Comfort Food

Because a friend of mine was robbed last night, and all other national events are rife with apprehension, and I have felt homesick, here is some comfort food, beginning with a picture of where I grew up. I've never seen its equal.

Nice things:

The first time I brought Christy home with me, she hopped out of the car, took her pants off, and ran in circles in the middle of this field giggling like crazy. No one was surprised, I was glowing with pride.



When I got back from Europe, Max came down armed with paintball supplies and kicked my ass for hours. Mom and Bob put on the gear afterwards and Bob shot her in the head a few times. She was unphased.





Seriously, someone needs to post a picture of the leaves changing in Asheville. Please?

More nice things:

See story yesterday about meatball and baklava.

Once when I was in one of my tore up depression moods, Mary Anne decided she'd had about enough. She came out of her room wearing pannies, a tiny t-shirt, her hair balled up on top of her head like Pebbles, and my Spongebob Squarepants slippers. "You know," she said, hopping from foot to foot, "sometimes you just have to make your own fun."

My cat drools when she's happy. She is especially happy when someone's getting brutally murdered on television.


My coffee cup's from Texas.











Maybe I shouldn't make lists til I've had more than one of these.

Just as a warning...

...this is one of those times I'm just going to talk about myself. For a while.

I stay in until 5. I work, I research things that interest me, I drink coffee. I do that a lot. I smoke cigarettes. I call Babs around 2:00 and ask if she's a capitalist (no). I ask her what the corrupt flaw in the system is, she suggests embitterment and greed.

No, no that can't be right, I tell her. For I am bitter, and do not find myself corrupt; I am also greedy, and do not find myself rich.

Haven't heard her laugh so loud in forever. Around the time the good people of the world are getting out of the office, I leave my version thereof and go to the bank for a roll of quarters and to cash a performance check. This situation makes me happy. I go next door to the bookstore and surprise my inner 7 year old by being very interested in the politics section. Lizzie meets me there off work and we stop by the Greek deli restaurant. I have to eat now, immediately, because I have a cardio class in an hour and a half and don't want to puke.

I like the Greek restaurant. When it's open and welcoming, it spills out onto the sidewalk under a thick red awning, and the managers of the theater next door read papers and make schedules and phone calls. When it's closed, it draws into itself under a cage door like a hermit crab, and you wouldn't be able to find the door if you looked for it. The woman who owns it recognized me after one visit, and remembers me every time I pass her. She gives me an extra meatball and I pay her in cash for some baklava. She thinks I am funny, I feel I am sincere. I think I must carry around a perpetual state of frank ridiculousness that she thinks is funny. I'm glad.

Walking the 1.5 blocks home with Luna I remark to her that this place is in fact very homey in its downtown city way. The Greek beauty remembers who I am, and see look, there is Christopher sitting in his spot. He has found a new jacket in the street/trash/unlocked car and it is covered in black and white skulls but it really looks like toile. I consider greeting him but today he's chewing something that couldn't possibly benefit from futher mastication, and that's not a good sign for conversation. He looks over 40 but I know he is actually much younger, near my own age. On good days he calls me "pretty girl" and asks if he can give me a kiss. He will never do so. It's a neighborly thing.

I don't eat much for fear of vomiting in cardio but I eat all of my baklava. I ask Luna if she wants half and even though she might she says no cause she knows I want it all. That is one true example of love. I think I am in love with baklava.

I go to cardio at the circus center. It's only an hour. I'm in class with a woman who has had a baby so recently it still has the appearance of a tater, but I'm suffering waaaay more than she is. How can one hour be such agony? I don't think I can make it. I want to die. I keep telling myself I am 26. I am 26. I am a 70 year old 26 year old and I decide I want to quit smoking. Mostly. I poorly decided to have worn second hand velour sleepy pants that are now soaked in sweat. It will be cold on the train ride home. I barely survive the hour and decide that's enough conditioning. I wait til Kerri leaves then I cry inside. No, not really. I stretch my splits and shoulders until the muscles stop boiling.

When I leave, I find myself walking down the stairs instead of upstairs to the train stop. Downstairs in the vegetarian Indian restaurant. I am not a vegetarian, but I love this place and mango lassi to go seems to be the best idea in the world right about now. I end up with bindhi, rice, bread, and mango lassi to go. I should have known better. This is one of my favorite places in the world, and I'm not the only one who feels this way. It is small and red inside, and the owner/server is an older Indian gentleman who makes me feel he is eagerly bringing me into his home.

