ladyparts

Lessons in Survival

Packing makes me think about all the places I have lived. About my mother in 1992. Packing up our house alone, tucked in those cobblestone streets. Three small children needing, my father finishing his dissertation; her hands puffed up—turned black and blue.

Sitting in my room before college, Molly gave me a blanket like the one I loved to sleep with at her house. I’ve never used it. I’m getting better at not deeming the sacred unusable. But, it’s a problem.

M and I went through all our boxes that were put on hold—the archives. They are mostly books and things that remind us that we used to make art. We married it all, even our portfolios. I found all my Joni Albums. They never made it onto my computer. We listen to them all.

It made me think of LMU, the song book they gave me, a monument to our time together—or taking showers our first semester in Azusa Gardens. Playing Song to a Seagull and getting dressed in that massive closet. All the mornings Vicki and I would get up and go to the APU “gym.” Alisha already on the treadmill somehow.

I do belive in doorways. There are seasons, phases of the moon, planets. We are provided with doorways and rooms to enter. There are many things that are left undone.

Or. Perhaps it is not that things are undone, but rather, there are times we must except that space has Given You It’s Best—

Do you dare to ask for more?

In west LA, we’re blooming lilacs

When I was in sixth grade I used to play a game with time. I spent nearly every waking hour with my best friend Danielle. And if it was her parents’ turn to drive, I endured those torturous I-don’t-have-to-be-bored-at-home-without-my-best-friend-but-I-still-am minutes by tracing the route from her house to mine in my mind. There were no cell phones back then. The few times that I nailed it, the doorbell ringing in perfect synchronicity with the one in my head, what a thrill.

There is an intimacy in the maps we make. It is kindof like touching the face of someone you love while they are heavy in sleep. You share nothing. It is your secret. A secret that makes you a better person.

I love to retrace my old route to and from work. I think about the progression of feeling exuding from each part of the streets. The crossing guards at the three elementary schools. The change of speed getting onto Santa Monica. Each hill. Each change in the sky and my lungs. Each choice.

I couldn’t sleep at all. I just kept thinking about our apartment, an island—a relic of the Ice Age still and soft beneath its roots.

The ringing phone, an ocean

“Though the seas threaten, they are merciful,” says Ferdinand, ”I have cursed them without cause.” *

Insomnia. Sometimes I have it. I used to have it more. 

The point is that not having it has kept me from something maybe you are able to do without it: sort. arrange. decode. unearth. etc. 

It is easy to forget how to separate fear and love, like Ferdinand. It is easy to remember. It is another to sort. 

The wells inside you, glisten.

There are many seas, but there is also the scent of jasmine. There are many seas, but there are also many secrets. I wake, I wander, I hold a place in my hand to get through the day.

When all else fails us…

We turn to words, corralling.

// few

Now is the time for gravity.

the weight of space (glowing.)

Time

rolling it’s long and slender tongue;

Watch it.

.

It must have been the smells of dinners

mile after  mile

one after another

cushioning all-the-anger-that-could-have-been.

.

The impossible smallness

—enormity—

of office gestures,

pointing to boards

.

we witness.

Awkward convos

This morning on my way to work I was stopped at a light (Santa Monica and Westwood) with another cyclist and the following exchange ensued:

- Nice that it’s warming up again.

Not hearing the first part of this sentence correctly, I gravely replied:

- Yeah.

Then it hit me… He was beaming.

- Wait, you’re happy about it?

- Yes,  I’m happy.

And then the light turned green.

It was weird.

When the Santa Ana winds come the smog hangs in the air and every breath burns and tastes like hell. There are no cool spills of clean(er) air pouring forth on the stretch near the golf course. There is only thick exhaust. HOW CAN HE BE SMILING?! WE ARE SUFFOCATING.

I keep thinking about recycling clay and the process of pouring the dry clay and sand into the soopy mass inside the mixer. My insides hardening, lungs heavy with matter… Also, the heavy cakes of black that cover all of the surfaces in our apartment minutes after we clean them. Not cool.

