Madame Rex

The time has come the walrus said,

2012-01-30T09:56:00.000-08:00

to talk of many things, of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings!
And why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings-

~ Lewis Carroll

I think everyone knows the natural response to this piece of Alice in Wonderland (reprinted here without permission as it is public domain, and Carroll is unfortunately quite dead) is that pigs do have wings.

That's all the segue I have.

Announcing the launch of Project Genesis, which has haunted my days and nights for a year now, and has grown legs to walk around on. A picture to clear up my garbled explanation:

Yes, this is the project I've been mysteriously eluding too. Was it annoying? I simply cannot leave this earth or my 20's without creating this act. You can read more about the thought behind this WIP and donate to the cause by clicking on this convenient link:

THE LINK!! OH YEAH! ----> http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/genesis/genesis-air-water-life

What can one person do to be interesting in a Petri dish full of water? Things like this:

Please! Visit the page and tell me what you think, or toss it towards anyone you think might be interested. Even sharing with one person can make all the difference in the world. Deepest gratitude,
Rachel

Oh the places you'll go...

2012-01-21T23:27:00.000-08:00

...
and where are all of YOU right now? Do tell...the truth of my right now is that it's the evening after the final thaw of snowmageddon in Seattle 2012, in which most of us were stranded in our homes due to insane snowdrifts encasing vehicles, freaked out drivers (including myself), and snow that wouldn't. Stop. Falling.

Of course the snow does eventually stop. This is the nature of a cyclical world. But that doesn't make any difference whatsoever when you're waiting for the snow to melt...it always seems like it might just stay freezing and white forever.

Here's what I did with one of my snow days, given company by the most excellent Gary Kirkland and the beautiful Tanya Brno, photography by Shaun Vann, to whom I gave a camera for Christmas and so created a happy monster indeed:

Otherwise, the days are peppered with neverending quests...for one-arm meathooks, perfect levers, and the illusive full pretzel.

You will be mine. Oh yes! You will be mine.

Plus, a not-so-secret project which I am to unveil very shortly, to the oohs and aahs of at least 7 people I hope...stay tuned. Stay warm. Stay fed, and hungry, at once.

Let's Get Ugly Beautiful

2012-01-02T11:02:00.000-08:00

Every New Year, I think everyone sees how long they can go without screwing it up. Then once you screw it up (and you will, it is essential that we understand this) you go back to living amongst the detritus of your mistakes, unaware of their true nature and unaware of the true nature of your victories as well. You go back to not paying attention.

Or maybe that's just me. If it is, please let me know.

It seems to me that at any time, I have two options. To turn and face the abyss, or to keep it coolly at my back. One way is examination, the other is avoidance. This wasn't always the case; when I was younger I didn't hide things from myself, I didn't need to- I could be unproductive for days at a time and it made no difference, because I was 7. Climbing trees and walking through the woods either singing or crying for no reason were equally effective at being business at usual.

Abyss is an ill-sounding word. And it is terrifying in its nature, which is that it doesn't lie. So I can either know the truth and stand inside of it, or I can know it at the back of my subconscious, poisoning what should have been the beautiful and transcendent hours of my life.

But perhaps the most evil side-effect of the unwillingness to face the difficult, the disgusting, and disheartening about your own brain-bubble is that the act of avoiding it divides your focus. With a divided focus, you achieve divided accomplishments, incomplete and tainted from conception to completion. I myself have created hundreds of half-realized aerial pieces, written manifestos, coffee dates, hugs, and training sessions; doomed to be sub-par glory because of their stunted DNA... I wasn't paying attention. And I didn't want to, or told myself I had to save my energy for Whatever Excuse I Had. And knowing this, I can look in hindsight at these pieces of my half-life and know this with certainty: that nothing would have been more essential than to stop saving myself, turn to the ugly void, and with a mouth spewing ashes, let it all go to hell.

It really seems like a no-brainer. But since when did that make a difference to anyone?

So whatever, here's to a new year filled with weeping in the dark, peeing with the door open, shrieking in front of the mirror, and a happiness without a hole in it.

NoLa, CenLa, and Eastside Swank

2011-11-08T11:06:00.000-08:00

Oh, 8 hour rehearsal, I have missed you! Currently in rehearsals with ticktock, (the great Elizabeth Rose and Sage Cushman!) prepping a 50-minute show called domestic variations for the New Orleans Fringe Festival. This is the first show like this I have done, bringing with it many new challenges, working with awesome ladies, tiny victories, and one tiny defeat (I never did get that penny drop on the bed, curses!). See the trailer for the last domestic variations featuring the incredible original cast, Jill Marissa and Bridget Gunning: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-chx-Hn32Qk&feature=player_embedded

In other news, Emerald City Trapeze Arts is providing aerialists three times a week to Suite, a beautiful new restaurant/lounge in Hyatt country, Bellevue. Come taste the rainbow:

One week to go before leaving for my father's country, the unbiddable and intoxicating Louisiana. Anyone who cannot have a good time in Louisiana is either way uptight or dead. So looking forward to seeing my enormous extended family! When you marry into Louisiana you marry into 40 odd relatives. Instant party!

Before I go, a quick still from FreakNight with the ungovernable soul metal of Super Geek League. I like to call this photo "I have come to eat your family":

Time to go plant bulbs, learn Italian, and give myself a haircut. And that's Tuesday.

Lost and Found.

2011-07-04T09:23:00.000-07:00

My memory is flawed, so I write things down. I've done this for a long time, so it's easy to go back and find exactly what I was doing, where I was, and what tragedy/victory I was nursing at the time. I had forgotten about this practice until yesterday, when I couldn't remember how I was feeling two years ago.

I found it, in the form of an artist's statement I wrote for no reason two years ago, then completely forgot. There are many, many pages of this kind in my archives and no, I will not be forcing every last one into the light of day.

But I am going to re-find them, and if I think I was on to something at the time, I will repost them here. Even though it feels like I'm plagiarizing myself.

No one will probably ever ask me for an artist's statement, the realm of the visual artist. The closest I have seen to a performer's version of a statement are the mission statements of (usually non-profit) companies. I find these statements largely stating that their work and lives are in service of the community, in an effort to bring art to the masses, explore a fallacy or a myth in the most interesting cases and an inconsequential generality in the worst.

I guess if I don't do my job well enough and convey exactly the story intended, no one will ever know what I was going for or why unless they ask me. A new endeavor of mine is to talk more, regardless of whether or not someone asks me a direct question. This is very uncomfortable...how do people do it so incessantly? But I admire the risk, and now take it on.

July 5, 2009

Artist's Statement.

This is the best, the most beautiful and singing of what I can give you freely. Although I hope to give you enjoyment, I do not do this for your entertainment. Although I hope to win your love, your approval is not my aim. To seek your sanction would be madness, destruction; as the validation would surely cease once my body aged too much to be pushed to such extremes, and I would be left bereft because my purpose was your love, and not mine. I do not operate under the assumptions of mankind. Age, social restrictions, even gravity. I do not say they play no role in my life, only they work for me as agents as opposed to laws. I teach greatness, I am my only student. I teach victory in the face of defeat. I teach beauty so magnificent, so poignant, I can only hope to mirror its declarations in a line or a shadow. I have declared allegiance to it, devotion to the truth of a body. Why should I dress in ruffles and pearls? The lines of my flesh are my art, my work, my blood and tears and triumphs.

And when I retreat to home? The man I have chosen is not chosen to keep because of his own beauty, as echoing as it is. He is not chosen for his youth or his power, or even his kindness or deceit. I chose him because he brings me to a god-force. There is a truth in his nature that cannot deceive itself. The radiance of the blood in his veins is magnificent. I love him for his words and his actions and his being. I choose him every day because he carries with him a truth and a divine, inherent knowledge. And he has no idea. And others that I love? A family of opinions and prejudice and underlying loyalty. Everything else falls by. They love me as I am or not at all. They love me as I am. I love them back.

Knowing all this, I still know that only the faintest splinter of light has been acknowledged in me. Knowing this, I press on. I know there is a truth and a radiance I have not yet pierced, that has not pierced me. I cut on, razor hot and all things yield. I will earn the mysteries that make up my beauty. I will not stop for you, or conform to you, in any way. Do not ask me to give up what grace is mine; you have your own. If you do not see it, you can. But I cannot and will not show it to you, only declare to you that it exists.

Irish Cranes and other details

2011-06-13T08:02:00.000-07:00

Greetings from a land that actually has Internet cafes! Letterkenny IRE, Co. Donegal in the north of the country, where the sheep are plentiful and the aerialists of the nation take over the city two weeks out of the year. I've been enjoying myself too much to write so far, and as such my time here is almost gone, only one day of class, one day and a performance, and then on Sunday I'm off to my 2nd favorite city in the world, which is Galway. Please do not ask about my first, as the slot is not at all discerning but mercurial as hell and at the moment undecided.

The way aerialists live is so different from the US- not to be gotten into now but rest assured I'll pick it apart in the future. Extremely honored to be invited to perform for Firkin Crane at the opening sharing of the CASCAS UK/Ireland tour in Cork on June 25. That's one more proper show two days before I fly out of Dublin, with some of Ireland's finest. Pictures forthcoming, but for now the lack of laptop means I am free of it. BUT I do have the poster:

Topleft photo by the great Jesse Lenihan.

Tower Days and Incoming Contortionists

2011-04-20T13:43:00.001-07:00

As my days in the tower are numbered (there are seven business days left, not counting today) all the parts of my life that got coaxed to sleep (by ether) are waking up one by one...and the beast is hungry.

Luckily, life is a feast-- and one that you should never stop eating regardless of the work that you devote your life to. The things I have learned in the past six months I don't expect I'll forget. For one, a sense of compassion and understanding for people who do work onsite 40, 60, and 70 hour weeks. And when they have spouses and children, that compassion becomes awe.

And so, as a most excellent breakfast, the Ineffable Beloved herself is coming up to our shrouded city! One of my favorite people in the whole world, not to mention a visionary performer, the fabulous Kristina Nekyia.

And if you're in Seattle, you lucky dogs, you too can benefit from her years of carefully combing through tears and techniques to bring you her own ecelectic flavor of flexibility training.

What: Yes, a flexibility workshop at our own Emerald City Trapeze Arts!
When: Sunday May 1st; 3:30-5:30pm
How much: $45.00

For those taking my hoopery workshop, while this class will tucker you out, it will also bendy you up just in time for hoop at 6! Deeeeelicious!

Viva la Hoop Revolution!!

2011-04-06T18:18:00.000-07:00

Everybody's favorite 2nd apparatus (and my favorite 1st) is taking Seattle and the beyond by aerial storm. Why this love for hoops you may ask? Beginners like it because you can actually do some things on it while you are in the process of getting stronger, unlike vertical apparatus. This is useful for building the self-possibility that often gets shattered when training for vertical, but it is a double edged sword...it's easy to do something decent on a hoop. It's much harder to make something magnificent and new...much like pastries, porn, and life in general.

I love the hoop because from the first time I touched it I knew it was in me, and that if I loved her best she would love me back. But enough about me...let's talk more about stuff only partially related to me. I'll be teaching a four-week progressive hoop intensive at Emerald City Trapeze Arts starting Sunday, it filled up fast enough to humble me pretty well.

Aaaand Ireland! It is my very great pleasure to announce that I've been accepted to teach and be taught at the Irish Aerial Dance Festival in Letterkenny, Donegal. Thanks to the fabulous Chantal of Fidget Feet, an Irish aerial dance company I have coveted for a few years now, I'll be joining the ranks of some super star teachers (and students) to bask in their brain and body power. And now I'll need to end this post before I fill it with senseless exclamatories.

Things that People Tell/Ask Me at the Pink Door

2011-02-09T13:07:00.000-08:00

and the long-winded responses I will not (usually) inflict on them:

#1) "You are so strong. I can't even do a pull up." (followed by looking at the floor)

No one has a more critical opinion of their physical prowess than the person striving repeatedly (sometimes psychotically) to improve it past an impossible standard. Are you taking care of yourself and your family? Are you having a good time right now because the dinner is delicious and you did the best you could today? You have won my respect way more than watching you do a sweaty, grunty pull up with poor form.

#2) "I want to come take your class!"

Yes! Yes please come take my class! I love my class! I wish everyone would take my class, then there would be fewer injuries and the world would have better straddle-ups and the use of their shoulders past the age of 45. It is from 6-7:30 on Tuesdays. Katie teaches the sister class on Thursdays at the same time. If you came to both for two months, you would have a brand new body.
And you could do a pull up.

#3) "Do you make your own costumes?"

Response- Absolutely, even though I learn by messing it up repeatedly. Otherwise I'd have to wait for someone else to do it, and hope they got it right, and give them money.

#4) "Do you do your own makeup?"

Response- See #3.

#5) "Have you ever kicked anyone?"

Yes, Greta, and just barely. I think she has forgiven me.

#6) "Have you ever fallen?"

No.

#7) "Will you take a picture with _____?"

Yes.

#8) "Do you want to taste this wine/meat/roasted garlic before your next set?"

blearghcch...

#9) "So did before this, did you dance or do gymnastics or play volleyball?"

I studied dance since I was 3, it made me relatively graceful. Gymnastics would have made me fearless. Yes you should put your child into a discipline like this so they know how to use their meat suits. Volleyball is the devil, because I sucked at that.

#10) "Are you in Cirque du Soleil?"

....
...
no.

#11) "What should I order?"

The bolognese. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

Winter.

2011-01-25T16:46:00.001-08:00

The other day I was forced to stand and introduce myself. If you know me you know I haaaaaaate doing that. And we had to answer a cute question along with the introduction, which was how do you survive the Seattle winter? Then everyone looks at me like I'm a sociopathic vampire because my answer is that I like these long, dark, wet winters.

And then I found $5.00.

In other news Mistress Neck Hang finally succumbed to my dastardly wooing, so you better believe I'm going to report it in full:

And to answer an often-asked question, no, my musculoskeletal system isn't in danger. And yes, it hurts a little, but like a static electricity shock from a sweater after what it was like to learn it. Those damn Mistresses, so irresistible. Photo by Bruce Magnotti co-director of the Seattle Gold shows and my friend- thanks bra!

November

2010-11-30T13:19:00.000-08:00

As Adie so beautifully put it, November deserves a comment from me. Many things have and have not gotten them, so I want to give where I can now. A list of things that came in November:
~ I came home after the last leg of the wonderful Queensryche Cabaret, blowing kisses to new family.
~ Shaun, coming home for the last time ever from being out to sea on a submarine. What the sirens have relinquished I don't plan on giving back.
~ A magical temp job providing supplementary income which keeps me working 16 hour days, 8 in an office, the rest in a studio. This will allow me to go home and see mammy for Christmas.
~ November the 18th.
~ Reinvigorating my double mask act for Seattle Gold, planning to hang it up afterwards after a successful 2.5 year run of performing it.
~ Brother Josh and Laura coming for the weekend (hence Brother tells me the last thing I should do is hang the piece up. So, I'm not.)
~ Snow in Seattle.
~ 8 pounds.
~ A double macaroni Thanksgiving (perhaps hence the 8 pounds).

And coming up terribly soon in beautiful December, a new spanking new spectacle I'm creating for Bellefleur Lingerie:

...a store I love to enter at any time. Full of delights and decadence, I am thrilled to be performing at their soiree on December 11th. Purr!

For A-bomb:

2010-10-12T10:49:00.000-07:00

This always works to cheer me up:

Also, the Gaelic word of the day supplied by myself and therefore subject to being wrong, is "Cara" (friend).
Awr.

Gaelic it up. You know you want to.

2010-10-09T10:33:00.000-07:00

Devotees will notice that to the right of this here bunch of words is a new widget, found after a series of synchronous internet searches, that will bequeath to you a new word in Irish every day. This is in honor of the swinging hoop act I am debuting tonight in its first form, a love song to Ireland itself, at the Circus of Dreams matinee. I may even supplement our mutually growing vocabulary with a word of my own now and then, learned on travels and dug out of the dusty burrows of my Irish travel notebook #1. Most if not all of these supplied by myself will have been copied into said notebook in pubs by locals I managed to convince to let me drink with them.

For example one such event, I was with a table of three Irish students who had just received a degree of some sort, this was in Galway circa 2004. Mikey, a young guy from Wexford whom later on ended up walking me the 1.5 miles to my sometime lodgings (awr) and Louise a young lady with excellent humor, and Scone, who got his name after once drunkenly asking to be brought back a treat from the store, then flying into a rage when the treat turned out to be a scone.
This particular phrase is from Scone:

Tá gach duine ar meisce. (taw gahk dinna ahr MESH-kah)

This, fittingly enough for the time, means "everyone is drunk." At least, it probably does.

I'll have something sweeter for you tomorrow.

BradbotBradbotBradbot...

2010-10-07T17:14:00.000-07:00

So, a couple weeks ago I shot a video for Xbox with these hot mamas:

That's the amazing Tanya Brno, Sailor Kate Kirkland, yours truly, and Lauren Engelhorn of Ringling Bros., about to kick Major Nelson's ass. And it was a very kick ass day indeed. This video is for The Adventures of Captain Smiley, and it went live today on the Xbox channel which is just about the coolest thing that's happened to me today. For those sans Xbox like myself, I was thrilled to get a hold of this handy link where you can see our awesome commercial:

http://www.xbox.com/en-US/community/insidexbox/video/majorsminute/default.htm

Make sure you watch til the end when Lauren jumps off a building.

And seriously, those Parkour guys are forces of nature. Shedangy!

Circus of Dreams

2010-10-04T07:55:00.001-07:00

It's that time again, time to see some excellent performers do their thang for a very good cause. Circus of Dreams was created by Jenn Wrenn to raise money for pediatric brain tumor research and has become a smashing success year after year.

Click here to buy tickets: HERE.

I'm honored to be performing alongside the likes of Blaze Shaffer, front-bending contortionist and gravity defying pole dancer, and another Pacific Northwest Vau de Vire satellite performer; as well as Terry Crane, Tanya Brno, and a whole bunch of other excellent people I haven't met yet.

I'll be performing in the Saturday matinee, debuting a new swinging hoop routine, dedicated to the land of Ireland, which has been so adept at ripping out my insides and showing them to be (and I mean that in the best way EVER). I'll be accompanied by Rick May, Irish musician extraordinaire and a fine gentleman to boot.
I'm hoping for a fog machine since that would just be the jam.

So if you're in Olympus and want to see if I can pull off my neck hang, hop over to get a ticket and help out a bunch of kids.

Harvests and Aerial Photogs.

