|
|
Wednesday, March 21st, 2007
| |
11:36 pm - return
|
|
preamble:
Tonight, bigdumbjim read from his published-by-a-major-press novel. He is not so dumb. I was inspired. Tonight, I received an informal request to return to by blog, and so I do. Tonight, and what follows, is for Gary. I love him, though we were never in love. This, except for perhaps the very first time, is my history with men. Three weeks ago he called spontaneously, as he does, and said his girlfriend had to work for the weekend but he was going to fly to San Francisco, pick me up and drive to Tahoe; he’d ski while I was cozy in the lodge with my book, a treat on him, a celebration for the end of my trial. A romantic proposition, even for non-lovers. I’d made another promise for the weekend and turned him down. Plus, I was horny and didn’t want to be tested. We are not twenty-five anymore, but still. This is also my history. He left a message several days later that I did not return. I didn’t want to be swayed. He called me Sunday, and said my name like he does, my full name, all in one breath. I didn’t notice, at first, anything different. I was distracted, though; my basketball team had just choked thirty seconds earlier and was out of the Tournament. I figured he was calling to rub it in. I prepared my defensive voice. “I’m in the hospital,” he said. “My lung’s collapsed. My pancreas is failing.” Now I noticed that he was wheezing. “How are you doing?” he said. I said I was fine, but mostly I was silent. All I could hear was him trying to breathe, the exaggerated laboring of ten years ago, when I’d lay my head on his chest, and listen. “My basketball team just lost,” I said. “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said. He asked if his Final Four picks were still in it and I said yes. One is out of it, now. I googled Gulf War Disease, as I’ve done so many times before. The repertory problems of ten years ago are a symptom. The GI tract problems and weight gain of seven years ago are symptoms. Pancreatitis is not a symptom, not yet. Bush was on tv commenting on the fifth anniversary of the second invasion. I turned him off, and lit a candle. Gary likes candlelight.
|
|
(1 comment | comment on this)
|
| Monday, October 2nd, 2006
| |
8:48 pm - my triumvirate
|
1. LadyC e-mailed me and said that she had a very vivid dream last night that she and I went to see Bruce in Ireland. KFOG is having a qualifying contest all week, LadyC has spent a significant amount of time in Ireland, and she and I have been at the same Springsteen show three times—all-hail the witching power of my thirty-third year. LadyC also has a knack for picking up Irish hotties. I take this as a good sign, too.
2. The new Dylan album is as good as everyone says it is.
3. With this weekend, my triumvirate of pure rock concert joy was solidified. There are plenty of acts that I’ve seen that I’ve loved—Radiohead, Ben Folds and any Jack White affiliate are three of my most recent thoroughly enjoyable experiences, but I’m talking about pure, unadulterated joy, the thank-you-for-being-alive-and-performing-for-The Hornet performers. Bruce, of course, my Church; Dave Matthews (yes. Don’t knock it til you’ve tried him. I didn’t believe, either, until I was there); Dave is one-hundred per cent feel the (pot-smoking, woman worshipping) love joy; and finally, the Captain, My Captain of the weekend, Beck.
I went to the Download Festival at Shoreline which was sweet because it was like Coachella without the running around in the desert all dehydrated and dirty bullshit. In fact I sat in my wheelchair accessible box seat with perfect sight lines to the stage and a waitress serving Li’l Sis K and I food and wine all afternoon and evening. I was quite comfortable, indeed.
TV on the Radio, then The Shins, then Muse (a Brit-band with whom I was quite impressed. The Radiohead influence was more than evident, though, right down to the Thom Yorke inspired haircut), then the Yeah Yeah Yeahs (with whom I was not impressed—Karen loves herself too much for me to love her) and then, finally, my boy Beck, who rocked the house and shook me with his ever-changing puppeteering creativity for an hour and a half, for an hour and a half I did not sit, for an hour and a half I smiled, I danced, I laughed, I was inspired. I started to believe again. There is a line in a John Lee Hooker song that I like; John Lee’s mother is telling his father not to keep John away from his guitar “because it’s in him/and it’s got to come out.” I started to believe that my It could come out of me, again, and that my It might flow here, in San Francisco, which is something that I’ve seriously doubted over the last two months, but then, how can I leave a city where Beck walks unannounced into Pancho Villas in the Mission and starts entertaining the lunchtime crowd by request with his guitar and a maraca? I mean really, who could leave this?
Soy un perdedor. I guess this remains to be seen.
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Saturday, September 23rd, 2006
| |
12:41 pm - mirror, mirror
|
|
(happy 57th to my spirit in the night. your song smiles eternal).