How much can our fragile skin really protect us from? I shudder to think of it.

Which brings me to my next point! My new favorite phrase: “refried asshat.” (As in: “I watched a clip of myself reading copy for an ad this morning and I looked like a refried asshat.”)

How’s your Friday?

Blame it on those Ad Men

There is something that we need to talk about. Let’s start by reading this excerpt from Riana:

Throughout human history, children have spent the majority of their lives with both parents every single day. This continued up through the transition to agriculture and really ended only in the modern era. Though it is an ecologically and environmentally sound form of family life and that it, ultimately, leads to greater psychological happiness. 

And actually washing dishes is fun. We don’t have to be prosperous and find excitement from each task that we do, but it’s not hard labor and I enjoy my full days at home. I’m very lucky that i can be at home all day to play with amaya and let her learn from me: cooking, sewing, washing, cleaning, reading, gardening, fixing, writing, drawing, crafting. woman’s work? perhaps. but i think its better than lining the pockets of someone else, working for basically nothing (for what end or purpose), probably harming the earth more (we have 30 less environment impact by me not working). this work i do at home benefits us, not some unknown corp exec and doesnt pollute the earth.

We have made the choice to live off of one salary (and my husband works only four days a week) and that means that we will always be poor. one car, less “stuff”, nothing new for years, but much more happier. that means we get to see and be part of her milestones, hear each new word uttered and each new task mastered. 

She learns how to live, truly live: forage and hunt for food and prepare it from scratch, reuse and reclaim and collect water, build a shelter and this means happiness and avoiding misery. Learning to be clean is part of being human. Chores, scrubbing the toilets, washing clothes is not drudgery, but something to be enjoyed, part of cleaning up after ourselves. it leads to satisfaction and being good stewards of our earth.

It seems that many of us kids in our 20’s and 30’s are desperately trying to hone in on the perfect expression of gratitude to the many lives that have been sacrificed for our right to self, a face—occupation. Let’s all take a minute to remember that what we do is a vehicle for who we are. We are fighting for honor and respect and opportunity. Is there a more honorable, respectable, and free person than the artisan? In my heart I do not believe so.

The day I found out that my job would be coming to an end after our project closes out I was walking home in the rain. I contemplated how to deal with these next few months—do I disengage myself from all of my work or do I continue to throw myself into it? Then it came to me: WHERE ALL YOUR STARS OUT? WHERE YOU BUSY WRITING YOUR HEART OUT? Dear god, let us see that we are our own child. We are teaching ourself to live. Be an artisan of whatever you want. People have died for you to do so. They didn’t die for you to fill someone else’s pockets. Be a peasant. Use your parts to heal the world. 

An equivalent of the D.A. is forming. Young people are leaving (or being asked to leave ;)) their corporate jobs and demanding better ways to live. Pretty awesome. 

More on this later. Tater. ox.

WHY?!=EMx+b

You know when you’re having one of those days when the internet is serving you up delicious content by the postful? I mean, you are really in the thick of it—reading all your feeds, giggling or maybe crying. And then it happens… Your internet goes out.

NOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!

You panic.
You keep hitting refresh.
You ask your roommate/co-worker/neighbor/pet/self if they are “getting the internet.”
You try and stay calm.
(It’s not working.)
You are starting to sweat.

And it’s not like this has never happened before, in fact, it happens more often that you’d care to admit. BUT STILL! … and then you feel like a jerk for caring so much about a thing like having or not having an internet connection right now.

At this point you have a few choices. You can do one or all of the following: a) sit there and wait for it to come back b) go unplug the modem to see if you can get it to restart c) get on the phone with your provider and get them to fix it or d) do something else for a while.

The most important thing is to remember is that it’s not the internet itself that is creating the absence. It is what you were reading/viewing on the internet that is causing that terrible ache. You haven’t really lost anything.

YOU CAN DO WHATEVER YOU WANT.

