and yelling at the White Sox and jumping up when there's a ball hit deep and arguing with strangers about why we'll keep Santana and why we won't keep Ponson and why Nicky P is a perfectly fine third baseman (and everyone else can just shut up already). I can't wait.

...and since I saw the top ten storylines for 2007, courtesty of mlb.com, I thought I'd add them with a few thoughts.

1. Matsuzka (who is almost certain to disappoint after all the hype. Put him toe-to-toe with Johan...the fucker doesn't stand a chance.
2. Barry Bonds (who I will try to militantly ignore because he's such a disgrace)
3. The Cubs (hapless and entertaining as usual)
4. AL Central (yeah, what's up now? Remember how everyone used to sneer at the Central and how 'weak' it was?)
5. A-Rod and the Yankees (Christ)
6. The AL-East (aka baseball class warfare. If I was the Blue Jays, Orioles, and Devil Rays, I'd band together and kick the Yankees and the Red Sox out so they can take out their Mont Blancs and duel for control of the galaxy and let the rest of us play ball.)
7. Milestones NOT involving Barry Bonds (legitimate record-chases to watch)
8. 500 Club (five guys looking to hit their 500th HR this season. Some, I am rooting for--go Uncle Jim! Some, I pity and want to do well because I'm not a hater like those in the Bronx--you show 'em, A-Rod. And some, I just can't get behind--Frank Thomas, Sheffield, and Manny. ISH.)
9. NL East (See I should pay attention, I should. A true fan of the game would. But perhaps I am not there yet, because I just can't get excited about anything in the NL.)
10. Roger Clemens (No comment.)

I think we may have missed a few stories, though. Like:

1. Will Johan Santana win 30 games and strike out 20 batters in a single game? With our offense, the first isn't very likely, but the second...well....if anyone could....
2. Will we sign Johan? YES. I am standing by that. GODDAMMIT, YES.
3. Will the Indians start out hot and get everyone all excited and then totally eat it by the second half? Since that's been their pattern for the last four or five years, I'm going with YES.
4. Will Chicago do the same? Absolutely.
5. Will Matt Garza roar out of Rochester and totally prove he belongs in the rotation? I love Matt Garza and have since he first came on the scene. I'm thinking yeah.
6. Will Sidney Ponson totally suck all through April, get another DWI and then get fired when he runs out of seeds mid-game and starts gnawing on his own shirt to tide him over till the post-game buffet in the clubhouse? I do not doubt it.
7. Will Carlos Silva totally prove us all wrong and turn into our #2 pitcher? No.
8. Will Boof? Yes.
9. Will there be an enormous brawl with the White Sox, at home, during a game that we end up winning, that involves A.J. mouthing off to Nicky P and Nicky totally smoking him in his big fat mouth, and then Torii leading the charge out of the dugout and pouncing on Joe Crede while the bullpens come rushing in and Joe Nathan gets a few good swings at Bobby Jenks (who starts crying), and then Gardy and Ozzie face off and go nose-to-nose while Jim Thome actually is on OUR side and sticks out his leg to trip Scott Podsednik as he charges for Boof, who's totally ready to go crazy on someone (and finds Jermaine Dye and does so immediately), and then the pirahnas rally together to go for Round 2 with A.J., who's trying to look menacing but keeps backing up, while Joe Mauer and Justin Morneau pretty much go around pulling guys apart (because their moms are watching and they don't want to fight in front of their moms, and anyways, they weren't raised to brawl, they listen to their moms, although it doesn't stop them from kind of tossing the errant White Sox onto the turf instead of helping them up, because they ARE the White Sox)....will this happen? And will we be present for it? Oh please, please, if there is a higher power, let us be there for it.

10. And lastly, will the Twins once again surprise everyone (except intelligent people who watch this team regularly and pay attention) by piecing together a rotation, making adjustments as the season goes on to improve the things that are ailing, leading the league in defense and pitching, and finishing strongly to take the division? Well, seeing as it's happened the last 3 out of 4 years, I'm going with...YES.

And the drama just keep coming...Ugueth Urbina signs a 14-year lease in the pen for ATTEMPTED MURDER, and Drunky McPukeshoes Steve Swindall gives up the keys to the Yankees kingdom via divorce. That's awkward.