I’m okay about every other day, now. Directly after phase one of legal matters I was walloped again, this time by the intensely personal, forcing everything that’s happened to me over the last four years to reflect back, show me how I’ve seen myself, how I’m seen by others. Too disabled, abusive, abused, bold, ballsy, risky, risqué, not wild enough, too wild at heart, weepy, wanton, wanting, wistful, willing, strong, sexy, sexual, soul-filled, secretive, scarred searching seductress, giving, gracious, abrasive girlfight goodnight it’s all right, Jane. All of this is me. This is all of us.
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Monday, August 28th, 2006
| |
8:49 pm - emphatic denial
|
|
This was posted on Bruce’s official website today:
I hesitate to use this website for anything personal believing it should remain a place where fans of my music can come free of the distractions that occasionally arise with the rest of my job.
However, due to the unfounded and ugly rumors that have appeared in the papers over the last few days, I felt they shouldn’t pass without comment. Patti and I have been together for 18 years- the best 18 years of my life. We have built a beautiful family we love and want to protect and our commitment to one another remains as strong as the day we were married.
There’s my boy.
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Friday, August 25th, 2006
| |
7:14 pm - It can’t be true!
|
According to the Daily Dish, Bruce and Patti have split after almost twenty years of marriage because Bruce has allegedly fallen for another redheaded woman—a redheaded September 11th widow.
no no no no no no NO!
Part of what draws me so deeply to Bruce is that I recognize the arc of his life in mine, especially the modern fairy tale romance part, the part of his story that provides my own allegory, the part that says: If Bruce was in his late thirties before he found true love, then there is still hope for me.
Now what?
People have told me “you will find him” since I was twelve years old, which until recent repetitions of “it will be over soon,” stood as my most hated supportive statement within the right-thing-to-say category. My internal response to the ‘you-will-find-him’ people is “i might not,” which helps me survive within the realities of being me; the truth is I really would like to find him but I might not, there is a lot about me that may be desirable but I have a lot stacked against me, too, and to the ‘everybody-has-something-against-them’ people I say put an available sexy gimpy woman against an available sexy non-gimpy woman in a line up and just watch what happens, watch, and here it starts bordering on self-pitying so I stop thinking about it.
But Bruce’s fairy tale gives me hope, and allows me to stretch beyond the realities to the “just maybes.” It happened for him, maybe it can happen for me, too. Now, even my fantasy is thwarted.
I am the first to admit that I think that it is possible to truly love more than one person in a lifetime, and Bruce would be the first to admit that he is flawed, and human, and male. I think that we’d both admit that once a tormented soul, always a tormented soul and that this, really, is at the core of all of the life choices that we make. We can live in the church of pure joy and feel it and believe it and savor it, but at the core of us is torment. This dissonance is what makes the joy so wonderful.
It could be, simply, that the diva's Dish is untrue and Thursday was a slow dish-day. But if she’s right, then our arc is changing shape. I’m not sure if I’m ready for this. Not yet.
|
|
(2 comments | comment on this)
|
| Sunday, August 13th, 2006
| |
1:13 pm - channeling charlie kaufman
|
This morning, I finally figured out how I’ve been feeling these last weeks. I feel like I’ve been zapped through a portal into somebody else’s brain, like any moment now an anti-zapping device might offer to wipe these memories away, like perhaps this is the week that I discover I have a long-lost twin sister who is more naturally gifted and talented than I am and this explains everything, and that the next phone call I get is going to be Deep Throat telling me I must leave my public life and go whack somebody, and whack him now. Yes, it’s true. I’m channeling Charlie Kaufman.
Things are looking up.
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Thursday, August 3rd, 2006
| |
10:16 am - homeostasis
|
Things are fine, meaning I am still breathing. Things are not fine, meaning there is a long haul ahead. My body shut me down last night, and I sound like a cross between Linda Blair and Debbie Harry this morning. I guess this is one way to keep things quiet.
This has what has helped me through these last weeks, the quiet. The interesting thing now, though, is I don’t really know what else I need. I know that I don’t want to be overstimulated, but I don’t want to be understimulated, either. There is such a fine line between these things for me now that the easiest thing for me is to choose to say and do very little. Which works out because most of the things people try to say or do in trying to say or do the right thing do not make me feel any better and often make me feel worse, despite the most genuine intentions, and my staying quiet lets the person trying off the hook. Some words do help, the simplest words—“I’m sorry” is nice, but just listening is best. Communication can be overrated.
Beyond my not knowing what I need, it is also interesting for me to watch who steps up and who steps back. I’ll end my chapter on Cougar by saying only that he stepped back, no blame and no problem and most likely appropriate (if unplanned) timing; I needed reminding that in the end I have me and just me, really. But, in this world of solitary personal power I do have others, willing. I have a few in my life who know me extremely well and know exactly what I need even when I do not (thank you, Derry-Lou, I hope that you do not sound like Debbie Harry today, too). For this, and for all, I am grateful beyond words. Thank you for being selfless. For reminding me that you are waiting.
