Risk

It was in May of 1999-the summer my nephew Myles was born. The previous two years had been a whirlwind of trying to finish my degree through a teaching practicum, becoming a teacher’s aide and then rapidly filling in as a Science and English teacher, because the regular teacher was on maternity leave. It was the hardest job I’ve ever had. I was working with kids with a host of problems that played themselves out emotionally and behaviorally. Most mornings, I would come into school at 7am for a faculty meeting and I’d be walking into a war zone (insert your “Dangerous Minds” jokes here) there would already be fights, conflicts, insults being hurled at staff and if I happened to be in the way I would also get “fuck you, you fucking bitch”. There were knives, guns, suicides, gangs, etc.

I took my job very seriously. It was hard to know what behaviors to confront and what behaviors to “let slide”. Many of the staff had different approaches to that. Some were more lax, while others were very disciplined. It was often confusing to know how to approach each situation and for the most part I felt like I was learning as I went. For instance, we know kids were going to smoke, so we designated an area for them to do so. The amount of damage control and energy to forbid smoking was not worth it. I guess in those scenarios, you better know how to pick your battles. I didn’t always know how to do that.

I had one student in particular that I seemed to connect with on a very deep level. He would often disassociate in class or fall asleep on his desk. As a teacher’s aide, I would bring him out of class and we would walk around the school yard, several times and would try and help him “get grounded”. Sometimes we would talk, but mostly we would just walk and I taught him diaphragmatic breathing.

I remember how his behaviors were vexing and annoying to many. It was truthfully hard to know what was going through his head. He would do things impulsively or stare off into space or pull the fire alarm seemingly unknowing of what he was doing, but there was no mistaking how smart this kid was and how big is heart was. I tutored him after school in Geography. Did I have an experience teaching Geography? NO. But this kid was so into “earthquakes, compression, wind, erosion, etc” and I figured that was the hook. Maybe he was hoping some natural disaster would come and take all the pain away and save him. I don’t know. All I know it was during that time that I began to realize how deeply rooted his trauma was and how courageous and resilient this child was. I also started to have nightmares about the abuse he had endured. It’s sort of hard to write this because the care-taker in me starts to wonder where he is right now and if he’s okay. I’m guessing that he is. I’m guessing he’d be about, well, 24 years old now or around there.

Ironically, this journal assignment is about a risk I took that required a lot of courage and I intended to write about my cross-country trip, but all these events had lead up to that, so I had to preface what I was experiencing prior to this. I was a young teacher. Too young, I believe. Looking back, I had loans to pay and what else does one do with a B.A. in English, except I wasn’t living on Avenue Q, I was living with my grandmother and there was a whole bunch of family stuff going on that I don’t need to get into.

A friend of the person I was dating at the time (I’m leaving out names for the sake of anonymity here), was rebuilding a T1 1967 Volkswagen Bus. That was the last year they made them with the split windshields referred to as the “Microbus” or the “Splittie”. I called it the “Winged Warrior”.

I knew nothing about VW buses at the time. All I heard was “we’ll be camping every night”. Camping…what…the? ME? A sense of terror came over me. I’d never, in all my years, camped. EVER. I grew up in a very suburban area, but my parents were city folk. We used to go places, but two things we never did was ski or camp. I attempted skiing one time on a hill in our back yard with some old-fashioned skis and let’s just say it ended up in an involuntary split and a fit of frustration. Would I survive the wild, blue yonder? Would I find gold? I have to admit there’s always was and always will be something majestic and spirited about “Going West” like the Liz Phair song off Whip-Smart.

But would a polar bear kill me? Would I be attacked my wild wolves in the night? I remember hesitation, but I also remember the time to say “yay” or “nay’ was running out. There was a 5 person limit, it wouldn’t cost much because “camping is cheap”, but I would need to pitch in for gas and obviously pay for food.