All the groceries are bought fresh every day. If you don't know what to order, he orders for you. He tacks on four extras which up your bill but it couldn't possibly matter less. It's one of the only restaurants that deserves every penny. If you are visiting for the first time, he happily explains the variety of textures and combinations in his food. He feeds you by hand on a piece of pita bread. I'm waiting for my order (which is much larger than I at first intended) and watching him feed tastes of some kind of dessert to two women who accept it as naturally as a handshake. If I'm supposed to be offended then something is wrong. While I'm waiting he brings me a wine glass of mango nectar, and offers it to me with both hands like ceremonial wine. I accept it the same. It's cold and thick and honest; he asks how I like it on his next trip and waits to hear the answer. When I go he urges me to let him know if I don't like the food. I tell him he knows I will like it, and he laughs at me. The mango lassi is absolutely perfect.

Cunning.

I have decided perhaps it would be delightful to show you some pictures.

My every day happiness:















From the Vau de Vire show a couple weekends ago:
The lovely Dwoira warming up for contortion. The sleazy guy standing behind her is me.
This picture courtesy of Neil Girling's The Blight, where you can find 117 more images from the show.



The ineffable beloved Kristina in pin up form and me as a man:



Classic pin-up Maria and some douchy greasemonkey:



The sign that caused a throng of one dozen to flock to our club gig in Denver:



The carpeted stage (yes that's right) from Cervantes. Notice the presence of just such a hoop as I have aforementioned hanging through a hole cut in the ceiling (classy):



Three of my Nekyia ladies after three shows, no sleep, and still hot:



That's all for now. I haven't asked anyone's permission to put up their likeness, so if you are one of them and despise me for it, send me a note and I'll think about taking it down. Maybe.

More not sleeping

Couldn't sleep again last night. I tried to get tired reading The Fountainhead which was a mistake, as reading any Ayn Rand does the opposite of making me feel lethargic. After I put it away my mind kept walking through the grounds of the house I grew up in.

Incredible, how perfectly I remember the placement of knots on the oak trees, which ones my dad planted, which ones were there before. The color, shape, and general health of the rosebushes, which plots of grass were nice to touch and which were course, where the ground was always flooded, where I buried a dead baby possum. I haven't really thought of that house much since I helped mama move out of it into her new life.

All I wanted was to be outside. I grew up in woods and fields, which brings me to another point I wanted to make. I am allergic to California. The King of the Scorpios and I, last time he was here, journeyed to see Muir Woods, the celebrated redwood forest north of the city. We walked/ran around for the better part of three hours, and by the time we left I had itchy rashes all up and down my legs, on my neck, and especially on my elbows (presumably from leaning on things). Having been surrounded by molding leaves and earthworms as much as possible since the age of 3, I was horrified to have an allergic reaction to being in the woods. I don't even have a reaction to poison ivy, for fuck's sake. It must be California. Shaun's skin remained, as usual, impermeable to the effects of the elements.

Back to not sleeping. So after I coddled my younger self into quieting her blisteringly clear tour of my childhood sanctuary, I tried again to sleep. This time I was kept awake by the imminent, all consuming need to be on an aerial hoop. It has to be on a mobile point, double tabbed, spinning carabiners. If anyone reading has $400.00 to invest in the cause of acquiring said apparatus, I will give you 10% of all my earnings from performing on it for one year. I am absolutely willing to put this in writing. Trust me, it's a very good deal.

Of course, everyone's poor right now. I'll just dip a hula hoop in paper mache and hope I don't die. In case anyone is curious here is a picture of a beautiful hoop artist and her crotch. Here is another. There is a lot of crotch in circus. You get used to it.

On that note it's time to seriously commit to finishing my coffee and earning my paycheck.

Like Beth said,

It's dying time.

Pagan song:

Merry meet, and merry part
and merry met again,
Come, let us go to the fields, my heart,
to conjure Autumn in;

the fields of wheat, the fields of gold,
John Barleycorn must die;
that we may bake the loaves of old
and feed them to the sky.