Pack hunter

2007-03-27T19:23:00.000-07:00

REI has abysmal customer service. Sad sad sad. Happily I have my own expert who actually gives a shit about whether or not my Europe pack fits properly. I am now covetously hunting for an Osprey Waypoint W80 (size SMALL, not medium, and since when does REI not stock all sizes of everything?!) on the internet.

Connecting flights: done. Glasgow-Pisa, Venice-Brussels-Stockholm. Wheeee!

Wall Street Journal runs a big front page article on buckets. I laugh uproariously.

Still no word from NEC or Bard. I am going to lose my fucking mind.

I'm sure there was something else to add, but I can't think of it now. I'm going to drink some tea and watch some cartoons and try to unwind my mind.

KT Tunstall

2007-03-27T10:30:00.000-07:00

I'm taking a leaf out of K's book and posting some song lyrics. This song makes me think of Ani, Mere, G, both Jesses, T, Sep...actually all my beautiful women friends. And me too. But most of all, I think of K. This is for her.

Her face is a map of the world,
Is a map of the world
You can see she's a beautiful girl,
She's a beautiful girl
And everything around her is a silver pool of light
The people who surround her feel the benefit of it
It makes you calm
She holds you captivated in her palm

Suddenly I see
This is what I want to be
Suddenly I see
Why the hell it means so much to me

I feel like walking the world,
Like walking the world
And you can hear she's a beautiful girl,
She's a beautiful girl
She fills up every corner like she's born in black and white
Makes you feel warmer when you're trying to remember
What you heard
She likes to leave you hanging on her word

Suddenly I see
This is what I want to be
Suddenly I see
Why the hell it means so much to me

And she's taller than most
And she's looking at me
I can see her eyes looking from the page of a magazine
She makes me feel I could be a tower
Big strong tower, yeah
She got the power to be
The power to give
The power to see

Suddenly I see...

The New Masquerade

2007-03-26T07:20:00.000-07:00

It's way too warm here. Mid-70s in March? Creepy. And if I hear anyone tell me how wonderful it is, I will look at them like they are crazy. Because they are.

Yesterday was one of those wonderful days with someone you love--just moving from one place to the next together, from the lake to dinner to drinks with more lovely acquaintances. So nice to have someone whose presence is that organic. Also got more evidence to support the bucket theory--met a bunch of men who are not in our bucket. They were aware that they weren't in their bucket and we weren't in theirs, and thus they stayed away from us. Mildly rude--it's a conversation, for heavens' sake, not a marriage proposal, and I can TALK to men who aren't in my bucket--but at least an affirmation of the theory.

And here's the perplexing, Scooby-Doo moment of late: men who pretend to be gay to meet women. I have had not one, but TWO of these encounters in the last week, and I think it may be a legitimate scheme among a certain group of men. The first man approached K and myself at one of our favorite bars, just to talk to us because we 'looked so interesting.' And we all proceeded to have a very weird conversation, in which I picked up a lot of straight-man flirting behavior: long stares into the eyes, biting of the lower lip, 'accidental' contact. etc., from what was clearly a not-straight male. I mean, bisexual at the very least. Deeply, deeply, confusing behavior. And before anyone gets all offended and protests against my stereotypical mind, let us remember that I work in opera, one of the gayest communities there is, so not only do I have no problem whatsoever with homosexuality, but I have pretty sophisticated gaydar that is very rarely incorrect. But my gaydar doesn't come with a measure to filter out men who actively portray a false front of homosexuality in order to get close to women. The straight men I encounter usually try to avoid acting gay, because it's obviously confusing and counterproductive for everyone involved. But now it seems that some of the more wily and cagey (and unscrupulously dishonest) straight men of the world have observed the ease with which gay men interact with women, and have decided to adopt their behavior in order to get close to said women. It's a new technique and very creative, I have to admit, but good lord almighty. Are you so repellent that you have to adopt an alternate sexuality so women don't run screaming into the street? My god.