I have to preface this by saying, I kind of am and always will be, a “comfort junkie.” I mean, it was worse then than it is now. I’ve been through some very uncomfortable things, but I mean, physically, the thought of braving the elements, bugs, strange towns, etc. Just get me to the nearest Best Western with room service please, if you know what I mean. The prospect of sleeping in a tent on the ground for over a month, scared the shit out of me. But call it what you will, unrelenting curiosity, stubbornness, my Taurus nature, I was damn well going on that trip. The deal was sealed when I saw the map route my mechanic-wizard friend had laid out. I mean, when in my life was I ever going to get to traverse 33 states in 30 days on roughly $700 bucks? “Never,“ I thought. This must be done. I also remember I had an exit strategy if I got too anxious and had to come home. I remember my Mom saying something like “you can fly home if you don’t like it”. I guess that option never occurred to me. I suppose I should thank my Mom and anyone else who said that to me, because if I hadn’t realized there was an option to come home, I might have never left.

My brother’s second son Myles was born on June 13, 1999. I remember battling with our principal/boss over leaving school a few days earlier than the term was ending. I had absences in my reserve. Looking back, he was just a lost man on a sinking ship, looking but I remember thinking “okay, well, just fire me then.”

I had made up my mind. And one thing I know about me, good or bad, is that when I make up my mind to do something, I’m going to do it even if it kills me and though I may fall down and cry or bitch and moan for a little bit, I eventually get back up. Eventually. But always.

So off we went. I didn’t know what a compression sac was, but I was told to buy one and stuff my sleeping back in it as tightly as possible because we had to store 5 peoples belongings in one cabinet seat. So I packed light, got a water canteen, traveler’s checks (which ended up being kind of unnecessary, but I read it was a good idea in case you lose your ATM), waterproof matches, flashlight, camera, etc.

I even bought a tent and I had no idea what to do with it. I practiced in my yard with a cheap A-frame from Building 19. Then I bought the Coleman, 3-sleeper. This was getting serious.

I don’t think I slept the night before. In fact, I‘m almost certain I didn‘t, because the first leg of the trip I was wanting so badly to go home and I was extremely overtired in New York and Ohio. But I remember this feeling of complete and utter freedom pulling out of my friend’s dirt driveway in New Hampshire. “How brazen is this”? I thought” as we all looked at each other in unsure excitement. Who does this? Who ups and leaves for over a month to go explore the country. How irresponsible? How AWESOME!? I had read Kerouac and I knew Amelia Earhart was the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic, so I could do this, right? I wasn’t alone. These friends would help me through, right? But would I fall apart? Would I make it? As we drove down that dirt road at dusk on that early New Hampshire morning, I felt something electric and scary and beautiful pulsate through me.

The next month was a journey of trial and error and trial and error and beauty that unsurpassed anything I have ever seen in all my life. Each day was a new landscape. We were usually on the road by 5am or so. My poor friend always had to wake me up (not much of a morning person. Still not), but as soon as we’d get going, I felt it again, staring out the windows of the bus as we whirred through miles of cornfields, listening to Joni Mitchell or Jim Croce, journaling, taking pictures---I felt it. The coyotes and buffalos of Yellowstone, the stratum of rock in the Badlands, muskrats in Utah, the little boy I met at the farmer’s market in Iowa who hugged me and brought me to tears, running into the pacific ocean for the first time in my life, a real Ghost-town in Montana, impromptu jam sessions in Ten Sleeps, WY, outside an old saloon--tumbleweed blowing across the main road, raccoons stealing our ice in Indiana as we laughed hysterically to the sound of them chomping on it, swimming naked in a man-made reservoir in Kansas, the magnificent Redwoods, the sound of my heart beating out of my chest in North Fork, California when I could hear and see wild animals right outside our tent and the long journey of a large animal dragging a metal object from what seemed like miles, as its shadow cast its shadow on my tent.