Tomorrow is Mabon. I don't remember the last time I observed it properly. Two years ago I was in Florence and Lucian came to visit, I had a cold and men came to polish the marble floor in the foyer. Last year I flew to Seattle at the last moment, to be with the King of the Scorpios. It was cold everywhere but under his sheets. I felt similar to how I feel now, only now I feel less manic and more authoritative. I do not want that, exactly.

This week I rested. And I'm tired of it. I know exactly what I am ready to let die.

I could have weekly gigs at a venue with red velvet curtains, and be out of debt, and have Shaun within the reach of my hand, and live oak trees and ocean and I still would feel the same unless there is one essential point recognized as not only worthy of time, but necessary to life. There's dust on the altar, and the bowls are empty. Time to fill them up.

Denver

Here was the schedule for this past weekend:

Friday/Saturday:
-perform for Vau de Vire at Bohemian Carnival 9pm-2am
-ride home with Kristina, pack and prepare to leave for Denver 2am-4am
-leave for Denver, fly to Denver 4am-11:30am

Saturday/Sunday:
-attempt to get to hotel 11:30am-1:00pm
-check in, walk around looking for IHOP, eat food, return to hotel 1pm-3pm
-prepare to leave for corporate gig 3pm-3:30pm
-go to corporate venue, dress, warm up, makeup, perform 4pm-10pm
-go to Clocktower Cabaret, dress, makeup, perform 10:30pm-1am
-try desperately to get back to hotel (cabbies in Denver SUCK) 1am-3am
-pack for flight home 3am-4am
-trundle off to airport, fly home 4am-10am
-come home and cry 10am-present

That is hardcore. There are very few things I will endure physical discomfort for and almost nothing I will endure hunger for. Thankfully, when you're onstage, nothing hurts, and nothing else matters. You could be dancing on a broken ankle and have a 103 degree fever and once you walk on stage, you don't feel shit. It wouldn't be the first time. Just ask Kristina, who worked all weekend in fishnets with a huge spider bite marring her perfect ass and giving her a fever. She couldn't even sit down properly (it ended up being a black widow bite).

Goddamn I love my job. I love the details...eyelash glue, fishnets, spirit gum, black eyeliner, hours upon hours of rehearsal. How everything comes together seamlessly at the last possible moment. The innovation that came at the inception of a new idea and the driving force that has let it survive and evolve for years into this. The muscles on the bodies of women, trained to the bone, magnetized to frames. To be in the presence of so much ability and force and desire that does not idle but takes action. These are the people I wish to devote my time to.

To think that at the founding of this blog I was praying for a 9-5. I would have taken it too, and it would have been great in its own way. But I know I can't die in peace without having known this first. Sometimes my to do list looks like a roster of things that will allow me to die in peace.

I'm nowhere near finished, although I have to say it's shorter than it was at age 7.

Rachel (7): you need to get up in the air on a hoop, covered in gold or silver paint, with silk.
Rachel (26): I'm working on it.
Rachel (7): work harder.
Rachel (26): ok.

Days break wide open in the mornings here lately.

A few years ago I dreamed about the end of human civilization. While this is nothing new, this particular dream was so incredibly vivid, so surreal in its visceral nature, that waking up I was flooded with an immense gratitude for another chance to live well. That is what every morning is like now. A chance to keep working, keep training, keep writing. A chance to not waste.

From Max Cooper's recent interview of photography icon Sam Abell: "When I do these books, I put out the book—someone asked me, when I came out with The Photographic Life book, “Who is your ideal audience, who are you aiming this book at?” And my answer was, “Myself, when I was 23 years old.""

There is certainly something to be said for using your own eyes, past or otherwise, as the authority of judgment on your work. And since nothing is great or small except by comparison, and the only thing under your control is your own behavior, it is illogical to compare yourself to anyone other than...you. "There's nothing noble in being superior to your fellow men. True nobility lies in being superior to your former self." (Hemingway)

Having invested a great deal of time feeling superior or otherwise towards my fellow men, this is important and a relief for me remember.

Myself at 23 was still bound fast in a comfortable nest of denial and distraction. The girl I want to please is myself at age 7. If I showed my life to myself at 23 she'd say something like, "you make me tired just lookin at you. Got any liquor?"

Age seven: "Well yes, naturally that is what we would be doing. Wait, we're not published?"

Tough bird to impress.