37 posts from August 2007

There's two things you never want to happen in Texas.

One is being brown on the wrong side of town, if you get my drift.
Two is having your central air unit go on strike.

Last night, the temp inside the house was 87 degrees. Granted, I know back in the day...when people lived on prairies and roasted snakes for dinner, this was not a big deal. I know I am being a big baby. I know I could have it a lot worse.

But dammit....I WANT COOL, TEMPERATURE CONTROLLED DELIGHT!

AC Guy is supposed to come today. It will take everything I have not to fall at his feet and sob when he rings the doorbell. But I suppose I should rethink that. The ice block on my head may fall and break his toes. To amuse me in my anguish, my brother created a playlist for heat, which had me crying laughing.

In honor of him...and flashback Fridays...I present the Ohio Players, "Fire."

If you need Mecca and I, we'll be fighting for space in the fridge.

PS...if you'd like to see that outfit up close and personal (see video), check Barry's closet. I'm almost sure he wore it on a recent trip to Starbucks. But you didn't hear that from me.

What makes your best friend so special? 
Submitted by Jessmiloo.

Ahhh...I love this question.

I'm so fortunate to have an inner circle. So...I can't just name one.

There's Jameel. But you already read about him here.

Then there's the Sibby. And you know how I love her to pieces. I suppose what makes her so special is...well, she's always been there. She's seen the great, the good, the bad and the ugly. I've changed her stinky diapered butt. I taught her to walk (actually, I taught her to run scrambling for her life, but we won't get into that). We've fought like wildcats (literally falling off a bed and dragging linens with us), we've nearly died together (another fight when I tried to extract her head while whipping a Mazda 626 around a curvy road on a rainy day), we've laughed together: usually while recalling our more memorable fights, and always, always clung to each other. She's my apple pie goodness with a dollop of vanilla ice cream on top. My sweetest girl, my slappin sidekick, and hopefully, my studio mate. Me and her, us never part. Go read her sometime, but wear a helmet and...she does bite. I'm the "good" sister. She's the "oh my GOD, did she just say that out loud" sister. Hard to imagine with such a sweet lil baby face, huh?

Then there's my Jessica. We met years ago in the teeny little ad agency in Center City, Phila. I'd imagine we're a total odd couple, but aren't the best friends always that way?  We are kindred spirits in the angry misfit world. Jessica is special because she's got more fire then just about anyone I know, and I dig that about people. She is precisely who she is, there is no debating it. Up front, in your face, fierce, loyal, incredibly creative, opinionated and far more witty then she'll ever admit. I miss our Thursday night's on the couch sipping wine, nibbling cheeses and laughing, debating, snarking or watching her kids amuse us. She never lets me give up on myself, and she never lets me swallow an ounce of my own nonsense. She keeps me rooted to what I know. And that's not an easy job. She's as tender as she is tough, her mind is vast landscape with colors not yet identified. And when I grow up, I might be able to snark as well as she does. But...she is a master. And she'll also kick my ass if I dare post her picture here, so instead...I show you a byproduct of Jessie, her little man...the Bean. And his cool ass hat.

That's not the entire inner circle..but these are the keepers of my light. And for them I am ridiculously thankful.

Do you own all the albums of any particular musical artist or group? Who?
Submitted by dutterman.

When I saw my sibby answered this, I decided maybe I should too.

Incubus. You can thank my sister for that. Whenever I like a song that's not quite mainstream, I usually go to my living, breathing musical library to find out the who's why's and where's. She helped me fall in love. As she typically does. If you want to know why I own all their stuff, read her post.

Jill Scott: I even broke my live concert release rule for her. Why? Because she has the purest most angelic voice and energy I've ever experienced. And...because she's a Philly girl. And all Philly girls kick ass. That is all.
 
Bjork: But I will admit, I have to be in a very particular mood to enjoy Medulla fully.

Jay-Z: He's Hova. I have nothing else to say regarding this.

George Michael: you should have known this.

Jamiroquai: Because he's so easy to listen to. Always.
 
