her teeth flash fear

not my usual, but I'm bloody tired

2008-05-14T23:49:04Z

A few questions for you true believers . . .

- Every week, the night before trash-day these two sketchy-looking dudes (and I say dudes because they are not guys or young men; they're dudes) go through our building's trash. Tonight, as I returned from a long day of work, I saw that they were there again. They cleverly thought to bring special gloves to protect their hands. When Shaun and I pulled up, they were exiting with nothing in their hands but those gloves. They do this every week, right before trash-day. What is this all about? Why do dudes go through our trash?

- I want to get a good camera. There are so many scenes here that beg for good pictures. As you all know, I got a simple little digital camera a few years ago, but my proficiency is expanding. I'd love a macro lens or other things. Can you photographer genius readers tell me the best kind of all-purpose lens to get and even bust out your camera knowledge? Who better to ask than my amazingly intelligent readers? I won't be buying anything for a little while yet, but want to start researching.

- What are your three favourite stores to shop in and why? I'm discovering that I work for the top two of most of the people I know. I am wondering if this is a fishbowl effect or what. Are you like everyone else who comes into my stores and throws clothes on the floor, yells at the help, or won't say hello when you're spoken to? Why or why not?

- Last night, my baby brother-friend, Ross, and I were talking about soul-mate artists. I have this theory that everyone has an artist that is like their soul-mate. That artist communicates the way that you do, although you were both doing your thing before you ever knew of this artist. Sometimes, you're lucky enough to have two artists like that. They become like totem animals to you, like lodestones. For Ross, it's Tom Waits. Although I've many Tom Waits-loving friends, I always associate Ross with Tom. They've a very similar manner of expression. So who is your artist soul-mate? Remember, this isn't someone that you like. This is someone who communicates or creates very similarly to you. Guess who mine is? There is actually more than one.

I've more stories to say, but my Bulgarian lavender candle smells good and I want to just relax. I'm torn up today. Yesterday, I bought fresh mint and rosemary plants. The day before it was picture frames for some of my art that I've unearthed. The day before that, it was organiser baskets for the bathroom. I'm nesting, although I'm a hawk nesting, not a robin or something so fragile as that.

Jewelynx

"feet, don't fail me now!" - the funky hot mess, George Clinton

2008-05-14T04:15:40Z

Frida Kahlo, What the Water Gave Me, oil on canvas, 1938

"¿Pies, para que los necesito si tengo alas para volar?" --Frida Kahlo (translated as “Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly?”)

My feet pass across many floors for many hours, standing, striding, climbing, and carrying me through this world I inhabit. Although they’ve no brain-matter to deliver thought from impulse, my feet know that something is wrong. They’d rather be dancing. My feet are bruised on the soles, so much that I try to hide it from Shaun and wear bulky socks, even when I’m sweating and kicking the covers off the bed. He senses the agony radiating from my feet in bomb-blast aftershocks and kisses each pad through the wool and sheepskin boots I’ve hidden them in this time. The calluses are thicker than they were when I ran every blessed day; the calluses of running offered the purpose of protection. These calluses do not protect me from the ache that persists whether I sit or stand.

My feet need to be spinning, teetering on the edge of the universe, and creating the kind of chaos that only girls can make when they know themselves well enough to move through life like every kiss is a challenge. Every pebble in your shoe is a talisman. My feet are longing for beaches to smooth away the rough spots, red roads to travel, and a day when I am not doing something for someone else and am instead, being petted and treated gently. It’s been ages since I’ve had a day off, but my feet hurt even on those stolen, secret days. Seventy or more hours a week, a 401K, health insurance, the bills of my past being paid: the price has been exacted.

I’m not used to wearing sharp shoes. At work, I skitter across the floor like a young deer avoiding headlights or an antelope trapped in someone’s yard. My type of creature doesn’t know how to jump the fence. Our vision is oriented on the horizon, rather than the simple up-and-down. Returning home, the first thing I do after putting down my handbag is cast aside my shoes and wiggle my toes, willing them to look like they once did.

This wearing shoes all the time is making my feet like a ballerina’s, ugly and misshapen, bloody and bruised. My bones are changing shape, crushing inward. When I remove my boots, my toes are folded shy and pale as flowers. Now I know how ponies feel when they are taken in from the grasslands and forced into the corral and the terrible iron shoes that hold them until they die. I’ve been shoed. But never fenced.

My feet won’t hurt like this forever. I wear these shoes in the now so that I can have wings and financial freedom in the future. I nourish myself on the knowledge and pray my feet hold out. This is a pain that burns, like starvation before muscles become food.

I am well-fed, though. My faith and hope are my food and shoes.

Chaos-dancer

mean girls

2008-05-13T03:49:35Z

Most days, I am all right with working so many hours and having so little time to myself. Sometimes, it gets to me and I want to cry, but I haven't cried about it. The tears are dried up. I shuffle my alibis and pray I deal the right hand. Driving to work bothers me, as I didn't have to drive to my last workplace. I walked about two hundred feet to a sunny little ceramics studio, populated with cats and tourists.

Another thing that bothers me is that some of the girls I work with are mean, and I have no choice but to interact with people who talk trash about everyone around them and seem very shallow. I avoid mean-spirited types as a rule. The negative energy and drama don't appeal to me. It's so uninteresting that I tend to tune it out when it occurs around me. It's not that I am vacant; it's just that I let my thoughts wander when forced to confront these sorts of people. Our minds operate in completely different fashions.

A few weeks ago, one of the girls told me there was a park right across the street from the store. I got very excited and asked her if she ever went over to have lunch in it. "Uh, no," she responded, giving me a you're-weird look, "I don't need to go over there. I can just open the window and see it." That right there shows the kind of separation I am feeling from some of the girls. A park near a workplace is a prime spot to catch some sunbeams, read a book, and unwind before returning to work. I'd love to do that with a new-found work-friend. Chances don't look so good for that.

The next day, another girl was in a rage. "Scarlett Johanssen is a fat and ugly bitch!" she cried. "I hate her!" Now, I am completely confused by people who bash actors or actresses as if they actually know the person. Actresses are commonly criticised for weight or appearance, as if either of these qualities has a bearing on the talent of the performer. In this particular store, many of the girls are young and terribly thin and don't seem pleased about the idea of curves or substance. Not all of the girls are like this (there are some who are mucho sweet and kind), but enough girls are this way that I have suddenly become self-conscious of the fact that my hips are wishboned and my thighs are solid with muscle. When my co-worker shouted about Scarlett, I felt even more self-conscious because many comparisons have been made between Scar-Jo's buxom body and my own as of late. I couldn't help but to wonder if it was intentional.

When I called to get my schedule a few weeks later (I live a ways from the store and cannot just drop in), someone really patronised me and told me I would have to come into the store to see whether or not I worked, that "We can't just cater to people's every little whim." I felt stupid and like I was going to be talked about in that crow-chattering way of mean girls. I shouldn't give a damn, but I do. I do give a damn. I just want to be liked in this new workplace.

I feel like I am back in high school again and no one likes me for my Bohemian clothes, knowing too many large words, strange life, and being too kind of heart. No one has really shown me the ropes, except two girls who make me feel like I'm not such a big weirdo. When I ask for help, I get treated like I'm an annoyance.

Girls really can make the world a little war-zone and what for? I want to always be nice to other people, even those who make my life less than amazing. It's better than slinging hurtful words and slitting your eyes with green jealousy and willing every girl to hate herself from being unique and liquid in her own skin.

I've been hundreds of girls in this body, this skin, but I've never been a mean girl. And I never will be either.

as told to Shaun earlier, over a tasty dinner with lots of hand-holding and nauseating smiling.

2008-05-12T02:24:36Z

At twelve, I had hair that shone out from my face like baby's breath, knobby flamingo-knees, a church-going habit, and a soul that needed care. I took piano lessons with Jane Webster, my somewhat straight-laced teacher. Miss Webster was forever patient and soft-spoken, the sort of gal that would remain unmarried for most of her life, not because she was undesirable, but because she'd never considered that someone might desire her. Miss Webster did not own her own studio, so she taught in the performance hall of a local Catholic school-slash-convent. The building smelled like the orange oil the nuns polished the banisters with and the dustiness of books that hadn't been seen by anyone in quite some time. Once, I found a trunk of old music. Excitedly, I began to rifle through it, until the delicate scraping of silverfish through decaying parchment reminded me that sometimes what was old was meant to be left alone.

Since my mother was an early arrival kind of mom, we always got to my lessons with time to spare. We sat in ancient chairs outside of one of the practice studio rooms Miss Webster used. I was used to being better than the other students. Often, I'd fidget, waiting for my lesson and feeling some sort of strange pride at knowing I was the most proficient of Miss Webster's pupils. When they exited the room, I'd look up over the Poe or Plath I'd been reading and examine the students. Most of them had strange names--none as strange as Jewel Blackfeather, but strange still the same. They all looked like they got picked on in school, the type of kids who gnawed their knuckles and cried at recess.

Then, one afternoon, as I was discovering Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye, I heard the type of music that authors describe as heavenly, with the kind of lyricism and sensitivity that one associates with someone who is not of this world. Whoever the student was, he or she was tearing through Tchaikovsky. The mystery student slid through Beethoven's "Für Elise" and landed in a bouncy set of mazurkas by Chopin. I felt jealous and competitive with the faceless student. I had a feeling when the student walked through the door, he or she would be fantastically beautiful and make me feel even more inadequate than I already did.

Listening to this person was exhausting because of how he or she could command completely different types of artists with equal ease. I was so busy listening to the student, I hadn't noticed that his or her mother had arrived. She opened the door and went inside. She toted an enormous Louis Vuitton bag, had an Hermes scarf knotted around her elegant throat, and clicked in demure Italian leather boots. A rich lady paying for her rich little brat to have lessons, I thought angrily. She asked Miss Webster, "How did Ricky do today?" I wanted to gloat that he had such a silly-sounding name, but Ricky's mom started yelling at him. "Sit up straight! Pay attention!" My mom looked over at me, and I got very quiet and very small, pressing my knees to my chest and keeping my head low. I couldn't understand why Ricky's mom would yell at her lovely, talented piano-playing son.

When the door opened, I watched for the mysterious student. He stumbled through the door. He could barely see; his eyes were sealed with near-blindness. His mouth drooped on one side, as if the marionette strings of his lips had been cut. Ricky's skin was ruddy with acne and rawness. He smelled like maybe he'd soiled his pants; his clothes were obviously expensive but in a serious state of disrepair. I couldn't believe it. There was no way that a retard made that kind of music.