Anyways, the first man was innocuous enough; I thought perhaps it was an isolated case of WTF. But a week later I had another straight-in-gay-clothing experience, this time much more pronounced. A friend's birthday, dancing downtown. I am rarely in the mood to dance with men at clubs (I am pretty sure most of them aren't in my bucket anyways); I much prefer dancing with my friends. So naturally, as is the case when women go to clubs, I had to devote one eye to vigilance and make sure no mystery arm suddenly encircled me from behind and pulled me into a sweaty grinding mystery torso. We were all dancing merrily when suddenly I saw a couple of flamboyant creatures dancing boldly nearby. They lacked the insecure, hip-thrusting, emasculated sort of movement that so many straight men adopt at clubs and instead were bouncing about un-self-consciously and executing the sort of turns and steps on normally associates with real partner dancing. And I remember thinking, 'Oh, gay boys! How fun! Fabulous dancing without the need for Homeland Security!' And with no reservation whatsoever, I began dancing with the nearer of the two, while the other danced with my friend T. And while my partner was indeed a strong dancer (actually kind of violent; there's a difference between leading assertively and yanking my arms out of their sockets), it became clear very quickly that he wasn't simply a flaming boy just out to dance with his boyfriend. Nope, it was a classic, two-man, striker/wingman assault. Planned like a bank heist, with me as the target. From what I could see (which wasn't much, I had enough to concentrate on in the faux-gay man), T was having a lovely time dancing with the other male, who, in perfect wingman fashion, was playing it cool and keeping an eye on the other situation a couple feet away.

So. Everyone, it's time to update your gaydar, because romantic weapons technology has advanced once again. The opportunists have found yet another way to get past the systems we have in place, so it's time to reconfigure. Download the latest version of whatever litmus test you currently use, because they've hacked the last one. Oi.

Imprudence returns

2007-03-24T08:55:00.000-07:00

Spring fever has made a roaring return into my life. Completely FORGOT to go to my job Thursday night, and spent Friday night being That Girl on the dance floor for a friend's soirée downtown. I mean, I had visions of the 'Roxanne' scene from Moulin Rouge, that's how bad it was. Or good. Maybe some of both. Aren't I horrible? Biggest evidence that the culprit is totally Strain B--all of this was done under the influence of one martini the entire evening. Not that I ever blame any of my escapades on alcohol, but doing all that almost completely sober is...interesting.

I am disheveled, underslept, partially deaf, and very dazed. And I get to be social all day today too. Hopefully my body doesn't go completely nuts after this is all over.

I did earn my night of debauchery, however. Cleaned (and I mean SPRING CLEANED) two rooms in my house. It actually looks like a grown-up domicile now. Partially.

Second Truth

2007-03-20T21:27:00.000-07:00

Trying to find a font I like. Apologies to K for stealing her layout...this is so much cleaner. I made it green, we'll see if it sticks.

As promised, here is another Truth for Me And Women Like Me. Everyone, here is Truth #2.

TRUTH #2:

The 85:15 Ratio.

The 85:15 Ratio has to do with men's adeptness at pleasing a woman. Unlike buckets, of which there are many, the ratio is comprised of two distinct groups, and all men everywhere belong in either one or the other. Seeing as I'm still not all that old and am open to new information, the numbers may fluctuate a little, but field evidence from myself and other trusted sources support the current ratio. For a working thesis, this will do just fine.

Allow me to now explain the intricacies of the 85:15 Ratio, why men are either in one group or the other, and examine both species. Simply put, 15% of the men on the planet are competent at pleasuring a woman, and 85% have absolutely no idea what the hell they're doing.

Let us first examine the more common of the two varieties: the '85' males. Perhaps they are inexperienced, which is not a crime in and of itself. Perhaps they are nervous and insecure (again, not a punishable offense), or perhaps they are self-involved and not concerned with their partner's pleasure (odious), or perhaps they are eager and practiced but somehow incredibly unaware that female hardware is vastly different from their own equipment, and cannot be treated in the same fashion. This last is unfortunately a very common occurrence, and there seem to be precious few men who can, in the heat of passion, summon their mental faculties to concentrate on the very fine and delicate motor skills that the female body requires. Now, the 85% are not to be blamed for their lack of prowess. Not entirely, anyways. Because their is no such thing as male intuition when it comes to singing the female body electric, which is why ALL men start out in the 85%. The knowledge of how to properly stimulate the clitoris with subtlety and finesse is not part of the male genetic make-up--no man is born with a clitoris, so their ignorant beginnings are perfectly understandable. As with any learned behavior, practice is the only way for them to ascend from their incompetence into enlightenment, hopefully with the guidance of a confident partner.