2010-10-01T10:03:00.000-07:00

As the third harvest approaches (that's Halloween for all you non-pre-Celtic-Paganism-types), I find I am still finding little treasures from the busy month of August. For example I just received the images from a stock photo shoot I had with Thomas Barwick, alongside the magnificent Tanya Brno:

Weeee!

I love this one cause I can't actually remember or locate where the fabric is holding me up:

Blank background aerial shots are incredibly hard to get. Thomas, Brooke, and especially Tanya, you rock so hard. Thank you!

I know, I know...

2010-09-07T22:49:00.000-07:00

...I sucketh mucheth. (is anyone reading that in a lisp? Because I am.)

It has been a month of amazing shows with Queensryche, training and loving in the interim.

Posting to report something amazing- my likeness is now painted as a mural on the ladies room wall of the Pink Door, my beloved weekly stomping grounds!

I think it's just about the coolest way to ever end up on a bathroom wall. Definitely better than previous mentions. Er...nevermind.

Thanks to the fabulous La Padrona Jaqueline Roberta and the talented Mary Fields, who sketched the bones for this painting from my live show.

Everyone go make a bathroom wall better and rock on.

Results...

2010-08-03T09:16:00.000-07:00

...I has them.

last week:

The show I've been preparing all of July for is The Queensryche Cabaret, that is the same Queensryche that's been king of operatic rock since circa 1981. It is such an honor to share a stage with these guys, so you see, hence the experiment to be the strongest I could be the fastest (healthy) way possible.

Last weekend was four days of epic shows and constant travel. I had to be careful to sleep at any opportunity I got to keep my muscles resilient, and not, in fact, party like a rockstar. Some pictures anyway:

San Francisco, trying to figure out how the heck to avoid a head on collision of aerialists and legendary musicians. The same stage I was thrilled to share with the Vau de Vire Society two years ago for Edwardian Ball, and incidentally the same stage Janis Joplin appeared on in yesteryear.

Vegas baby:

A helpful note left under my aerial fabric:

To my immediate delight, I've been added to the next two legs of the tour also, so I'll be leaving tomorrow in the early mornin for New Orleans, to be followed shortly by Dallas, Houston, and San Antonio. Shedangy!

After the first bout I came home and did nothing for about 4 days, then got right back on the horse.
And now.... The results of the experiment!

Creatine Ethyl Ester (CEE)- allowed me to train hard almost every day without the residual tearing apart of tissues that I would have normally had to let heal. After four weeks on, it did start to lose its effectiveness. So, four weeks on, four weeks off. If I feel the need to take it again after the off period, I wouldn't hesitate.
I got a lot of texts, messages, comments urging me to be careful with this stuff, most of which I probably didn't respond to (sorry) but nonetheless were heard. Some helpful advice I got was to double my water intake, which I didn't think was possible, but when I upped it to almost 2 gallons a day there were no cramps. Also, I'm huge. I was watching a video of my performance at the Pink Door last night and I am decidedly lumpier than I was a month ago.

Whey Protein Powder- metabolizes right away to bring you immediate energy instead of waiting for food to break down. Also, I got pretty tired of it. When I drank it 1.5 hours before performing that was a mistake, as I had to immediately start warming up. Combine that with a belly full of liquid and the pre-show nerves, and instead of energy I got nauseous. 2.5 hours before show yielded high energy and no grossness.

MSM- I'm sure it helped, but I can't tell how because I took it in conjunction with everything else. Now I've taken to taking it before stretching. More accessible to the body than glucosamine. More accessible to the body than glucosamine. That bore repeating.

NO2 (nitric oxide)- speeds up recovery time and dilates blood vessels. The second day of the last 4 day stint I was TIRED and sleep deprived. NO2 got the sluggish blood moving, felt like a blush all over and gave me the extra push I needed to warm up fully.

I can see easily how someone without their best interests in mind could do bad things to themselves with creatine and NO2. For example if you are using these things for cosmetic purposes, you're going to fuck it up. So, just don't. I mean it now.

Adventures in Nitric Oxide

2010-07-15T12:07:00.000-07:00

Today I will be experimenting with NO2 supplements, which I've been taking on and off throughout this experiment but today and through the weekend I'll be taking at least two doses a day, expecting to see results on Monday.

And since I'm flying to SF at an ungodly early hour tomorrow morning, doing an improv show with the ineffable beloved herself, and returning home Monday at midnight to rehearse and then perform at the Pink Door...let's just say I'm really hoping for results. One week from today I'll be gearing up for my first performance, this gorgeous shining grail that has birthed this great experiment. It doesn't feel ladylike to give out details since I'm on private contract through another group, so sit tight and I'll send you photographic evidence after the fact.

Since lowering the dose to the appropriate amount, have experienced no cramps or icky nausea. Still enjoying relatively high energy and a clear head. That is not an invitation to the peanut gallery.

That is all.

Attention Contortionists, Aerialists, Hard-Working Clowns and Tumblers!

2010-07-13T11:04:00.000-07:00

Throughout this week+ long experiment (still 1.5 weeks to go till showtime), the major element has been creatine. I've worked hard almost every day, pushing my limits and my comfort zone continuously.

I have not gotten sore. Not at all. Every day I begin to warm up it's like getting a fresh body. No tweaky bits to favor because of a too-hard workout the day before.

Do you realize what this means? No more two steps forward, one step back. No more walking the line of extremes until injury or illness forces a respite. Eureeka! The messiah has come.

Our extremism has been enabled. The Great Enabler is Creatine.

So take 2 grams a day and press on, my crazy brethren.

Rest...

2010-07-12T09:48:00.000-07:00

...it has to happen. Filled with the songs of choirs of vitamins in my tissues, I climbed down from only my second climb feeling confused. Why was I tired? Why were my forearms already packed with blood as though I'd been up for 30 minutes? Why had the week-long high of incessant energy suddenly left me bereaved of its magic?

An uninterrupted week of pushing my tissue capacity as far as it could go each day.
That's why. Apparently, even on a Power Rangers diet of supplemental awesome, I need rest. So I didn't even go to the studio yesterday, instead trompsing along the Ballard Seafood Festival (which looks and feels just like any other festival, but with crabcakes! Yum!) with Shaun. We discovered rose gardens and libraries and enjoyed the excellent dog-watching, and did no circus. I even watched the late Spain vs. Netherlands in an effort to peer into my roommate John's own circus at the benevolent George and Dragon in Fremont. It was good times.