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Tuesday, August 1st, 2006
| |
11:47 am - the yellow chicken returns
|
|
I am just about to leave for D3 Day, turning down my computer just now so I might start to get in the zone, one deep sigh, one last check of e-mail notes. Then, a blast from college days past. This is exactly what I needed right now.
I thought that you might find it amusing that something (i don't
remember what anymore) sparked me to look for your blog again. My
computer died a while ago and bookmarks and things are not back yet and
so I had to search the old fashioned way. I figured if I found your blog I
could find your email. Anyway, I started by searching for "red hornet"
.... too many responses. Then "red hornet journal" no luck. Then red
hornet San Francisco" - nope - "red hornet N---" nope ... I was
running out of ideas....then inspiration - "red hornet Springsteen"
BINGO - you were the first google hit.
I am so predictable.
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Monday, July 31st, 2006
| |
11:06 pm - to sleep, perchance...
|
anything to get my mind off the fire I must face tomorrow.
GG, who is now eleven and very articulate for his age, is founder and editor-in-chief of his own e-zine, distributed amidst his family and friends. This week's issue consists of a review of "An Inconvenient Truth" by his dad, a sports page all about the Washington Nationals by his auntie in DC, a synopsis of Madame Butterfly provided by his grandpop, and a few other nuggets. GG added me to his distribution list this week, and tonight I submitted a freelance editorial column for his consideration in upcoming issue #4. We'll see how I land in the queue.
The Church of Bruce:
reflections on hope, promise and redemption
Outside the street's on fire in a real death waltz
between flesh and what's fantasy
and the poets down here don't write nothing at all
they just stand back and let it all be—
and in the quick of the night
they reach for their moment and try to make an honest stand
but they wind up wounded, not even dead
tonight in Jungleland.
—Bruce Springsteen, Jungleland (1975)
The Man (I will not call him “The Boss,” he does not like this—ask Terri Gross, she learned this the hard way), our Everyman, Bruce, got it right thirty years ago and he still has it right today. The first step toward promise is action. What was he talking about then? Youth violence? Vietnam? He’d say now that his original intention was simpler than this, that he’d intended to write about a battle of the bands contest and the danger that comes with lack of creativity—our lives will become stagnant and uninteresting, and our creative efforts will lack meaning—simpler still, rock music will die—if we don’t try to take a stand and break out into new. But he just as well could have been talking about the former topics. This is the beauty of metaphor.
Today, replace Vietnam with Gulf War II and wham-bam-thank you-ma’am it is thirty years later. Look where our lack of creativity has gotten us, now. The first step toward promise is action. We cannot stand still. We must create new. It is up to us.
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Sunday, July 16th, 2006
| |
7:45 pm - voodoo
|
A little over a year ago, I asked The Astrologer to throw cards on Cougar. I’ve learned not to use tarot for questions about my relationships with other people unless I am reading completely for fun or am absolutely ready for an answer, or both, because although the cards themselves are not psychic, The Astrologer’s interpretations tend to be. I can’t remember why I’d asked her to do a spread at that particular moment; I suspect we’d recently had another bordering-on-flirting episode, most likely at an after-work function, after we’d both had enough to drink.
So for fun or for answers or both, H— threw cards on Cougar. The read was warm and benign; H— said he had other things on his mind but that our friendship looked good. My response to this was goody-goody gumdrops, just what I always wanted, another male friend; in fact I must have voiced this out loud because her response to me was one quite stern, “Hang on to this guy. You’re going to need a friend during the final transitions at work. My sense is he can be that for you.”
I’d forgotten about this reading until last week. This is typical for me; tarot readings are absorbed into my subconscious until the outcome cards play out. Now, I see.
Last week, four years of struggle with the System culminated in dates, two sets of dates for issues to be brought forth. If I am extremely lucky, things may be resolved after the first set of dates but the likeliest scenario is that the struggle will stretch over the next five months, through the second set. My heart, of course, feels trampled. Again.
How Cougar and I went from maybe running into each other once a week to seeing each other twice daily I am not quite certain, but whatever the reason, I’ve never been more grateful.
“Hey sad girl,” he said the day after the news, “Did you sleep at all last night?”
“I slept,” I said, “But I fell asleep with the lights on.”
“I did too, actually,” he said.
I didn’t ask why he did. It doesn't matter.
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Thursday, July 6th, 2006
| |
7:58 pm - RedHornet’s 23 Days of Bliss: Days 22-23
|
-rest, recuperation and reflection
I had several choices around how to spend my time tonight. I settled on paying my final visit to A Clean Well-Lighted Place for Books—because I owe it to the place.