Those were tough times. Arriving at a new campsite and reading the announcements with pictures of recently-spotted bears, so many, that we had to lock anything with a scent, even cosmetics, in a large metal vault. Those were the nights I had to face my own fears, often not sleeping, but up and off for another 10 hours of driving the next day. To be fair, my mechanic friend did all of the driving and a lot of the other totally necessary things I would come to appreciate, but not at first. If it weren’t for the support and tough-love of him and my friends, I wouldn’t have made it. I finished several books and filled a journal. I took 9 or 10 rolls of film. One of my books was “She’s Come Undone” by Wally Lamb. I finished it in a bathroom in Montana and bawled my eyes out. I passed it around. We were passing everything around, food, books, music. Somehow everyone had a turn some Marquis de Sade and we joked for several days about “buggering”.

The most memorable day was on the last leg before we turned around and came home. The pristine Glaciers in Glacier Park and the sound of the VW’s bus as it inched up the mountain like an old dog made my heart swell. I felt my Pepere’s presence for the first time in over ten years as I wept tears of joy and how magnificent this natural place, was untouched by anything or anyone, I wished he could have been there to see it, but he was there. It was undeniable. I wished also, that my students could have seen something so breath-taking. Some of those kids had never even been to the ocean. I felt incredibly blessed…..

(to be continued)

35 year old aspiring actress?

For the record, I am NOT 35 years old. YET. And many times people think I'm much younger than I am so I'm eating it up while I can. It's way too many people to be a mass conspiracy...I think.

So yea, for the most part of my adult life, I've had all the talent, but little passion for many career paths that lead me no where. "Special Needs" teacher at a 766 school where I was greeted on the daily with "you're a fucking bitch", had chairs and desks thrown at me, hyperventilated, etc. Fun stuff.

Then I got into IT during the boom. I'm not sure what it is now, but I'm still in it, but not in the way I was before. Backend, baby. The Indians and Romanians took the Front, plus CMS.

Anyhoot, back to acting. I'm 30ish. That's all you're getting for now. I JUST FOUND out I really love acting. Especially, acting with singing involved. I've always been involved with music,studies jazz,punk/indie/soul bands but my affinity for films/plays and borders on annoying (any of my friends would testify to that).

For the record, I was the sardonic English major who laughed at all the theater students at in the I.C. dining hall singing show tunes. Well, guess what? I'm ONE OF THEM NOW.

And I'm a stubborn person by nature. I mean, I'm also can be incredibly stubborn at procrastination, as well. But not with the acting; I did some in high school and last January, I just sort of picked up where I left off.

Well, I make it sound easy. It hasn't been easy. I've had to shove past every inner/outer demon there is. It's a tough industry, no matter how you slice it. There is always someone who can sing 5 octaves above you, has more experience, the "right look", knows the right person, etc. but I really don't care. I just show up. It's ...like that quote.."showing up is half the battle"? Okay, I'm overtired and mixing Woody Allen quotes with G.I. Joe, but you catch my drift.

So still looking young has it advantages and disadvantages, as Lisa Morris warned me. It's harder to get roles like "Mrs. Potts" or "Mrs. Lovett". Not to mention, Boston is over saturated with the most insane, classically-trained talent who "just do theater for fun". But again, it does not matter. I went on two auditions in one week. I didn't even have my 16 bars down when I got to the first one, but I pulled it together and I got cast. Not even a call back. "You're in the show" type deal.

So it's exciting and amazing and hard and requires a ton of discipline and I love it. Most of my cast mates studied performance and are now music teachers, and my organ lessons must have paid off b/c my sight reading is pretty damn good and getting better. Props to my big bro for help with that.

I guess the point is that I'm doing it. In spite of myself. In spite of the business center being out of printer ink when I went to print out resumes. It's still happening. I was also an extra in a feature film this summer. And I was involved with MCCTC Summer theater program.

I have no idea where this road will lead me and I often have surreal moments when I see old college friends on their 3rd or 4th kid, but for now, it's not my path and the fact that I know that, without a doubt, is probably why I feel so at ease with it.

So here I go into a passion for something I thought had very little talent for, but I'm hearing otherwise and seeing otherwise in MYSELF, which is a beautiful thing.

Have a great weekend.

