Friday, July 27, 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
Walk This Way
Walking sticks are rad. I've had one for years and years. I found it out on a walk somewhere. I wish I could remember just where. Could have been the hills behind my house at the time, could have been along the creek in Libbey Park. It's got a perfect handle crook and a nice little kick back near the bottom. My dad sanded and stained it a dark brown ages ago. It's been sitting in the corner of my room. Hell, I even took it to Arizona with me and never used it. Shocking. I took a lot of things with me I never used. Just dragging junk from place to place. Pretty silly, really.
I caught an episode of Clean House the other night where they went to the messiest house in America. It was a big 4 bedroom, two bath house with a huge basement. It took 5 huge, flatbed truck dumpsters to haul out the trash from this place. And the amount of shit they ended up keeping in storage in the basement amazed even them. Nicey had a little smack down with the family on the day of the garage sale. The family members kept dragging things they insisted on keeping over to a specific tent, and it was an obscene amount of junk. She told them if she saw them take one more thing over there that Clean House would pack everything up and leave. These people had a real sickness about their things and the hording of them. And they all blamed another family member for the state the house had gotten in.
Now, I'm a packrat with issues letting things go, but I am a far cry from the atrocities of these people, thank God. It made me feel better about my stuff and yet really motivated me to go through my crap. If it hadn't been 2 in the morning and I hadn't had to get up at 7 to go to UCLA, then I would have had at it. I keep things far after their expiration date, as it were. It's one thing to hold on to something that is meaningful for a while, and it's another to hold on to it forever. For instance I hung on to my prom corsages for far too long. It was important for me to hold on to them for a certain amount of time, but then they became relics and something I just automatically passed over when I went through my things. Sometimes it's difficult to separate the object from the memories attached to them. You can have the memories without having to have the objects. I think of what I would do or how I would feel if there was a fire and I lost everything. I would still have the memories and I could live without all of this stuff.
Backpacking through Europe really taught me how little I needed to be happy. I remember being in our hostel in Loch Ness and all I had was my journal, my CD player, my backpack and a change of clothes. And that's all I needed. I didn't miss anything that was back in my room at home. And when I look through all the things I didn't take to Arizona with me, things that sat here for three and a half years, I'm guessing I probably don't need them. Doesn't make it much easier to let go of. Not at first, at least. Out with the old, in with the new, as they say. All of these old things, their significance faded, the feelings they represented recessed…I think they can go now.
I've felt stunted, stagnant, held back. Perhaps if I clean all of this crap out I'll feel better. That was my point about the walking stick. Here is this thing I have held on to forever. If I'm going to hold on to it I should use it! So I busted it out, slapped on my Nano tuned up to the 6th Harry Potter book so I can reacquaint myself with the story before I pick up my reserved copy of the last book tonight at midnight, and headed up the sidewalk for a stroll. The click of the stick on the cement in rhythmic 4/4 timing proved quite useful to keeping my pace up. I took my usual path around the 'hood.
Use the things you have. Get rid of the crap you don't. Seems pretty simple to me. I didn't say easy.
I caught an episode of Clean House the other night where they went to the messiest house in America. It was a big 4 bedroom, two bath house with a huge basement. It took 5 huge, flatbed truck dumpsters to haul out the trash from this place. And the amount of shit they ended up keeping in storage in the basement amazed even them. Nicey had a little smack down with the family on the day of the garage sale. The family members kept dragging things they insisted on keeping over to a specific tent, and it was an obscene amount of junk. She told them if she saw them take one more thing over there that Clean House would pack everything up and leave. These people had a real sickness about their things and the hording of them. And they all blamed another family member for the state the house had gotten in.
Now, I'm a packrat with issues letting things go, but I am a far cry from the atrocities of these people, thank God. It made me feel better about my stuff and yet really motivated me to go through my crap. If it hadn't been 2 in the morning and I hadn't had to get up at 7 to go to UCLA, then I would have had at it. I keep things far after their expiration date, as it were. It's one thing to hold on to something that is meaningful for a while, and it's another to hold on to it forever. For instance I hung on to my prom corsages for far too long. It was important for me to hold on to them for a certain amount of time, but then they became relics and something I just automatically passed over when I went through my things. Sometimes it's difficult to separate the object from the memories attached to them. You can have the memories without having to have the objects. I think of what I would do or how I would feel if there was a fire and I lost everything. I would still have the memories and I could live without all of this stuff.