A Clean well-Lighted Place, the indie bookstore just four blocks from my apartment, is going out of business, and the shelves are all but picked clean. An Indian dirge played as I entered. The manager made them change the music immediately. “Too oppressive,” he said.
I wrote a note to the manager just now. It read:
Dear Neal,
Thanks so much for all that you put into ACWLP -- I took my first writing classes through your store, gave my first student reading there, and went on to get an MFA, which changed my life. Your place has offered me much comfort over the years, thank you.
Simple, but genuine, like the store was. What I didn’t mention was that this simple building filled with avid readers gave me a few other things—a crush when I really needed one, lest I start to think that my love-life is over at 25, like I did then; now I had a place to go and think, I wonder if he’ll be here. I had my star-struck writer’s moment there; to this day K—thinks that I made Russell Banks cry by my thanks and praises; I disagree. Most importantly, though, I found myself there touching the book covers and hoping, whenever I felt I was losing sight of what I really wanted, hoping and knowing that I could have what I wanted; soon after each visit, I was on the path again.
I am on the path again, still searching for the direction that I need to be going, but still hopeful; balancing when to take control and when to let time take course, this a life-long skill that I wonder if I’ll ever master, or if anyone ever really masters. Absorbing the bliss when I can, answering the call to go forth if I have to—if even this city swallows up bookstores, what next? Trying to answer this question with light feet, knowing that the answer, yes, is not me.
|
|
(6 comments | comment on this)
|
| Sunday, June 25th, 2006
| |
8:32 pm - RedHornet’s 23 Days of Bliss: Day 21
|
-saw Radiohead with the Cougar
The evening started out ordinarily enough. We decided to take a car to the show because I wasn’t sure that Sadie could make it from the BART to The Greek. I’ve eyeballed it now, and know differently. This becomes important later.
The Cougar was in an incredibly good mood. This is no different than most days, except that today he was chatty, extremely chatty. He’d had a stressful week and vented all the way to Berkeley, which wasn’t funny but I found it amusing because in five years I’ve never heard him complain about anything, and I am usually the one kvetching. But I listened, and made sure that we didn’t miss the exits.
His cell phone rang just as we were turning on to University Avenue. It was the Ex, the one I talked about in a previous entry, the one who wants him back, so says the rumor. She wanted to meet up with us when we got there, her and New Boyfriend. Interesting. Maybe the rumor was not true. He asked me if this was okay and I said of course. I like watching drama unfold, especially when I am only indirectly involved in it.
We crept our way towards campus in the Explorer. I pointed to my disabled parking hang tag as we passed the parking attendants, indicating that we were going to get as close to the main gate as we could with the car, but we were met with blank stares. Strange. Usually, concert parking attendants are more than helpful. I’d been to the Greek twice before tonight, and this time we are directed into a lot that I’d not been in before. I ask the attendant if he is sure this lot is the closest one to the gate. He says yes, just follow the wheelchair path to the front of the theatre. We park in the last disabled space in the lot.
The Cougar unloads my wheelchair and grabs his phone. This is when I realize that I left mine in the apartment. The opening act was just starting. Good, we thought, this means we still have an hour before Radiohead goes on and will have time to grab a beer, especially since our seats are the only reserved ones for the show. We start down the wheelchair path, which is pretty steep. I’ll interject, here, that The Cougar is a big guy and quite strong, more than capable of handling me in the wheelchair, but he has bum knees and really needs surgery but keeps putting it off. The bottom of the path is a dead end, leading into a locked dorm. We go back up the hill and down a different wheelchair path on the other side of the hill. Another dead end. I tell him I feel like Spinal Tap stuck behind the stage and he sings Big Bottom, which makes me laugh. He pushes me up the hill a second time, back to where we started. The Ex calls again, wondering where we are. Over the course of the hour she calls him five more times. Maybe the rumor is true.
We park the wheelchair and he goes for help. I watch him dart up a hill, and across the lawn, down a hill. The opening act is on their last song. I am getting a bit nervous, and worried about the Cougar’s knees. Ten minutes later, he returns.
“I talked to three people and they said they’d help carry you to the back of the lawn but that’s it. People are not being helpful.”
No. No way. There is no way we could see anything from the lawn and if we were going to do this, we might as well stay here in the parking lot with the rest of the ticketless unluckies.
“They said we had to get back in the car and I could drop you off and park again. I said that I wasn’t leaving you just to sit there and wait, but they didn’t seem to give a shit.”
He boosts me back into the Explorer. “I sense an assertive letter coming,” he said.
“I’m going to do it, too.” I said.
“I know you will,” he said.
“I’m sorry about this.”
“It’s not your fault. I’m glad to be here.”