Today I can't wait to be back. In fact I'm getting off right now to begin the process, hopefully accumulating in my returning here tomorrow to tell you how much a day of rest improves your stamina. Pink Door tonight for those in Seattle; come on down to partake in the bolognese that earns the title "17 minutes of satisfaction!"
~~~
Goals for the year:
1) PROCURE A CAR. The bus is inefficient, expensive, and a black hole for time consumption. Want freedom and the ability to do more than one thing a day! Go Mini Cooper!
2) Perform in Europe.

(dream big, focus small).

Finding the Scoop

2010-07-09T11:13:00.000-07:00

In the midst of my dad’s man-cave (aka the pool house), we sat on a weight bench surrounded by the detritus of supplements and vitamins once coveted, then forgotten, then rediscovered. We were devising a plan, and it’s name was Creatine. Creatine Ethyl Ester, to be more specific, as opposed to the 80’s version of creatine, creatine monohydrate.

Creatine is prized for its ability to super-hydrate muscles; enabling growth, speeding recovery, enhancing performance, and making you look all buff and swollen. There’s a lot more to it than that but I don’t know about it. Creatine monohydrate’s cons were that it tended to cause bloating and sometimes cramping as well. CEE, as the name implies, is esterified, making it much more efficient for the body to absorb. So it virtually eliminates these undesired side effects.

So dad gives me a bucket of CEE and sends me home with instructions to try about 5 grams in my shakes immediately after training. Goody gumdrops, I thought, let’s get the party started.

The bucket of CEE weighs like a bucket of loose chalk would, and has a similar consistency. On the label it tells me that one scoop is 2 grams. Alrighty, says I, I will use twice the scoop. Only I can’t find the scoop. I dig around through the fluffy crumbliness of the creatine for a while; as soon as I break up half, the other half re-solidifies through the pressure. So I give it up and decide that a teaspoon sounds like a pretty good estimate for 4-5 grams of anything. After all, the MSM I'm using tells me the 1/2 a teaspoon is 1.7 grams. If anything I'm undercutting it, right? I put a heaping teaspoon of both MSM and creatine into my shakes for use post-training.

Two days pass. After my training shake, which tastes enormously like drinking aspirin, I feel a gentle yet insistent urge to vomit for a few hours. Amazingly, through this feeling I still have high amounts of energy and continue to live life normally; going to the movies, writing online, washing clothes, blablabla. High energy, urge to vomit.

After four days of two shakes a day, I'm almost out of my protein powder which I find alarming, since the jar is in fact the 2 lbs. macho size. After voicing this concern, along with my realization that I'm eating a gram of protein per pound of body weight (140 lbs.), my roommates give me the crazy eyes and I begin to rethink my plan.

And then, when making my next post-training shake, I find the scoop. At first I think I must be mistaken, it is just a stray bit of plastic among the chalky crumbles of the creatine. No scoop could possibly be that small. There's hardly a scoop to be spoken of, only a brief indentation at the end of a plastic tab. If one were so inclined, a bit of cocaine could be measured as hardly acceptable in this alleged scoop.

See photographic evidence, with commonplace household items (a banana, a teaspoon, my hand) for scale:

You can imagine my consternation to discover that I've been dosing myself with probably 20 grams of creatine, 10 x the recommended amount. After a little research the not at all mystery of my urges to vomit is solved. However I've already made my shake for the day. With a huge pile of creatine sinking into the chocolatey protein powder, my biggest dose ever. Probably 25 grams of creatine. Not wanting to waste what I've already made, I think I'll probably survive.

Of course it tasted more than ever like drinking chocolate-tinted Goody's headache powder. And I got nauseous for hours. The nausea even overrode the energy for a while.

To sum up: a teaspoon does not a measurement of weight make. And something with the consistency of chalk (creatine) will not weigh the same as something with the consistency of light snow (MSM).
Live and learn.

Cutting the protein by 25% at least today and the creatine to 6 grams (loading period). After this week I'll go down to 2 grams per day for three weeks.

Always find the scoop.

Experiment!

2010-07-07T22:38:00.000-07:00

Muahahahaha!! After visiting with my daddy-o, including much talk of proteins and body efficiency, I have decided to conduct an experiment on...myself.

Today is July 7th. On July 22nd I must have an 8 minute long aerial fabric solo completed and ready for performance. This means that I will be working a lot this month. I want to take extra, very, amazing care of myself to withstand these here rigors and give my body everything it needs to continuously heal.

The plan:

That's whey protein (much faster absorption than even eggs, which are probably the most perfect protein that there is...except they take forever to get your energy to you)-
MSM, used by the body in tons of functional ways-
Esterified Creatine to repair tissue-
Nitric Oxide for vascularity-
Oh, and some chlorophyll. Cause I'm really a begonia. Or because I'm eating a bunch of weird vitamins and who knows if it could make me smell weird.
I also take prenatal vitamins. Cause their really good vitamins, not because I'm knocked up.
to be clear, no bun in my oven.
And fish oils, because my brain slips through its own holes on a bad day.

For the past couple days it's been a protein shake before and immediately after training. The creatine is important to take immediately after intense training for optimum effectiveness, apparently. So the 1.5 hour I usually spend getting from training, changing, and bussing it home is possibly when my tired muscle fibers are gasping for sustenance.

Most notably, I'm on my third day and energy is high, high, high. Even when I felt nauseous from drinking so much chocolatey protein I was still overflowing with energy.

Had a cramp in my calf during an inversion which is odd...I almost never cramp up and I suppose with all this extra stuff I assumed no ill effects from training would be felt. O naivete.

Stay tuned for more fascinating updates on my experimental self exploits.

Why, hello again, Felix.

2010-06-22T08:13:00.000-07:00

Since moving to this sodden, misty, magical city, I've concentrated my aerial efforts in hoop. The holy grail of a bendy back (don't take it for granted, naturally bendy sisters!) shall be mine, having worked up to warming it up every day may seem a small victory but it is one I cherish.

So now what? I have a gig coming up in late July which desires tissu. So I'm hauling out my springy, violet-hued silks (Felix, after the Goddess of the pole Felix Cane) and kindly asking my arms to remember how to climb. How to climb, repeatedly, for 8 consecutive minutes. I always did love a good challenge, and I think this one's going in the display case.

Faced with such a demand, it's easy for me to get obsessive, train hard every day, emotionally severe, destroy many muscle fibers and then heal up just in time for the performance. Fun, huh? This time, I'm trying a new approach. Setting realistic, approachable goals every day and keeping my face-licker internal destruct button set to "OFF."

Today: break in pointe shoes (Russian Pointe brand are the hardest shoes I've ever owned)
remain on tissu 6 consecutive minutes.
run through hoop piece for performance tomorrow night.

Tomorrow's show is a private event held by Groupon at Emerald City Trapeze, featuring the innovative, enchanting music of Surrealized and the aerial stylings of...just about everyone I know in Seattle.

that is all.

Getting back to it.

2010-06-16T07:57:00.000-07:00

Ah, coming back to the studio after 12 days of inactivity. How wobbly the body can feel after such a short time away, and what a relief to feel that sweat break again. For the umpteenth time in my life, Dan Millman has come to my aid in the form of a book that was my papa's, "The Warrior Athlete." (why doesn't blogger have a freaking underline key?)

My training is so tied up in my view of the world and my place in it, I can get lost crawling around on the expansive face of Things I Want To Do, and don't forget Impossible Things To Accomplish in One Day. This approach, although it feeds my motivation (almost) tirelessly, can inhibit my training to the tune of 2 steps forward, 1 step back.

So I'm learning to cut it off. I can't go from vacation body to invincible Amazon body in one training session, much as my ego tries to persuade me so.
So, realistic goals must be set, not just physical goals but emotional and mental goals as well. How do you want to feel when you leave the studio?

And even more importantly, how do you prepare mentally when you enter it?

In SF there was a feeling of respect and gratitude that surrounded Circus Center. You took your shoes off when you entered the gym. Teachers were revered as the creatures that they were, celebrated for their knowledge and their willingness to share it. Students who had been there longer than you had clear seniority, and were regarded as such, like a grad school student to a freshman. Even if they weren't shooting stars yet, once you learned the caliber of what the training demanded, you felt respect for anyone who had devoted themselves to it. Of course people gossiped and were bitchy, that's what people do generally. But the respect for the form, it was assumed from the beginning. It informed how you approached the work.

This attitude of stated reverence is missing from Seattle. The competitive nature of the work has, at points, chewed away at decency. Aerial is here, thanks to Lara Paxton, Tamara Dover, and Teatro Zinzanni (as far as I know), but it is still new.
I am not a martial artist, but I think the comparison has merit. It's not just a physical discipline.

So the general cloud of mental creaminess is missing, so you can't depend on it being there. You have to make it yourself, every time. How often do I walk into a room and let it's overall energy signature assume itself as mine? It's normal to do so, unconscious I think. So I'm learning to carry it with me, to project what I want from my training that day onto the stage and into my arms.
And hopefully it will be sticky like spiny little stars, and fill in the spaces and be inhaled into the lungs of co-trainers.

Addendum.

2010-06-04T05:35:00.000-07:00

After the somewhat surprising amount of venom in my last post, I figured it was time for me to get taken down a notch, which is exactly what happened the next day. Allow me to elaborate.

I teach aerial technique and conditioning, and sometimes hoop, at the venerable Emerald City Trapeze Arts. The most distinguishing thing about this beloved space is the righteous flying trapeze rig inside, and the constant presence of people willing and eager to jump from the 40 foot high platform and plummet through the air at a barely controlled pace.
Very distinguishing characteristic.
So everyone is very surprised to find out that I have never, myself, toppled off the platform of my own accord. My reasons were plentiful: not attracted to the apparati, don't want to divide my focus, blablabla. All true. But it turns out that it is super lame to work at a flying trapeze school without once flying on the trapeze.

So I stayed after my class some deigned Thursday with a collection of rockin people to try it out. During my first swing, even though I swore I wouldn't, I ending up screaming "holy f**k BALLS!!!" After my second swing, I remembered that I don't enjoy rollercoasters, speedy driving, or even swinging big on a swing set. I started to think perhaps this wasn't for me. When I crawled off the net that second time, my uterus clamped around my IUD like a fist, in a psychosomatic response to my nerves, causing me to double up in pain. When it refused to unclamp, I eventually threw in the towel, taking of my line belt and officially ending my flying trapeze career, sitting the rest of the class out.

I have a whole new respect for the people that come into our studio to fly. I'm in the back, on my hoop or doing conditioning, watching these people walk through the door from their desk jobs or freelance writing careers, climb up that 40 foot ladder, and jump off the platform without a backward glance. I am amazed. How are they doing this? My first attempt, I had been doing aerial for nearly 3 years, and trust my hands to hold me up and my shoulders to be strong. Some of these women have beautiful little tiny hands and couldn't do a push up, but fearlessly dive through the air to the tune of someone they've never met telling them what to do.

And maybe I'm just a control freak, but I'll stick to spinning in my hoop and having power over the momentum, and continue to possess a slackjawed reverence for these crazy brave people who possess an aspect of freedom that I do not. There is some inherent love of falling that people have...I don't have it. After that second run, I knew without a doubt I was 100% happy with never doing it again. Shaun can't get enough of it, and what's more he's really good at it, out of nowhere. World, once again, you have caught me by surprise.

Word Vomit #345

2010-05-20T13:32:00.001-07:00

The devil walks among us and his name is Cowardice. Assuming everything, he stands in everyone’s homes, blocking their doors and windows, with his eyes shut and stupidly stopping the world.
Why should it affect me so? Why should I feel such an ugly thing as disgust towards people I also feel love for at the core? Because of the love?
The love of the core leads to the disgust of the shell?
Traitors. Traitors to the core. Your virgin glory burned through the sky and here you are all miracle and blood, and you too much a coward to tell the truth. How can anyone live this way? How can I live so close to your depravity? Your suffering? If I called out the truth in plain language, what then?
My exodus from your lives?
Assume that you are dead men. Or better yet, assume that you are doomed.
You are. You are all doomed, all ticking clocks. Your death is closer, breath fogging the windows, every moment.
Now, are you afraid? You shouldn’t be. You don’t have time to be.
This is not productive. No wonder my voice abandons me, when I refuse to use it. I don’t want to ruin what is left standing; perhaps that is my cowardice Although those that would stand still have been honest with me. Have hurt me on purpose to tell me the truth.

And if it were me? I’d be furious of course. How dare anyone question my fallible choices and my ability to be honest with myself. Such a joke I can make of myself, this ridiculous defensive against questions. The questions are the only reason anything new happens at all.
Tell the truth, then. Tell the truth about yourself. Tell how you hate the smell of alcohol on breath, even though you drink. Tell how you are afraid of your future face, how fallen it could be, how flaccid the muscle that now clings so tightly to your bones. Tell how you hate the bus, and the degenerate ruins that you see there. One prim old lady with proper gloves and a handbag, and two dozen ignorant loud-mouthed fools amusing themselves with destroying each other. The math is despicable.
So ask the questions.

That is all.

Ah, you again.

2010-05-19T08:48:00.000-07:00

Hello, restlessness. It's been a while. I was beginning to think I'd never see you again, but that was only my immense need to be still for one bloody moment. Now, ticking away like clockwork, 6 months have passed and I find leaning towards Irish pubs, as though they were a portkey to the real thing, Guinness in the afternoon, the world open and waiting patiently as I gnawed feverishly on my restraints. Those restraints are long gone now, the new ones are industry that I hand picked with care and devotion.

The need to hop on a boxcar is also long gone. That's not what this is about. I wasn't designed to do the same thing every day or even every week- something I built my life knowing but this is all starting to look very familiar. Some perspective would be good, to sit in the proverbial bathtub and hold up each facet one at a time, stare hard at it and decide once again if it should stay or go.

Or at least to go home to North Carolina and quell the homesickness that pops up every time I see oak leaves. One week should do the trick.

Working in Show Business -

2010-05-10T09:17:00.001-07:00

What It Does to Your Face:

So, I've noticed a phenomenon among circus performers in which they stop aging when they dedicate themselves to the practice. All of my coaches have been in their mid 30's and in prime performing shape, and all of them have looked 22. Circus men tend to age to a ruggedly handsome 28 and stop there, many times in perspective as well as looks. I was looking forward to capitalizing on this promise of extended youth. But I think I must wear more makeup than they do.

At least twice a week, I begin the slow process of applying several layers of makeup, powder, paint, eyelash glue, and artificial gemstones over my face. I have gotten so used to the feeling of productivity and well being that accompanies being in stage makeup that without it I feel like I must of course be at home watching House MD and in a bathrobe. Am I going to end up like Granny in Memoirs of a Geisha, a lifetime of China clay making her yellow like a plucked chicken? Possibly. But I'll take my chances.

Last night Shaun came into my room brushing his teeth and froze when he saw me sitting in front of a mirror just sort of staring at my face. "What...are you doing?"
"Eyeunno."
"Why are you staring at yourself?"
*slightly self-conscious now* "I don't know. I just don't see my face that often."
It was true. And this face looks every moment of it's 27+ years. And I feel proud of that. I need to counteract the large amounts of pictures of me online in glitzy stage-face with one 100% bare faced Max Cooper portrait, in natural light. Hopefully with a cigarette.

Epistolary Notation and Pretentious Titles.

2010-04-22T20:32:00.001-07:00

It has been so long since I've written a letter. It always surprised me, the honesty that would come of writing letters, not caring if it was received well or with distaste, because at least it was true. And I decided to tell the truth. So why not try:

World of Crows and the Ice Lakes of Washington,

I like it up here. The land is loud, as Babs once said. But I don't really feel the impact of the magic of this place until I leave the city on the ferry. Surrounded by this dark blue country, the sky grows dark green at night and the trees serrated black. Plus, I like boats. Plus, being on the ferry means being on the way to Shaun, which as far as I can see is the source of all this. Not the world, just my favorite parts.

Illusive items: neck hang and chest voice. Neck hang, while considerably painful, seems much easier to learn. It tears the skin off your neck but besides getting used to that, all you have to do is hold still a certain way. 1+1=neck hang. Chest voice is getting your vocal chords to thicken. WTF mate? My head voice is more fun than ever, perhaps because I can actually do it. I don't even know the recipe for chest voice, except that Kaycee (my friend and director of the Angels) is an awesome teacher and very patient with my rancid, frustrated mood swings.

The sun has been setting this whole hour long ferry ride. The sky is still green. I'm in love. And now I'm off to demonstrate that. Thank you for seagulls and electricity.

I Heart Sam Cooke

2010-04-09T01:35:00.000-07:00

Late night with Seattle circus family, debuting the first public showing of the Flint brother's film Catching Dreams, under a sky of net and the cavernous dark apex of the vaulted roof. Starry, starry world. Illusive neck hang. New act for the Pink Door. That is all.

Story of a Month

2010-04-07T09:27:00.001-07:00

I will take a hint from my fire-and-ice Northern friend Lucien and attempt the barest bones of recitals:

Moisture Festival. John selling wine on the hill. Abby and vocal fold videos. The cavity of air intake. Training oversplits. Training hangs. Teaching conditioning to 1-2 students at a time. Learning to sing. Angels (the show) dot com. A lot of Angels. Discovering the stars in my throat. Letting that keep me from smoking. Shaun coming home. Shaun coming home. Seeing Babs at work. Holding a grudge against the time difference that inhibits my overdue phone calls. David choosing a fine fate. The earth coughing up spring. Luke and pasta and earthy red beauty.
Shaun being home. The sating of the void. The draping curve of new muscle. The safety of it.
Forgetting how to write. Forgetting a lot. Making life out of nothing. Refusal and demanding. Knowing.

Now that that is there, I can update in peace.

Update.

2010-03-07T12:02:00.000-08:00

And it's all about me. Generally, this blog and my life revolves around and is designed to benefit- me and those I feel benevolent and loving towards. I could elaborate but I'm weary of repeating myself.

There's one color of life, another is Shaun's absence, still on patrol. The Shaun-shaped hole in my life festers impatiently on the edges.

Another color is life with John and Abby, my colorful, Mediterranean Nordic roommates that notice when I am miserable and join me when I'm happy. It's good to love.

Another color is the cold creeping buzz of a spine after contortion, in my much-longed-for goal for a more flexible back.

The predominant color is one of being busy a LOT. Some hoopy photos for your amusement:

Photos by Ric Colgan of Byte Studio Photography.

Time for more coffee, cause you can sleep when you're dead!

Also: Dear North Carolina, I miss you and your people. If it wouldn't mean disastrous geologic consequences, I'd want you to move closer to Seattle.

And, because I (probably) love you:

"I have come here to say that I do not recognize anyone's right to one minute of my life.... It had to be said. The world is perishing from an orgy of self-sacrificing."

~Ayn Rand; The Fountainhead

Eureeka...

2010-02-10T16:45:00.000-08:00

The mysterious TV people caught our beloved Seattle circus school in their radar. Shedangy!

http://www.king5.com/on-tv/The-trapeze-workout-83844177.html

is it acceptable to put that 3 seconds on my resume?

Revolt.

2010-01-25T08:32:00.000-08:00

Lately, I've woken up to find a shovel in my hands. The revolution continues, to find what I have once again lost (although in my head that sentenced is finished: "to take back the child that you have stolen!")

I hope somebody gets that.

This is no time for kindness; or rather no time to be gentle. The true kindness is in the brutality of the answers, and why would I spare myself that? We're going to tell the truth here.

The truth is that this morning didn't so much break as it spilt, breaching the weakness in the Cascades and filling up the lowlands. The Sound itself is cold and wise, and lies waiting between his country and mine. Too soon to breach it, so I let the morning soak into the space between my fingers.

Time to go.

Southern Love, Crawfish, and EMERGENCY REHEARSALS

2010-01-23T23:30:00.000-08:00

Beloved readers, I don't have cable but I'm sure as hell going to the nearest chic French wine bar on Saturday, January 30th, to cheer on the beautiful Katherine Southard as she competes for the glittery honor of being Miss America, 2010.

Let me tell you, if anyone deserves to be honored as a symbol of virtue, beauty, and goodwill, it's Katherine. In all the time I spent near her, she never had a spiteful word for anyone, and a ballet studio is ripe for gossip, trust me on that.

I perused her photo gallery this evening and was particularly taken by this image of her and her papa. I can personally attest, this man was present at every Nutcracker, every recital, standing proudly with his gorgeous and absolutely wonderful wife, Linda, who pinned many broken zippers and quieted many anxious tears during performances throughout my youth. And I also want to send a shout out to Sarah, Katherine's sister. We gave each other a lot of hell during each performance and it was always in the spirit of Sarah's perfect humor; life is way better with her in it! Being reminded of so loving a family that I've had the pleasure of knowing, I get a little bit homesick.

But I DID get to fly to Louisiana for a quick second to spend a weekend of awesome with my bayou family at the ball for Krewe Medea...

Yes that's my papa, happy and spazzy in a tux! By the end of the night we were both bogged down by plastic beaded necklaces of course, some of which had fortunes on them such as "Diva," "Who Dat?," and "Girls Gone Wild." I freaking love Louisiana. Nobody does it right quite like they do.

And I really mean it.

Not that you're used to hearing from me all that often and all that coherently, but a great deal of EMERGENCY REHEARSALS are taking place within the next month. Much exhausted delight, bad puns, and frivolous storytelling are sure to ensue, followed by something poignant.

Probably.

Celebrities, Poles, and other News

2009-12-28T12:46:00.001-08:00

Earplugs are one of the greatest inventions in the world, ever. Suddenly an unbearably loud ferry full of children is muted to a soft roar. Even loud ho's on their cell phones are shunted by the little foam bits stuffed into my ears. Sometimes I don't understand how some people's voices are so loud. They carry the length of a football stadium with no amplification, and no loss of power.

Now that I've gone ahead and bitched about something, I'll go on to awesomeness.

I was born and raised in North Carolina, and when I think of true home, that's where it is, with a breeze of Louisiana and Arkansas seeping up from the roots. When I was a young thing in the beginnings of my world, I took ballet. A lot. Among the many other young things that passed over the dance floor of Bonita's School of Ballet, one of them had white-blonde hair and a megawatt smile. Her name is Katherine Southard, and she grew up to be this bombshell, also known as Miss North Carolina:

I always knew you had it going on, Katherine!
Your ability to be genuine, gracious, and politically correct enough to be family friendly while also smokin hot impresses me greatly.

And now, in an example of my inability to do so, a plug for my pole dance class. If we share a similar zip code, trot over to Emerald City Trapeze Arts and sign up for my bangin pole class. Here's what it is not:
I will not teach you how to strip. That's more of a self-taught skill.

Here's what it is:
I will teach you as many spins as you can handle, followed by acrobatic poses that will leave your inner thighs bruised red and gray. I will run you through a gauntlet of conditioning and extreme stretching exercises, and make sure you feel it for at least two days afterwards. Fun!

Life Recipes

2009-12-19T11:56:00.000-08:00

This wordy, preachy, self-indulgent post is for my gorgeous friend Meg, of the unstoppable mind and riotous heart. I got your messages and kept them and kept them, and now it’s time to just write and stop obsessing over the perfect thing to say to deserve your regard.

“On knowing what you want and accepting who you are…”

Living in myself as I do, I don’t think I possess an expertise in these criteria; but looking at the world around me, I want to change my mind in comparison. In the past two years I have slowly begun to develop an increasingly elaborate sense of contempt. Namely, for the apparent epidemic of cowardice that plagues the masses. Knowing what you want is the hard part, so I understand that struggle. Knowing what you want and failing to act on it I simply do not understand. Why the hell would you allow your life to rot around you while you’re staring your heart’s desire in the face and openly refusing to claim it? Why would you waste what you are?

On the occasion that I meet someone who is on a path that they want to be on, doing what they want to do and succeeding, they almost always apologize for it. WTF mate? Who are you apologizing to? The quivering majority that didn’t have the balls to do what you did, whatever that may be? Why would you apologize to such a creature? If anything, by your example and your own apparent joy in your choices you should be saying, “you’re welcome.”

As far as knowing what you are, if I were to give advice it would be to open all the doors and windows of your mind and let the war begin. Things might settle down, they might not, but everything you’re presented with is a part of you and deserves recognition. Only a few of these deserve to be acted upon, and those few will decide the course of your life. Good and bad, loving and cruel, courage, cowardice, terror…I don’t see that these qualities are any reason for praise or criticism. Thoughts, feelings, and inclinations decide nothing. Choices decide everything.

I recently received an email from someone I quit saying, “all I’ve ever wanted is for you to not be so sure of yourself that it causes pain.”
First of all this is a lie. There are plenty of things you’ve wanted much more than my downfall. If I were going to respond I would ask this person why it causes them pain to know that they can’t have power over me?

Why would you want such a thing? Isn’t your own life enough? I guess not if you’re too afraid to fuck up your own life to do anything with it, you can play games and test theories with other people’s lives as they are expendable.

Contempt.

I feel no ill-will, I wish no restitution, there is no anger to let go of or forgiveness to give and free myself…only a residue of contempt with which I don’t know what to do with other than continue to refuse this person access to me.

I full-heartedly support being very, very particular about who you let into your life. Love the people that deserve a place in your life, love them extravagantly, knowing that they are rare, rare, rare. No one has a right to you unearned.

As the wonderful Bradley so perfectly put it, “I will honor myself without question. It is my fucking life.”

The concept of priorities is very underrated. If you know from the inside of your bones what is the most precious to the core of your existence, you can make the right choice when your emotions threaten to pull you off course.

For example, emotions say, “I don’t feel like going to train today and bruise the hell out of my hips and endure the agony of oversplits. I feel fat and tired. I want chocolate and Johnny Depp and to never have to work.”

Response from a prioritized mind, “Well no shit! That sounds really painful. But you’ve already decided that you want to fly through the air with the greatest of ease more than you want bruise-free hip bones and stuffy hamstrings. You can have chocolate and Johnny Depp after you train. And if you really hated working you wouldn't have chosen this in the first place.”

Emotions, “…”

Mind, “Good dog.”