You could go for a walk. You could read a really great book. You could go to the library.  You could have an adventure. You could draw a map. You could bake a cake. You could teach yourself how to do something cool. Or you could even do a cartwheel.

The internet was one of the many tools you use to achieve the same goal: happiness. Maybe you could pick up a new tool for a little while.

And the best part is, even if you do something else for a while it doesn’t mean that you can’t come back to the internet later. In fact, you might even have more fun and be better at using the internet then you were before the whole “losing the Internet (again)” fiasco.

Well… getting laid off is kindof like that.

A birthday in 5 acts

Act I

Wake up. Stretch. Get dressed. Make breakfasts. Read feeds. Cry (see previous). Swell with love (see previous). Head out. Treat myself to some catch-up reading in my severely neglected New Yorkers instead of the ride. 

Act II

Arrive at work. Receive a million beautiful soaps and delicious scones from my tender boss. 

Sip coffee and munch with my peeps. Confess uselessness and the hours pass happily. Receive condom by tactful colleague. Celebrate! Peeps reminisce about where they were at 23… 

(Roger is the CEO whose Birthday was the 11th. Awesome.)

Act III

Rode home.

Felt the fat moon. 

Act IV

Arrive home to my lova and beautiful birthday decorations and gifts! 

A little bit of this:

(Okay, a lot).

Make dinner. Toast to happiness. Chat with with fam. Go on the roof to look at the moon some more. 

Matthew did this:

And Margot did this: 

Figures.

Act V

Went for a long walk with my favorite. 

BEST (birth) DAY EVER!

Shawty rock to the beat fo yo boy

Who can argue with that?

If you need a good kick in the pants, take a look at some of the badass urban homesteading projects that Michelle is doing out in Florida. You will be inspired. And you will receive instructions on how to do it yourself. 

Oh yeah, and here’s a little something by yours truly that you should go visit just to watch the videos.  

ox, 

L

Vortex

YOU GUYS!
My self-adhesive sweat saved my life!

I was just riding down Santa Monica Blvd. on my way to work as usual, passed the 405 but her before Bundy, and stopped at a light. (The right lane varies in width throughout this stretch, sometimes the shoulder is real nice and big or you get lucky with some parked cars in the lane—minimizing the song and dance of trying to make yourself as obvious as possible to the other cars. This area had a smaller shoulder.)

So I was keeping an eye on the car in front of me, giving it some breathing room at the light in case it was going to turn. The light turns green, there is a cyclist taking up the lane in front of it, so even though I am going slow, I start to move beside the large SUV. With no turn signal on, I assumed I could pass it on the shoulder.

Well, right as I am passing the right rear tire the car begins to turn and I try to stop and let it pass but the car was too close. I start turning with the car and my arm gets stuck to the side of the car and it begins to cart me up the road. I scream (and I am not a screamer). These two guys get the drivers attention. He stops. I am able to stay on the bike and ride forward without losing balance, get off the bike, and walk back to the road.
I talked to the driver. But I was shaking and pretty spooked.

On Friday Matthew just missed getting in an accident. The car next to him was hit and the windows shattered and he was able to get out of the way because it was in an intersection. There was glass everywhere. He stopped for a sec, but then went to his appt. at the DMV.
We just found out that one of his old co-workers was killed in a car accident.

Riding bikes on the west side of LA makes you want to ride on the sidewalk (i.e. break the law and lose your dignity).

There is no sharing the road in these parts. I wish the bike lane extended past the 405… I mostly wish that I could just ride my bike and not be scared anymore. There are so many close calls everyday…

I want things to move slower.
I want to enjoy the ride every time. Not just when I get lucky and the air is less thick and cars are a bit nicer.
I know that there are no babies allowed.
But sometimes I wonder what it’s like not to feel like a little bitch every time you want a break.

There are no breaks in Los Angeles. On your down time* you get hit by a car. WTF. And on your Old Man’s birthday. It ain’t right.

*commuting