Cape Cod's Revenge

I recently took a vacation to the lovely, overpriced and often under-estimated tip of Massachusetts that is Cape Cod. Or as us regional types like to call it "The Cape." I have some vague memories of visiting the Cape as a little girl, (my dad in his yellow,70's swimming trunks that she still has!) As an adult, however, this was my fourth time down there. And was it ever!

If this were seven years ago, I would be recanting the tale of me, my friends Larry and Heather, holding fort in the tiniest hotel room in the world in Wellfleet, when I foolishly misinterpreted "two, twin beds" over the phone to be "two, large beds." They were not LARGE. They were little, kid beds and I ended up on the floor, which was fine, for a little while. I bitched about it seven years ago, but it actually was one of the most memorable experiences of my life. Those and the NYC trips, even with all the little glitches: TIME OF MY LIFE. Anyway, here are some photos from that time:





p.s. Jimmy James really is one of the only real reasons to ever see drag, especially in P-town. Check him out.


Nextly, I went to Falmouth in 2008 for business, not for pleasure, but I did slip away to Martha's Vineyard for the first time ever on a quest to figure out what all the squawking was about. My friend Annie and I found an utterly fantastic restaurant/jazz bar in Falmouth called the Nimrod.

The food was divine and I found myself in a fugue state trying to get out the door because this man launched into Ella's "Black Coffee", then Tom Waites' "Time, then Ann Ronnell's "Willow Weep for Me". What?? Got to chatting with this wife, turned out he was a big jazz guy in Boston. Really neat. And there is an actual Cannonball hole in there from the War of 1812. This kind of stuff gets my knickers all in a super-twist. Here are some photos from THAT trip (and yes, there are SHEEP on Martha's Vineyard!):








So now we come to my latest trip: "The Mom and Daughter Bonder". Curse you, Hollywood. Curse you to hell. It's so funny how much I am after my Mom's own heart, but yet how much different we are in almost all respects. I know, it's kind of hard to understand unless you're a daughter. We had a great time, but the hotel situation, early August with all the local travelers was very dicey. The first night we had an almost picture-perfect room right on the beach, dude! We toasted our mini-vaca with some low-cal, lime beer. Heaven. But the owner didn't say (and I neglected to ask) what floor the room was on. Well, it was up about two and a half flights and I have a senior dog. Not a good combo. By the end of the night, I had a fierce crick in my neck from helping her up and down stairs. But we knew that they had promised us a room in the main house-lower floor the next night, right? NOPE. Because of the glitch, the lovely woman at the place dialed like crazy to find us a pet-friendly room. Not much luck, peak season. So that morning was spent driving around in 90 degree heat feverishly trying to find an ocean-front, bottom floor dwelling, preferably without pee smell or bed bugs or serial rapists in Dennis, MA. Wasn't happening. We started bickering the way Mother's and Daughters do. You know, like you're about an foot away from ripping off some shoulder pads with your Lee Press-on nails. Okay well, not THAT bad, but bad enough to feel like I was reverting to adolescence a little. We ended up at a wonderful Best Western in Yarmouth that catered to dogs. No joke. They had dog books, doggie beds, doggie cd's, dvds, elevated bowls and best of all, A/C. A real pooch heaven, except we weren't near the beach. Actually, this place was on a Golf Course. But hey, give and take. I went for a beautiful swim, took photos, wrote and my Mom went on her quest for Steamers and a beach. I was perfectly content being alone. My mom's not as much of a loner-type as me, but she managed, came back with a stomach ache from a hot dog (she couldn't find the steamer place).

So later on that night, feeling fully refreshed, I pretended I had to go to the store, game back with 22 oz. of the best fat, full bellies this side of the Atlantic I ended up eating most of 'em, thinking, damn, when I was a kid these things grossed the hell out of me. Like ick, look at 'em. They're like slimy, sea-sects, just a neck and a belly, all green and rubbery. Just goes to show, butter makes everything taste good. That Paula cook-lady is onto something.

So some things do change, some do stay the same, but if it's ALL the same, I'll stick to a Mom and Daughter Clam DINNER bonder next time....;)

Dolls

They creep me out and I don't know why. Well, I guess I have an inkling.