You see, although I was a sensitive kid who cried when I thought about baby seals getting clubbed and always made friends with the untouchable children in my classrooms, I still thought of anyone who was born less than "normal" as a "retard." I stared at Ricky, waiting to see if another student by the same name was in the room. There was only one Ricky and that Ricky was a piano-playing genius and well, a retard. Ricky's mom yanked him away, and I went in for my lesson.

"Who was that?" I asked Miss Webster.

"That was Ricky Quick," she replied. "He's been my student for a long time, since he was about two. Music is all he's known in his life."

"What's wrong with him?"

"There's nothing wrong with him," Miss Webster said, sounding almost cross. "He's autistic and has cerebral palsy and some other things. He isn't like you or me, but he overcomes it to play. He cannot pay attention with everything else, but when he sits down to play, he can do it for hours. Some cultures believe people like Ricky are angels. I like to think of him as an angel." I got the feeling she was confiding something important to me, because she spoke this last part reverently, as if she hadn't given up religion during her hippie college days.

For the rest of the year, I had my piano lessons after Ricky Quick. He had the type of name that I could never use separate after I knew he was Ricky Quick. At first, his mother's yelling disturbed me, but then, I realised that Ricky Quick's mom had to speak to him loudly because his hearing was shot. It reminded me of how Beethoven lost his hearing in the prime of his career. Beethoven's pianos had bite-marks from how he bit the legs, trying to feel the rhythm when his eardrums failed him. I grew used to Ricky Quick and didn't think of him as a "retard." In fact, I started feeling uncomfortable when the other kids in my class used the word as an insult.

Ricky Quick could play anything, but his mother was a harsh task-mistress. She never had a kind word for Ricky Quick. The only time I ever saw it, I knew I'd never say the word retard again. Ricky had just destroyed "Moonlight Sonata" and the nuns cleaning the railings, my mother, and I were all in tears. Ricky Quick's mother asked Miss Webster how he'd done, getting her perfunctory report.

"Mama?" Ricky Quick asked, drooling on the floor, "was I good?"

"Ricky," she answered, her blue eyes blazing with the first sign of warmth I'd ever seen, "you were wonderful."

Knowing that Ricky Quick could play the way he did and be the way he was made my little world a lot larger. Experiences like that can either shrink the walls of one's existence or expand them. "Make or break," the saw of Justice cries. My world has new continents and words for angels, all thanks to Ricky Quick. Today, I think he was an angel, too. His other afflictions were to balance out what must have been a painful, terrible genius for any mortal to possess. Ricky Quick couldn't have been an angel any other way.

snoopy came from the sunshine puppy farm.

2008-05-11T04:27:35Z

My mom has begun to measure her success by the amount of grandchildren she has. Right now, the tally is zero. Each time she lunches with long-time friends, they present her with pictures of their grandchildren or their daughters with blooming bellies, having gained so much weight that they are unrecognisible from the teenage friends I once knew. "Don't take it personally," my dad advised me the last time I visited, "she doesn't mind. She just wishes she had grandchildren."

"My daughter's stories are my grandchildren," she's been known to proudly proclaim, all the while never quite erasing the wistful tone in her voice. She'll reach for other people's babies at the supermarket and discount drugstores, flea markets and any old restaurant. She's good with kids, it's true. It's hard for me to understand because I spent much of my childhood dealing with her now-managed mental illness. She's the kind of mother to the babies of strangers I might have wished for, once upon a time. The last time she held a baby in my presence, she confided she'd like to have babies again.

When I was younger, I swore thirty would be the year to make babies. Twenty-five was allocated to marriage, thirty to babies. It seemed like a reasonable plan. Then, I hit twenty-five and I was still having too much fun sowing my wild oats and learning about life beyond the restrictions of a partner. The idea of being in a committed relationship seemed mythical; getting married was outright ridiculous. Although I've witnessed good, solid marriages with other people I am still uncertain about marriage. Marriage appears to be a legal construct in this society. If I do it, it'll be a spiritual bonding, not some paper document that, if ever severed, means my mate or I have loads of money to lose.

But babies. Now that I'm over thirty, I haven't felt the ticking of my biological clock. I keep waiting for it because I do adore children and I am uncannily good with them. It's the combination of my untamed little heart and the girl inside that'll always make mischief, even when I'm eighty and very much a woman. Kids and I understand each other and have a grand time doing it.

I keep waiting for the day when I'll see a baby and think, "O, if only."

The awful thing about this is that I've discovered that my biological clock is ticking. For puppies. Every time I see a dog--and my neighbourhood is loaded with the cutest dogs--I act like my mother does with babies. I pet them, coo over them, love on them, and wish I had one for my very own. My own Little McGoo lives with my parents. When I call my family, my father puts the phone up to the dog's ears and he leans into the phone, wagging his tail at the sound of my voice. I love him too much to remove him from his happy home. I long for a little dog of my own.

Sometimes, the conversations I have with Shaun about puppies resemble those that infertile couples have when they're wishing for babies. A happy dog will trot by with an equally happy person, and I get this queer pang inside and I will even race to the window to spy on the dog. "I want a puppy," I say to Shaun. He strokes my hair from my face and pats my leg. "We'll have one in the fall, maybe," he replies softly. I nod and envision what type of dog it'll be and the kinds of things we'll do.

Each time Shaun asks me how many dogs I want, the number increases. I think we're up to seven dogs now, my own dog-pack. I don't see this number diminishing any time soon. Is it wrong to want dogs instead of babies? Because I love my mother, I want to please her. Somehow I don't think she'd appreciate me asking her to think of my dogs as her grandchildren. I've tried to explain to her that my biological tick is working; it's just that I want puppies.

Mind you, I'd never want to give birth to more than one creature at a time, much less a litter of them. I have immense respect for the bitches that bring puppies to the world. It certainly makes the world a better place.

All of this doesn't change the fact: I want a damn dog. I think I'd be a tremendous dog-mom.

SF ISO PUPPY HEAVEN

near the graffiti wall

2008-05-09T14:53:59Z

A photograph of my life would reveal bursts of frenetic energy, rest like death, and too few spaces for nothing more troubling than reading the newest issue of Nylon, checking out the new prints from Missoni, ferreting out the perfect Diane von Furstenberg wrap-dress at the thrift stores, hitting the gym with the old vim and vigour, and learning how to cook the way I always wanted to (no recipes and a pinch here and there of this and that). Time is my enemy, my forbidden lover. I am continually wanting more of it, and scheming to have my way with it. I would not discard time the next morning in a haze of smeared lipstick, whiskey-breath, and rumpled sheets. I’d at least offer it a cottage on my property, a chance to be my mistress. If things worked out, time could be my number one.

“No time, no time, no time,” is the chant I cry when I race through the streets on the way to one job or leaving the next. I hurry through the laundry, dishes, bed-making, and all the other mundanities that keep life balanced. My feet are a fright of pain. On the bedside table is a stack of books that I got at used bookstores that I desperately want to read. My showers consist of running soap across my body as quickly as I can and shaking the water from my hair. I attain no small pleasure in that humid little chamber, not with the knowledge of greeting the day clean or of the warmth on my skin like a lingering hand. This is the busy time, where I pay off the bills of my past and become responsible. It won’t last forever—this being busy all the time—but it will be worth it. I tell myself that every morning when I rise, too exhausted to muster much enthusiasm. I remind myself of this when I am sitting in traffic or riding the bus, surrounded by people with the film of apathy over their eyes. I won’t be one of them. I won’t!

After it all, Shaun tucks me into bed, exhausted, and clawing at my pillow from sheer fatigue. Some days, I manage four to six hours of sleep; other days, I am lucky enough for eight to ten. The lack of a regular schedule keeps me out of balance. Arizona saw me rising with the sun (around five to six in the morning) and taking my sleep once the sun had set (tenish, unless it was a drinking German Riesling and howling at the moon kind of night). I loved connecting to the natural world by nature’s cycles. In the city, no one cares about when the sun rises or moon sets. No one talks about how precious being rained on and walking in it is. In the desert, rain is like a gift from the heavens. You could watch a thunderstorm roll in for miles, hoping it would reach you because the air was turning your skin to dry scales. Sometimes, the storm would swerve and you’d miss it by a few miles. Other days, the magical, lush desert days, the storm would barrel straight into you, and you’d have fifteen minutes of wet glory.

Then, you’d talk about the music the sky makes with your friends, while remembering desert-magic.

That’s not to say the city doesn’t have its own magic. I’ve fallen in love with the old cemeteries with their ancient Irish crosses, the pierogi joints everywhere, the fashionably dressed scenesters strutting their stuff in Rittenhouse Square, the ability to have a drink or food at any time of the day or night, my favourite radio station ever, the growling busses that take me wherever I need to go, my little windowsill garden, and the promise of going to the best farmer’s market on the Eastern Seaboard. I love the chance of discovery, how near everything is, how many people there are to watch, and public transportation. I hate commutes, lack of time, and how I am not creating art every day. I am capable of so much more. Poems are unfurling around my wrists and arms like tattoo vines. I scribble a few notes and remind myself to return, all while longing for the artistic freedom I once had.

So I burn my Caribbean Therapy candle and wrap myself in the scent of bay leaf, lime, vetiver, and amyris, and remind myself that I am doing the right thing. My bills are being paid, I am making a future, and more importantly, I’ve broken free of whatever cage and bonds that once held me. I go to sleep every night and awaken every morning knowing that I have no regrets. Not a one. Even as I sleep deeply and desperately, I am not filled with dream-turmoil about the paths I could have taken. I did everything the way I should have.

Talullah Jewel

P.S. As a way to test myself, every day for the next month, I am going to post something, whether big or small, just to see what it’s like. There’s so much I want to say, like the hilarious, amazing trip to DC and all I’ve been learning, and of course, the ladies that come into Aveda and teach me as I lay my hands on them and heal, soothe, and listen to their fears and hopes. I am damn grateful for the chance to do it all. Tomorrow, I am making a batch of vegan muffins and regular-type brownies to bring into the store as a way of thanking the ladies who come in for being mothers and for having them. The power of creation is the strength upon which the world was built.

beauty is as beauty does.

2008-04-04T01:46:04Z

At work, I have to touch, speak to, and reassure people--amongst my other tasks. Sometimes, I am doing this with metallic turquoise eyeliner traced around my eyes in New Wave streaks and my hair a Lichtenstein car crash, poked with Warhol (Edie, can you hear me?). Other mornings, I tend to my wards with black kohl rimming my inner and outer lids, like I'm an Egyptian goddess and the sun is too bright for my eyes, so I must remind it that everything cool to the touch is black. I wear wide-legged trousers and black ballerina slippers, drink my green tea with blueberries and clover honey, and carry a dangerous handbag. The handbag is dangerous because it possesses its own personality and life, and is the stuff of which petting and fawning is made. Although I drop things and rattle around like I am still lost, I am learning so much, and seeing how much trust is being placed into my lap. I am its gentle container.