Now, there are, of course, a lot of factors that contribute to the learning curve. Intelligent and/or sensitive men will generally lead the pack, but it's possible for someone totally witless to gain an extensive repertoire if he gets plenty of practice. (You all know this man: absolutely stunning on the outside, but between the ears...well, the saloon doors only swing when the wind blows, if you know what I mean.) The 85s can be very tiresome, particularly when they themselves are convinced that they are in the 15%, when all they're really doing is applying the techniques they use on THEMSELVES to the female body. THIS. MUST. STOP. (Also, the insecurity and indignity must cease--if a woman has the moxie, decency, and self-respect to inform you that you need to change your methods, swallow your pride and learn. It will be better for everyone in the long run.) Also, all the great boors of the world are 85s, because they simply do not CARE about their partner's pleasure. But such unsavory creatures are usually so outwardly repulsive that any sensible woman will never find herself in a situation to confirm or deny the boor's place in the 85 camp. Happily, most of the 85s are not without merit; they are by and large earnest, guileless and eager to please, and usually need nothing more than some gentle guidance. 85s, while sometimes frustrating and idiotic, do not have the dangerous capacities of those on the other side of the divide. Which brings us to...

The 15s. They are an elite bunch, and once you've sampled their talents, they are as addictive as a narcotic. As a bonus, not only have the 15s mastered the clitoris, that most difficult and challenging of female pleasures, but they've very likely refined a whole lot more on their way to Erotic Mecca. And as seductive as their talents are, they are as dangerous a group as the Sirens, for a few reasons. First, the only way into Club 15 is refining technique through practice, and with that comes exposure to all kinds of unpleasantries. Sampling the offerings of a 15 will always carry the risk of an STD or 5. But even more alarming is the psychological subterfuge that 15s are capable of. Neither I nor my trusted and esteemed colleagues have met a 15% man that is anything less than toxic. Not that we've met many, because there simply AREN'T many. Thus I must issue a warning: if you find yourself in the company of a many who turns out to be in the 15% (and you'll know if he is) be very, very careful. Because there's an unfortunate side-effect of men figuring out how to stimulate a woman to mind-blowing orgasm: vanity. No man is unaware of his being in the 15%. He always knows, and the tempt to be self-congratulatory and abuse his powers is very strong. Men who can touch us like that deserve praise--we can't help ourselves, because such skills come along so rarely that they MUST be praised and encouraged--and such constant acclaim invariably inflates egos. The more jejune of these men simply get cocky and limit themselves to bragging and strutting, but the more sophisticated and evil ones turn into connivers and manipulators, turning their talents to their own advantage. These are the Don Juans of the world, those poisonous pleasers of women who leave a path of destruction behind them. It's a classic instance of corruption of power, and it is a rare man indeed who inhabits the 15% and simultaneously resists the enormous inflation of ego.

What is to be done? I cannot be sure. The hypothesis is newly formed and will need more research, findings will of course influence the theory in the future. In the meantime, be aware of the 85s and the 15s of the world--their advantages and their flaws, and let us always strive to make 15 the new 85. Perhaps with widespread intelligence in this area, the sense of elitism will recede and we can enjoy a world where men's knowledge of fully appreciating the female form is not the exception, but the norm.

Spring and Truths

2007-03-19T17:51:00.000-07:00

Season of life, renewal, and general euphoria in temperate climates. My obsession with plants is awakened from hibernation--I buy tons of new houseplants, mentally re-structure gardens in my neighborhood, and fantasize about my window boxes. Baseball begins again, that most wonderful sport whose yearly life-cycle mimics that of the rhythms of the natural world--something I have NEVER thought to be coincidental. Annie Savoy, in all her mystical, sensual wisdom, would totally back me up on that. And the entire populace becomes stricken with Spring Fever.

Now, most people don't realize that Spring Fever comes in two strains: A and B. Strain A is the one that makes you fidgety and restless, needing to escape climate control and expose all your senses to the elements. Common symptoms include impulsively revamping your entire spring/summer wardrobe, inability to focus on anything relating to work, and wasting enormous amounts of time fantasizing about and/or researching vacations. Strain B is the strain that makes you obsessed with sex in all its variations, resulting in a constant battle between your body and your brain. Symptoms include compulsively visually undressing any subject that happens past, hypersensitivity to human touch, shameless flirting, losing train of thought when a specimen wanders within striking range, and creating plots to corner any promising acquaintances that are ripe for seduction. Advanced cases can turn into bouts of nymphomania, and an unfortunate and archaic sub-strain exacerbates the desire to marry and spawn (women are more susceptible to this variety than men.)