When you have made choices and are going in the direction you want to be going, you can feel free to enjoy the torment and ecstasy of your emotions, ride them out or watch them pass; without letting them run your life. Emotions are the fun part. Act on the ones that deserve it, and that you can live with.

As far as knowing what you want in the first place and forming these priorities, I heartily recommend being ruthless. If all the worldly shit were taken care of: social standing, financial obligations, etc., what would you do? I’m not suggesting that you attempt to ignore the worldly shit when you take action, absolutely not, but they can cloud your judgment when you are deciding what to invest yourself in.
And once you decide, brutally investigate this decision every now and then to be sure you’re not coasting on momentum.

After a while you start to feel like this guy:

Festivus!

2009-12-17T11:12:00.001-08:00

To my great surprise, the holidays are delighting me this year. Lady A and I purchased a tree corpse that looks just lovely in front of our (stellar) view. And even though it sounds in theory like a bad idea, the tree corpse's proximity to the forced air heater only heats up the branches enough so that our whole apartment smells of beautiful tree corpse.

I am altering the path of 2+ years of push ups without stretching my pecs so that eventually I can open my arms again, like the ballerina photograph that the lovely and lovable Maria LaMance gifted to me on the NYC leg of the VdV tour.
I'm also working on a small collection of hangs that, once perfected, will miraculously cease to give me headaches in the middle of the night or cause any further agony. We are not yet at this point, but it is very exciting.

The prospect of a 10 second neck hang gives me so much excitement and satisfaction there must be something lacking in my genetic makeup. Or maybe it's something wrong with everyone else who does not dream about hanging from the neck.

Saw a hummingbird. Mind you, it's December in the Pacific Northwest. Must be Ashley saying hello...come by any time.

2009-12-15T10:03:00.000-08:00

I return home to find it much as I left it, only infinitely more beautiful for having missed it. It's unheard of that such a cold place can have seduced me so completely; it seems I can still surprise myself.

A perfectly rainy, Saturnine day ...perfect for all my swarthy intentions.

I've decided to present here a nugget of wisdom gleaned from my own life experience each time I have nothing real to say but insist on posting anyway. And since I have nothing of value to add here:

Probably the worst thing you can say to a crying woman is, "stop crying."

San Francisco, remix

2009-12-10T11:23:00.000-08:00

And the sky broke open and I saw more than I knew was there before, or rather, I saw what I knew was hidden from me. By whose design, you can be sure it was my own. It usually is.

Our afternoon flight was canceled so we stood in long-winded lines while the sky turned bloody through the distant windows. It wasn’t one of those fussy sunsets either, it was the kind that lights up the whole arcing firmament with the conviction of its own death, a sky that comes along once every few years and demands your attention. The last one I saw was running in Alexandria, Louisiana, running under the trees and getting lost in labyrinthine neighborhoods; anything so long as my eyes could continue to consume the singular chorus of fire that was fading so soon.

It was one of the least miserable waits in line of my life. The guy was friendly and looked a little like Morgan Freeman, which turned me to liking him immediately. Mr. Jones was his name. So I left and went to wait in more lines and then some more, until finally I had a boarding pass and a plan and an appetite for a cheesy cream sauce with gamey red meat; a sausage of beef or rabbit, and fresh Italian noodles. I settled on a restaurant called “Alaska” because it had sit-down tables and antlers hanging from the ceiling, even though the music was too loud. The beef stew was the closest I could get to my fantasy meal, and arrived to me in a black Styrofoam bowl. I believe the recipe called for the same kind of meat they use in manufacturing cat food. The chunks of meat, which appeared to be pored and generally did look like overstewed bits of beef, actually squished like play dough in my mouth. Very unexcited about the meal, I ate it out of boredom that it didn’t even take the edge off. I then wandered in search of the deliciousness of an almond croissant. I was absolutely set on giving myself a treat. The dried up brick of “cheesecake brownie” that I settled on was very disappointing and I was just as bored with it, even though I had the added fun of obsessing over whether or not the crumbs were going to fall into my keyboard.

However I did get to spend some time reading a book that Kristina lent me probably the better part of a year ago. A sort of autobiography of Jung, beginning from his earliest childhood memories. I find mine were more beautiful and more profound, yet I still feel a kinship and my interest is piqued. It has been so long since I read, which is shocking considering the creature I was twenty years ago hated any moment not spent reading.

Lowering slowly into Oakland, I begin remembering my time here with a wrench in my gut. Mostly I remember the solitude and the ambition of the girl who moved here and threw everything onto this singular focus; to at once be worthy and have the best worthiness of the stage and the air over it. I took the BART to Oakland every Tuesday for a three hour rehearsal and still went to train afterwards. The silence and the stillness between BART trains and Muni buses and knowing that no power in the universe would ever make it faster, and time is just something that goes quickly and is sacrificed often when one lives in the city and has no money.

I found ways of spoiling myself. Shaun, mostly, in sporadic intervals arrived into my life in a fanfare of magic and color and pleasure and comfort. Not that he didn’t bring his own challenges…naturally, and according to my own design, he complicated my life in as many ways as he simplified it but he has always been a feast in every way.
And Kristina like a beacon of sanity and all the soul of those shrieking sunsets, settling into my life like a sister of the old blood who had always known, and to a greater extent, the reason I could not turn away from it.

Now I’m on BART, once again, and traveling at the speed of something towards my uncle Bradley and the glowing polish of his wood-paneled apartment. The haven and the sanctuary of him, so sleepy probably and ready for me to get in, have a cigarette, and go to sleep.

I am a lucky star.

fucking TWEET! already

2009-11-21T10:16:00.000-08:00

The Twitter cherry has been popped. It's like a blog without the commitment. How fascinatingly inevitable...

I solemnly swear to avoid inane tweets about marshmellow fluff or the state of my hair in the morning.

I made no such promise in regards to this blog. That is all.

And another thing!

2009-11-18T17:32:00.001-08:00

I don't talk much. Much of this is a result of my desire to not have every word I uttered either a hurtful observation about someone else, or a generally negative bitchy comment about _______. This has been relatively successful. However, I am noticing the side effect of all this pent up vitriol is that I'm starting to go toxic. All the wretched (and apt! so very very apt!) things I notice and feel towards my fellow humans and their/our behavior don't get stated, they get figuratively eaten and they are making me metaphorically fat on their craptastic value. Even here, on a page that I started which is only a stupid blog for my own purposes, I find that I'm being haunted by people who wish to use these words against me for my own destruction.

Well why not give them something more substantial than my late "everything is GREAT!" posts, which are even annoying to me.

I am an extremely wealthy individual. Not financially affluent, mind you...I am a circus performer; obviously I'm not rolling to see my mans in a Caddy. I am rolling to see the mans on a ferry going a splendid 5 mph. But that doesn't bother me, because I love the ferry. You see, I am wealthy. And it is very, very dangerous to be wealthy these days.

Oh, how the populace hate the wealthy. Damn all their enjoying the fruits of their labor! Damn their continuing stimulation of the economy for their own benefit!
When is the last time you bought toothpaste as a gift? I'm just saying...someone needs toothpaste and doesn't have it. Do you seek them out and give them yours? Buy some for them? No, you wouldn't, because it's none of your fucking business.

I am aware of how oversimplified that statement is. I am aware that there is a 5% chance it will be read with the same intention in which it was written.

Ever notice how when you're good at something, instead of being glad to have you around people tend to wish you'd fuck off? Someone, please tell me what that is about. Pretend that I am stupid and explain it to me.

I'm being shitty, that is not always the case. It's not even mostly the case...but in the occasion that it is, it seems so absurdly wrong that I can't get past it.

And another thing...now this is why I hate arguing with liberal people. Liberals wail against the prejudice of such and such a group, and make several assumptions in one sentence and assume, likewise, that you agree with them. There is a small window after an initial rant after which you have an opportunity to respond. If you question the logic or basis of anything they've had to say, you are the enemy, and all of those assumptions made about the aforementioned group will be now reflected onto you. This process is nearly irreversible. Ever notice how liberals have so much hate and prejudice for others? Weird.
No, I don't hate liberals. They comprise the better part of my friends for whom I would gladly sink this ferry. Always remember: when you assume you make an ass of you and me. It is so true.

You are supposed to feel very, very bad about doing well these days. If you get a promotion or a raise, for god's sake don't fucking tell anyone. My friend Alfonso drives a Ferrari. You are apparently supposed to be pissed off about that, and call him greedy and selfish. But surprisingly, when we go out for coffee in it, people cluster around smiling like it's Christmas, I suspect in relief to see someone who is enjoying themselves without apology. Relief that enjoying oneself is still possible. There is still wealth to be had, make no mistake about that.

Did you hear about the 401k's that everyone lost so much money in? Yes. Did you hear that a substantial number of them have made almost all of it back because the markets are back up?
No? Weird.

Thank god, I'm out of time.

The Road

2009-11-04T09:56:00.000-08:00

I love, I love, I love performing at The Pink Door. Rarely have I had such a gracious audience; not to mention such an open license to make my act whatever I like. Maybe the missing ingredient to all those morose audiences in the past is that they weren't eating awesome Italian food. I had a beet salad after the show that almost made me see God. Really, get the beet salad. Who knew?

Life it seems will continue to spiral on at the same urgency of pre-show, post-show. Acts must continue to be created, polished, rehearsed; costumes made and all other things must give sway to this single burning focus.

...almost all.

Training one's back to bend; it is a humbling experience and a long road home to the one-day pretzel especially with no one to train you (suggested reading, the Ineffable Beloved herself writes a bendy blog that regularly makes me lol, rofl, and lmao). For example, the past two weeks have unearthed the regular sensation in my upper back that I have been bludgeoned with a club by an overzealous caveman.

Which is almost hot.

Happy New Year

2009-11-01T09:37:00.001-08:00

I partied secularly.

The Pink Door

2009-10-31T11:19:00.000-07:00

First, has anyone seen my website? I hastily made it live during rehearsal week #3 of the tour, when a chick from Dancer Magazine interviewed me and I thought I had better not give her a bunk URL. Creating this website probably made me feel more moronic than anything else I've undertaken in years. Of course now that it's finished and on line (it's alive!!) I get to feel smug again. Kind of.

I've been making, trimming, costuming, and rehearsing a lyra act for The Pink Door, a fabulously delicious Italian place where I get to dangle from the ceiling over the heads of the populace having dinner. Yay! What I have not been broadcasting, but will tell you, is that this is the first time I've performed aerial hoop.** It doesn't feel that way, because I'm prepared, but every now and then I pullover into the hoop and think, "huh. I really haven't ever done this before."

**edited for clarity

When did I get a lyra, you ask? Well one might also want to know what happened to all the cash money they paid me for my presence on tour, and while I sincerely wish I could respond to that buy throwing you a dollar, most dollars have gone right back into the system by being invested in new equipment. I found that gigs were lining up for me...on apparatus I did not own because in San Francisco I found I did not need to own it to train on it.** Now I own it. I own a beautiful steel 38" lyra taped in black (thank you SpitFire Forge), and a 12' polished stainless steel pole. Both spinning and static. Who the fuck needs money for food when you can have THAT?!

**edited for clarity. sigh.

That's a joke by the way. I would never, ever go without food.

My own definition of wealth, it is polishing itself.

Whole New World

2009-10-25T10:06:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you about this place I find myself in. Life is, once again, ineffably altered since my last post. With the completion of the beloved Moscova Affair tour with Vau de Vire, my circus family flew back to the fog and I flew up here to the rain.

Seattle. Finally, a place that understands my need for 10% sunshine, 90% rain, gloom, and grey. That 10% really knows how to work it, making all the gray and fire-colored trees show to their best advantage. This place will suck the breath right out of your lungs.

So, I am happy. I'd have to say that I'm pretty stupid butt crazy happy. Sure- I'm still inexplicably furious/irritated at the blow of a random breeze and I'm not technically making money at the moment, and I still don't have a pony or know how to make fondu, but yeah...I'm pretty fucking happy. It is an odd sensation, but not at all an unpleasant one, to look around your reality and realize that so many of the things that make it up are things you have ached to have, and are yours.

The first time it happened to me it was terrifying. I had just moved to San Francisco, and was living in an absolutely beautiful room with an expansive view of downtown. I had the job I wanted and the relationship I wanted, and I was going to learn how to do aerial, dammit. I used to sit in that beautiful room and almost shake because it seemed too good to be true...surely there was no way I deserved such elegant fulfillment.

I suffer under no such delusion at this time in my life. I am good and ready for my elegant fulfillment, and welcome it comfortably as a natural course; no fear. And that is very tasty. I feast on it daily, this life I have waited for and built. Good friends I have missed for years, and Shaun like a torch, beating across the water-
That means he lives across the Puget Sound from me and Seattle. Pervs.

That fills my gush quota for the day. In case you need to hear something snarky to be sure it is still me writing, I will tell you that I hate the busses here and they are stupid. Time to buy a car. All Mini Coopers, BMWs and Hondas that wish to be sold for $2,000.oo please apply via comments.

LaLa Land=Los Angeles. Not a state of perpetual ignorance.

2009-10-10T11:50:00.000-07:00

Just to clear up the meaning of my facebook status.

Things I love:

Hotel rooms, which are sexy and fun.
Dark eyelash glue
Webcams
Eric and Charla coming to the show last night
Coffee, eternally
Making money on my own terms

Things I hate:

The bouncer with the beard that looks like poo from Boulevard 3
Automatic toilets
The effects of day 12, post-wax

I will now take this time to expound upon the glory of New York in pictures.

Imported novelty of delight:

Ladies in Times Square:

Miguel likes his job.
This thing I hold, it is the statue of liberty. I promise.
Self explanatory:
Shredder in her element:
Becca. Eat it!
Underground. Maria and Lee.

In three days I'll be home, after a two month absence. Relief and despair. Time to go.

Failure and Success

2009-10-05T10:07:00.000-07:00

The failure being my complete inability to have updated on this tour. I wanted everything documented, I wanted a repeat of Europe with 2+ pages per day. Turns out the difference between a national tour with a circus company and me shlupping around Europe is: everything. Any free time I've had has been spent sleeping, eating, or rehearsing, or realizing I've never been in *insert city here* and want to walk and look at it. I've been impossible to reach. I put a temporary moratorium on phone calls.
In short, that is the failure part. The success part is everything else.

I was going to go back city by city and tell the story of that tour, but I fear that would just be the worst thing ever. So I'll start from here, because that's the only place to start from, and try and tell the truth as usual.

I'm sitting in the Miami airport surrounded by beloved colleagues, most of whom are wearing some remnant smears of eyeliner and glitter. A faded brand of "Stoli" painted on my left arm in smudged into what now looks like "Stou." Dwoira is writing in her flaming red halo. Miguel sitting upside down in a chair.l TT in an effortless pike on the carpet. Our crippled hero, Miriam, who broke her heel in the last week of rehearsal, joined us in New York wearing that big black boot they shove on you. She walks on crutches but she still tears the shit out of a trapeze.
Now that is fucking cool, in case you're not paying attention.

We're boarding now, Miami to LA. By the way, Miami is more LA than LA is. LA looks quaint after having been in the plastic paradise of Miami. On the way down from NYC, the drivers have to sleep for eight hours every so often, so we stopped in Daytona Beach for a gorgeous, rainy, hot stormy swim in the ocean day. If you're never swam in shark infested ocean water during a heavy downpour, I highly recommend it. Of course we didn't find out about the shark thing until afterwards, but the only thing anyone lost in the water was Angelo's necklace. And probably many ounces of pee.

The thing is, the very best moments I do not have pictures of, because I would have had to remove myself from the moment to capture it. Unlike Coop, I haven't acquired the skill of mastering a moment while photographing it. So the camera often stayed in the bag and I stayed in the thick of it. But I do have these:

Dwoira

Morning, Dallas.

Dwoira

Fancy.

Chicago

Me and Pamela, aesthetic mistress extraordinaire:

Nymphs:

Crew. I adore you, Chuck and Genevieve.
Me and Becca. Niagara Falls rock.
Must board. More later.

Well...

2009-09-28T11:37:00.000-07:00

...I have hundreds of photographs and juicy, juicy bits to share. Free time on this tour is spent sleeping or reveling in someone's (or everyone's) triumph. I have some time now but, as luck would have it, I have a long standing date with New York.

A very hot date, I imagine. More soon.

Onward. Ho.

2009-08-20T12:22:00.001-07:00

So a couple days ago when the King of All Scorpios was in town, we trolloped off to see someone else's circus for a change. My lovely and talented friend Leah Christiana ran off with Ringling Brothers about a year ago. Heard of em? Yeah, me too. Leah is the girl your eye goes to on stage and doesn't move. She is fascinating to watch.

And because the circus just wouldn't be the circus without a big ass beer and a gorgeous man:

Rehearsals are long, exhaustive, and wonderful. On my days off I find I would prefer to be working. So I work on my website which is a tortuously slow and at times maddening process. The best thing about building your own website when you don't know what you're doing is at least knowing that, when it's finished, you won't have to rely on anyone else to update that shit. That could have easily been the death of me. Patience is not to be found on my resume.

The show is coming together like all acts of love and work, splendidly and at the last moment. Our costume magicians, namely Juniper the Genius of Steam Trunk and Pamela and Medina are working their fingers to bloody nubs to finish these fantastic costumes. I'd put up a picture but it's top secret classified information. Meaning, I'm pretty sure I'd be murdered in my sleep if I put them up. But I can put this up!

That's tonight's flash party, not the whole show but definitely some appetizers and teasers. So now I'm going to go plead with my skin to behave under a pile of makeup.

So ready to be on the road.

"How's the Emergency Rehearsal Going?"

2009-08-11T23:05:00.000-07:00

Please tell me someone got that reference.

August 5, 2009

Back in San Francisco, I cleft my heart and left a sodden, steaming, living half of it wrapped tight in the level gaze of Shaun in stolen afternoons. My sister Babs and the David just arrived, just barely arrived before I had to go to be on time for the EMERGENCY REHEARSAL. Heart spatter like a slug trail to leave the new city and the sure loves; red and vagrant all the way to the airport where they filled me with wheat beer, kissed me, and put me on a late flight into the Gemini city.

Shredder picked me up from the airport even though it was crazy late, drove me to her house and gave me her room. Generosity, you're doin it right.

August 6, 2009

Emergency rehearsal. Get measured for costume. Eat Viatnamese with KelseLee. Go home and be worthless.

August 7, 2009

Morning in the house of Shred is the shit! I wake up in her little fairy loft, surrounded by reminders of someone brave and strong and beautiful, who I love and who has shown me so much kindness. I wake up comfortable and realizing I have nothing to do all day and that’s kind of marvelous, because I can make it into whatever I want.

Then, opening the door, there is Shred with a triple hazelnut latte, all smiles.

In case anyone doesn’t already know this, the act of bringing me coffee in the morning is the fastest, surest way to convince me that I am loved. It says, I understand at least this much, and I love you. Shadangy.

Yesterday was Vau de Vire’s first rehearsal for the tour, it last almost 5 hours and no one seemed to notice. Everyone is all there, 100%, grateful and in shape and wanting very much to earn their keep in the fog of sweat and muscle, of which there is plenty.

August 9, 2009

On their way to the Emerald City, His Insufferable Lordship and Lady A come to walk all over San Francisco for two days. It's my day off so we split a bottle of wine, then the world progressed as usual. Whenever it is that I manage to go home, I will have much magnificence waiting for me there.

August 10, 2009

On her way to a hot date tonight, Shred Money was lookin sexy in a skirt and with her arms full of other options. On her way out, she came into the shower room and goes, "How do ya like THIS?" I look out from the curtain and she pulls up her skirt, I'm expecting her to show me some awesome sex knickers she's bought for the occasion. I'm not expecting her to be wearing a stuffed replica of a huge cock and two tiny balls, made of pantyhose and surrounded by a huge faux fur bush. The shock of the registry only turns into hemorrage-inducing laughter as she happily smoothes her skirt back down. When I can breathe again I ask her, "why would you even HAVE that?"
She gives me a radiant, contented smile as she leaves for the evening. "I made it."

Now that I have a Shred, I wouldn't want to be without one.

That night, I dreamed a male friend of mine was really really flexible. I told him about it. I left out the part where he managed to lick his own balls. I guess I'll know soon enough if he ever reads this blog.

August 12, 2009

Five hours of rehearsal, you're goddamn right it's a beautiful day.

Genesis

2009-07-26T10:37:00.000-07:00

As my brother Joshua was helping me move all my wordly crap from San Francisco to Seattle, I picked up a new descriptive term for all things awesome, which is "shidangy" and should be pronounced "shih-DANG-ee!" It is the only operable word for the current state of affairs.

I hauled a 10' Uhaul into Seattle with my brother in the passenger seat the day before yesterday. Don't be alarmed, I am inexplicably awesome at driving big trucks, as Honey can attest.

On the way into the city, I got a few text messages from Mama and Papa Gaines of Vau de Vire. It's decided. We're going on tour. I apologize for the number of you who are finding out via this blog. It still has not struck me as real; in fact, most of my reality feels like a short aside, so infinitely different from what life was like a few days ago.

And the imminent arrival of the driving force behind a lot of this change due in port in a short amount of time... someone slap me. No really. Come over here and slap me. I can feel the innate pull to withraw into myself and go into autopilot, to protect my sense of reality from utter chaos, and I'm working hard to tell it to shut the hell up.

It seems that getting what you want is not as easy as just sitting there and smiling about it. Getting it presents a host of new, strangely uncomfortable emotional waves. You have to care for it, and prove yourself worthy (to yourself, of course), and generally try to avoid fucking it up. There's a sense of gravity and stillness, bordering closely on a shimmery euphoria and a definite sense of shock and fear (again, of fucking it up).
Like the fallen angel on City of Angels describing to Nicolas Cage what it's like to be human: "You wake up all smelly, and aching from head to toe, and hungrier than you've ever been only you have no idea what hunger is or any of that stuff, so it's all real confusing and painful, but very, very good."

Shidangy ol boom man.

Limbo.

2009-07-08T10:14:00.000-07:00

Here I am again, hovering in the jump between universes. Only this time, it's super-hover because the ground I'm going to land on is yet undecided, and the decision isn't exactly mine to make.

In other words, there is an opportunity in the air that won't be decided upon until the 15th. At that time I will know if I am going to go to Seattle in the next couple of days and begin new circles full of circus and allure or if I am going to go on tour with Vau de Vire for a couple of months. It is maddening. At night I sleep and dream of seagulls.

And having seen the art of manifestation first hand so many times, my favorite pastime has become sitting and holding the image of our house, the one we don't have yet. And when I say 'we' I mean myself, and the Babs and David (the Newlyweds) and John, (His Insufferable Lordship) and Abigail (Lady A). That's right, we're all moving out of state- out of our states of solitude and out of California, and out of North Carolina in their case. Moving all that way to come live together in a 3+ bedroom in the upper left hand corner of these great United States.

It will be interesting, annoying, fun, and sublimely comforting. I can't wait.

I also have a habit of running my silks act over and over in my head, effortlessly, seamlessly unifying all the stuttering parts into a satiny, unified whole that sings. And a new act on hoop that I'm planning to use for the Pink Door, involving a ribbon and some amount of violin with a backbone that is intoxicating.
Any suggestions for music are absolutely welcome! Approximately 4 minutes long, can't use the word "fuck" or "bitches and ho's" and must be addictive.

27 and some of Savannah.

2009-06-07T16:31:00.000-07:00

Well, it's my birthday. 27, my scary age. When I was a kid, I saturated myself in fairy tales. I didn't want to grow up, as it seemed an ungraceful and thankless business, and looked for evidence in my stories that I would never have to do so. The first age of un-innocence I found was 16, then 18, then 19. Then I found a story where the magic lasted until the main character was 21. Then 25. I never found a story that permitted magic to continue past the age of 27. That was Beauty and the Beast, the Disney version, in 1991.

That was 18 FUCKING YEARS AGO. You think I would have found a loophole to push back the date of real and actual adulthood in that time, but I was too busy determinedly not thinking about it.

So I look around myself and see evidence everywhere that adulthood started some time ago. I also see evidence of magic aplenty. I'm in Louisiana, practicing camouflage. Used to be good at it, not anymore.

Here, have some pictures of Savannah, my birthday present from my mama:

SOLD OUT!!!

2009-05-23T09:39:00.001-07:00

That's right, both showings of Risque Business sold out before curtain. Hells to the yeah, the ta-ta's are funded. (did I mention this was a breast cancer benefit?)

If you're in Asheville, NC...

2009-05-20T08:53:00.000-07:00

Event: RISQUE BUSINESS: A burlesque comedy extravaganza!
"Comedy never looked so good"
What: Fundraiser
Host: Bombs Away Cabaret
Start Time: Saturday, May 23 at 9:00pm
End Time: Sunday, May 24 at 1:00am
Where: Asheville Arts Center; 308 Merrimon Avenue

Come enjoy the product of the world's greatest architecture (also known as ta-ta's) coupled with comedy and brain power; written and produced by the very excellent Meg Eason, who has graciously allowed me to take part in her brain-child.

Laws of Performing Arts

2009-05-10T22:08:00.000-07:00

oh, the ways in which I can procrastinate:

#1) Thou must be comfortable with looking like an idiot.

#2) Thou must have a thick skin; you weak, parasitic fugly fatass.

#3) Thou must adhere to your own standards. It is impossible not to compare yourself with your peers, but try to do so without getting emotionally involved; by the way, also usually impossible. Are you satisfied with your progress over the past year when compared to your skill set one year ago? In what areas can you afford to remove some energy to give to others?
**note to myself: Can I afford to put more energy into reawakening my classical training? (yes, if I give up ½ of my Friends watching time) What keeps me from doing so? (Fear of sucking!!) What time is class tomorrow night? (7:30-9:00, ok?!)

#4) Thou must consider fear, pain, hardship, and triumph to be ordinary passing sensations. They are not the point, but their intensity makes them addictive. Especially for personalities attracted to the performing arts.

#5) Thou must not rely on the compliments of others as a scale of your ability. How many “polite” compliments have you given out? How many genuine compliments have you withheld? Enjoy and appreciate other’s appreciation, then see #3.