One of my biggest goals at work is taking these ladies who seem insecure and uncertain and making them see that they possess beauty and that it's all inside of them. Ayurvedic medicine is a part of this philosophy. Ayurveda means "the science of knowledge" or "life of knowledge" (depending on the language it's translated from). I like that. The other part of it is that I've always--even when I was a little girl--felt other people's emotions deeply. I can watch people and figure out their deepest fears or insecurities, and I try to soothe and comfort those dark places. I possess so many, all labryinthine, that I understand them in others. I watch you to heal, not to hurt, I say with direct eye contact.

A woman near my age today, told me that I was beautiful--several times. Before she left, she said, "I know you'll do well here because you have a good vibe and are so beautiful and kind." It's funny how most younger women are afraid to compliment each other, as if drawing attention to what's lovely in others will dim what shines in us. Older women are much freer with compliments. The interaction with this stranger--as I was stroking the tension from her hands and rubbing soothing cream into her raw flesh--reminded me that it's good to openly acknowledge the beauty in others, strangers or not, friend or foe. I am learning so much in this city, this Philadelphia with its blossoms on the trees, more fragile than we who walk beneath them ever could be.

The sky, when I leave work, is a muddy river that the moon will dip her face into. I am missing my desert and the family I cobbled together there, even as I know that I needed to grow. I've loved the myths and histories for too long, and know that the heroes always had to leave and grow and suffer before they could return whole. My blood is singing songs to my canyons, the hollow-belly arroyos, and to the endless, starry nights there. My forehead is smooth as an antelope's antlers and my feet, my terrible hooves. In another life, maybe I was somebody's coyote-lover, maybe the wife of a mountain lion. I sing, I sing, I sing.

jewelynx

P.S. My work is sending me to a conference in DC Saturday through Tuesday if anyone's in that direction. Drop me a line at astreetfaery@aol.com. At the end of the month, I am going to the UN (yes, the United Nations) with some elders from the Yawanawa tribe. Then, there's soliciting donations for Clean Ocean Action, another of the pet projects at work. It's Earth Month, you know. I am blown away by how together this company is and how the things they believe in are not just talk. They really walk the walk and also, have built an empire on ethics. It shows me that it can be done, sustainable, organic, and all.

my stories've got tongues and tails, a rocket-ship and water like smooth, clear sailing

2008-03-26T15:03:51Z

I am spoilt and ugly, I have discovered.

From time to time, Shaun takes me to a local tavern with ridiculously wonderful music. O, I know you're all tired of me proclaiming it's genius when a college DJ plays Neil Young with anything remotely modern, but that's how it is. Neil Young is hella amazing. I am all over it when I hear him on a station, followed by something sublime like, say, Snow Patrol. Imagine hearing the somnambulent, belly-stroking guitar of Neil's "Cortez the Killer" and a phrase like "Hate was just a legend and war was never known." Then, take yourself across the river to "Shut your eyes and think of somewhere, somewhere cold and caked in snow. / By the fire we break the quiet, and learn to wear each other well" with Snow Patrol's "Shut Your Eyes," and you'll see what I mean, maybe. I like marrying songs to each other, making it an experience. When someone else does it for me, for instance a great DJ, I fall into one of the big, girlish crushes I am prone to having on everything and everyone.

If you've ever seen Neil Young play live with his band, Crazy Horse, you'll know why I love him so. Neil Young and the other guys in Crazy Horse huddle in a spiritual circle, playing to each other and to the sky, a stance I've seen at many a powwow. Neil has the soul of an Amerindian, the tongue of a drunk Dylan Thomas, and the heart of a buffalo. Think these things and put him on the record player, and tell me I'm wrong. Plus, he knows about history. He and I both share a hatred for Pocahontas and Cortez. "Cortez the Killer," when it came out, was controversial. Most American history books still called the murderers and rapists of the so-called "New World" explorers who "discovered" the Americas. I've said it before, but I could walk to the corner market, which clearly has been there for like, a million years, and say I discovered it because it's the first time I ever saw it, but it doesn't mean I discovered jack.

Anyway, I digress. My stories are riding shotgun with other stories today, getting ready to do some drive-bys on some stale poems. My stories are having picnics on the grass with each other, building lives in the country, and thinking about buying season tickets to Knicks games with Spike Lee. My stories, my stories, they've got lives and legs of their own. My stories're popping pimples, drinking acid-lemonade, and pasting pictures of boy-bands on the walls, while thumbing through a nudie mag with animal faces drawn all over the models' bodies. I'm not skerred of my stories. It's just that they run my life sometimes. Look at them now, making a date with disaster and thinking I should be taking cooking classes and getting a faux-hawk, all in one swoop.

Back to the tavern. It reminds me of the places my dad took me to when we lived in Alaska, but without the seal-skin hanging in the windows and on our feet and the jars of pickled seagull eggs on the counter. The brick walls have been struck with hammers in some places to show the older, more beautiful detailed plaster beneath it. The ceilings are high and hung with punched tin designs, just like the Victorians had. I adore it.

A college age guy works there. I know he's got to own more than this one striped rugby shirt, but after all the times we've been there, at all hours of the day and night, that's all I've seen him in. I don't even know what his voice sounds like, because he mutters at us. But it's a very nice mutter, and he always makes sure our drinks are filled and our plates are full or pulled, so we like him. You want to bring me the best horseradish Bloody Mary I've ever had with an extra long stalk of celery in it and mumble to me? It's okay, brother; I mean, hey, I do weird things, too, like making up little songs to sing while doing the dishes and watching America's Next Top Model when I'm doing my crunches. Mami, I will be eliminated tonight! At least I don't look like I got hit with a bag of motherfuckers.

Then, I wonder. About looking like I got hit with a bag of motherfuckers, that is. I've come to terms with the fact that I don't look like anyone else I've met. Unusual doesn't necessarily translate into pretty. Pretty can be boring or too easily defined. I'm well aware that I have a long ski-slope of a nose, super-broad shoulders, huge feet, a lotta ass, overly muscular back and arms, fat lips, big bug eyes, and the messiest hair ever made. I yam what I yam, to quote a famous sea-salt by the name of Popeye. I know that there's things that make me lovely, and I accentuate those, while (most of the time) pretending not to notice those traits that'll mean I'll never be considered traditionally beautiful or even attractive by some people. There's no middle ground with me. People either think I am confusingly and incredibly attractive or deem me ugly (like the women in Mali, who said I was too skinny to ever be a good wife and so, made fun of me daily).

However, I got my feelings hurt a little the other day in a really stupid way. I cannot even believe I'm admitting it. On this (let's say it again) stupid Facebook application, people can compare their friends to each other. One comparison comes up for whether you are pretty or not. Apparently, none of my friends think that I am pretty. They all have voted me the best singer, which is just plain bewildering. I mean, aside of those of you who knew me when I lived in a Chicago ghetto and would sing for my supper, have any of you heard me sing? Maybe my friends got me confused with the other Jewel. You know, the really famous one who also lived in Alaska, has blonde hair, and is musical?

The thing that bothered me, stupidly again, is that none of my friends thought I was pretty. In fact, everyone seemed to vote me for things like best smelling, most famous, and best singer, which again, is totally confounding. I do smell nice, but most people aren't up in my business to know that. Famous? What?! Because I bang my little drum noisily and do a lot of weird things? I guess I do look like I got hit with a bag of motherfuckers, more than I'd told myself in all the nasty pep-talks before.

This brings us back to the tavern. (Stories riding with stories on a banana-seat bicycle and carrying other stories in a little plastic basket with daisies on it.) Shaun and I walked into our tavern on Easter Sunday, sick of pastel eggs and people yelling "He is risen" (it's Philadelphia, people scream about Jesus here). As we were settling in at our usual table, a blonde lady at the bar swiveled around and screeched. I cringed, thinking she was going to tell me about Jesus at a loud decibel (nothing against Jesus, I just hate loud noises). "You look just like that really famous actress! You know!" The entire bar peered at me for a look. "That really beautiful one!"

I stood there, feeling self-conscious and not knowing what to say. Over the years, I've had a lot of comparisons to actresses. The three names that inevitably get tossed into the ring for consideration are Daryl Hannah, Uma Thurman (Kill Bill era), and Marilyn Monroe. What any of these ladies have in common beyond being blonde and emotional, I've yet to figure out. Every once in a while, someone will say Lauren Bacall (ed note: I just saw that we share the same birthday, September 16. Well, all right, Lauren Bacall, all right!). Again, I am not sure why.

"Scarlett Johanssen," someone to my side muttered. I thought it was the rugby-for-life waiter, but it was Shaun. He understood that I was feeling overwhelmed, over-scrutinised, and just plain over-worked. He bought me French onion soup, two splendid drinks, and an Italian parmigiana something or other that soothed my wounded pride. Like I said, I am spoilt.

What I wanted to say to the lady, if I hadn't been so self-conscious about my appearance, was "I LOOK LIKE ME." Of course I didn't. Having an entire room of people suddenly examining me made me nervous. So I sat down, had myself a damn drink, and listened to the music that always takes me to the places I need to be. At night, as I was removing my make-up and seeing my pores in high-definition in my fluorescent mirror, I wondered why I tear myself down. I have no wishes to change the way I was born. I am just desperate to accept it for what it is, hurt feelings, awkward moments, and all. Damnit, isn't that what we all want?

talullah belle

dicha

2008-03-24T00:43:43Z

Today, on lazy Bloody Mary Sunday, I'm howling like La Llorona, and you won't be rescued from me. My thoughts have grown hummingbird wings, ruby-throated for love and war. I was not born innocent or guiltless. In grade school, I discovered that the other children were born much worse. I might have stolen chapstick from the grocery store and kicked boys in the shins with my hard church shoes. However, I didn't play the headgames of other little girls. Little girls play these jacked up games, like I'm gonna mess with you harder than you can mess with me, just because I can do it. Seed pearl teeth, tanned skin, and laughter like a pack of dogs. You're sitting there with your knees against your chest, pretending not to cry at naptime, thinking, "This can't be happening."

O, but bitch, it is.

Maybe that's why I surround myself with men and boys. I know how to run with these wolves; I like their honest and clean scent. Even when a man is lying to you, he smells like he's not. There is no lingering smell of fresh blood with men and boys. If they wound you, they're up-front about it. They have no corners of their minds crammed with baggage and bones. They've learned to subsist on the remnants and to scavenge. It's pretty efficient, and I like little complications. I prefer my complexities to come from within, not outside of me.