“Welcome to my life,” I said, resting my hand on his shoulder.
“I know,” he said. “Actually, I probably don’t know.”
This relaxed me, for a moment
We drive and talk to the college-kid attendant who directed us to the non-accessible pathways in the first place. He admits that he’s never actually been to scope it out and gets on his radio. He confirms that The Cougar has to drop me off, leave me, and come back and park, but that he can blockade our parking spot.
“Dude, I’m not leaving her,” Cougar said.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“You don’t have your phone.”
“We have to go, we’re going to miss it.”
I’ve been to almost 100 shows, he’s been to almost 300. Missing the first song is tragedy, especially for a show like this one. It’s just not done.
Cougar concedes and drives around to a lot nearest the front gate. Seven police officers stand here and tell us we cannot park in this lot, even though there is a disabled parking space open right in front of us, this lot is for emergency vehicles only.
“Don’t get mad, we’re here, it’s okay,” Cougar says to me.
I hadn’t said anything yet but I’d forgotten how well he knows me. I must have clenched my fists. Right before I’m about to blow a gasket in Staff Meeting, I clench my fists.
Cougar moves the car two more times before the seven unhelpful officers let him help me into the wheelchair once again. They stand and stare and do not help us as I slide on the gravel. Cougar catches me in time, and I glare at the officers.
“Do people always look at you like you’re critically ill?” Cougar says.
“Pretty much,” I say.
The Ex calls again and says we’d better hurry the fuck up, the show is going to start in less than ten minutes. Cougar says that this is not helpful and for a second, they sound like exes. He asks her to send New Boyfriend to meet us at the gate. New Boyfriend is too drunk to meet us.
“I’m really sorry,” I say.
“No, I’m getting a glimpse of the bullshit you go through every day, and it’s ridiculous.”
This relaxes me, for a moment.
We get to the gate and Cougar relays how unhelpful the concert staff have been. This leads to a guard plowing us through the sea of bodies, and I do mean plowing through a sea, I have never seen The Greek like this. We get to our spot, which is, of course, caved in with people.
The guard yells, and I do mean yells. “Okay. You are all standing in the ADA section. This is a reserved section and you are not supposed to be standing here. They reserved this spot. I don’t care who moves, but somebody has to, and you have to move now.”
No one moves.
“I mean it. MOVE NOW!”
The crowd parts. Cougar pushes me to the front of the section, then puts his hand on my shoulder and says he’ll be back as soon as he can deal with the car, try to save him a spot.
The crowd tries to cave in around me as soon as Cougar leaves. “He’s coming back!” I yell, equally as loud as had the guard. I kick out my wheelchair footrests and stick out my arms, which causes a woman to spill her beer on my head but does create an effective “Do Not Touch The Hornet” bubble. I wasn’t going to be squished for two hours, and The Cougar was getting his spot back.
Five minutes pass. The band comes out. The first song, Karma Police. No Cougar. Shit.
The second song, no Cougar. By the beginning of the third song, I feel a familiar hand rest on my back. I am relaxed for the rest of the evening. In between songs, Cougar tells me what I missed. First, they weren’t going to let him back in the gates after parking the car because his ticket was already scanned.
“Dude, I just talked with you,” he’d said.
“I don’t remember you,” the guard had said.
“I was just here.”
“Wait, is your wife in a wheelchair?”
“Yes.”
This got him through. Then, he heard The Ex screaming his name. He waved to her. He then thought about getting us a beer but looked at the tent above the stage on the lawn and thought there’s no fucking way I’m walking up another hill. Then, he got back to our section and tall men protective of their short girlfriends’ sight lines would not let him through.
“Dude, my wife’s up there,” he’d said, repeatedly. The crowd parted.
I smiled. From not using friendship language, to married. Very nice.
The show was a fantastic and a nice blend of old and new selections but the set felt short compared to the two three-hour Springsteen marathons I’d just experienced, and everything that led to entering The Greek. But everything was completely worth it. The Cougar thought so, too. We waited for the crowd to disperse and had a few cigarettes. This is when our fortune began to turn. This is when we met Ken and Amber.
Ken and Amber were an extremely cool heavy duty concert going couple from the city who had been standing in our section and offered to help us back to the car. Ken is a fellow upper-midwesterner and Amber and I have been to a lot of the same shows over the years. They agree to wait with me while Cougar got the car and in exchange Cougar offers them a ride home. They are grateful, especially since they are coming right back to The Greek tomorrow for Radiohead #2. Cougar left for the lot, and Amber gave me another cigarette.
“So your man, he really barreled through those other guys to get back to you,” she said. “That was pretty hot.”
That was pretty sexy, I admit.