The Roots: ?uestLove, I mean it. I'm in love with your everything. I outed myself. There it is.

Pearl Jam: Might as well out my love for Eddie Vedder too.

Maxwell: And if someone asks me didn't he sing "Somebody's Watching Me?" I will be forced to slap you and introduce you to some more black folks.

Sade, Mos Def, Talib Kweli, Common, Lizz Wright, Madeleine Peyroux...and some others...

John Mayer: doy

Martin Luther: who a) really needs to put out another album, b) really needs to be shown some love from some other folks besides The Roots and Dave Chappelle c) is not to be confused with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr who lead a civil movement, but never released any music.

There are others...but I'll leave it to this.

That serves as the pressure gauge on your furnace. The person, who as soon as they say, "hello"...you know you can let it out.

It has to be someone who knows you. Beyond that bullshit surface we all project when we want people to think we're smart or funny or cool. It has to be someone who has literally seen you snottin' all over yourself, hiccuping with grief or rage or just general confusion. It must be someone who can tell you you're full of shit, and you can resist the temptation to punch them in the stomach. It must be someone you trust enough to be able to hear what they say, and know it's true, even when it's the same stuff you refuse to believe as you say it to yourself. The person to whom you can admit every lie you've ever told.

I was driving and I felt a storm brewing inside. It began with a minor flap this morning, and by the time I left the house this afternoon, it festered into an ugly sort of wound, one I wasn't expecting or needing as I prepared to walk into a houseful of people who all had the expectation that I would be regular barrel of cheery snark.

I didn't have it in me today. No cheer, no helpful tips, no advice...nothing. I just wanted to be the bear in the back of the cave. Throw me a fish and fuck off steer clear. I was angry, I was confused, I was overwhelmed and I was suffering from a wicked case of tornado brain. I was scared of what I would do if he didn't answer. As soon as I heard his voice, I just bawled. Unintelligible blends of words and anger and distortion that he's had some experience weeding before. He knew to just let me tidy up my mental and emotional club houses out loud, sans his assistance so he said nothing until I was completely silent. All I needed was to know there was someone I could trust implicitly on the other end of the line because the only thing more upsetting to me then the source of my anger/hurt at that moment is the fact that after all these years...I still can get this unnervingly off kilter.

He excused himself from a meeting (I could make that out between my sobbing, gagging and wild gesturing), and just let me spit out questions and answer them, curse and defile the wicked elements picking at my oh so creative imagination and generally express whatever came to the front of my mind.

When I was done, I felt immediately better. Just as quickly as it started, the storm passed. And that's usually how my strong negative emotions come. Gale winds, hard pounding rain and black sky and then, seconds later, birds chirping and clear blue skies. Storm rolls in, storm rolls out. Those black clouds don't roll in nearly as much as they used to...but it still does happen when all the right triggers get tripped at the same time.

Today? I am grateful for friends that know how to quiet a storm and bring  feet back to terra firma.

So I told Idadi that I was going back to Ask and It Is Given for a refresher. Say what you will about Law of Attraction theories...we're all entitled to believe what we wish...it doesn't make us smart, or stupid or enlightened or ignorant. It makes us creatures of choice and pathways.

I don't think the basis works for trying to get that Porsche Cayenne, or willing into existence a million dollars for you to enjoy and lead the "high life." There is a journey we are all bound to take, to teach us and that I believe is resolute. Some things can, will and must happen for reasons we may struggle to understand. However, I'd like to think this particular passage does at least give you a fairly decent perspective to have in order to make the journey a little less harrowing:

"By paying attention to the way you feel, you can easily know if you are giving your attention to your desire or if you are giving it to the absence of your desire. When your thoughts are in vibrational match with what you desire, you feel good- your emotional range would be from contentment to expectation to eagerness to joy. If you are giving your attention to the lack, or absence, of your desire - your emotions would range from feelings of pessimism to worry to discouragement to anger to insecurity to depression." - Hicks, Esther And Jerry. Ask and It is Given. 1st ed. Carlsbad: Hay House, Inc., 2004. 26.