Lately, I've been going to a pub that used to be a bank. I go on Wednesday evenings, and it's me and my silver Frida earrings dangling like milagros from my earlobes, a table full of man-boys, and pitchers of golden liquid that I never drink. The waitress has a Monroe piercing and sometimes buys us shots that taste sweet enough to numb thought processes and turn drunkenness into brilliance. We play a trivia game for money and almost always near-win. The host is an Irishman who uses us as the standard by which he can determine whether the questions he's asking are too hard or not. Our team name last week was The Fighting Amish. I wanted it to be The Amish Street Gang, Motherfuckers, but no one was buying that trash. Turning thirty means I am rowdy beyond what's good. I expect that being seventy will mean more of the same, only worse.

What is strange, my friends, is that I get hit on by twenty-year-old guys and am still carded everywhere I go, unless the bartender is like eighty and those broads know things. When those ladies pour my drink, I just know that they realise I've slept with a number that's less than one hundred but rhymes with shifty, and it gives me the heebie jeebies. Don't get me wrong, though. I don't mind being carded. How this all plays out is baffling to me is all. I'm in looking underage's thing all the time lately. My mom says it's because I never smoked and I don't do drugs anymore; Shaun claims it's the organic and mostly raw foods I eat; my dad says it's not drinking much. I think it's drinking my ass off on the times that I do it and cooling it the rest of the time, getting enough sleep, excercising when I can, and knowing when to gnaw on a candy bar and when to walk away from the artery clogging potential projectile.

Speaking of hot messes, on Friday, I went bowling with another large group of boys. They played hip-hop at the bowling alley. The shoes were cute enough that I wanted to swipe them, but like for real. I didn't, though. I guess part of being thirty is I don't want to get arrested for ganking shoes from a trendy bowling alley. If I'm going to get apprehended these days, I want it to be a goodie, and not after I've paid twenty dollars to be there. Our team was fierce at bowling, and we had the requisite immature bowling names you choose at the bowling alley. Mine was Assgrabbin. Seeing that light up on the screen whenever I did something amused the hell out of me. I am easily amused, I guess.

At one point, we'd had a few gin and tonics, and decided it'd be love-rock to see who could roll the fastest ball. See, that's the kind of high-tech joint we were at: the bowling alley measured the MPH of our rolls. Soon, I was thinking it would be a good idea to see how far down the alley I could get before they threw me out or something beeped loudly at me. What I didn't expect was the alley was really slick with wax. I mean, I knew it'd be waxed, but this was crazy and kind of cool. I slid into an almost-splits. Then, I thought that since I was on the floor in an uncomfortable position, I might as well lie down. A lot of folks clapped. There were a few "She so crazy" looks, but I guess you just had to be there.

Afterwards, we went to a dive bar with a live band that featured a mean organ player. The place promised drunken spelling bees for porn or cans of meat, so I was all over that. We ended up having our own little spelling bee at the table, me and the boys, and I found that spelling words is a lot harder when you're grown-up and drunk than it is when you're a ferocious little spelling bandit of a kid. Let me put it this way; I forgot how to spell Stolichnaya. I used to win spelling bees all the time.

Yes, I can be real and admit that I was messy enough not to remember a vodka. The end of the night found us in a gay club and somehow, I'd gained an admirer from Barcelona who thought I was Russian. At one point, a cocoa-skinned dancer tried to twirl me on the dancefloor, but I wasn't having it. By the time we got home, I wrapped myself up cozy-cozy in Shaun's bathrobe and fell promptly to sleep. The next morning brought the first hangover in ages, and one of the boys from the night before saying, "She is a she-devil."

I've been called worse and been in worse company. That's how it goes, I guess.

Jewel Home-slice Fatherfucker

P.S. I start Aveda tomorrow, Anthropologie on Sunday, and I am so excited! I got to buy new work-clothes yesterday and it made it more real to me. Also, I had a lovely Saturday evening out with Shaun, involving finding him a suit for his arguments section in law school, getting macaroni and cheese homestyle, and curling up for nuzzling and lazy dreaming.

i can bite the dog that bit me first

2008-03-18T16:22:15Z

(at work)
The toilet flushes when I haven’t touched it; frothy, smelly stuff (known as self-dispensing soap) misses my hands at the sink. I cannot even pull a paper towel down for myself. A sensor watches me. When I’m close enough, more paper than I’d ever use comes out. I am scared. “Convenience” wastes energy and turns us all babies in a world that still allows women to be imprisoned for being raped, stoning, and men to kill their wives in “self-defense.” This world is eating us raw, and we can’t flush the goddamn toilet. Soon, technology will give us a new way to wipe our asses, so we won’t remember the fragrant shit of being apes.

***

(at protecting)
Shaun and I go for a run at dusk. We run and pause, hold hands, and almost get passed by a little old lady with the face of a leprechaun. Cemetery gates are still open, so we wander through the plots, respectful and intent not to bring anything home with us. Stories play hide-and-seek, waiting for someone to find the tongues to tell them. One of the graves is from 1767; another commemorates a woman seized by British troops. This stands in an obelisk that has been rounded at the top by the elements, yet the words are etched sharply. I make a promise to myself to return and do some grave-rubbings to keep the names alive and to find out more of this place.

On the way home, we stop for a treat. A man with dreadlocks and latte skin plays smiles with me, and gives me what I want. I carry a brown paper bag with blueberry and banana-chocolate chip coffeecakes and hum because I am always happy when I have a bag of treats. Large dogs bound past us, and we move cautiously. Shaun thinks they are someone’s dogs, but I sense danger. I know these dogs might be someone’s, but they are in aggressive pack-formation. Up ahead, we see a young woman with her smaller dog. The dogs do, too, and run up to it.

Shaun decides they want to play, but my muscles go stiff. I sense something else is going to happen. Suddenly, these huge dogs (150 pounds, maybe?) are attacking the other dog. Yelps and snarls fill the night. I jump into the mess and separate attacking dogs with my bare hands. My brain isn’t thinking anything but that I need to save this other dog. Miraculously, I do not drop my treat-bag. The woman’s dog is confused when I pull it away on the leash and enter a gate in someone else’s yard to keep the big dogs away. They lope off, teeth white in the moonlight.

Shaun and I walk the woman halfway home, meeting two people on the street. “Youse guys didn’t know her?” the man asks, when we get the dog-woman to her block. “No,” I say, ducking my head. My heart is racing with adrenaline and fear. I could have gotten seriously injured, but I knew that I would not be. I just knew it, like I knew the big dogs were going to go violent. The situation shows me something important about myself and about Shaun; I raced towards the danger, and he observed, hoping for the best.

I’ve yet to be attacked by an animal, even those that snarl.

***

(at mind)
Days crouch over the nights with skirts hiked up. Midnight yanks my hair back, exposing my throat. These are the times of concrete and monster machine-growls, of wild city-lilies pushing through the cracks, of piss and steel. My old-lady brain and prophetess-eyes are too wise for this Philadelphia. I pass strangers and divine the skeletons in their cupboards with a too-long, too-intimate glance like the press of a hand on the inside of a stranger’s thigh or how you can fuck with pedophiles at the grocery store by staring at them when they gaze longingly at their younger cousins. Everyone else pretends not to notice, but I sharpen my stare on their naughty-bones and repulsiveness and communicate that I know exactly what their dirty, secret heart’s wishes are. I am a survivor of such wishes, so I have the second-sight to know who is a predator and who is not. This sight is my curse, and never a gift, because I wouldn’t give it to anyone. I stare because I want them to know that I know.

These are the ancient hours, the ones where I feel like I hold the planet’s history in my hands, and my hands are crone-long and (imaginary) wrinkled with wars and attempts at peace. I’ve never seen an ugly tree before this city. The sight of these trees, butchered for power lines and better views of musty waterways angers and saddens me, and adds twenty years to my shoulders. I am old and young and alive and dead.

Then, after a day of watching money funneled through business people’s fingers, racing around and being told one thing and then, demanded to do another, I fold into myself, bent in two, where chest presses to knees and knees to the ladder of the ankles, and I feel a child. My heart has never really known greed or filth or how to use others, and it rents my soul. I don’t know how to deal with it, and so, I sob into hiccups, hiccup into gasps, and gasp into unconsciousness, finding rest an uneasy lover. I sleep with a stuffed dog for the first time in twenty years and say baby-prayers on the wings of my dragon fly Tiffany lamp. I wish for dogs and ponies, faery-friends and for the first time in my life, unicorns. When I was a kid, unicorns bothered me, mostly because of classmates who wore them on pastel sweatshirts or carried them on those strangely sexual Lisa Frank notebooks and stickers. Now, I understand how important believing in unicorns is. Clap if you believe in them! I beat my hands bloody clapping for unicorns. I am weak with wishes.

I am two women in battle and in lust, in innocence and in light, rock-salt tears and fists clenched, crab apple-hard. My father is also a product of extremes, the pilot who can solve complex mathematical equations in his head, yet insists on surrounding himself with interesting things and traveling to the literal ends of the earth to see new sights. He tells a story of how he once had to make an emergency landing during flight school in a field of horses. Horses danced, dappled gold and brown in the fading light. Most people would have waited for assistance. My father decided he wanted to ride the horses—bareback. He dared his instructor to ride one; the instructor broke both of his arms and gained a source of teasing and legends. Dad climbed onto one of the young horses and rode just as it started to rain, a man of land and air, in motion, in sound.

Anyone who’s met him knows how I came to be and why I am two precious extremes. The world around me notices the dichotomy, also. I’ve never felt so divided, like one could cleave me in two and find completely different beings on either side of the cut. Babas in colourful wraps at the grocery store, true judges of character, pat me and call me “baby-girl.” Strangers often say, “You are such a good girl!” At the bus-stop, a Jamaican gangster talks to me about Obama and Hillary, while his homies snicker. “Safe, not safe,” the pendulum swings. He thinks me safe, so we talk about presidents and bitches and hope. Yet, most of my friends insist that I am the one they’d want on their side if a fray ever broke out. Those who meet me often comment on my ass-kickingness and the wildness lurking just below the surface, even when I am quiet and turning my knees inward and combing the tangles in my hair out.

Reconciling these two creatures is a part of growing up. Grow up is so painful, almost like the time you go to school and a kid in your class spoils Santa Claus by telling you it’s not real. You still believe a little while longer, but something cries when you think of presents under the tree and how much you believe in this jolly old guy who just wants children to smile. Getting this new job has taught me more in the way of that than I ever expected. What I’ve seen is that you should do what is your passion or you will soon be unfulfilled and unhappy, no matter what amount of money you are making. What this also means is that I can no longer function in this job; I took it to gain money and experiences, without ever thinking what it would do to my soul.