We drop off Ken and Amber in the Haight and say that we hope to run into them again at another show. “How’d we get so lucky to meet people as cool as that?” Cougar said. Then, we pulled up to my apartment. “Got a beer up there?” he said.
Indeed I did, and we clinked and drank. “Sorry about all the crap,” I said.
“We’re not talking about that anymore,” he said. “I thought about that on the way back to the car tonight, I thought, I bitched all the way to the show and you just let me vent, and then you went through all that bullshit, and I just feel really lucky to have been there.”
I was deeply touched, I felt like the lucky one, and with this, I began to feel more like myself than I have in months, more comfortable than I have in months, and instead of talking about the crap we talked about sex, drugs, music, family, politics and faith, with much laughter interspersed, for three hours. Until he said he had to let me go to bed.
And he left. We started the evening, yes I will use the word now, as friends, and we parted as closer friends. And this did not feel uncomfortable, or impossible, or dangerous or weird or demon-laden for me. It felt natural. Finally.
|
|
(1 comment | comment on this)
|
| Friday, June 23rd, 2006
| |
2:23 pm - RedHornet’s 23 days of Bliss: Days 8-20
|
-saw Springsteen #10 with my mom
-went to the fabric store and designed a skirt that shows off my tattoo
-changed my hair (3 times)
-had an emotional meltdown in the car
-spent much time with little T,M, & C (and the rest of my family)
-saw X-Men 3 with my dad and made fun of the CGI in the Golden Gate Bridge scene
-went to my parents “lake house”
-saw The Lake House (I know. I had my reasons. It wasn’t bad. Only schmaltzy in parts)
-Made plans with the Cougar
Not all days that lead to bliss are blissful. This is the way the wheel turns and all that I will say for now about the meltdown, a necessary means to an end, I suppose. I’m learning that Little T has a temperament very much like mine which will serve him well unless he also inherits my constant battle with loneliness and heartbreak. I hope that he will one day encounter and conquer lesser demons than these. Hope is all that I can do.
But for now, I leave my ethereal ponderings for the pages of my journal. It is once again Concert Day, and I am pumped. Three concerts in 3 weeks is not bad for one vacation. Yesterday I went to the salon for the third time in three weeks. After much fidgeting, I’ve found a new look. My hair hasn’t been this short since junior year of college, or this feminine. My new hairstylist said that the purple highlights wouldn’t take with my dark hair and she was right, but the blood red ones did, and they are fabulous. Next time, bright fire engine red is going in. Sagittarius stepping up.
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Friday, June 9th, 2006
| |
4:19 pm - RedHornet’s 23 Days of Bliss: Days 6-7
|
-saw The Godfather for the first time
-celebrated Deery-Lou at 33!
-watched almost every online episode of the final season of Alias
-began to pack my suitcase
It is a delicate decision when on vacation, dividing the hours between time to completely escape from life and time to think and sort out because the days give you the space to do this. I have escaped for the last two days and now in my suitcase I place my journal and a few pens; worn jeans that won’t mind a few grass stains. There is a tree at my parent’s house with a swing attached to it that is very gracious with time. Today, I prepare to greet this.
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Wednesday, June 7th, 2006
| |
8:14 pm - RedHornet’s 23 Days of Bliss: Day 5
|
-tried to recover from concert adrenalin overload
-went to the ballpark
Marlins: 8
Giants: 1
Ten years and I’ve refused to believe that the sun can penetrate through wind and fog and everything else that covers this city. I believe now. The afternoon at the game was glorious but every exposed inch of my skin was burned. I am one red Hornet. I don’t think I quite meant to incite “I’m on Fire” so literally.
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| |
1:43 am - The Church of Bruce (notes)
|
“Hello, sinners and Concordians!”
It took us two and a half hours to get from my house to the Concord Pavilion. It really is in the middle of nowhere, between unlikely rolling brown hills.
“So where exactly the fuck are we anyway?”
In church, again, with an eighteen piece band—full horn section, 5 guitars, banjo, fiddles, drums, piano, organ, stand-up bass, accordion, percussion.
“San Francisco, I know where that is and that’s like, another country away.”
The weather was perfect, a true summer night, and I have not had this much pure fun, danced so much, loved it so much since Bruce was with E Street at PacBell park, three years ago, or was it four (another warm summer evening, warm, warm memories).
“The accordion is a sexy instrument.”
The sex was back, too. I haven’t seen Bruce this happy or playful since that night at the ballpark, and I’ve seen him three times since then. Transformation and transcendence. It happens to all of us. It happened to me again. It happened to K—, who said seeing Bruce with me was like going to mass with the Pope.
Johnny 99 in Philly-funk.
Ramrod as ska
Atlantic City as Dixieland swing
Devils and Dust as Gospel
The biggest horn sound you’d believe. You do believe.