#6) Thou must never stop training. Thou must never stop training. Thou must never stop training.

#7) Thou must learn to rest and work in seasons. If you exhaust yourself too hard and too often, it’s all over real, real soon.

#8) Thou shalt not be a douche about accepting criticism. Especially when you are presenting a work in progress for the purposes of obtaining criticism. Never justify yourself when receiving a critique. If they didn't "get it," it's not their fault, it's yours. And, that's ok. You know how you hate it when people explain why their jokes are funny? The decent thing to do is listen and remember other’s notes (see #2), then make necessary changes when they are necessary (see #3).

#9) Thou shalt RESPECT THE TECHIES. Introduce yourself to the lighting designers, the sound guy, the stage manager (duh…NEVER piss off the stage manager), the property master, the hospitality people, the costumers, the merch guy…your job becomes either really uncomfortable or obsolete in their absence. Do not treat them as serfs there for your benefit alone. This is assholery, even if you are Diana Ross. I’ll bet even Diana Ross is lovely to the techies.***

Now I know these lists usually go from 10 to 1, for the purposes of climax, but #1 up there really needs to remain #1.

The #10 slot is open to suggestions. Please leave yours in the comments, it would make me really really happy.

***addendum...obviously, this comment is a compliment to the Goddess that is Diana Ross. Anyone who thinks otherwise is obviously living according to rule #1. I only wrote this as a testament to my regard for Diana Ross, who is one of my alltime favorite personalities.

God, please save me from your followers.

While I realize

2009-05-08T10:00:00.000-07:00

that a more than healthy percentage of the people who read this reside on the right-hand coast, if you are on the left-hand coast and near the gay, gay city:

Booyah.

A Post of Things and Nothing.

2009-05-06T08:49:00.000-07:00

Good morning, world. I have the greatest cup of coffee ever in my possession. And I woke feeling monstrously generous, so here is how it's done:

One large European stove -top espresso maker and a lot of cafe espresso. Illy's is good (duh) but if you're poor Cafe Nero Medaglia D'oro is the bomb diggedy too. Make according to directions. When it makes a sound like it's pissed off, it's done, don't burn it. Heat some water on the stovetop while you're waiting.

Now most people will tell you to add a shot of espresso to 8oz. of warm water. What you must do instead is fill an excellent coffee cup (that is very important) at least half way with the black stuff, then top it off with some water. A little bit of sugar, that means less than a heaping spoonful, and whole milk enough to change the color by a degree or two. You will want to kiss me every day for bringing such daily joy into your life. I myself would like to thank Italy, and Mary Anne for being able to stomach only tiny amounts of espresso so leaving the rest for me.

Well, that was a whole lot of talking about coffee.

Soon I'll start traveling, and I've been preparing for this by systematically never leaving my apartment unless I need food or training. This time next week I'll be packing to fly up to Seattle to see my mind numbingly hot man, and to attend a lecture, then fly back for 24 hours to present my aerial solo (cue terror now) in the Sunday Works in Progress show (oh look at that, more terror) then leaving the next evening for my month + immersion in Places I Used to Live.

Now that I think about it I don't know anyone who has left their lives for at least a month to go to where home used to be. I know why, too- it's fucking stressful. Mostly because I want to return victorious, but when your definition of victory falls somewhere along the lines of crazy to your parents...well...so much for that.

Speaking of which, I did audition for Le Reve on Sunday, whoo-hoo. I didn't survive the first cut as I am not strong enough at this time. But I did amaze myself by climbing a rope with no feet. They could have told me I was too fat and ugly to be in their show after that, and I still would have gone home satisfied.
Ok that's probably not true, but I was pretty happy with that anyways.

Things I will not miss about San Francisco part 45:
Fucktards getting out of the bars at 2:30 and waking me up by screaming repeatedly, for no conceivable reason, in the middle of the residential street. Seriously just standing out there screaming. Wtf?!

Wine, Wine, Whine

2009-05-01T10:35:00.000-07:00

Happy Beltaine to all!

I woke up feeling like I had permission. I also woke up seeing two tiny birds copulating outside of my window. When I was 19 I woke up this morning to thunder. When I was 20 I woke up to Christy. Somewhere in the space of 21-23 I would go into the woods with my sisters. Today I find myself in my apartment watching little birds flutter around each other, so I choose to make myself happy.

Yesterday I joined some of my Vau de Vire wenches in a ploy to obtain more corporate $ponsorship at the opening of a winery. It was an unpaid gig, it took all day, and I would rather have done that than any of my paying jobs online. When my set was done I didn't even want to stop. It is time to exit the "working for money world." That said, I have absolutely no idea what to do next.

At any rate, I finally have a corporate-friendly character:

Photo generously donated by Gene X Hwang/Orange Photography.
Generously and amazingly photoshopped to its present state of awesome by Max Cooper. Yes, you are the fucking man.

I was also monstrously pleased to run into the very lovable Juan from Teatro Zinzanni, a friend of the Nekyia's, who obliged me with some impromptu salsa in spite of the fact that I'd had a healthy dose of my invented cabernet/petite verdot (understanding of course I invented nothing).

I met a nice guy who gave me chocolate and cayenne pepper which is a Good Thing, and coaxed the Shred into helping me adios the rest of some (comparitively piss poor) wine at my place to cap off the excellence.

The moral of the story is that, against all the odds, life is more fun when I leave my apartment.

**Also, five bucks to whoever gets the reference in the title. Although you'd have no way of proving you didn't google it, so I guess I win.

Final Countdown

2009-04-20T09:12:00.000-07:00

Two years in San Francisco is an eternity. A forever of nights on your own rooftop. Working in loud nightclubs. Walking from Castro to Church, having finally found some sense of peace, I am leaving. It may seem I am running from peace, but what I am doing is running towards something else. Coop told me once, everyone runs. If you’re going to run, run towards something.

I let the pavement know me, step by step. The night is so warm, so mild and musky, the jasmine smelling like nights in Jesse’s orbit thick with their syrup-heavy vanilla scent. Tiny roses by Market street walking home from Brad’s, a paper grocery bag of my great-grandmother’s china in my left hand. Did I even begin to touch the spine of this place? I let it touch mine. I broke open my ambition on its doorstep.

Nights on the rooftop on McAllister, looking over Japantown and Fillmore and the Western Addition, towards the glory of the downtown skyline lit up with all my vagrant war mongering. I would wage war on those streets, my own private war of one, fighting against everything everyone told me I could not or would not do.
Maybe Shaun had it right the first time. We spent the second 20 years of our lives undoing the conditioning of the first 18.

If I went on the roof tonight it wouldn’t be that same skyline. Altogether different here, the hills of Twin Peaks lit up like a faerye carnival. San Francisco at night; no, California at night is a magical place. You have no idea until you’ve seen it, the hills lit up in honey-bright tones of wealth and wanting. It goes on forever, this bay, and I may never find the end of it.
It was the sailors who found it, wandering through the straight to find where the sea led, until they came to the wide bay with the future fetch of Berkeley on their left tinged with Oakland, and the bright cameo burn of San Francisco waiting on their right. Nothing would be the same. Now I won't be the same. It satisfies the least of my demands to have this much, knowing I came here, I did this, I made this real and now I am leaving it.

I miss my cousin completely when I walk home from Brad’s. This would be the time when, for a year we waited our whole lives for, we could say absolutely anything. There is nothing I could say that I would find her incapable of understanding the source of, and that is a very fine thing to be able to say about anyone. Turning past Noe I see the flash of her feet in flats, and her face that is my face in other colors, and all our mother’s differences resolved in how I love her.

Saturday was Bohemian Carnival at DNA Lounge. Can I tell you how much I love white face makeup? It's like getting a new face. I fucking love it. Here is an example from a Boho Carni last winter:

How embarrassingly myspace.

This will probably be the last Boho Carni I see for a while, since I won't be around for the one in June. My moving plans are those of a crazy person. But what else is new.

Quixotica.

2009-04-16T09:41:00.000-07:00

This time last week I was packing my ass off to go see Seattle/Sir Scorpio/HUL and Lady A. This week I'm having my coffee before Vau de Vire rehearsal and generally enjoying the meat realm. Impending change has always been one of my favorite states of being. This move is bigger than me, and that's how I like to do things. I can't believe I've only been here for two years...it feels like an eternity. My poor little face has aged a millenia. I've packed on an inch of muscle on my shoulders and given up on selling out. Now to go north where the lion and the unicorn keep urging me to go, to open up a can of San Francisco whoopass and see how they smoke it.

I can't believe I just wrote that sentence. Sounds like macho bullshit to me. In reality, I'll be myself and hope that those northern carnies allow for the transplant. I need a rigging space and a coach, I can't just be a silent douche and go sit shyly in the Circus Center telling myself I don't give a damn that no one will talk to me. I have to be a PERSON! Agast.

In other news, I cannot cook dinner for one. I try every night basically, but it's virtually impossible. Last night was another example, and since I now don't have a fridge I took it outside to see if the guy who looks like a warthog was hungry. I caught up to him on the corner and he was in one of his mumbling moods, so against all reason I interrupted him and asked him if he were hungry. He waved me off shaking his head and kept mumbling. The REALLY interesting part of this interation was the sense of rejection I felt at this time. I pondered this while spotting another dude on the corner who did in fact turn out to be hungry, although when I asked if he were allergic to rosemary he seemed to be quite scared. Who asks that? Who ever fucking heard of anyone being allergic to rosemary?

Anyway, on with the show. I miss my supercousin. Everything is turning over, I can see and smell that, and when I turn with it I can almost see the outline of greatness to come. Because I am optimistic like that. And I have the capability of romanticizing just about anything to suit my tastes. And shall continue to do so.

More beauteous soul-ripening coffee now.

The Time Has Come

2009-04-09T09:06:00.000-07:00

the walrus said, to talking of many things. Of shoes, of ships, of sealing wax, of cabbages and kings! Of why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings.

My time in this Gemini city is running out. The things that keep me here have been peeling away, one by one, and the full moon hollers in at my windows once again, calling me for movement. And move I shall.

Do you see what I see?

Today

Scattered Showers

Friday

Chance Rain Shower

Saturday

Chance Rain Shower

Sunday

Rain

Monday

Scattered Showers

Tuesday

Scattered Showers

Wednesday

Chance of Rain

Tis a lovely rainy week in Seattle. If you know me very well, you'll know this is basically the best forecast I can imagine second only to thunderstorms at 80 degrees. Since I've only ever felt those in Louisiana, I know I must trade in thunder and heat for wind and cold, but I don't have to trade in the rain.

The thought of leaving my mercurial San Francisco has terrified me to the core. Not because I am still in love with it, but because I was afraid that leaving it meant giving up.

Anyone who has ever drained a relationship/location/situation down to the last bloody dregs may be familiar with this feeling.

I am no longer terrified. Even if I were a science-based creature- to be in Seattle means being within an hour of my love, the King of All Scorpios. There is circus and rain. And my brother by some kind of blood other than blood, His Insufferable Lordship, meeting me there with Lady A for the same intensive purpose of intention.

After a while it ends up being about the math, if it weren't about anything else.

**note for my sisters** Not long ago I was walking down 14th street on an obscure little corner with Shaun (TKoaS) and he stopped me and pointed down. Carved into the sidewalk:
"The Goddess Lives. Do not forget it." Love you.

Bethany.

2009-03-28T10:38:00.000-07:00

The swivel of my aerial hardware is mine compliments of Mrs. Bethany Niebauer. The swivel is the thing that keeps me from getting horribly tangled, and allows for pretty things on the tissu to be done even prettier, so that everyone can enjoy and not just the front row. It is fitting to have come from Bethany. This one is for her.

Since Bethany is my coven sister and has been for some time now, this post will be long and I feel at liberty to divulge much personal information to you, beloved readers, so that you can know her who otherwise might never meet her.
I met Bethany, who I sometimes call Tuesday, in tai chi class six years ago. I thought she looked delicate like a fairy, sorbet blonde and pale and blue, with an ironic (but turns out, very fitting,) nose piercing. She used to wear this wicked awesome Indian sari to tai chi, which made me jealous. I didn't know it at the time but Bethany hated me. Then one day I asked her about her necklace, which was a locket that had a lock of her late father's hair in it. She seemed very sad so I gave her a hug and lucky me, that was my ticket off the naughty list!

Some amount of time later, me and my Snark answered a flier asking for interest from Pagan women with the intention of forming a coven. We didn't expect to like anyone there, but as it turns out, everyone who was at that first meeting became my sister. Bethany was the one who put up the fliers. All the moments in my life I had wanted to practice with sisters, but Bethany did what I could not, and made it happen. Doaine Sidhe coven was formed Samhain of 2003, in my back yard under some white oaks and a patch of the deepest darkest woods I've ever seen.

Shortly after that, I started stripping with my best bitch #2 at some shitty little strip joint in the mountains. Bethany joined us a few months into our stint there, where she became famous for her immaculate breasts and her ability to speak French. No seriously, about the boobs. They are perfect. I'd put up a picture but here take this instead:

This was taken one night in Louisiana when Bethany came to visit me on her way to move to Texas. We broke out a few bottles of wine and my step mom's extra-fancy Mardi Gras masks.

This pose is very Bethany. I have tried to copy it many times unsuccessfully, due to my not having her (misleading) quality of delicacy to her decolletage. I first got to know this pose in the Swampy light-pit of Paris, France, where Bethany suggested we fuck off for a while during our strippy career. And we sure as hell did fly all the way out there and forget about the world for 10 days. It was superb. At the time, Evan (Bethany's wonderful espoused) was in Afganistan during his first patrol. They had gotten married before he left, in a gorgeous wedding that remains a favorite memory of mine. Every morning in Paris, Bethany would wake up and the first things she would say was the number of days left before he came home. I never expected to understand this as much as I now do.

We met some tiny French men that wanted to spend money on us, so we let them take us out and pay for drinks, cabs, and admission to the Moulin Rouge as well as some other club if I'm not mistaken. I don't know, I was all drunk and stuff. Bethany got a wild hair and decided to make an example of a couple guys who were hitting on her. She threw (my) rum and coke into one guy's face and slapped another, it was so funny because you just know they were not expecting resistance from this little woman with the pixie cut.

Now that I think of it, Bethany has come to visit me everywhere I've lived since I returned from Europe, which is no small feat. When she came to visit me here in SF we went out partying with the queens in Castro, which was one of the funnest nights I've had here, period. When Beth had to pee and there were no available toilets, well no matter, she'll just pee in the sink! That was pretty awesome, even though a gentleman looking for the bathroom was appalled ("OH JESUS!").

Highly skilled on a pole, compassionate, brave, and scrappy are words I would use to describe her. She believes in my ability to do whatever I decide whether or not I have proven myself worthy of that faith.

thanks, sis. <3

Ok I just found these awesome pics from Paris in my archives...and before I can tell myself it's too many pictures I have to post them.

And my personal favoritest ever:

Leah.

2009-03-27T11:05:00.000-07:00

Would you look at this?

Do you see that saucy tart sittin up there on the trapeze? That is none other than the indescribable Leah Christiana, formerly of the Nekyia, in Madison Fucking Square Gardens.

I just thought the world should know.

Leah! If you ever find this by googling yourself, not a day goes by I don't miss dancing with you, you badass circus girl. I love you!!

What Ralph Said.

2009-03-24T00:07:00.000-07:00

“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could." -Ralph Emerson

That is a lovely thought. I remain unconvinced. The older I get, the less hours there are in the day and the longer it takes me to do things; or maybe it's that my list of things to do grows longer. The length of this list may be directly proportional to my level of dishappiness. Not that I don't want things to do, I do. I make them myself, actually. I simply find at the end of the day that my day is over again, and I spent an enormous portion of it doing things to help other people's business/vision/etc. and had no time to work on my act or set up a gig for myself in Asheville/Charlotte/Lousiana this summer. This isn't a new realization. It's not even violent, because at least some part of everything I do exist or began out of love and desire. That remains well. But there is a quiet knowing that enters the room and smiles so kindly at me, taking a seat in the corner to wait.

Or maybe this is all just because I spent 10 hours today on a promotional video shoot for the Warped Tour 09. Ze set:

This was many levels of delight, but I still came home feeling like I was waiting for tomorrow to get back to my life, because I couldn't go train or work, and usually I can do both and still get to play with my beloved Vau de Vire wenches.

"You can't have your cake and eat it too."

I've always thought that was the stupidest thing I ever heard.

Daniel.

2009-03-19T11:16:00.000-07:00

I have several thank yous I want to write in the best way I know how, which is to publicly expose the people who have made my future career possible for being generous without reason.

This morning I bought the equipment that will very probably last for the rest of my career as an aerialist. I was able to do this for the majority because of my friend Daniel. So now I'm going to talk about him.

I met Daniel in a dark pub in the land of the black-water bayou. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

I'm speaking of Louisiana, in the very center, the very pit of it, where my father lives. In search of people to talk to under the age of 45 (try living without it for five months. You'll feel it too.) I went to the only acceptable bar in town, Finnegan's Wake. I ended up meeting a small collection of friends who invited me to join them. Over the next few weeks I saw them several times, and noticed that they kept dropping the name Daniel, with what could only be described as a note of deference in the tone of voice.

And on one particularly sweltering night, there he was. If you're picturing a boisterous, toothy bar-fly with a bayou twang always in the thick of it, stop and turn that inside out. He has a quiet, intense energy and a force in his presence that is refreshingly natural. When he talks to you, you are the only person and the only voice that exists. If you have ever met anyone capable of invoking that feeling you know you only want to keep talking to them. And I have absolutely no idea what we talked about. Maybe sex, maybe religion, probably both. He dropped a penny in my Guinness and thought it was the funniest thing ever, even though I was shocked and appalled.

We met for lunch before I moved, and sat outside on the patio of the restaurant. I got loud and mid-day drunk off of white wine and chain smoked. He laughed and talked and didn't fall for any of my bullshit.

I haven't seen him since I moved almost two years ago, but I remember warm brown eyes that see everything, and strange but intelligent speech patterns. Since then my experience of him has been sporadic phone calls. More than once in the past year, when the black was pushing hard on the edges of my mind, Daniel knew. He'd call me up at precisely the right moment and we'd pick up talking as though we'd been talking for hours already and were deep in conversation.

At this point I've deleted the text that was here because there is so much in him I feel shouldn't be publicized, even though my actual experiences of him have been few. Like giving away a really, really good book. In fact when I asked him if it were ok that I write a post about him as a thank you, his reply was "sure, if you need to," and a laugh.

We are so very, very different. But he lets me be whatever creature I am, and for what he is I am grateful.

And then there was one.

2009-03-19T09:25:00.000-07:00

Luna has flown the co-op, with an ornery kitten in a mesh bag on a red-eye back to NH. I stand here in our bright city and feel like it could never be gotten its fill of before death, and that I don't wish to. I look at the leagues that have flown under me since I've been here, and the muscles on my shoulders that weren't there before, and the lines just barely there around my mouth that certainly weren't there before. I feel the heartbreak of leaving before I've even decided to leave.

But I will. There is something better. I have been in the practice of wringing every last drop out of things...cities, relationships, apartments, beliefs- before there was nothing left and I threw away the remnant rotting skin of what it was. Since I've learned, the price you pay for leaving something before you wring it dry is that you miss it. Sometimes you miss it terribly, but you can remember it the way it was in fullness.

Or whatever.

Riddle me this...what audition is coming up a mere two days after my act's deadline?

Off to rehearse with the lovely and beloved Vau de Vire wenches.

Never, never, ever put a cap on the possibilities for your life. I don't care if it sounds cheesy. It's essential.

This is just to say,

2009-03-12T09:19:00.000-07:00

that my friends are fucking amazing. I put up yesterday's post as a "oh what the hell" and by the end of the day I have my equipment. I am preparing a couple of posts in celebration of my two financiers because I still find myself too much in awe to be very eloquent.

So, thank you. Thank you to Bethany and Daniel for investing in a neurotic carnie. Thank you to everyone who thought about it and wished they could help, thank you to everyone who reads this and wished me luck. Luck, I has it...but it's not really luck, it's just really good people. Being such a ray of fucking sunshine (dripping with sarcasm here) it is curious to me to have such kind people in my life.

I'm thinking about getting some silver stars tattooed on my ass. So at least when people ask me how I do something I'll just show them my lucky stars. And I'll name one Daniel and the other Bethany.

Bribes.

2009-03-11T13:12:00.000-07:00

Period here in full force, thanks everyone for your kind concern. I'm a lucky bitch to have so many people give a damn whether or not I explode from menstrual poisoning.
Actually I felt like kind of a dumbass for wondering why it took so long after seeing the moon last night. Full moon=bloody females. Ask around.

So enough about that lovely subject. Here is the situation:

My act is due May 1st. It is coming along very well. My deadline for having hardware and fabric is April 1st. This is a problem, especially since my computer has been out of order and I haven't been able to work extra for extra funding. So, in the event that anyone reading this is willing and able to assist, here is my situation:

2 steel carabiners: $70.00
1 swivel: $80.00
1 steel rescue 8: $73.00
fabric: $200
---------------------------------
Aerialist starterkit: $423.00

Yikes indeed. You may be wondering why I moved from hoop to tissu (fabric) and the answer to that is that to perform on hoop I will first need to immunize myself from the puking that spinning inspires. I still plan on it, but wanted to start out with a non-puking apparatus.

All contributions will be repaid in full at the interest rate specified by the financer, not to exceed 20% per 6months cause I wouldn't be able to fulfill my end of that rate. If anyone involved wishes to not be repaid, please specify what I can do for you in exchange. Write your website content, perform as a bird at your grandfather's birthday party, never ever dress up like Raoul again, you name it.

Any contributions as well as all love and hate mail can be sent to:

Rachel Strickland
PO Box 170694
San Francisco, CA 94117

If I didn't ask, I'd never know.

Monday

2009-03-09T12:39:00.000-07:00

This post not intended for the faint of heart, or parental family members.

This menstrual period has taken over my life. It has been an almost month long experience. My breasts are three times their usual size, which would be awesome if it weren't for my weirdly distended abdomen. I've had debilitating cramps on and off for a month that inhibit my training. And, I still haven't started bleeding. I've taken two pregnancy tests in the hopes that the digital affirmation of not being implanted with a zygote would jump start the actual period and alleviate the pre-period symptoms. Is the blood stuck in a cyclical shy closet, unable to leave? Or is my body, thanks to my high-semen absorbtion over the past couple weeks, really hanging on to an innate desire to form said zygote? Are you sure we're not pregnant? Are you really really sure? Yes, DNA, I am sure. Kindly let loose the floodgates so I can get back to my life.

Anyway, hello. My Sailor hates being called a Sailor on here, which is understandable because for him it is like referring to my brother as the pizza delivery guy, or referring to my best friend as the spa receptionist. The title of Sailor really has nothing to do with him, even though I am fond of the mermaid imagery that accompanies it.

So I'm taking votes. Please leave your suggestion for his new title in the comments section of this blog.

The truth about my right now is that I'm sitting in Cafe du Nord, hoping my connection to the internet continues. For 1.5 months my computer has been back and forth four separate times to the lappy doctor. It went from annoyingly slow to virtually unusable. Lingering on thoughts of wishing him under the wheels of a bus or at least with the decency to buy me a new laptop, I become immediately enraged. This isn't helped by the epic nature of my current cycle.

The music in this cafe is too loud by a fraction of a degree. Immediately I feel homicidal. I want to throw my $2.50 tea at the baristo's crotch, which would really hurt because it's still scalding hot after sitting here for 10 minutes.

I went to the dermatologist today for a follow up visit. Here is the situation with a dermatologist. Either you're sitting in there with your face looking like its been chewed on, or you're sitting there with a normal face. The plus side of having your face look like it's been ignited and put out with a rake is that it's clear why you're there. If your face looks normal, the rest of your inmates wonder to themselves on what part of your body you're having weird skin stuff. At least, I think they wonder... just like at Planned Parenthood you look around and decide for what reason all these people have come past three locked doors to wait for their turn at a free clinic.

So I get in past the receptionist and the RN strides into my room and begins reciting my chart to me very slowly and a little too loudly. "RAAAAACHEEEEL...let's see you're here about you'rrrrrre ACNE. RIGHT?!" Thank you. Yes I am. As you can see my reasons for being here are quite clear. Shall I point out to her that the acrylic eyelashes she's wearing are extremely flammeable? I decide not to.

However, I love my dermatologist. She knows I have no money and that coming to see her puts me on the grocery lowlist for a few weeks, so instead of pricey prescriptions she gives me as many free samples as possible. And one pricey prescription, because no one gets out of hell for free.

When I get out, Luna is waiting for me in the waiting room. I walk her to the Transbay Terminal to catch a bus to Alameda, and she buys us a cookie to make change. This is part of what makes my wonder cousin so wonderful. She makes sense to me, because she doesn't make sense in most of the ways that I do not.

So here I am, still feeling vengeful toward the guy who "fixed" my computer and hating the chemical smell of teflon in the air of this cafe. I'm menstrual and rancid and I'm not wearing a stitch of makeup, so I'm alarmed each time I catch a glimpse of myself in a window.

But none of this is real. My actual reality is kissed-by-silver-stars-lucky. I cannot wait until the blood starts pounding and I remember this fact in practice instead of just theory.

Well. I think that's about enough of me right now. In case you have read this far, you deserve a rare, exotic delight:

Raoul says you're welcome.

Vegas, LA pics, ad nauseum. I just like saying ad nauseum.

2009-02-14T08:46:00.000-08:00

Moment of note:

"You know, you kind of look like Paddington Bear in that hat."

"WHAT."

"Damn, I forgot I was talking to a woman. I mean, you look gorgeous thin and sexy, and your ass looks great."
~~~