For this reason, I am soon going to be working with two companies that I’ve long admired and whose products I support. I’ll be managing a store for one and serving as a key holder for the other: Aveda and Anthropologie. I get a salary, awesome benefits, and a crazy discount (74% off on products and 50% off on the services at their salons) with Aveda, as well as neat things like they’ll pay for fifty counseling sessions a year; provide for any type of education I want to get, whether it furthers me in the company or not; and offer me great opportunities for training and bettering the world around me. This is a company that uses wind power, develops programs to help indigenous peoples, cleans up waterways, uses post consumer waste almost exclusively in its packaging, and believes in its people. They’ve let me know how much they want me there, and are supporting projects I’ve got brewing, like going to battered women's shelters and giving the women make-overs (not because they need to be changed, but because being beaten, you feel so ugly and sometimes, having someone care for you, cut your hair, and make your skin look better does a lot in the way of healing) and teaching those who need it job skills; organising a neighbourhood clean-up; and taking spoken word to ghetto youth. I already shop the hell out of Aveda and respect its focus on sustainability and organics. Why not manage one of their joints?

At Anthropologie, I also get a sick discount (also, at Free People and Urban Outfitters, which it also owns), work in a creative environment, and have awesome co-workers. My pals already think I am a walking advertisement for them, so why not? Why the hell not? Some of the most amazing experiences I’ve had have come from asking why the hell not? Perhaps this direction isn’t what others would have seen for me or what some people would approve of, but I’ll be making a great living wage, will be emotionally and creatively rewarded, and will be working for companies I believe in. I spent so much of my earlier life and this recent job search doing what I thought would make others proud of me. I need to believe in me, too. You are what you do. I want to do great things.

As if all of this isn’t enough, I’m also freelancing with a British publication, writing profiles for German companies that will be printed in a guide. The research is intense, but interesting. I find the more profiles I do, the easier they become. I’m grateful for this, and all of the other opportunities that have come to me. Even when I despair, I recognise that I am a very blessed woman and that many people think I lead a charmed life. I don’t lead a charmed life, but I do live. I live rebelliously and gently: a hundred girls with a hundred histories in this one, tall body.

I am how I live, which is fierce and true. I know things’ll work out if I remember that.

Jewel-mouth, still taking risks because it’s not worth doing if you don’t do it with all of your soul

I AM ONE OF THE WORKERS!

2008-02-28T22:11:31Z

There's much to be said, but for now, I want to crow to crowded rooms: I GOT A JOB! What's more is the job is close to where I live, with free parking, benefits, a regular salary, bonuses, and a beautiful business. I'll begin on Monday, and will learn the business from top to bottom, eventually taking a managerial position. My interviewer said my handwritten letter was amazing. "In this day and age, a handwritten thank you note is so rare. We knew you were a rare person," she said today. Finally, people who understand the little flourishes that make business a far more personal affair! What's more is my superiors seem thrilled at the prospect of hiring me, and tell me continually how excited they are. They like my artistic leanings and encourage my growth.

This week, job offers deluged me, none of them feeling quite right. I started despairing and wearing pajama pants around the house until late afternoon. A typical day had me at my desk, my hair a wilderness of tangles, a cup of peppermint tea to my left and a Nalgene of water to my right, as I scoured online job listings and tailored cover letters and my resume for each and every job listing. I did this for twelve hours or more, seven days a week, praying and hoping that someone wouldn't hold my Bohemian past against me. I went to interviews, practicing my impassive face, trying not to look like an abandoned dog that wants someone to adopt her very much. If they know that you're hungry, they try to make you work for less and subject you to less than favourable conditions. That's what Phila has taught me in this search for gainful employment.

It is very hard for me to have a non-emotional face, when I am a mess of passion. My lust for life shows in my every gesture. I wish it weren't so, but that is how it is. Only this time, it wasn't a detriment.

Let's all say it again: I GOT A JOB!

I start on Monday, where they'll tender their offer in hard-copy.

Hallelujah, amen, and all that other pious shit. Thank you so much, everyone who listened to me, offered encouragement, or believed in me through this search. Every ounce of it moved me towards this, and I am so surprised and grateful to know such stupendous folks.

Santa Julia, Patroness of Lost Causes and Sort-of Reformed Bohemians

P.S. I'll talk about other stuff later. There's much to say now that my greatest worry has been erased; I feel as if a tremendous weight has been lifted and now I've much to chatter on about.

cool folks done wrong

2008-02-26T16:33:58Z

Here’s a phrase I thought I’d never utter: I am upset for Whoopi Goldberg. This year’s Oscar’s show featured a montage of previous Oscar hosts. Goldberg, a four-time host, was omitted. Today, I watched a clip of Goldberg on The View, and she handled what must have been a painful situation with poise. Her response made me like her a little more than I already did because she showed herself to be real and allowed the general public to see that yes, famous people get their feelings hurt and the entertainment industry can be ugly.

Some critics might argue that the Oscars have a limited time for broadcast and can only show a limited amount of material. I call bullocks on that. Goldberg was the first female host, the first Black host, and the first Oscar-winning host. She, along with Andrew Lloyd Webber, Liza Minnelli, and Barbra Streisand, is one of only a few people who have won an Emmy, a Grammy, an Oscar, and a Tony award. Those are incredible feats. Then again, the Oscars haven’t been known to be friendly with Black entertainers.

There’s only been one Black person to ever have been nominated for Best Picture (Quincy Jones for 1985’s The Colour Purple), one Black nominee for Best Director (John Singleton for 1991’s Boyz n the Hood), only one Black winner for Best Actress in a Leading Role (Halle Berry for 2001’s Monster’s Ball), only three Black nominees for Best Writing for Original Screenplay (Spike Lee for 1989’s Do the Right Thing, John Singleton for 1991’s Boys n the Hood, and Suzanne de Passe for 1972’s Lady Sings the Blues), and a fifty-one year gap for a Black woman to win Best Actress in a Supporting Role (Hattie McDaniel for 1939’s Gone with the Wind and Whoopi Goldberg for 1991’s Ghost ).

At least the Oscars have been a little better to Black men. There’s been four winners out of seventeen overall nominees for Best Actor in a Leading Role (Sidney Pointier for 1963’s Lilies of the Field, Denzel Washington for 1991’s Training Day, Jamie Foxx for 2004’s Ray, and Forest Whitaker for 2006’s The Last King of Scotland) and four winners out of sixteen overall nominees for Best Actor in a Supporting Role (Louis Gossett, Jr. for 1982’s An Office and a Gentleman, Denzel Washington for 1989’s Glory, Cuba Gooding, Jr. for 1996’s Jerry Maguire, and Morgan Freeman for 2004’s Million Dollar Baby). For Freeman, it took him seventeen years from the time of his first nomination (1987’s Street Smart) to actually win it in 2004 for Million Dollar Baby. In reviewing Oscar history, I see many similar slights.

For instance, Goldberg got robbed of the Oscar for The Colour Purple; getting it for Ghost was all right, but it was a film where she was a supporter, not a character commanding the film’s direction like she did as Celie in The Colour Purple. The Colour Purple is one of the best films I’ve ever seen. Goldberg was stellar, as was the entire cast. The first time I saw it, I was getting ready to check out of a hotel, and became fascinated by the characters of Celie and Shug. I paid a late check-out free so that I could sit in that distant little hotel room, watching Goldberg and Oprah Winfrey tell stories of human history and heartache.

When I look back at my knowledge of cinema (which is pretty deep, although most people don’t know that about me because it’s a little secret pleasure I like to take and keep as I see fit), I see how groundbreaking The Colour Purple was. Instead of focusing on Black folks propping up white stories (such as in the insulting Gone with the Wind with the “yes massah” brand of character portraiture), The Colour Purple showed Black women leading rich, complex lives. Black women carried the picture without lessening themselves to do so.

See, the other thing with American cinema is that women are often relegated to being girlfriends, wives, or victims. We’re not often portrayed as being anything other than an extension of our mates or stupid enough to always be in peril and needing rescued. Women are seldom shown as having their own stories and lives, like in The Colour Purple or the wonderfully whimsical Amélie. What is interesting about this is that women’s bodies are often used to draw moviegoers, such as when Halle Berry famously bared her breasts for Swordfish or Denise Richards in just about any awful film she’s starred in. The message that studio heads seem to be sending is that women are not good for carrying story, just for being the icing. Some studios, like Warner Brothers, have passed down directives saying that “chick-flicks” are money-losing ventures. Warner Brothers’ president of production, Jeff Robinov has gone on the record saying, “We are no longer doing movies with women in the lead."

The sad thing is that most cinema plotlines could be universal, allowing either gender (or many races) to play a leading role. It’s just that Hollywood chooses, more often than not, to place a white male in the protagonist role. Imagine “Indiana Jones” as a female. One studio did and came up with “Laura Croft,” after the Tomb Raider video games. Uma Thurman’s high-kicking, revenge-seeking “The Bride” in Kill Bill could have easily been Black, Chinese, or any number of other races. The need for revenge is common in human history; just ask every civilisation that’s ever gone to war.

What is interesting about all of this, too, is that many of the top grossing films of all time prominently feature women (1965’s The Sound of Music, 1973’s The Exorcist, 1997’s Titanic). Bollywood cinema in India is built on ravishing, talented leading ladies. Then, there’s films like Thelma and Louise, which was one of the top grossing films of 1991 or Ghost, which showed that women could carry movies and do it damn well. I appreciate a film that shows that women have their own powerful stories, that there is a history and strength to our wombs and the grief we carry. We are bred into physical pain. We overcome and shine through that pain. We nurture and provide comfort, sometimes steal or lie, make adventures and change worlds, pretend to be something we’re not and hide, teach nations and worship the earth. We are so many things, all of them complex. We are more than the offshoot of some man’s life.

I remember being a little girl and wanting a heroine that could give me hope and make me see that being female was being influential and not being prey to bad plots. I wanted to see women who loved women and not just men, women who had dark skin and kinky hair or almond-shaped eyes and fierce smiles, instead of the quiet, subservient little Asian maids I saw in films. I wanted to see American Indians that healed the land instead of shooting businessmen on trains and scalping cowboys on the Plains. I wanted to see African goddesses raising civilisations with their power and beauty instead of shucking cotton and singing ill-educated-sounding songs. I wanted to see Black fathers and scholars, instead of low-rider G’s or gigolos out to pimp their Black sisters.

I wanted an actress like Whoopi Goldberg, who still makes me laugh and cry, and reminds me that life, although strange, is made of mighty and monstrous joy. They should have done her better than that. She deserved more from the Academy than what she got.

We all did.

Sister Sparks-in-Her-Britches

monday kind of grey

2008-02-22T16:08:58Z

Mark Rothko, Center Tryptich for Rothko Chapel, 1966, Houston

I am broker than broke, but I wear raw rubies on my earlobes and deep orange carnelians on my fingers—both pieces of jewelry I made. There is celery in the fridge, along with crimini mushrooms and basil leaves to stir into a pasta. The other night, I made a roasted topping on whole wheat pasta that was delicious, nutritious, and nothing short of amazing: red and yellow peppers, red onion, mushrooms, garlic, sea salt, cracked peppercorns, olive oil, and basil. The meal was nothing ornate, just simple flavours, and great nutrition. The vegetables took forty-five minutes to properly roast, so the house was heavy with scent, making our mouths water and stomachs plead for a preview.