I think it's because I watched that movie "Dolls" in 1987.

I was still kinda little.

You know what that movie did to my doll collection?

Made it a living hell.

The only doll I have ever liked/loved was my Raggedy Ann from 1978.

She was a birthday present. She's still around today, but some of her fluff came out when she sprung a leak in the crotch while moving from college. Me, not her. Okay "Us". Jesus.

So my grandmother sewed her up.

I can't make this shit up.

She did.

And we will sometimes joke that it now looks like Raggedy Anne is..well, a real woman now.


Hey, what can I say? I wasn't allowed to hand-pick my DNA.

And you have to admit, that IS kinda funny.

But back to creepy dolls.

Apparently, there is a Doll Hospital in Texas.

Dolls and Texas paired together is super-creeepy.

Texas has the highest rate of execution in the country.
As of last year, more than 60 percent of all American executions took place in Texas.

But it seems the Houston area (enough said) holds claim to this now famous Doll Hospital where the Doll Doctor performs "complete Doll Repair".

And they don't want photos of your Doll's ailments. They want to examine your doll upclose and in person, by their DOCTOR. Doctor Mary Ann.

In order for us to be able to identify your doll's specific problems, it is important that Dr. Mary Ann be able to examine him or her thoroughly.

Either bring your doll in, or ship him or her to us via Postal Services or UPS.

Upon your doll's arrival we will do a complete examination and discuss with you, either in person or by phone, what type of care your doll will require.

An estimate of cost will be given at that time.

Please send your doll complete with clothing and accessories if available.

I guess some people's dolls are like family to them. Sort of like Norman Bates' taxidermied birds were to him.

There was also that infamous movie "Valley of the Dolls" with Sharon Tate which I still cannot watch. I don't even think there are any actual dolls in that film, but you get the point.

I guess it's just fair to say anything associated with Dolls is an automatic rule-out for me. Clowns too, ever since that one dropped out of the ceiling with a fake knife at the Haunted Mansion. The three of us just all fell on the floor...trying to comfort each other.

Thanks guy.

Checking in with my blog

My blog is bigger than yours.
My blog is blogging on the nightly with your blogfriend.
Fucking blog.

This brought the LOL's ...from Ajax

I can’t even keep going with this, it’s simply too painful. At this point, let’s try an experiment. Go up to the next female stranger you see and tell her that her body is a wonderland. My hypothesis is that she’ll be too busy laughing at you to even bother slapping you. davidthorpe@somethingawful.com. Dr. David Thorpe

Robert Pattinson vs. Daniel Radcliffe (7/16/09)

Video Recaps | Full Episodes | Webisodes

It's been absent for some time now.

The way that satellite follows her into the shadows,
reminder of how frightening it can be to walk alone.

Underneath a tar-topped lifestyle, there a million cricket's shiny legs
squawking together,
and then there is the burdock and dandelion,
She eats. She rests and changes.

He wants the mystery woman,
who plays by the rules of the Game.
Yet she likes to know all the rules before she breaks them,
but this one wants to break her.
In.

But, she's already picking up pieces under its glint.

Overcome any bitterness that may have come.....

" Overcome any bitterness that may have come because you were not up to the magnitude of pain that was entrusted to you. Like the mother of the world who carries the pain of the world in her heart, each one of us is part of her heart, and therefore endowed with a certain measure of cosmic pain. You are sharing in the totality of that pain. You are called upon to meet it in joy instead of self pity. "
- Pir Vilayat Khan


They say a wise man admits he knows nothing.
Yet I yearn for Your answer

In that deep, mysterious limbo of in-between,
where Divine Order rules the day,
and ego concocts it's own explanation

A continual recap of each other's Acts
in a never-ending, one-act play of unrelenting fascination

Mysteries prevail in mourning,
rides on trails of waking eyes, black spots floating,
a vulnerable gut,
so distrusting.

With foolish disguise, I mask Its eyes
and demand just payment
for the bill Suffering has obliged.
Yet, It offers nothing.