Obviously, since this is the first thing I have to say, Cirque did not offer me a contract at this time. I did survive the first cut, which if they made a medal for I would proudly be wearing, but I didn't get a call back. I am now in their system, under their radar. Cirque, feel free to call anytime. Just to chat, even. Really.

It's raining now, but the sun is out. Strange American city.

Speaking of which, Vegas. What the fuck. It is so fucked up. It is just SO. FUCKED. UP. It is a self-licking ice cream cone, a self-stroking cock, a fat man that eats himself and grows fatter. It is wonderful, no doubt, just so fucked up. All the glitter in the globe goes to Vegas to die, stuck to the facade of glittering depravity hiding the sludgy filth of rotting souls only two feet behind the buildings. Kristina aptly and affectionately notes that the entirety of this hideous, gorgeous machine runs on crushed dreams. People lose everything here. That's why it can stay so obese. I came away with it with a similar sense of affection. It is so fucked up. But so honest in its blatant deception. So upfront in its intentions.

I didn't take any pictures, because I left my camera at home. About 48 hours before my departure I became absolutely tunnel-visioned- the only thing in existence was the audition. It was the only way to keep from freaking out. Now, back in my little bird's hermitage in Castro, I find it has been nearly impossible to relax. I've had to force it, to convince my psyche that yes, now it can rest, now it can untie the knots it's built up to live the past few weeks in rapid succession. Finally yesterday I felt the tension give, when Luna came over and picked out a ring tone on my computer, while I stared out the window in utter contentment to be doing nothing but staring out the window. Exhale.

Healing thoughts to my wonderful uncle Bradley, who is recovering from foot surgery. That's where I was at the beginning of this week.

Club gig tonight with Vau de Vire. I know it's not technically resting but it is goodness.

Oh right, happy Valentines Day. I keep forgetting. That means I suck, but I still keep forgetting. I want to do something epic for my love, the King of All Scorpios, something other than...well nevermind I'm not saying on here. What do you wish you were doing for Valentines Day? What would you most dearly love to recieve?

Shaun, in all of his glory, has unmade my world by the following. Tuesday I am flying up to Seattle and the next day, he is taking me to a cabin at Mount Rainier for a couple of days, where if any living creature dares approach us they will find themselves removed from a body part. Mine, mine, all to myself. If anyone had asked me the questions above two months ago, this is exactly the answer I would have given. How the fuck does he do that?

Anyway. So you all won't be hearing from me unless he sleeps late, which he will, so maybe you will be hearing from me. I'm sure you can hardly wait.

And now for something completely different. Bethany has asked that I post not only the horrible pictures of myself as a retarded adolescent boy but also of my other roles, as she was under the impression that all I got to play were revolting characters. The revolting characters are the most fun, no doubt, but there is more. Thanks to Josh at www.curiousjosh.com, I have pictures to show you of Edwardian Ball in LA. I also met this guy, btw, and even though I was dressed like this:

He was totally willing to have a conversation with me. Props. That's super cross-trained Kelsey, playing one of two mean twin sisters, on the left, and Maria Ballerina as mommy dearest on the right. And, because it just wouldn't be Gorey without some dead ballerinas:

pic one, that's Shananigan Gaines, Vau de Vire's choreographer and heartbeat on the right with the ribbon.

Kelsey, T, Maria, me, and lil Becca under the vanity.

Maria Ballerina on L.

T, Maria, ad nauseum.

Morning, Evening, Leavening.

2009-02-04T09:37:00.000-08:00

Morning comes in a riot of sunlight glancing out of the Bay, white touching white, touching everything white; facades, gulls, a congregation of tiny old people speaking vibrant Chinese below my window. I hate noise, but I open the window.

This is different.

This is good.

At night, walking home from Brad’s, I took Noe through the gardens. Spring has come in February, Southern smells linger unabashedly in the night’s streets. The heavy sweet gardenia smell, the thick, spiced vanilla cream of magnolias. Only two blocks from the buzzline, but these streets are quiet. I pass a man curled into a ball, sitting on his haunches like a thing in the desert, painstakingly painting his face and his blonde beard black- tiny compact mirror in hand. I follow the street until the sky opens and it surprises me, I’ve come to the park near my house. It is a soft place, one that feels safe even at night. I find myself moving over the grass, wondering at the strangeness of it. I used to walk on nothing else, now it is so seldom and special an occasion I would rather bury my face in it and breathe an breathe. But I won’t, because this is a dog park. I’ll leave it to them.

The moon on my right, Orion on my left. I turn to face them both and feel the trees behind me breathing down my hair. I feel them as surely as if Shaun were standing behind me. I stand squarely and confront the moment. This is where I live. Why do I always make it a question of whether or not the time is beginning or ending? Couldn’t we just be here, couldn’t I just be here, in this time, for this part of this life? Couldn’t this place simply be worthy of me, to house these years of my life? These months of solitude and fortitude, these months of absentee touch with too-brief intervals of relief like a flood in the desert that leaves things surviving.

***

You know what drives me crazy? When blogger won't let me unitalicize once I'm done being all writerly. (I have since figured it out, but didn't want to take out this sentence.)

On Friday, I'm off to Vegas with the ineffable beloved Kristina, for the big scary audition I mentioned last post. It's an open dance audition for Cirque du Soleil. That's all I have to say about it at the moment.

These past few weeks have been grueling...marvelously productive, but grueling. When I get back from Vegas, I'm narrowing my focus to getting as much online work done as possible, and training training training, and seeing Shaun. Those things could take up more than enough to make a life, and yet usually I'm concentrating on a bazillion other things in addition. I'm not going to be a part of the next Bohemian Carnival as a part of Project: Resting. Shannon (Vau de Vire's co director and choreographer) has been lovely about it.

Here's a question I have for all of you; why do you do the thing you do? What is the motive force behind your efforts?

Where to begin...

2009-01-29T22:33:00.000-08:00

I don't know what to tell you. How to illustrate my current state of being would have meant writing all the posts that came to me in moments that were utterly forgotten in favor of working the next time I found an hour to get online. Moments like today, manic in one second, deeply disturbed in that I'm-in-favor-of-a-panic-attack way. The correct question is, "why manickypanicky?" The answer is, "shut up!" Moments like standing in line at Walgreens to buy a pregnancy test, and nothing else, on credit. Because I felt all waaaaay crazier than normal and my breasts hurt, but now we rule out pregnancy because the test was negative. Of course this works like a charm at starting your period, so that is nice.

There are far better moments, that I selfishly do not wish to describe. I have pictures but, though not nekky, are too intimate for me to put online, especially without pre-consent. In a nutshell this means I'll be saving the best for myself. Selfish, selfish capitalist.

Anyway, Edwardian Ball SF went swimmingly, the most lavishly attended three-day hoopla I've ever performed with. I went a little nutso and didn't want to get out of character on Saturday. It's a little insane how easily I could drown myself in it.

Ok, so the truth of my right now is that I'm sitting by the window in my brand spankin new apartment (pictures to follow week after next week, which is when I will finally, finally have time to rest) which was bequeathed to me from the lovely and could kick your ass Kerri K! my friend and aerial acro teacher. Luna has moved to Alameda where bike riding is not a death sentence and Nimh is not illegal, which is loverly. The times they are a-changing.

We went back today to clean our old apartment. Although i was reasonably close to a panic attack the whole time (for explanation see paragraph #1) the crazy didn't really kick in until I went to catch the underground back to my new neighborhood. My new neighborhood is not downtown. I've expected to miss downtown, as it's an experience I waited a long time to have. I changed my mind while waiting for the N Judah in the Muni station. The platform, as usual, was swarming with people who weren't looking at each other, but edging closer and closer to the yellow painted partition. Mean old Asian ladies with pink plastic shopping bags shove their way through you to stand one inch in front of you and then glare at you as though you've been rude. People stampede toward the cars as they approach, then subversively elbow their way in and stand close as cattle. All this was happening and the N Judah was being eeeeeeextra slow, stopping a lot underground between stations. I was also carrying an armload of costumes and a homeless cart full of other shit and sweating, because it was really hot in there, and telling myself that now was NOT the time to peak the crazy. Soon there would be air and light. And there was, and I survived the brutal three station journey. Waah. I then proceeded to come home and freak out some more about doling myself out in far too many directions, with far too little time. But then I walked to the bank, and the neighborhood cheered me immensely.