The night before that, I made roasted asparagus with a side of pierogis. I love having a friendly little kitchen to whip up my meals in, and daydream about buying a KitchenAid Mixer, chrome or black; more baking tins; and a set of knives even better than the one I currently have. This is domesticity. I never thought I’d want more than what I could make with my hands. I’m learning there’s a whole world of culinary art that I’m hopelessly behind on. I’ve some catching up to do. Shaun likes my experiments and rewards me with butterfly kisses of lash to cheek and spins me around to say, “Baby, that was wonderful!”

This being broke bothers me because I pride myself on my independence. This city is very difficult to find employment in, even the retail and serving jobs I’ve always done to supplement my earnings. However, I have a few job prospects, so I am looking forward to seeing what happens. None of them is my true life’s work, but I’ve learned about compromise. Sometimes, one has to sacrifice a bit of the present to find the future. This year, my goal is to pay off all my bills, repair my shaky credit, become financially stable, and study investing so that I can start accruing a portfolio. I’ll probably be working like mad and having little creative or personal time, but it’ll be worth what my hard work will bring for my future. There are opportunities on the horizon, but I’m a little nervous. I’m almost afraid to hope too much because everything gets ripped from my hands, so I’m covering my head and stepping out into traffic, just to remind myself that I have to keep taking chances.

I’ve been made a few job offers, pending a background investigation. These are wonderful, secure jobs with benefits and good salaries, the kind of jobs that would change my life, and that I could do well and happily. Each interview I’ve had, I’ve killed and I mean killed. I could tell the interviewers wanted to hire me on the spot. Afterwards, I sent miniature Rothko prints and individual handwritten letters. Right now, I am playing the waiting game as my background is investigated.

My background is clean as far as criminal record, education, and job history, but my credit isn’t amazing. It bums me out that I could potentially lose a job because of making less than ten grand a year for the last five years. In a way, it’s a form of classism, like you need to make a certain amount to be paid a certain amount, but if you haven’t, no one will take a chance on you and you’ll be doomed to jobs where you never make more than that amount. Or your credit is dotty because of bad decisions you made when you were young and desperate but you cannot hope to remedy that without a job that pays you enough to actually feed yourself and take care of business. The job won’t hire you because of your shaky credit, so you’re once again doomed to low-paying jobs where no one cares if your credit is good or bad. You forever live in the food ghetto, the one where you’re too poor to consistently eat by your organic or healthy ideals, so you eat very little because you’d rather eat nothing than to eat lard and pesticides.

This is the kind of stuff that knots my fingers in the sheets at night and drenches my brows with sweat, even though I’ve so much to be grateful for and might have a choice of several new jobs. I’m not scared like I was at Arco, scared of being trapped in a place that no longer was what I believed in, but I am scared, scared that I’ll be doomed some lower-class economic status, even though my education and job performance says I should be doing so much better. I am not feeling sorry for myself or asking for help, more needing a way to express these things and also, to be real. One of my readers here once said, “Sometimes, I wonder whether you’re real or not.” This is all too real. Live it, live through it, and see.

Bet me I don’t end up cocktailing for one of the bars in Rittenhouse Square because I can clear six hundred or more a week. The thing is, it won’t move me towards my future in a way that prospective employers would appreciate. Damn this feeling confined and knowing that I am so much bigger than the sum of the life I am living right now. Band-aids on craters and all of that rot. I'm dripping tears and blood all over myself, and this is real, as real as it gets on a Friday that is a Monday kind of grey.

the velveteen jewel

breathing, light, decay.

2008-02-20T19:10:53Z

I am still alive.

Here in Philadelphia, the sky sprays gunshots like the Fourth of July firecracker pop-pop-pop, and the birds wear newspaper feathers, all tattered and sodden like it's been raining forever. I'm convinced that if Phila were an animal, it'd be a tabby that shits on your bed, but that you like anyway. My platinum Marilyn Monroe, Bridget Bardot, and Jayne Mansfield had a baby named Jewel hair is the only like it I've seen. This is a city of dark-locked frowners. The pale sweep of my bangs and wide open blue windowpane-eyes earn stares almost everywhere I go, along with the acres of my athlete's ass. I've never had so many men feel the need to comment on my body--to my face. In every other place, men might have lewdly yelled out of a window or muttered in passing. Never have I experienced the face-to-face challenge of, "Girl, your ass is so fine that I know your mama made you just the way you is!" Cornrowed African queens hate me on sight, thinking I've come to steal their men and play out some colonial world fantasy. I want to be their baby sister. I want to run after them and tell them, "When I was four, I wished I was Black because I lived in an area with dark-skinned women who looked like royalty with their golden turbans and bejeweled earrings and cowrie shell necklaces like a woman's sex-lips. I used to let men slam doors in my face and beat me. I wanted to be Black because I equated it to being powerful and never letting a man slam a door in your face. I wanted to be Black," I imagine saying.

It never happens that way, but I am alive.

fuck this noise

2008-02-06T21:29:02Z

I think I bawled more last night and today than I did when the people who helped me pack the moving truck mistakenly packed my coat with the moving truck keys in it. At least then, I had a good sob in the back of the moving truck, cautiously climbing over the boxes, and finally locating my coat and the keys to my freedom. With this, there was no relief. I got a really sincere and regretful letter from the Firm last night. It seems all the partners wanted to hire me--the letter said I was "the one we all wanted"--but the Founder was insistent about hiring someone with a strict business background and matching business education. The letter was gentle; I could tell the partners felt awful about having to send it. I felt a little better, but not much. I really, really wanted this job with all of my heart and knew I was going to change my whole life having it.

Some would say that there are other jobs, and that is true, but the job market is tough. Friends I know who are searching for employment are suffering. Extremely capable acquaintances are making an equally rough go of it. I mean, it used to be employers snatched me up on the spot. Now, I'm contending against hundreds of applicants who don't have something like Arcosanti on their resumes. Yesterday, I went to the Doctor's office, and it was a nightmare. At first, I wondered if some jokey television show was taping me. It was that bad, and I can take most bad. I'm desperate at this point, and I'll do almost anything to keep my tummy fed.

The "office manager" had a sweatshirt with dollar signs on it, girl gangsta tattoos, and pencilled-in eyebrows and lips. I am not about judging people for how they choose to ornament themselves, but in an office setting, a person should be professional. I felt like a sore thumb with my hopeful, pressed slacks; camel coat; and bright face. The office gangsta yelled at the Doctor when he asked her to show me the system and wouldn't say hello to me or address me directly. I sat with her for a few hours, learning what I could; it was hard because she addressed the other person at the desk, not me. No one had me fill out any paperwork or showed me my employee packet. Then, they put me in the back with their graphic artist, a four foot tall guy who immediately told me about his fractured homelife and started showing me pictures of squirrels that he collected. My desk was a filing cabinet and my computer was a broken laptop.

Just when I thought it couldn't get weirder, the office manager had to chase someone who tried to get away with not paying for a pain shot. A brawl in the parking lot ensued. No one told me about break-times or even offered me lunch. I didn't even know I would be coming in until the Doctor called twenty minutes before he wanted me there. Finally, the Doctor called me to the conference room. He had decided to change the details of our arrangement, not because of anything I had done, but because he decided he didn't want to pay insurance or benefits for another person in the office; part-time employees don't get benefits. Not only that, but he decided he'd like me to redesign his brochures, write scripts for his medical movies, write content for his website, organise a monthly magazine he puts out for patients, work with the squirrel enthusiast on a new web portal, visit area hospitals to do marketing and research, and work as an intermediary with patients--all for less than what an average secretary or drugstore worker would make. We hadn't agreed on no benefits and low pay. It made me feel like he gauged me, thinking I was a nice person and that I needed the work badly, so he thought he'd make an extra buck, effectively treating me like slave labour.

I left that behind at my last place.

Suffice it to say, I came home, soggy from the rain, teed off at life and jobs, and more than a little scared of my financial situation. I cried until my eyelashes became little star-points, and even wrote Oprah, saviour of the Free World, a letter. I slept the sleep of death, and woke up to look for more jobs. I do this probably ten to twelve hours a day or more. Something's got to give. I'm mad at myself for letting myself get attached to the job at the Firm. I'm usually more cautious about jobs than this. It's just that all of our meetings were so splendid, and I got a good read on everyone. I could tell by what they said and were doing that I was the Main Contender.

It's easy to go from Main Contender to Main Idiot, isn't it?

If that isn't enough, I was running a 103 fever from Sunday; and now today, I am exhausted, barely able to move, and at 96 degrees steady. I've a doctor's appointment tomorrow. Thank goodness that Shaun comes home with treats and kind words and still likes me, even when I am cross and red-eyed from crying and feeling lost.

Lessons, lessons.

Ms. Empty Pockets

job updates

2008-02-04T20:14:51Z

The interview with the plastic surgeon/wellness physician went well, although for different reasons than the one with the Attorney. I dashed into the meeting (still twenty minutes early) after being asked to arrive two hours earlier than we'd previously agreed. The day was rainy, but my three-quarter ecru frock coat was rocking, and I got an umbrella afterwards. The Doctor asked me direct questions and kept me for about twenty minutes before deciding to hire me. I thought that because English was not his native language that I'd gotten confused and "We'll start you soon" meant "We'll get back to you soon." Lo and behold, I received a telephone call today about working up a schedule for me as soon as possible. With this job, there is excellent salary and benefits, bonuses, and the opportunity for growth (the Doctor wants me to do some marketing research and a bunch of other things).

If I had my choice between the two most recent interviews, I'd go with the Firm. I could imagine myself working with that group of people, and I see the possibility for limitless growth. The people are decent, intelligent, and interesting. I'd also be salaried, with exceptional benefits, bonuses, and opportunities for growth and realising my potential. I'm excited about the possiblity of working there.

After our interview, I sent out a thank you E-mail. Today, I mailed both interviews handwritten thank-you cards on the back of Rothko prints. I arrived for both meetings very early and carried a folder with extra resumes and references, just in case. Friday morning, the Firm contacted me to say that they wanted me to meet the founder, who'd be flying in from Martha's Vineyard. I took this as a good sign. The Attorney said he didn't want me to wait much longer, but rather I met with the founder than do a tele-conference, as was discussed. I took this as another good omen.