I love the notion of that. Using your emotions as a temperature check on  what your thoughts might be doing to you. How they might be driving your actions to undesired outcomes.

I like the notion of that.

 

There's something so deliciously snarky about these cards.

So Mecca and I have established a new routine. I bring home new things from the studio, she must inspect them. But not when they are tucked away in the tote bag, or wrapped in towels. No. That would be normal.

Mecca has to crash the photo shoot. Why? Because isn't that what diva's do? Crash the photo shoot for the recently identified "star?" So I go into my office, and set up the "area." I will not tell you how I do this for three reasons:

1) My sister would slap me for my ridiculous "jimmy-rigged" studio techniques.
2) I like when you laugh at me by my own design. Not for my arrogant foolishness.
3) It's not terribly interesting once you get beyond the "jimmy-rig" part.

Once the "area" has been established, Mecca expresses her disdain. How? By lying on the material I'm using as a backdrop,knocking over my jimmy lighting, laying on the piece about to be snapped, or simply butting her nose into the shot by licking the focus sweat from my forehead.

And then she gazes at me as if to be saddened that I do not appreciate her support.

So before I bore you with pottery...

Please note, her expression in number 2 is CLASSIC. As if for just a second, she knows what a ham she's being.

And now...to bore you with potteries...

So I might as well tell you. I out myself about everything else, this certainly shouldn't hit the scrap heap.

One of my shorter fictional pieces was being considered for publishing by an online magazine. I submitted the story to them back in February or so, then promptly forgot about it when several months passed without a reply. In the beginning of August, I received a reply indicating that the story was one a about 15 currently under consideration for the September issue.

I was excited. I tried not to be, but I was. I kept it under my hat, because that's how I think precious news should be kept, especially when you're not sure of what the outcome is going to be. Well, that's a small lie. I did tell a small circle of people within the inner sanctum, but no one else. I stayed positive. I remained optimistic.

That is, until I received the rejection email that offered me such esteemed feedback, I barely understood exactly what the editor didn't like about it. He used the word crot. I consider myself fairly enlightened, but crot is a new one for me. I googled the term and saw that the word crot is English grade school slang for poo. I cringed and discounted that definition as the Editor doesn't appear to be from the UK, and his advanced language and mannerisms indicate he left grade school quite some time ago. So I looked at the second option.

Taken from About:

Crot: Verbal bit or fragment used as an autonomous unit without transitional devices to preceding or subsequent units, thereby creating an effect of abruptness and rapid transition.

Well...he didn't like my crot. Actually, he was disappointed by my crot. Well...and two more letters and his rejection could have been a lot more personal.

Back to the old drawing board.

Where is your favourite place to be on a sunny Sunday afternoon? 
Submitted by Rev Stan.

Well this is an easy one to answer. My favorite place to be on Sunday afternoons...Sunday mornings...Sunday anytime is ClayWays Pottery Studio and Gallery. Although it's getting to the point where just one day, Sunday, is not enough. It started as a nagging curiosity that haunted me since childhood and it's evolved into the best sort of addiction.

But it's about more than just the clay, more than the wheel. It's the people. I used to love the Cheers theme song, but I never felt like I had my place. Where I could walk in and immediately know I was among friends. Granted, everyone may not know my name...but the feeling and the sincerity is there. Behind a wheel, you hear stories that make you laugh, some that make you cry...some that hit you over the head well after you've showered and collapsed in total clay euphoria. Most importantly, you learn. The clay and the instructors who have mastered it, have a way of teaching you not just about shaping and molding incredible things but about shaping yourself, if you can carry over the guidance.

Impatient? Not if you want to be a good potter. Self-Absorbed? Not if you want to really learn anything. Creative? Open your minds eye and you'll be overwhelmed with possibilities. Arrogant? That clay will work it right out of you.

Yeah...I wouldn't want to be anywhere else on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Or a rainy/snowy one, either.