Backpacking through Europe really taught me how little I needed to be happy. I remember being in our hostel in Loch Ness and all I had was my journal, my CD player, my backpack and a change of clothes. And that's all I needed. I didn't miss anything that was back in my room at home. And when I look through all the things I didn't take to Arizona with me, things that sat here for three and a half years, I'm guessing I probably don't need them. Doesn't make it much easier to let go of. Not at first, at least. Out with the old, in with the new, as they say. All of these old things, their significance faded, the feelings they represented recessed…I think they can go now.
I've felt stunted, stagnant, held back. Perhaps if I clean all of this crap out I'll feel better. That was my point about the walking stick. Here is this thing I have held on to forever. If I'm going to hold on to it I should use it! So I busted it out, slapped on my Nano tuned up to the 6th Harry Potter book so I can reacquaint myself with the story before I pick up my reserved copy of the last book tonight at midnight, and headed up the sidewalk for a stroll. The click of the stick on the cement in rhythmic 4/4 timing proved quite useful to keeping my pace up. I took my usual path around the 'hood.
Use the things you have. Get rid of the crap you don't. Seems pretty simple to me. I didn't say easy.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Buddah Belly
I went back to Belly Dancing tonight. And boy was it ever sweet.
This lovely young woman by the name of Haley found me on My Space and asked me if I'd like to join a Belly Dancing Troupe and mentioned that she taught classes in The Nard and Camarillo. I said Hells Yeah! I told her I used to take classes at Ventura Community College. I picked it up so quickly that the instructor pulled me up front to help teach the class. Flattering to say the least. Haley told me I should sign up for the intermediate class. Score.
I caught the very end of the beginners class which was quite full. I started stacking up my dance memories. The intermediate class was me and four wonderful older women. I tied on my bright yellow hip scarf and started to build a slight sense of unsureness. It's been almost ten years since I've Belly Danced. Will I remember everything? Maybe I should have started out in the beginners class to brush up. Lord, I hope I don't make a fool of myself.
As we warmed up and started doing some basic moves it all came flooding back to me. Thank God for muscle memory. I was also reminded of how incredibly out of shape I am and how easily I get winded and how very little time I can spend standing with one leg bent. The climb back to athleticism begins.
About 15 minutes into class Haley asked me where I had danced before and I told her at VC. We discovered that we had danced together there. As I was driving to class the thought crossed my mind that her name was familiar and that she might have been in my class back in the day. Too funny how these things work out. Now she's teaching me.
There were parts that I felt went too fast for me. I would have liked to have the dance broken down into bits and then stitched together. I'm still warming up and remembering my groove and I'm sure it will get easier to catch on. I'm also going to go to the beginners class which is right before mine so I can brush up and take things a bit slower and get my technique back in perfect working order.
Belly Dancing is incredibly fun. It's challenging where Ballet was flat out hard. I'd say Belly Dancing is either 40/60 challenging/fun or 50/50. Ballet was 80/20 hard/enjoyable. It's so fluid and beautiful, sensual and mesmerizing. Keeping your arms flowing while your hips shake, swiveling your top half while the bottom remains motionless. All the while sweating like a mongrel dog. Dude.
Haley had a trunk full of hip scarves for sale. And low and behold there was a leopard print one with fantastic gold coins and beads. I think I might have to own one. Or two so I can wear the second as a top. So, so fabulous and so, so me. They go for $45 each, a sweet deal considering the detail put into them.
If anyone would like to contribute to my Leopard Print Belly Dance Hip Scarf Fund, feel free to PayPal your hard earned dubloons to bloodybess.rackham@yahoo.com =)
There's an opportunity to perform at the 12th Annual Multicultural Festival in Oxnard in October and it would be kickass to have an actual costume to rock it with. I promise pictures!
We thank you for your support.
This lovely young woman by the name of Haley found me on My Space and asked me if I'd like to join a Belly Dancing Troupe and mentioned that she taught classes in The Nard and Camarillo. I said Hells Yeah! I told her I used to take classes at Ventura Community College. I picked it up so quickly that the instructor pulled me up front to help teach the class. Flattering to say the least. Haley told me I should sign up for the intermediate class. Score.