It's funny, all of this, because I used to relish being a starving artist and living by my empty pockets. However, doing that also meant that I was constantly broke and never able to adequately compensate the people in my life for believing in me. That doesn't even count all the times I was ill and didn't see a doctor or dentist because I didn't have the funds or insurance. What I see now is that being a starving artist is only romantic to those who haven't lived it. It's not romantic to be scared of where your next meal is going to come from and how you're going to sleep next month. It's illogical and crazy-stupid. It's not the way a person should live.

I think that there's a way for me to work a decent wage and pursue my artistic goals in the after-hours times. I haven't stopped believing in my work/art. If anything, having gainful employment will help me to go further with learning about my various talents/trades. I intend to take creative writing and furniture making courses at a local college as soon as I secure a job. I plan to take grant-writing workshops and perhaps lead my own workshops. There's a wild, wide world out there, and I'm more than ready to seize it--one claw at a time.

Jewel

P.S. One of my friends asked, "How can you potentially work for a plastic surgeon, when women mutilate themselves there?" I said that it wasn't for me to judge and that I did a number of things to change my appearance that weren't natural (the older I get, the darker my hair gets, so you bet I dye it, even if it does take to colour and looks natural). If I start getting to a point where I no longer feel attractive, maybe I will consider plastic surgery. Maybe I won't. Wrinkles don't bug me. I see laugh-lines as scars of smiles once had. However, if it makes me feel good about myself and I'm doing it for myself, not some societal perception of common beauty, I don't see the harm. What worries me about plastic surgery is when perfectly attractive people become obsessed with it and drastically alter their appearances, having multiple surgeries. I think this is similar to the body dysmorphia that some anorexics and bulemics have. It results in a distortion of reality. I'm pretty sure that this is what's going on with Michael Jackson, too. That man doesn't know what he really looks like and is trying to run away from some ugly ghost he sees in the mirror that never existed. That said, I think it's for people to judge for themselves what they want to do or not. I do think it's important to examine the reasons why. A lot of plastic surgeons help people who've been seriously scarred in accidents to have faces once again. That's a lot of what my potential Doctor does.

muse @ 2008-01-31T18:26:00

2008-01-31T23:34:01Z

Well, well, well. It seems that I did well at the interview. I was there for two hours. It's been ages since I've run this gauntlet. That's good, right? The partners all queried me in a big, airy room with a beautiful wood table. I answered honestly, while still giving them an indication of how much I wanted to work for them. It's raspberry sorbet, really. The office is a vintage brownstone in the area of town known as the Gaybourhood or Gayville. When I stepped off the bus, I encountered many happily kissing Black men, which filled me with a great joy.

Down the block is the greatest little Italian bistro. Up the way is a pub that serves a mean lemondrop martini. The bartender called me "miss" and served it strong when the interview was over. I couldn't have been happier about how the interview went. Two hours is good, I think. The main partner said to me that he'd get back to me by next Friday, as he'd be traveling early next week. He said they'd be checking my references and that they'd do a basic background check on me. Then, he mentioned that perhaps I'd be coming in for a tele-conference with some of the international partners. He made sure to tell me that they were interviewing other candidates, and that they'd choose the best person for the job; he also said that there were people who were more administrative oriented, but indicated that they needed someone with more diversity. This was after he told me how diverse my resume was.

He asked if I was looking for employment/interviewing with others. When I indicated that I was, that's when he said that he'd get back to me as soon as possible--next Friday at latest. That's good, too? It's been so long since I've done this.

What the hell does a "minor background check" reveal?

I've got nothing to hide. My skeletons dance a Dia de los Muertos salsa on tables and bar-tops everywhere. It's just nothing I've ever encountered.

Yay, yay, and yay. Thanks for the happy thoughts!

Now, off for some asparagus gnocchi with a hot man. Life isn't so bad.

Jewel

muse @ 2008-01-31T12:18:00

2008-01-31T17:21:01Z

I'm a waiting-for-the-bus businesswoman in a winter-white Jackie O coat and sunglasses. It's a second-interview-with-the-lawfirm kind of day. Slipping into this professional attire and skin is as easy for me as making my hair a wildcat-wildfire before. I've got a smart purse, a copy of my resume, my research on the company, and an extra sheet with the address of the firm and my references (which I already mailed because the attorney asked for them).

Luck should be my lady today.

Wish her to me.

Miss Jewel

There is an interview tomorrow morning at a plastic surgery doctor's office and a medical study on Monday. I do what I do.

the job situation

2008-01-28T20:27:29Z

A telephone interview with an attorney sounds out a hallelujah chorus. Thursday, we'll have an in-person interview; in the meantime, I've been asked to send writing samples and references. Already, the attorney told me about the benefits, salary, and who I'd be working with--if I got the job. There are other applicants, but I am going to do my best. I want this stability and certainty like I want nothing else. I will be in a law office once again, if I secure this.

Tomorrow morning, I've been asked to bring my resume to an exclusive salon. I'd be coordinating the floor, a plum job with excellent salary and benefits. I just have to be likeable and stylish when I go tomorrow. I have to make them see that no one else should do this job but me.

I need this desperately. I've sent out hundreds of resumes, done crazy work, and wished on baby stars and baby-smiles. My luck has almost run out. Almost.

the things you have to find

2008-01-23T15:34:37Z

A freshly made face and a steaming cup of honeyed lemon tea keep me company as I prepare to sign a contract that will help my search for gainful employment. The chance to use my latent legal background fills me with a silent thrill, more than preparing binding documents or drafting affidavits ever did. It’s good to know my education still sits within me, even if I don’t always use it. The other day, I had the hardest time remembering three types of white wine. The little catastrophe reminds me to keep reading and expanding my mind. As Augustine of Hippo says: “Take up and read, take up and read.” That was the single most influential piece of advice for my entire life, other than “Don’t whiz on the electric fence” (Ren and Stimpy) and “Be nice to nice people to people and punch the ones who aren’t” (Dad, misguided, but well-intended). My goals: read and hunt for employment, be industrious and inventive, exercise my body, make new friends and go on as many outings as possible, keep my house as kick-ass as it is, be a dangerous beauty now that I can wear whatever I want without fear of it being destroyed or causing jealousies, and listen to music always.

I’ve discovered the greatest little radio station that segues from playing “Cry” by Dan Wilson to “The Bends” by Radiohead to “Southern Man” by Neil Young and Crazy Horse to “Stuttering” by Ben’s Brother to “Think I’m in Love” by Beck to “Solsbury Hill” by Peter Gabriel. It’s a beautiful little stew of sounds and influences, which is how I like my music. I’m not hip or particular with my tastes; I just know what my body likes. My body likes music the most. Music, my constant companion and teacher, has been with me longer than any other influence, except perhaps my parents. My mother would argue this, as she played music for me in utero. She says I gave a little wild-pony kick when she played the Beatles. I still kick around when JohnPaulGeorgeandRingo work their psychedelic magic (“She’s So Heavy” is particularly notable for this).

Another discovery is my favourite pierogi place. I’ve been told finding a pierogi joint is instrumental to becoming a Philadelphian. In the Southwest, it’s all about fry bread and Navajo tacos; in Chicago, it’s the Vienna hotdog; in Seattle, it’s vegan baked goods; and in Virginia it’s seafood bisque. Some would say that Philadelphia’s claim to epicurean cultural fame is the cheese steak, but I say boo on that. (The spirit of every grandpa that ever said, “Youse” for you has just come to haunt me for the duration of my stay here.) The pierogi is where it’s at. The pierogi is more complex and nutritious than a hoagie or cheese steak (and what’s with this city’s love for foods that possess the ee sound?). It is harder to make well. It’s got a blurry history, one that Polish babas and Czech grannies both claim. Me, I like anything with wheat flour, potatoes, and sour cream. Plus, it's got a lot of similarities with the Italian ravioli or the gyoza that I like having as an appetiser when I go for sushi.

This particular pierogi place has won awards and looks like the type of nondescript joint that ends up being five scoops of awesome; they had boxes and boxes of fresh cabbage in the front window, as if to say, “We are so good that we don’t give a damn if you see what we use in these here pierogi.” I tried to go there for about a week, but it was closed. Then, there was the pesky way I had of forgetting its name (Pierogi Heaven was a favourite mistaken appellation). But last night, I finally found my pierogi place, and guess what? I’m going to walk on down there for lunch—after I sign this contract, lasso a job, do my pretty dishes, take out the recycling, and listen to twenty songs that aren’t by Oasis.

Life to pierogis everywhere!

J-cat

in my head after the first time at the gym in three weeks; muscle and brain sing electric

2008-01-19T17:46:15Z

Downtown Philadelphia tilts on the axis of near-night. The sky is a symphony of dove-wings. I dip my hands into a pigeon-coloured puddle. My hands are clean. I go to a gallery in the warehouse district. The artists have made prayer flags out of textile art and paintings. As I walk beneath them, the prayers of these starving children, these soulmates, rain dirty blessings onto my head. Outside, the sky will do the same with large, star-shaped snowflakes. Once again, my hands are clean. My tongue has never been more bare.

edited from a comment I made to logan on his webpage

2008-01-18T18:29:38Z

Twenty branches and a bird are all that separate me from the rushing street below. Head covered and eyes traced with want I enter the city as if it were a confessional. The man on the corner gives me cake in a brown bag; the Turkish teenager at the market puts free figs and pomegranates in the same bag. I return home to lick fruit and frosting residue from my fingers, hungrily eating on the living room floor, eating like a refugee, eating like someone who is finally free. (And missing my brother, my light, logan.)

The noon-time light is a fist battering at me, wrapped in snatches of bluebird sky. This is not the endless, Persian blue of my Arizona, but a subtle, gentler blue, one that promises colder weather and flirting with snowflakes on the sidewalk and streets below. I wring out the restlessness in my muscles by dancing to ‘eighties music in between searching and calling for employment. I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m not working sixty hours a week and hatching schemes. My restlessness writes a last will and testament because my hope has larger teeth. One will soon murder the other.

This hope for a job burns my hands and breasts; at night, I gnash my teeth and kick away the covers. My pockets collect receipts, expensive lipsticks, and pieces of the sky I’ve snatched for myself. I consider doing a barefooted dance for a job and realise I no longer know where the grassy areas are. I must change this. What then, am I, if I am not a daughter and tale-spinner born of change?

Nondescript, your Jane Doe

phiadelphia stories

2008-01-17T15:38:02Z

Many Philadelphians (natch, Pennsylvanians) place electric candles in their front windows at night. When I drive through the city, the candles hold silent vigil: constellations created of reminders. The candles whisper that ghosts that still walk these streets. I asked Shaun why everyone has these candles. He said that the candle-lighters believed that people who had died would know that someone was still lighting a candle, waiting for their return. If that's true, I've a thousand candles lit. Subtle and shy, they make up the molecules of my very body. I know about ghosts and the ones left behind. We all need a little closure or just a sign that someone cares that we lived.