I, of course, have both strains already. The colder weather has helped, but 50 degrees is back on the horizon, and with it will come the full-blown Spring Fever and all its problems. Strain B is harder on me, because not only am I a Leo, but I am a Leo that hasn't seen any action in awhile, which means I am more likely to do something...imprudent. I would hope that cooler heads would prevail, but right now, I'm not sure they exist.

So in honor of the onset of the Spring Fever pandemic, I have decided to start setting down The Truths For Me And Women Like Me. Empowered, confident, intelligent, passionate, generally heterosexual, driven, intuitive, wise, irreverent, and more. Things to keep in mind as we encounter males and decide whether or not they're going to impress us for more than five minutes.

TRUTH #1.

BUCKETS.

There is this horrible lie going around that there are a certain (small) number of 'good, worthy men' in the universe, and all of us women are racing each other to find them and snap them up for our own. THIS IS A LIE. The truth was brought to me by an inspired and inspiring woman--truly a great force in my life and co-author of these truths. And it is this: everyone is in a bucket, there are a lot lot lot of buckets, and you are looking for someone from your bucket, just as they are looking for you. In terms of relationships, you don't have to concern yourself with the men not in your bucket, because they don't interest you. Neither do you have to concern yourself with women who aren't in your bucket, because you're not hunting the same bird and therefore are not competing with each other. That garbage about 'all the good ones are taken' and 'a good man is hard to find' is nothing but swill, because tastes and tendencies put everyone in a specific bucket, and there are far too many buckets for some 'perfect man' to fit everyone's tastes. There aren't labels or stereotypes for the buckets, (i.e.,it's not just 'good men' and 'scummy men' buckets. OK, so there probably IS a 'scummy men' bucket, but it's not as massive as we think. We hope.) The best thing about this (apart from the fact that it makes the whole aspect of finding a man who GETS you less like searching frantically for a Willy Wonka Golden Ticket and more like eating the candy, enjoying it, and then finding twenty bucks in the street) is that everyone in a bucket will naturally gravitate to someone else from their bucket. So let's all take a deep breath and relax, and the next time you come up against the 'there-are-only-so-many-good-men-in-the-world' theory, think of the buckets.

And I totally just realized that I used a Willy Wonka reference, and that story's hero is named Charlie BUCKET. Whoa. I don't know what that means, but I am amazed by it.

Next up...Truth #2: The 85/15 Ratio.

Release the hounds

2007-03-16T15:01:00.000-07:00

Much triumph. Went back to an old job yesterday, realized it was from another regime, and called this morning and quit. I've never done that before and now feel truly calm for the first time since the auditions.

Big plans for the evening. Part celebration, part revenge, part exorcism, but certainly lots of congratulations for achievements and milestones. A good excuse to drink wine and look hot and laugh. And hunt the big game.

And to pile glory upon glory, the Twins pounded the Orioles into submission today--15-2. Glad to see that the offense has finally come out of its torpor and is ready to hit the ground running in April. We hope. Sidney 'The Boat' Ponson gets the win. Huh. How bout that. Still not holding my breath. Instead, taking in huge, lusty gulps of almost-spring and dreaming about the next phase.

2007-03-15T22:25:00.000-07:00

So I decided I need yet another place to dump out all my brain clutter. That and the cool girls have blogs like this and I want to join their universe here. They know who they are.

I like this:

The wandering albatross, upon learning to fly, leaves the land behind for five years. Except for feeding and breeding, its entire life is spent in the air, flying in tempestuous as well as moderate weather. It travels around the globe many times until it reaches sexual maturity at ten years, when it returns to land to find a mate. (At this time, many males may be seen around one female.) Once the female has found a suitable partner, which may take a few years, the bond is for life, and the two will be together until one of them dies. The birds may live for eighty years, using only the wind to carry them around the globe, with the oceans of the entire southern hemisphere as their habitat.

Viva albatross. More to come once I know how this all works. And once I have a digital camera, one of the many things I must acquire before I take a flight of my own.