No gesture of solvency,
nor illusory concilation,
just a continuity of unknown tones,
some sharp, some flat,
some dissonant, some jarring.

Until I decide to remember
that It comes when It comes
{-au moyen, je ne sais pas}---
by way of means I know not of.

In two Bars2,
songs blared from cars,
in missed connections
and meteor showers....

Divine Order.

Love's guitar,
indelibly plucks my joyfull heart.
Reverberance of an unknown part
No time signature, nor visible pattern,
no measured beats nor counted hours

Accept a kiss,
a hug,
a touch,
So extraordinary,
Transfixed in time that
will not judge. Accept.

Some feeling or moment,
no tangible meaning
shakes the ground and sends me flying
forces languages' tongue
into deep silence

In Stillness.

I sit.
Honoring the brightness
In all of It.
not to release sacred steam
in mouth's futile spit

The beautiful debris,
of everything and nothing,
The Chaos and the Love,
each other's counterparts

Because I know nothing.
And so shall ask again.
And if next answer, subterranean quakes
I'll brace each leg in any fissure
brave it's wrath,
again gain leverage

Wind strikes my face,
from hard disaster
From Suffering to Grace
new mediums for masters

of their own hearts,
broken down,
and broken open
in equal parts,

pain and pleasure
Spirit Still, Body Trembling,
Spirit still,
unrelenting.

Avenue Q Schadenfreude

holi

holli
Originally uploaded by anathea

The Super Bowl Shuffle:The Bears

Korean Karaoke (Oh, Dance, Baby) - Flight of the Conchords

Air Supply - Every Woman In The World (1980)

Regina Spektor - Laughing With (Brand New Song) HQ

Black and White People Furniture - Bizarre Commercial

most awkward commercial EVER.

Quiet Desperation Episode 3

Henry Rollins & Amanda Palmer, Hammer Conversations

the floaters - float on

SNIFF SWIG PUFF - BEA ARTHUR & ROCK HUDSON

Shot In The Back Of The Head

i have no words to describe this.

We Live In Public Trailer

Fiona Apple - Why Try To Change Me Now

Baracknophobia - Obey

http://www.thedailyshow.com/video/index.jhtml?vide...

Republicans might be confusing tyranny with losing.

Check out this video: Nine Inch Nails - The Day The World Went Away

Quiet Desperation Pilot Episode

banned adam and eve commercial

Jan Brady - Try, Try, Again 2-1 . Brady Bunch

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RozDwkXPKEA
Jan thinks she's a no talent loser when she's a clutz at dancing, pom poms and acting until she discovers her one talent. ¨Don't be a quitter, keep trying¨
"Ms. Claret said she quit the class!"

Mickey Rourke Acceptance Speech Best Male Lead Film Independent's Spirit...

he thanked his dog!

Check out this video: Eugene Mirman Comedy Special Part 2

Beyonce/Fosse "Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)"

The Cult of Snuggie

Summertime - Billie Holiday

Sia - Destiny - Zero 7

christ, i love this woman.

Racer X Moonage Daydream 1987

Ben Folds "You Don't Know Me" (Feat Regina Spektor)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eP9csWhlHWM
Directed by Tim and Eric. Way To Normal out Sept 30th.

'Pineapple Express' Theatrical Trailer

'Pineapple Express' Theatrical Trailer @ Yahoo! Video

The Dogs at Live Oak Beach, Santa CruzAlicia Ostriker

As if there could be a world
Of absolute innocence
In which we forget ourselves
The owners throw sticks
And half-bald tennis balls
Toward the surf
And the happy dogs leap after them
As if catapulted—
Black dogs, tan dogs,Tubes of glorious muscle—
Pursuing pleasure
More than obedience
They race, skid to a halt in the wet sand,Sometimes they'll plunge straight into
The foaming breakers
Like diving birds, letting the green turbulence
Toss them, until they snap and sink
Teeth into floating wood
Then bound back to their owners
Shining wet, with passionate speed
For nothing,For absolutely nothing but joy.
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