My new neighborhood is the best part of San Francisco. I always thought the only neighborhood I'd want to live in besides downtown is here, in Castro. That's right, I heart my gayborhood, the rainbow flag flying proudly, sweater-wearing bitsy dogs prancing down Market. This is my happiness of the tangible immediate now. I cannot believe how fucking lucky I am.

And I'm about to ruin everything by not taking good enough care of myself. I can handle a lot, so I give myself a lot. I thrive on it, but woe betide me not to give myself a clean period of time every now and then, when the focus can be narrowed to three or so points instead of a dozen. What good is all the training, all the work, all the fighting, all the everything, if at the end you're standing in a gorgeous theater the night before curtain wishing you weren't so worn thin you couldn't feel a damn thing.

So, to that end: rest soon. But not yet. Tomorrow morning I get on the freak bus and ride down with the rest of Vau de Vire to do Edwardian weekend, LA. Back, then five days to prepare for a big fancy audition. Out of town for audition, back to SF.

Then rest.

I can make it.

You know, in school people encouraged you to be the biggest baddest you could be, but no one ever talked about taxes, or learning how to cook healthily for yourself, or how ridiculously irritating it is to call your wireless provider, or learning how to do laundry naturally without letting it build for a month, or how essential it is to get enough fiber, and how sleep deprivation makes you ugly. Don't get me wrong, it has been a fucking blast figuring out all this shit (it has!) but afterwards, when I still have the big badass stuff to do (in clean clothes, with fiber and sleep) I'm on my way to Circus Center and wondering why all this menial shit wasn't the part they warned us was going to be the hardest to learn.

Another victory in the quest to live the life I want while still managing a clean kitchen and good credit. Is anyone else filled with pride when they see they own a sugar bowl, and it's full of sugar and no ants, and you made that happen almost without trying?

Now if you've read this far (yikes) I feel you deserve some sort of reward. So before you follow this link to my homeboy Neil Girling's site (he was the official photographer for Edwardian Weekend), I'll give you a sneak preview of what's sure to be the end of any sexual fantasies you might ever have about me........................

wait for it.....................

BAM!

Cryptic metaphor #395

2009-01-14T14:29:00.000-08:00

The lion and the unicorn were fighting for the crown-

This is not a metaphor I can clear up for the confused, but chances are if you know me well, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

the lion beat the unicorn all around the town-

and there's a fuckin reason for that. Goddamn unicorn doesn't know creepy from crazy most days. I've let her out more often in the past three days than the past four months, and already she's warranted a rescue.

And that's all I have to say about that.

This new year, already,

2009-01-13T09:43:00.001-08:00

is taking no prisoners. And by that, I mean tinkle or get off the potty. She is NOT fucking around.

Have you ever noticed that people, as much as they'll rave in fury if anyone tries to restrict their choices, will make choices that take away as much choice from them as possible? A lot of people don't want to have a choice, because choice is a big enormous responsibility and you will be held accountable. *insert big finger pointed at face*
It's the shovel all over again, only it's built in to protect not to destroy. Like a fever. Designed to protect, but incredibly inefficient and only makes you weak and stay home from work.

Goddamn I love metaphors.

So, the truth of my right now is several things fast approaching, in true tinkle-or-get-off-potty fashion.

One- Edwardian Ball, brought to you by Vau de Vire. One death by swallowing tacks, one death by...not telling, my solo is a surprise (code for not finished).

Two- Lupercalia, The Nekyia's homage to the pagan seeds that brought you Valentines day, only more fun. More luscious, more decadent, more glorious by far. And my own personal salute to:

The Man.

And a fast approaching audition which I can't discuss yet.

And working on tissu every day until I get these weird hickey-like splotches where the fabric is apparently sucking my fear of heights from my skin. Or, you know, friction or whatever.

I still haven't told you the best part. The very very best, most favorite part. It's so good I can't tell you, because my writing gets stupidly simple and girlishly juvenile. Which means of course,

he's home.

*grin*

Where I have been

2009-01-10T09:22:00.000-08:00

I suppose I should tell the story, but there's too fuckin much to tell. So here are some pictures.

What I like about going home is that makes me appreciate why I don't live there anymore, while letting me enjoy the benefits of the time I lived there well. If I had been more disciplined and less overwhelmed during my time at home, these stories would be written down properly. Now, life has thundered on, and to look at Cooper's immortal documentation of it, I already have to to to "older posts." This doesn't speak well for my time management skillz. Luckily, I can reproduce them here. Here are the best parts of going home:

Bonyards with Cooper. Like an invisible vaccine, it will allow me to live up to 365 days without boneyards with Coop (which still sucks) without becoming morbidly glum.

whoops...wrong picture...

There we go.
And, because it's so Cooper this picture took him:

Honesty.

There is too much to tell. I've consoled myself by accepting I'm going to fail at it's representation.

A long-awaited reunion:

My gorgeous wife Babs and her husband. I call this the sweet little biscuits picture.

My other wife, my beautiful Crittyface.

My people that have known me a really, really long time:

And the man that was more than enough reason for me, the Babs, and David to drive to Raliegh for new years.

John.

Oh hell. This post needs to be over. Here are some more gratuitous New Year's pics because if I don't put em up, no one will ever see them.

We love David.

Babs...I love that I know exactly what is going through your mind here.

Midnight devotional.

Me and John having a me and John moment.

And, a sexy picture of Abby.

And the things I have no pictures of. My Snark, her hands tearing open a pomegranate in her kitchen, surrounded by her wishes become truth.

Josh Miles, sitting on my dad's old porch we sat on over a decade ago. A decade! Trying to consolidate the past with the fact that this porch still exists.

Anna and Audrey, laughing for hours, at home in the oldest friendships I have.

With Coop, standing by fields and Gino's pond. Hearing my heart tear itself open, promising it that one day I'll buy the land that will mend it. Standing in the place when, one year ago, I sat with my sailor and drew out my intentions on his skin in three straight lines. Mine.

There is much to be grateful for.

Crash and Return

2008-12-18T10:19:00.000-08:00

I know the last post was cryptic, but it was honest, and I want to tell the truth. The truth is, I'm nowhere near giving up on having Shaun here, where he belongs. If the "they" in question cared about my surrender at all, I would take great pleasure in saying something to the effect of, "well done, but you have no idea who you're dealing with." I'd wear a ballgown and and a rifle to further drive the statement home.

This morning I awoke and stumbled in to make coffee, realizing to my horror that there was none. I got dressed and stumbled down the stairs, up the hill to the corner store. The guy who slept in the doorway next to mine greeted me as I passed, gathering his things together for the day.

"Morning."

"Morning," I answered. Like we were passing each other at the water cooler.

The Armenian woman who took my money for coffee answered a phone call in the middle of our transaction. I was about to put on my ballgown and say my line, but then as she handed me my change she smiled and said, "don't worry, coffee is coming." I forgave her instantly.

On the bus last week, on the way to rehearsal, a scruffy-looking man in his late 20's sat on the bus arguing with himself. He was not on drugs, but he was on the fringe of something mentally unsound. He clutched a handful of bright, yellow wildflowers that grow nowhere in the city. He was arguing about why he chose to sleep in the woods. He insisted to himself, "everyone on this bus knew their names before they were born."
It was time for my stop, I stood by the door waiting for it to open and he turned his eyes to me. They were frustrated, intelligent, and not at all unkind. "I just need to be interested. I need to learn how to talk to people, instead of at them. Or at myself."
I smiled at him and said the only remotely helpful thing I could think of as the doors opened. "Be happy."

As I left the bus, he leaned out the window, eyes bright, wildflowers shaking faintly. "Remember I love you!"

2008-12-16T13:54:00.000-08:00

Waiver denied.
I get off the phone and go through the motions, texting Ana, emailing Shaun. I say the correct things, I save copies of the information. The stink of garlic covers my hands, must be from the pomegranate in the bowl I just filled with water. The garlic must have sweat on it. I wash my hands but the stink only gets worse. I finish the email. I send it. I correspond with Ana, I thank her for her help. I go to the sink to drain the water, it has been still there for hours. Something is blocking it. The water is black-brown, I reach in and clear a formless, soft mass from the drain. Disgusting. It drains slowly, coffee grounds collecting like silt in pattern by the banks of the Mississippi. I’ve seen it. the Mississippi isn’t this filthy. This abhorrent.

It takes me a while to recognize the tension in my chest. It feels something like panic, and a lot like despair. I wonder why it doesn’t hurt, because it should. It’s trapped there, like a virus tucked away in quarantine to rage on dangerously close, but not in the system. I wish I knew how to let it out. It causes more damage being cramped blue and purple in my chest like that, my breathing is strained, nearly impossible, my heartbeats feel like work. I recognize the feverish, sick knot of tension, watching the sink clear out. Leaving the filth in patterns on the porcelain. Revulsion. I pour the bowl of water out, the filth rises again, drains quickly. I wash my hands again, the stink of garlic will not wash off.

Kristina texts me about training. I respond with the news, breaking a little. I let the flood wash into the hole in my chest. Such a tiny moment, I try to cover my face but my hands, they stink. It’s up to my wrists now. Where is it coming from? Everything is vile near me. I get a text saying sorry. Empathy. I delete it. Too apt. Just like the last time he sent me a text near Hawaii, he didn’t know if I would be able to respond. He said he was glad I would smile that day. I wondered to myself did he really believe that a text was going to make me smile? He gives me more credit than I deserve. I am not nearly as mature as he gives me credit for. I can’t accept a text message as my one piece of communication in a month and smile. It does not make me happy to get a text from him. It makes me angry, and relieved that he is well, grateful he gets to see some sunlight, and grateful to get something from him, but it will not make me smile. The stink on my hands is maddening, why won’t it wash off?

I go to the bathroom where there is vanilla soap. I wash my hands in cold water for a full minute. I dry them carefully, the cold and warm combined have made them seem to glow, pale and young, coral from the inside out where the blood beats. Lovely, and young. I am 26 years old. Wearing the moonstone ring I got when I was 18. they smell like faint vanilla, finally. I keep smelling them to make sure, there is still a vague ghost of stink under the perfume. I look at my hands with some kind of fleeting, desperate contempt. Young, lovely. Youth explodes out of every part of me. Not the stupid, rash kind either. Just old enough to stay solid, young enough to remain mocking. I wonder how much older they will be, by the time, by the time, by the time

A Weirdly Sentimental Update

2008-12-15T11:17:00.000-08:00

I began already, but it was lost. How many new years can I fit into one human life? How many eons can I ignore in one youth? Perhaps I’m afraid I’m a fraud, and the only way to prove that to myself is to try and fail. If I don’t try, I think, I can’t fail. But the truth is if I don’t try I have already failed. Failed a gift that promised to storm once in my life. Failed a passion that gave me comfort and meaning when absolutely nothing else touched me. Failed a mind that promised to be sensitive and beautiful surrounded by stone walls or grassy plains. A mind that could and would follow horses. I'm talking about writing.

I find I have to remind myself that I am more than this bag of bones and muscle. I was afraid of this, and I don’t know why. Having chosen the most difficult career I could imagine, perhaps that’s why I felt I would be absolved from writing. But the following of one dream does not a negation of the others make. “When you choose something, you do not choose something else” is an apt phrase, but it is not very encompassing. When you choose something, you take responsibility for all of your other choices both conscious and unconscious. I have chosen to let this rot in myself. Now I am choosing to stop ignoring that fact.

“I can write” is not the same as “I’m a writer.” John, as usual, points out the obvious I’ve been unable to see.

Many hours later…

After a grueling 4.5 hour rehearsal with VdV for a show on Saturday (leaving Sunday for home) I have a vague idea of a costume I need to build for the pin-up section of the show, which is followed by paper dolls, monkeys, flaming swords, and strippers. In that order. I think.

Here’s the part of Shaun on Patrol: the extended version where I get…distracted. I wander off in my mind to do depraved things in the land of Rachel Pretends Shaun is Here. During Vau de Vire rehearsal when all the acrobats are slinging flaming whips of fire and swordfighting, I had to slap myself in the face. Twice.

I obsess over a song from Twilight and fantasize that someday Borders will carry book 3 again. Don't judge me. I go blues dancing and unleash myself on strangers in small, contained increments. Since it’s under the guise of social dancing, I usually get away with it. There are exceptions who call me out, but not many. And the ones who do still dance with me. Twice.

I feel almost sick with wanting, sick of myself for being unable to process and absorb the excess, and somehow also grateful that I can’t.

Before I know it the world will be stripped of its glittery holiday dressing and I’ll wish I’d been more involved. Well, the lovely Shredder’s

(hoop artist extraordinaire, aerial and otherwise) birthday skating extravaganza is Tomorrow night, so I'll be showing up to a veritable brothel of wig-donning freaky coworkers to celebrate the fact that Shreddie exists. It is a very good thing to celebrate, trust me.

And now for something completely different:

Meet pretzel. This is what it's supposed to look like, modeled by the ineffable beloved herself:

And my sad little attempt:

You realize of course, this means war on gravity.
Or, rather, war with gravity's help. That is all.

Game On: The Shit that Didn't Storm

2008-12-08T09:33:00.000-08:00

LA is a strange place, and from my very brief time there seems to be everything you hope and fear it will be. It was surreal to be driving down Hollywood Boulevard, a street I've seen and heard depicted umpteen times in my life. The fact that it actually exists and people live there was a new experience. The first night there the ladies agreed we had to go to Hollywood for dinner, since A) it was 11:00pm and we hadn't eaten since San Francisco, and B) I had never been to Hollywood. It was the perfect excuse to do a tiny thing I wanted to do since I was a little girl; wear really red lipstick out in public without feeling like an asshole:

Honestly, I don't know why we're doing that. It's a natural inclination. Living up to expectations that we are going to offend people by taking our clothes off, perhaps.

Anyhoo, the shoot was a lot of things I wasn't expecting. The dancers were wonderfully varied and skilled, a true representation of belly dance mastery. Well, except for me, the interloper. But I'm a good faker. What's more, the bitch meter didn't go off. Everyone was professional. Cream of the crop indeed.

Favorites:

Unmata, a hard-working, aggressive hip-hop belly fusion troupe based out of Sacramento, and the hard-asses of the belly dance world (in my limited understanding of it). Powerful and coordinated choreography, excellent chicks backstage as well.

A male dancer named Steven, dubbed "the most beautiful boy in belly dance," who made a slack-jawed and instant fan out of me with his superlative skill and captivating stage presence. Wonderful. Does it sound like I'm being paid for this review? I'm not.

And of course, the glitter-tastic celeb-status Princess Farhana:

I also want to say that Elizabeth Strong, the newest BDSS member, acts nothing like a superstar. She is one of the warmest, loveliest people I met all weekend, and a damn fine dancer.

And then there was us.

Bollywood, meet belly dance, meet circus.

Freaks.

Pre-Game

2008-12-04T23:33:00.000-08:00

It has been too long to be cohesive here, and three days can see me around three extremes of states of mind, much less nearly three weeks. I've written much in my head- on buses, trains, collapsed into shivering piles of circus flesh, and other gross moments. I come home late, too exhausted sometimes even to write the Sailor, much less pound out something worth publishing online.

Whatever, excuses are boring. Days pass when I wonder if my ability to write will someday forsake me when I have so often forsaken it. But it won't. It will die as it was born; with me, under my inscrutable and tyrannous thumb. Or maybe it's the other way around.

It's probably the other way around.

Anyway, so to catch up, there was Thanksgiving, in which nothing was burned and three people cooked a 15 pound bird:

Then there was Boho Carni and Vau de Vire-ness, which the Guardian did a feature on. Apparently it's no big thing to have your name in the Guardian, but I'm from Monroe North Carolina, goddamnit, and my picture's in the fucking Guardian. That's good times to me. And luckily, the picture has enough bokeh (that was for you, Coop) that you cannot read what the medallion around my waist says. And the picture is not online, only in the flesh and blood newsprint now lining BART stations from here to Fremont. And I get to be a part of that. I am proud, and not even being sarcastic.

And only mildly tampering with anxiety. Or severely, depending on the day. Today it was severe, mostly out of an inability to create more hours from the hours allotted to me by the sun, common knowledge, and the need for sleep to perform up to my standards.

I'm going to LA tomorrow with my beloved Nekyia ladies for a belly dance video shoot on Saturday. If some of that sounds out of place, stare blankly at your screen. Yes, I studied belly dance, but my technique is quite shit. Kristina and Rebecca are both proficient, experienced belly dancers, and have come, in some ways, from the belly dance community.

Now I want to make this perfectly clear. The belly dance community bears a serious grudge against the Nekyia for the blatant use of sex appeal in our choreography, coupled with the fact that we are associated with belly dance.

I just want to clear this up...I am not a disgrace to the artform of belly dance because I do 3/4 shimmies in a copper bra.

I am a disgrace to the artform of belly dance because my 3/4 shimmies are deplorable.

In any case, perfect isolations are not my main concern. The lines of the body, the integrity of the presentation, and the strength of the performer are my concerns. So anyhoo, I've never been to LA and I'm feeling very small-town back-woods-yeehaw about it, so bring it on. Will get back to you soon about whether or not the shit did, in fact, storm.

Just until

2008-11-22T16:53:00.000-08:00

the footage is edited and uploaded for your standing judgement, here are some teaser pics from the show that was my favorite so far in my newest version of life. Scorpios, you have been given your due homage.

The rest can be found here thanks to Bethany's boyfriend, who I did not meet but who must be lovely to have come and taken so many pictures.

On second thought I can't call you Bethany, Bethany, because the Bethany name slot is already taken up in me thanks to Tuesday, who incidentally I rarely call Bethany. You will now be, for the purposes of blogdom, Panty Beth, for reasons myself and Panty Beth alone know. It is meant with the highest amount of affection. If you would prefer another nickname just let me know. If you would prefer I don't have conversations with you over a public medium that's ok too...just let me know.

Without further ado:

Thighs R Us.

I love this moment. "OMG! No way!"

Broke my arm off for this show.

Pam, the female video eye, who did a great job but looks as though she's getting a closeup of my ass here.

Good Lord

2008-11-20T09:47:00.000-08:00

I had some fucked up dreams last night. Prowlers, rapists, removable penises, and a threesome. With a removable penis.

Also, later on, the Pope was in charge of everything, and we were forced to sleep in bunkers and enact Christian practices like a play in the hopes that us "non-believers" could be converted. If we were able to convert successfully, we were allowed to rejoin civilization.

The first part was my brain chewing up my day, but from the Pope on, that had nothing to do with recent events.