Politics, anti-war protest, quiet. He hates Bush even more vehemently, now.
“Bring them home.”
Joan Biaz walked in the Pavilion as a fan and sat with the crowd. She got a standing ovation. Later, she danced with Bruce.
In five days, I get to see the show again in Minneapolis. It’s almost too much to take.
(but, I think I can handle it).
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Tuesday, June 6th, 2006
| |
2:58 pm - RedHornet’s 23 Days of Bliss: Days 1-4
|
June 3-6, 2006
-had a session with the Astrologer
-made great bread
-received an e-mail from The Cougar with Thom Yorke’s solo album embedded in it
-saw The Puffy Chair at The Lumiere (great flick!)
-had a leisurely breakfast at the Grove where a very handsome writerly gentleman helped me with my coat
-got a manicure and painted my nails with the fieriest red in the salon.
-await Bruce concert #9 (tonight!)
I am on vacation, and never have I needed one so badly. My triple-threat year started off well in late April with my love-fest birthday party, and it was a love fest—joy and warmth and friends and creativity and no stress. May, though, was a story slipping and sliding so far down that by the end of the month I was experiencing the kind of desolation and despair that I hadn’t felt since, well, high school. I’ve had a turbulent past four years filled with very adult and grown-up problems leaving me exhausted and emotionally drained, yes, but these feelings were different, very adolescent. Time to call in reinforcements.
I made a promise to myself six months ago that I’d take time to address all of the medical issues that I have been putting off for ten years, far too long, given that I’m gimpy, but I’ve kept the promise and over this time, I’ve been to at least ten different medical appointments. A draining feat in itself, as any woman might attest.
I saved the snatch doctor for last, as any woman might. But for me, the depth of emotional baggage associated with a trip to my nether-region is so far reaching that well, I won’t be gratuitous except to say that up until a month ago I’d never had a successful exam and this one had to be done in the operating room under anesthesia.
Except for the time it took to push the anesthesia out of my body (this is the reason I’ve never gotten into recreational drugs, the memories associated with anesthesia are recreation enough), the hospital experience was fine, CPMC is the spa of hospitals—oh what luxury one can have when one has a 90% coverage PPO. The follow-up, though, this is when it hit me.
Two weeks ago I took the day off to the gynecologist and then to the UCSF brace and prosthetics lab. To get the report of the former out of the way, the UCSF trip was a bust and they have to redo my orthotics, six more weeks of waiting, weighted even heaver by what had happened that morning.
The good news, the gynecologist said, is that everything is structured appropriately anatomically and I’m healthy, no cancer or cysts. The bad news I was expecting but not quite to this degree. The bad news—my physical spasticity is so bad that even with me under anesthesia she could barely do what she needed to. We talked about the risks of my carrying children, too. Suffice it to say, none of this did anything for my sexual confidence.
I am a sexual person, and a champion of alternatives. I was expecting to need to take time to work through the emotional impact of the experience. But I wasn’t expecting the return of the pangs of my adolescence, pangs that I thought I’d worked through, pangs that were so familiar and so sophomoric—how am I going to deal with this and who will ever want to deal with these issues with me, and the ultimate taboo for a fairy-tale hopeful like me—what if he isn’t out there? What if he isn’t out there and I’m doomed to beautiful friendships for the rest of my life. This was my depressed reality at the end of May. Right before I called in The Astrologer.
I relayed the heavy tale above to her and she, like the true superheroine that she is said never fear, what you are feeling is normal; Pluto has been creeping through your house of health and body for twenty years, where Pluto is, this where life-growth must focus, and over the next six months, Pluto is making it’s final exodus from the house health and body and into the house of love and marriage. It is normal during the transition, she said, for Pluto to test you by letting you know where he began, to make sure your lessons are learned. These teenaged feelings will pass, she said, with the help of your wild Sagittarian moon and all the fire energy you can muster.
Maybe Bruce will play a hootenanny version of “I’m on Fire” tonight.
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Saturday, May 20th, 2006
| |
8:36 pm - demons
|
“Don’t you wish you could tie those balloons to the back of your scooter and fly away?” the crazy street vendor said, just an hour ago.
I took him at his word and agreed because the visual of disappearing into blue sky and puffy white clouds by way of balloon strings was quite pleasant, and absorbing enough in the moment to take me away for just a second, the second before I knew that yes, he was crazy, but before this second I replied, “yes, that would be nice.”
“Do you want me to go get them for you?”
The balloons were red, white and blue and attached to the exterior of the furniture store behind the bus stop at Geary and Collins, the building that always seems to have something inside of it going out of business.
“No, thanks,” I said, knowing that if I’d have said yes he’d surely have retrieved the balloons for me, for the experiment of it.