* * *

I walk down the avenue, passing a little old man, smiling and carrying a leash upon which smiles a little old dog. Man and dog move against the wind. I wish I had a little dog and that my little dog could be friends with the little old man's little old dog. I offer a smile, marveling at how it feels to be a stranger. In my last place, everyone knew everything of my comings and goings. I hated that I could have no secrets or that others made secrets of things they surmised, rather than those that had actually existed. Now, I can vacuum early in the morning, toss back a rum in the middle of the day, or listen to New Zealand throat-singers or the Beastie Boys very loudly late at night and no one has a thing to say about it or even cares. I never thought I'd enjoy anonymity and slipping through the cracks so much. It's refreshing, as cleansing as a sip of clear, clean water or no thoughts tangled with fear.

* * *

Speaking of tangles . . .

Rebecca informed me that there was a snag in a deal we made. While at Arco, I made my living space better in many ways, like painting it and repairing the baseboards. Another thing I did was build a closet out of materials I purchased. Most Arcosanti residences lack closets, a symptom either of frugality or stinginess (building a closet would take more materials and therefore, cost more). Seeing this, I designed a closet that covered a wall at the far end of my room. As I was leaving, Rebecca asked if she could have it. I said sure. She indicated that she'd feel guilty not compensating me in some way for the materials (over 200.00), so we made an arrangement that she'd pay 35.00 and come to remove the unit upon my departure. Most of my roommates were home for the holidays, so I was unable to communicate this with them. I did communicate it to the one person who was waiting to move into my room and wasn't officially a roommate yet.

After I left, people got upset about the deal and everyone on-site decided to weigh in on it. Some people were very outraged, saying, "Jewel can't take things out of a space arbitrarily." If I were still living at Arco and made that deal, no one would have said a thing. So instead, an inspection was made to decide whether or not I'd actually purchased the materials (because yeah, I'm going to just scavenge things from the Arco Boneyard and then sell them to my co-worker and friend for 35.00. My integrity means that much to me). When it was determined that I had paid for the materials, the issue was dropped, no apologies tendered to Rebecca or me.

However, the individual who'd moved into the room wanted to keep the closet, so she asked Rebecca for it. Rebecca, being the considerate person she is, allowed it. When she told me about this, it irked me, small as it was, because I wished for Rebecca to have the closet. Also, she shouldn't have had to be attacked for the deal. Why was it anyone's business? This little story illustrates yet another reason why I am relieved to be gone from that place.

People who care that much about what other people do need to get out of the concrete, take a walk, make friends with a dog, do something rewarding, listen to great music, or conjure up a poem. Life is so much bigger than the wars we create.

* * *

So far, the newest job search of four days has reaped few rewards. The one person who responded was a cross Arabic woman who wanted to know why I'd want to be a nanny when I had so many qualifications ("Best resume I've ever seen," she raved, her voice like sharp-clawed birds). "I'm writing a book and need something to settle into the city," I told her. What I wanted to say was, "Before I find my dream-job, the little niche that was created for someone like me, someone who's worked in legislature, tended bar, run businesses, kept ledgers balanced, edited books, written articles, and made hundreds of thousands of dollars for someone else with her ceramics." I've high hopes that there's an employer out there who's willing to take a chance on someone with extensive education and a varied work-history. All I need is for someone to gamble on me and I will be a champion. So far, no one's gotten back to me, beyond the Cross Arabic Woman.

I know it takes most places a week for responses, but damnit, I'm impatient. My twenty-four dollar checking account weeps and alternately, caws at the travesty (almost five grand was spent getting me to the dot on the map that says Here). I even applied at a swanky restaurant less than a mile away from the Apartment. I was excited about earning large tips that would sit folded in my pocket until I felt free to use or invest them (one of my goals this year is to get my finances completely in order, develop a good system of savings, and start researching investment strategies). I was lured by the love I've always had for working at posh places and the friends I've made serving and bartending. When I offered my resume, I was told I would have to take a test immediately.

It's no surprise that I think I failed it.

Never, in all my years of food service have I taken a test like this. After being hired and given information, I've taken tests, but never before. The first question was to name three viticultural regions of France. "Burgundy, Rhone, and Champagne," I scrawled, palms sweating. "Booze, booze," I kept thinking, searching for the answers. Someone who's been as drunk as I have over the years should have had it down. Of course, once I left the establishment, my brain turned back on, but sitting there, staring at this evil piece of paper that had the potential to help me move towards my future and dreams or deny me entrance, scared me.

At one point, I freaked out so badly that I forgot a third type of white wine, which is silly. I know this shit cold. I wrote Chenin Blanc and Chablis as the first two and blanked. O, Alanis Morrissette, if only you'd been there to guide me, by wailing about the "black fly in your chardonnay" in "Ironic." I decided to take the honest route and wrote, "I am nervous and cannot remember this. I promise you that I have an extensive knowledge of wines. Also, I am a red wine drinker and have more of a base of knowledge of those. I am willing and able to learn anything that this job might entail." The bus crashed into the tree after that.

One of the servers gave me a very sympathetic look when I left. Fine dining is hell.

I pray some of the other employers get back to me soon or it's going to be rough. Even so, my hope is a flag I wave in the winter air. My place is cuter than a piglet, I have a gym, the 'fridge is finally full, I've opportunities to meet new people, the guy down the way still likes giving me free cake, the love of an honest and true man, and I live blocks from the coolest section in Philly.

That's not a bad start to my new chapter here. Not bad at all, Blackfeather. I tend my candles well.

Badtesttaker McGee

country mouse in the city

2008-01-08T18:50:07Z

I'm writing with knuckles scraped, arms bruised, and hair tangled. Don't worry. I'm more than okay; moving is some scary, beautiful chaos. To think that I've moved across the country, set up house, seen my parents for the holidays, and gotten rid of a bunch of dross I've been keeping is amazing. Stepping out of Arco with head high and integrity intact was a huge relief; I cannot express how clean and free I feel inside and as though I walked away instead of running. I'm sorry that the reality of the place was more flawed than my dreams had been when I set out for the desert and a way to live my beliefs rather than just practicing them in mind. Whatever the bad parts of the place had been, the good parts (the friendships, the ability to discover myself, and all of the incredible experiences) will stay with me much longer. Leaving was the right thing to do.

Goodbyes lingered like party guests after a lawn-fight, and I didn't get to say all of them because time was limited and I had to rearrange my life in the course of a few days' time. However, I don't do goodbyes (when I started saying goodbye to Bill Campana, I got a little choked up and tried not to let him know it. I think it was because I told him he was always one of my favourites and realised how much I meant it; it's not often a person can hear such spoken word greatness so frequently). I prefer to think of it as see-you-later or a bookmark added so that the page can be returned to at another time. What really blew me away was the cheerful assortment of poets and artists (Bob, Sharon, Harmony, Aura, MCMG, Mandy, Ivan, Klute, Julie, Arrian, and Rebecca) who helped, came to help me pack, or saw me off. Damn, Arizona, you really know how to make a girl feel good. My Arizona burns in my mind, and of all the places I've lived, it is my truest home. From now on, when people ask where I am from, instead of saying that I've lived all over the world, I can say Arizona and know that I've turned native there.

For now, it's Philly with the little corner grocery store that doesn't accept graffiti and the home-style place two doors down that tucks free pieces of the moistest cake ever into your order (FREE), whether you ask for it or not. I guess this'll give me a reason to continue with my determination and focus at the gym. My pad is cute as hell, in a great Bohemian section of town, right on public transporation routes, and less than a mile from everything I could possibly need--from the gym to the organic grocery store to the Aveda salon to a pedicure place to a luxurious little assortment of bars and restaurants and other places to brunch and make new acquaintances. I don't have a job here yet, but by the end of the week, I should be in the right direction. It's easier to get a job once an employer can see you as a face and a name, rather than a piece of paper that's discarded because you live in another state. I excell at the face-game with employers so I have high hopes.

For right now, it's great to finally be settled in my new home. My closet is full of Anna Sui frocks, Mexican pheasant shirts, cashmere sweaters, vintage silk dresses, the kind of teetering, expensive shoes I was afraid to wear at Arco. The cabinets brim with dishes and mugs that my potter friend Larry made, but the 'fridge is empty. The walls are hung with art that either my friends or I have made or just that's inspired me for most of my life. The bathroom boasts a rug softer and deeper than any I've ever had. My red painted trunk from India is the coffee table, African statues stand guard from sunny windowsills, and milagros and nichos promise hope and blessings on the wall nearest my desk. A sweet boy sleeps in my bed at nights, warm and smelling like fresh laundry. I hope people will come and visit me as I learn this city and love it as fiercely as I've loved every other place I've lived. Making new friends is something I intend to do very soon. People walk dogs by my place every day, and I look forward to gaining canine friends along with human ones.

Here's to life and its little adventures!

Opus J

life, the extraordinary accident

2007-12-12T02:01:08Z

A lesson as of late: life is an extraordinary accident.

Ever do something that you consider to be small and find that other people surprise and amaze you in a wholly wonderful way? That's how I feel about the responses to my last post. I made the post in part due to a friend's post in her journal; I've always idealised her body and here, she posted, saying she's a size four and she feels fat. The responses to her post, everything from encouragement to people insulting larger-bodied people with words like "fatty," gave me pause to consider body image and self-esteem. Of all the struggles I've had in finding myself, body image/self-esteem has been one of my biggest obstacles. I'm still fumbling my way towards acceptance, as everyone I know is. Some days I know it’s kickass to be inhabiting this body, this time, but a lot of the time, I’m thinking too much this or too little that, never just right, like some “Goldilocks and the Three Bears” folktale gone sadistic.

What is it about our skin that makes us hate the containers that hold our souls? Why do I do it? I scream this question in my head every time I avoid a mirror or run an extra fifteen minutes on the treadmill, even when I’ve already run for hours. I want this voice to be sage and sweetgrass wisdom, like shuffling feet in an abandoned dancehall and reaching for the medicine bag instead of the bottle. I try to make it so and often feel very alone in this silent effort, the dirty secret I wipe on my pants with trembling fingers. Then, I read responses like the ones to my post and I understand I am not alone.

You people are truly fearless, inspiring, beautiful, and raw in what you've posted. Reading each response makes me want to scoop the lot of you up, cuddle you, kiss your faces, make you gingerbread cookies, play Joni Mitchell (or something great if she's not your cup of oolong), and tell each and every one of you that you're my heroes and heroines. Indubitably. I feel like everyone has laid a little present in my lap, wrapped in satin ribbons and decorated with wildflowers. I want to express many things to each person, but first, I must say, simply:

THANK YOU.

It all begins with that phrase.

miss talullah jewel