Chewing up day (this is real life): prowlers and lurkers. There was discovered to be a homeless woman in a wheelchair living in the toilet in the back of our tiny laundromat a few days ago. She couldn't have been there more than 24 hours. She said that a girl let her in, and gave my description. My building's manager is sweeping out the residue that she left behind and asks me if I let her in. Now it is my horrified word against a wheelchair bum-ette (now in hospital) who could hardly speak. It appears that I have a reason to lie and she does not. Suddenly the integrity of my word is weakened by virtue of someone else's lie, who appears to have no integrity.

Let's recap. This person watched my home enough to memorize my description, then caught the door after someone half-closed it, moved themselves into a room that was not at all secretive (it's RIGHT by the front door) and blamed it on me when she was caught.

Ps. she also stole my brand-new laundry detergent. WTF MATE. What the fuck is she going to do with it? Sell it on Ebay? It is not easy for me to set aside even the $7 it takes to buy laundry soap, but it is ok for her to take it simply by the virtue of its being there.

Note that I am expected to feel sorry for this person. I am expected to want to do whatever I can to make her life better (although incidentally, I am not actually expected to take any action, only to feel terribly sorry). In what healthy, natural social system could this emotion ever genuinely take place without manipulation? Why is it a virtue to feel pity for a parasite?

Pity is only possible when you feel superior to the object in question. And yet those who expect me to feel pity expect it on the grounds that "we are all equal and the same." Check your premises. I feel painful sympathy for her because she cannot walk. That's sucks dude, and I'm sorry. But I'm not sorry enough to be ok with you moving your bunk-ass into my home and stealing my detergent.

As for the rapist part of my dream, I dreamt I came home to find a prowler that had been following me standing against the wall in my living room. While I had been very afraid of him while he was outside, the only thing I felt at seeing him in my home was sublime, exploding rage. I lunged at him and he couldn't get out of my house fast enough.

Well, I didn't expect to write a rant this morning, but I'm glad I did. Anyone who thinks I'm an asshole feel free to say so, because we're going to tell the truth here.

I just wanted to say that it's November 20th, Kristina's birthday and our big, gorgeous Nekyia extraordinaire show. Happy Thursday World. Come to SOMA tonight and get drunk on a big luscious red-velvet drenched performance.

....oh yeah, and the removable penis threesome? My Sailor's been underway a long time. Long enough for my subconscious to act out. What a slutbag.

November the 18th

2008-11-19T00:40:00.001-08:00

Has come and gone. I remember to pay attention today. I rehearsed for 9 hours on and off. I have to sleep now, almost immediately, but could not let this day pass undocumented.

Di Fortes Annuo. Tiny victories. Rebellion suits.

Rebellion.

2008-11-17T09:17:00.000-08:00

Do you know who this is?

As a literary metaphor, do you know who this is?

If you were a quixotic, book-obsessed child*, can you or can you not eff the ineffable place this character had in your hierarchy of good vs. evil? *Shar...this one's for you!

I can't, obviously, that's why I'm using a picture and a blog post to eff it for me. The movie, while an exquisite childhood memory, is not what I'm talking about, but you can't post a picture of a 400 page book. If you've read it, I hope you will understand me. If not, this post is already cryptic and will not improve.

Do you remember what she consolidated?
What she fought against, and the only thing she was vulnerable to? It was the shovel. More specifically, it was the force behind the musculature that moved it...and more than that, it was the force that allowed this to happen at all. The silencing.

On this note, I think that learning to talk is a lifelong endeavor for me. I used to be jealous of people who could do it well, until I realized they couldn't. They just used more words than me.

Does this seem scattered and inhomogeneous? Probably because I'm going through DT's. That's right. And when you give up a drug, you can use any metaphor you want to get through the first two weeks. That's not an apology.

To Tell the Truth

2008-11-15T23:05:00.000-08:00

at least about yourself, is usually a double-edged sword. A swift, clean, beautifully efficient sword. There is no purpose behind this post other than to tell the truth as it comes out, as I know it, which is through words. This is not the truth of my immediacy, but it has been my truth and probably will be again...hopefully not if I am strong enough to resist the tides.

November 9, 2008

Shovel it under. Load upon load of wet black earth. I work through the work and shovel it under, the gem, the life, the voice that keeps me what I am. I work hard, and steadfast. I never allow questions. I shovel it under. The voice is almost completely silent now. Even when I wish to hear if it were still alive, the most I can hear is the din of its silence, reminding me that I silenced it.

What am I to do? Surviving in the world, I must know. Surviving in the cosmos, I really have to know. And yet the questions can’t be asked. Yet the shovel is lighter the stronger I get. Load upon load I shovel it under. The din reminds me that where there is silence there should be shrieking. I never know how to let it out without destroying something precious, so I shovel it under. The stars, they know.

They watch everything. When I was young I saw the face of the man in the moon, but everyone said it was a smiling face, and I saw it was not. I saw a face grave with sorrow and melancholy, always watching something on earth, someone hurting their brother. Someone hurting themselves. People betraying themselves as I am doing with each lift of the shovel. Load upon load I bury the light.

Now it is almost completely dark. Now it is almost completely silent. There is no peace, because once someone has committed murder they never forget it. Never for one moment can you be unaware of this treachery you have committed, this crime against the force behind your heartbeat. It is a crime to waste it. I go outside in the afternoons and I see it wasted until I come home in the evenings and pick up my shovel. In the days I imagine things could be better. I push through the pain in my bones to stretch them further, to balance solid through the pain of gravity, to make something beautiful, something impossible from my youth.

This is the only reason I am not completely fallen. I have been fighting for something I know is good, even though the way I know it is become buried under the black weight of deny deny deny. The black, wet, moist solidity of avoidance.

I am very careful. I make sure that when you see it from the outside I look as I always have, fighting in the fields for the crops to grow, when in fact I am only burying them. Load upon load I shovel it under.

I know better. Every fiber of my body and mind tells me I know better. My body screams out in a rage and makes me feverish and tired. But I am very careful. I give it what it needs, and so I coax it into silence again.

It wouldn’t be the first time. The grand old duchess in her maiden gowns, the homeless people that disgust me on the streets, the piles of vomit that fill me with hatred, they are all because of the shovel. How can I take part in such beastliness?

Easy. It is designed to be easy. It is designed to be nearly undetectable.

...............
Have you ever wondered why, if the Gods that create us wish for us to be sentient, awake, worthy vessels of creative force, is it so difficult to remain so, and so easy to half-sleep? It wouldn't be worthy if it weren't hard enough to hurt sometimes. It means you really, really have to want it. Everything is by design. So what becomes of us when we wake up to find a shovel in our hands?

Rebel.

Oneday.

2008-11-10T09:51:00.000-08:00

It's morning time and I have to make an extra pot of coffee to satiate myself, my cousin, and the traveling Norwegian who is draping himself over our apartment for a few days. We met two years ago in Sveden, dismissed each other, then grew a friendship through long and wonderful letters. The object of the day yesterday (for me) was to clear up the difference between V and W in pronunciation.

I go to knock on the building manager's door to get her to open the laundromat for my Scandinavian friend. She doesn't answer, but I linger around the door just long enough to hear the unmistakable sounds of her cat puking near the threshold. I accept this as true defeat and go back upstairs.

It is time for productivity, I stayed in yesterday to nurse my ill health. I suspect it has been brought on by victorious backbends at Circus school, which opened up the lymph nodes in my hips and they have remained swollen ever since. Circus teaches you all kinds of weird shit about your body. Tonight I shall drag my lanky, wintery companion to circus cardio with me so I can die in company.

Pictures to follow shortly.

Harlot

2008-11-02T10:31:00.001-08:00

Vau de Vire Halloween gig- left to right: Maria, who looks put-together even after sweating for four hours, powerhouse T, creepy dead me, and the beloved ineffable Kristina.

Usually, when performing you're recognized as a performer by your dress. Not so on Halloween. Try and make a grand entrance by virtue of being dressed all weird and you'll be met with a room stuffed full of Pirates, Nurses, Sexy Bugs, Sexy Fairies, and Sexy Construction workers. They really make you work for it.

Good times. Beautiful venue, Harlot, and Mr. Gaines had built a small stage for us on top of the coat check.

Got mildly groped by Jesus. Punched him in the back. That is all.

The Show

2008-10-26T11:52:00.000-07:00

Actually, before I get to the show, something I've always wanted to catalog:

I am always amazed at how much my face changes in stage makeup. Lizzie, if she's not expecting it, always makes some exclamation of surprise and I expect, horror, when I turn the corner show-ready.

Exhibit A: observe in my natural habitat...

Exhibit B: with the addition of 10 lbs of makeup, fake eyelashes, and acrylic hair...

The webcam doesn't do it justice. From up close, it's quite scary.

Now that I'm done documenting myself, the show was wonderful. For once, the audience was expecting what we do and so didn't sit like groups of woodland creatures in the proverbial headlight. The old men smiled looking very debonair, and the ladies danced in their chairs looking proud of their cleavage. The younger versions made noises and commentary which is always amusing when they think we can't hear them. Clearly, we could, as the stage is in the middle of the tables, which removed the pretense and made everything feel so very honest.

I'd post pics of this laudable venue but they're really tight about outside photographs leaking. Jennings and Xiaohong from Circus Center did an incredible doubles hand balancing act. Mel. You would have died and gone to muscular heaven. Danielle did a single-point trapeze that made me all weepy. And I had to tear up a picture of Bush to the song "Mr. Bush." I felt sorry for the guy but did it anyway. It makes me wonder where that line is for me, between doing what the director wants and doing what I want. So far, I haven't reached it. I even sold out my no pasties law the other week because not doing so would have resulted in not having a gig. Which is the opposite of what I want.

I got a couple surprise emails from my sailor when I got home last night. It's only been about a week and a half since I haven't heard from him but it's like a shot of intravenous calm. With that note of glory, happy Sunday.

Red Velvet Curtains

2008-10-25T15:07:00.000-07:00

Red velvet curtains are, to me, a symbol of the sublime. They are what I am always reaching for, and the steps I take are going towards that image. The smooth hardwood floor of a stage beaten splinterless by the sweep of endless feet and the trains of costumes. And then there they are, framing the apex of the building, glowing ruby curtains that pile up on the floor. Excess of passion and purpose perfectly combined in a single image. Tonight the Nekyia is opening for Teatro Zinzanni's Cabaret Lunatique, and it's the closest I've ever come to that image. Walking into that tented-in venue is like coming home to Mecca, if Mecca were expertly tailored to my every taste. Even empty and upside down waiting for the night's audience, the glasses have the look of being filled with stars. Everything is so beautiful and so perfectly suited to its purpose that I feel stupidly cliche in my adoration of it, but don't stop anyway.

Teatro Zinzanni is a dinner/circus theater venue, and manages to be intimate and grand at the same time. Dinner theater sounds amazing to me right now. Hook me up with some weekly dinner theater. I'll perform to the smells of the night's menu and be thrilled about it. Of course this may change in time, hopefully after I've done it for a while. Once upon a time I thought performing in nightclubs was a great idea. I'm thinking dinner theater residency is the next brilliant step towards the red velvet curtains. When you lay your eyes on something you've wanted secretly, openly, shamefully for years, you know it. Everything in you seizes on it. You are immediately filled with the desire to tear anything to pieces that comes between you and the thing, and twinges of doubt in whether or not you're ready/deserving of it, which normally fall uselessly to the floor. I have felt this way only a few times; like seeing someone from a distance in an Alexandria airport, or the first time I saw a clip of Cirque du Soleil tissu.

This feeling has been a foundation of the human experience for me. If it doesn't appear in the right circumstances, it will appear in the wrong ones. A real desire (not whim or fancy) doesn't go away if you ignore it. And if you swallow it and do nothing, eventually you will see someone else doing it, and it rises up and this time it tastes exactly like bile. Bitter, and shameful, and you hope no one can smell it on you and you especially hope you can forget it ever happened. Personally, I think that desire (real desire) is our evolutionary built-in tracking device for satisfaction. Chase the dragon til you fall and cut yourself on a diamond, ignore it at your own peril.

Jus painting a picture.

2008-10-20T21:16:00.000-07:00

Arno, Firenze. October 2006

Sonday

2008-10-19T22:46:00.001-07:00

Why has no one responded to my plea for Asheville pics? I know at least three of you's live there, and I know at least one of you's is camera happy! Gimme some dead leaves!

Friday I went out. I went to the jazz bistro I like and ordered a French wine in honor of John, even though it ended up sucking. Should have gotten specifics. Ended up having dinner with an older French gentleman which did not suck. I was not expecting to be bought dinner when I left my house. It was a perfect moment between strangers.

We went to a piano bar afterwards which is where, I'm convinced, Billy Joel got the inspiration for Piano Man. The pianist screamed out "where are ya'll from?" and I got so shy I hid behind the French dude. What the fuck? Being called out in class is still one of my least favorite memories of life. But we saw a tiny, ancient woman bust a move and four Spanish guys chat up the 50-something cougars to Viva Espana.

Saturday I went looking for the Violin God on Embarcadero. No luck yet. Then off to the Castro to help my wonderful uncle prepare a badass resume. Followed promptly by coming home and fucking off to DVD's for six hours.

Maybe if I make more time to be by myself, I wouldn't feel the need to do it all at once one day a week. Still, it was fun. Just realized I should probably clear up the fact that "fucking off" is not synonymous with masturbation. Even I can't take six hours of hitachi.

Today I helped the lovely Kristina paint her living room purple. I like painting! Especially when the color gets on the walls after all that preparation, and you realize it's going to be the kind of room you always like walking into. And it really is.

I try to make our house that way, but it doesn't always work. We both (Luna and me) have the most beautiful of intentions, but this place has hardly seen a week's worth of always liking to walk into it. Don't get me wrong I'm always happy to be home, it's just a lot harder to get it the way I want it than I thought it would be. And of course I want it my way, because my way has a proven track record of being good. Yes, I'm being obnoxious on purpose.

So much more to tell but as usual I'm tired and still have miles to go before...
you get the idea.

The Strength of the Imperative

2008-10-14T11:11:00.000-07:00

Last night I dreamed of pearls, so...

There was a man who had been my friend but I knew he had been corrupted. He was walking away from me for the last time. I stopped him and said, "Give me back my pearls." He reached in his pocket and produced a pair of white pearl studs and handed them to me. He started to walk away again.

"All of them."

I held out my hands and he heaped strand upon strand of white pearls in my hands, followed by an enormous amount of black pearls. So many I couldn't hold them all, some fell to the ground and sprouted into plants. I woke up happy and knew I wanted to wear this today.

It is, fittingly, a gift from my sailor; he is on patrol as of a day or two ago. Now it's unreliable emails and the rare letter for the next while. No I can't say how long. But it's a long time- although not nearly as long as Bethany has to endure. Not even close. No, I'm not upset. I'll miss him til my bones ache but I know what's worth waiting for.

Raoul says,

2008-10-10T08:27:00.000-07:00

I hope that YOU have a BEAUTIFUL day.

Home again, home again,

2008-10-07T09:55:00.000-07:00

jiggedy jig.

I fly back in the dark of not-even-morning to another universe. One in which I am the goal and the drive solely, where work equals happiness and I sleep alone. The one I leave behind I don't dwell on here; the one wherein the smell of his sweat is a fog drug that inhibits me of all but three motives: ensure his survival. ensure my survival. ensure that all things that remove him from my immediacy are obliterated. You can see why dwelling on that from this distance would be maddening.

There's was woods and rain, altogether that makes three luxuries that exist in my blood but are not often had, the combination of which felt like homecoming on a grand scale. We did get mildly lost in the woods, after sunset when all the light was leaking away rapidly. We got out before the Blair Witch references got too bad in my head. I am not allergic to Washington.

Not much time now before Nekyia rehearsal in Berkeley- the extended version. Somehow the will to think and act and move with great intention will surface (I know it will) and endure for the length of the day. Afterwards, I predict massive roadkill stage back home in my chair, which means Friends (probably) and sleep (eventually) and more internet (definitely). Mornin.

Greed and Bitterness and Circus

2008-10-03T09:57:00.000-07:00

From a couple posts ago:

"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."

We just had a conversation about this, did we not? I think in my example I used cake, and the person being offered the last piece accepted while pretending not to know that the offer-er didn't really want to share.

Hmmm... My example reeks of greed and could lead to bitterness. I think it's been infected by the capitalisms.

I want to take this one step farther. There is one piece of cake left, and I really want it. I ask Luna if she wants half. She says no and I eat it. I said that was love, but it's mostly a transaction. Since I offer it to her out of love rather than a sense of politeness/duty, I ask without regret. If she had said yes, I want half, I would have given it to her gladly, because I meant it when I asked even though I wanted it all. The example of love here isn't that I offer to share my cake with her or that she let me have it, but that she gave me an honest answer, even if that answer were to be "hell yes bitch, I want that cake."

Yesterday was wet here, it was mostly fog but the fog here is strange, like the Nothing from The Neverending Story. It acts like rain. It was wonderful. I worked until 5 then went to the Circus Center to train. The way I feel about training changes every day. Yesterday I didn't want to go to the Circus Center, just because I get tired of going to one location every day. Some days I hate the Circus Center just because I can find it in the same place each time I go. But I go. I'm learning to stand back and watch the parade of my volatile emotions clamor on without getting swept away in them, because what matters is the training. So I trained. The threatening tide of hatred, exhaustion, resentment all cleared; and the blood woke up and my muscles cooperated.

Kristina and I were talking about training and seem to be dealing with the same issue, which is that we just want it so goddamned much. K's a contortionist, it's imperative that she relax in a posture to avoid injury and let her body memorize itself. When you want something so much, and so much depends upon it, it is hard to relax especially when you're sitting on your own head or dangling 35' by a piece of fabric. I suppose my biggest obstacle is also my biggest asset, which is how fucking much I need to do this.

Yesterday I was attempting a trick on the tissu. I did it four times unsuccessfully. The unsuccessful part came when it was time to let go with my hands and NOT swing all the way around but to end upside down. I swung around every time. Hey, I've cried in the gym before, but I didn't fucking want to stop my class to go cry. So we did backbends until it was time to scurry home and watch the VP debates.

The saxophone player I like was out by Union Square. He only knows three songs (Somewhere Over the Rainbow, Auld Lang Syne, and The Beatles' And I Love Her) but he plays them so passionately it never gets old. He only knows the basic, simple notes of each song but throws everything he's got into it. He performs like he's at Carnegie Hall. Always with his jacket not removed, but thrown off his shoulders, and an ill-concieved little floppy hat that looks as though it should not be floppy at all. And white trousers.

I'm leaving for Seattle tomorrow to see the King of the Scorpios. Purr.

Comfort Food

2008-09-30T09:45:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-09-29T21:30:00.000-07:00

...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.