I was waiting for MUNI after afternoon drinks with the gang, although I’m not sure that I am feeling affectionate enough to call them this, my gang, but we survived six graduation ceremonies in a row together this weekend; perhaps, my final six. The crazy vendor had bad teeth and needed a shave, and seemed to be making some kind of personal profit from selling cotton-knit white sweaters out of a shopping cart. He asked me if I would like a sweater. Again, I said no thank you.
“My brother got his legs cut off in a car accident.” The crazy vendor made a swift karate chop motion with his writs to the knees. “I’m sorry," I said. I peered down the street to see if the bus was coming.
“He walks like this now, on stumps.” Of course, because he was crazy, the vendor demonstrated for me by dropping to his knees and hobbling around in a circle on the sidewalk. This time, I did not respond to him.
Still in the proposal position, he asked if I have a boyfriend. “My brother, he could use a lady,” he said.
“I’m good, thanks,” I said.
Now, I needed the bus to come.
“Are you sure you’re not cold, want a sweater?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Okay, auf wiedersehen, then”
“Have a nice afternoon.”
He disappeared, the arms of the cotton-knits flopping over the sides of his shopping cart.
Lies serve. The Cougar received his master’s degree today. Actually, he finished his thesis about a year ago after two—no, three, I think—yes, three years of stalling around with finishing it, and this morning he was finally talked into walking in the ceremony so that he could send the commemorative photo of himself with the University President to his mom in Connecticut, so that she’d have proof that he finally had a diploma. The Cougar is a lot of very good things but he has an extremely difficult time with commitment. Hence, the worries expressed in the Hornet-entry before this one. Still, he is gentle and kind and the opposite of neurotic, qualities that I very much appreciate and am drawn to, especially right now in my life. However, he didn’t join the gang for drinks today because by the time we called him he was already at The Four Seasons with “The Roommate,” this was the rumor, she wants him back and he was with her now having drinks and whatever else, I’d rather not think about it, but the “whatever” was enough to keep the gang a-buzz with gossip for the remainder of our drinking session.
The Roommate was from four, maybe five years ago, a “friend” of his, this is how she is referred to, a friend who burned him severely and with whom he has been on-again, off-again since; this, at least, according to the rumor. Two years ago she called out of the blue to offer him a seat with her behind home plate for the Red Sox only stint with the Giants during Boston’s World Series year, a ticket for which most New Englanders would have intentionally cut off their legs at the knees to have access to. He told me about the ticket during a day trip to the ballpark with the gang.
“What the hell is she doing?” I'd said.
“I don’t know what she’s doing, but I’m seeing the Red Sox from behind home plate,” he'd said.
Fair enough.
Similar enough, too. In the middle of the gang’s gossip I smiled thinking about just how similar this situation is to my upcoming trip with him. I was relieved, really, at least more relieved than disappointed, to know about the resurgence of the Roommate rumors. I have learned a few things in my thirties, and I know that a potential triangle, here, is one that I do not want to create nor be a part of, ever. Now, I needn’t worry about what ifs, and I can concentrate on having a good time, which is what I was hoping to do in the first place.
But I saw something else for the first time today. It is more than just non-neurotic gentlekindness that draws me to his company. I see it now. We have the same demon.
Everybody has at least one demon and mine, and by extrapolation then, his, is that we have a tendency develop deep opposite-sex friendships that become bittersweet and painful when the friends want different things from each other. The classic Harry Met Sally “men and women cannot be friends” dilemma that I’ve had enough direct experience with to write a book about and that I’ve alluded to more than occasionally over three years of Hornet-blog. The Cougar and I are safe so far since I’ve just said I’m not becoming part of some kind of warped threesome, and since somehow over five years of knowing each other we have never referred to each other using either parenthetical or literal friendship language. We are not fiends, not yet.
Still, we have the same demon. Maybe it is like AA and the experience and comfort of battling our demon together will make us both stronger people, in the end. Or maybe I should grab the fattest, brightest red balloon that I can find and fly away while I still have the chance. That’s the thing about demons. They pull at you, no matter what.
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Tuesday, May 16th, 2006
| |
9:43 pm - pounce
|
|
I am going to Radiohead with the Cougar. I’m excited—perhaps a bit more excited than I should be. I may be falling prey to that bad habit I have of giving cats too many chances; this remains to be seen. It helps when you have a lioness in your corner who not only is willing to forfeit her position as Queen of the Concert Lair, but also encourages you, talks you into it, and then to top it all off writes “Bail Out The Hornet” on her activity calendar for the evening, just in case.
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Tuesday, April 25th, 2006
| |
7:36 pm - sweat on this, darlin’
|
|
|
|
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.2){kind=small}
redhornet's journal