I caught the very end of the beginners class which was quite full. I started stacking up my dance memories. The intermediate class was me and four wonderful older women. I tied on my bright yellow hip scarf and started to build a slight sense of unsureness. It's been almost ten years since I've Belly Danced. Will I remember everything? Maybe I should have started out in the beginners class to brush up. Lord, I hope I don't make a fool of myself.
As we warmed up and started doing some basic moves it all came flooding back to me. Thank God for muscle memory. I was also reminded of how incredibly out of shape I am and how easily I get winded and how very little time I can spend standing with one leg bent. The climb back to athleticism begins.
About 15 minutes into class Haley asked me where I had danced before and I told her at VC. We discovered that we had danced together there. As I was driving to class the thought crossed my mind that her name was familiar and that she might have been in my class back in the day. Too funny how these things work out. Now she's teaching me.
There were parts that I felt went too fast for me. I would have liked to have the dance broken down into bits and then stitched together. I'm still warming up and remembering my groove and I'm sure it will get easier to catch on. I'm also going to go to the beginners class which is right before mine so I can brush up and take things a bit slower and get my technique back in perfect working order.
Belly Dancing is incredibly fun. It's challenging where Ballet was flat out hard. I'd say Belly Dancing is either 40/60 challenging/fun or 50/50. Ballet was 80/20 hard/enjoyable. It's so fluid and beautiful, sensual and mesmerizing. Keeping your arms flowing while your hips shake, swiveling your top half while the bottom remains motionless. All the while sweating like a mongrel dog. Dude.
Haley had a trunk full of hip scarves for sale. And low and behold there was a leopard print one with fantastic gold coins and beads. I think I might have to own one. Or two so I can wear the second as a top. So, so fabulous and so, so me. They go for $45 each, a sweet deal considering the detail put into them.
If anyone would like to contribute to my Leopard Print Belly Dance Hip Scarf Fund, feel free to PayPal your hard earned dubloons to bloodybess.rackham@yahoo.com =)
There's an opportunity to perform at the 12th Annual Multicultural Festival in Oxnard in October and it would be kickass to have an actual costume to rock it with. I promise pictures!
We thank you for your support.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Winnahs!
I was in Ojai's 4th of July parade with Shades of Day and we won awards!!
Chorgy bought an ice cream truck off Craigs List and we hitched a trailer to the back of it to tow Richard the drummer on. The rest of the boys donned wireless guitars and bass and all dressed as ice cream men. The ladies got dolled up in pigtails with big lollipops and danced along the parade route with the band as they played Ice Cream Man ala Van Halen. Jason and Katie were our King and Queen Pretty in their red, white and blue finery.
We won First Place for Band on Float and the Theme Award for our Zippy Dippy Rock 'n' Roll. The theme was 4th of July: Through a Childs Eyes. Yeah, we nailed that!
And I landed a sweet picture of myself on the newspapers website
It was hot, sweaty, and rad. Finally recognition for all of our hard work! =)
Chorgy bought an ice cream truck off Craigs List and we hitched a trailer to the back of it to tow Richard the drummer on. The rest of the boys donned wireless guitars and bass and all dressed as ice cream men. The ladies got dolled up in pigtails with big lollipops and danced along the parade route with the band as they played Ice Cream Man ala Van Halen. Jason and Katie were our King and Queen Pretty in their red, white and blue finery.
We won First Place for Band on Float and the Theme Award for our Zippy Dippy Rock 'n' Roll. The theme was 4th of July: Through a Childs Eyes. Yeah, we nailed that!
And I landed a sweet picture of myself on the newspapers website
It was hot, sweaty, and rad. Finally recognition for all of our hard work! =)
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Venice with a Vengence
I spent Presidents Day weekend in a hotel room on the boardwalk in Venice Beach. I decided late that Friday afternoon that I needed to get the hell OUT and Venice has always been my kind of people. Beach + freaks + art + introspection + ferris wheels was just what I needed. The walls of my life were closing in on me and I ran before they could collapse.
I booked a room at The Cadillac Hotel where Charlie Chaplin once lived. I didn't realize it was on the boardwalk. I thought I'd be within walking distance but didn't know that walk was 20 feet. The lobby was a dusty 80s magazine cover with mosaic tiled creatures running across the floors and a glorified dumbwaiter for an elevator. My room was nondescript with two twin beds, a TV, and an unnecessarily large bathroom. The windows were screenless and had I reached my hand out one I could have touched the apartment complex view. The mirror above the sink was one foot by one foot and luckily right at my face level. I peered into the apartment complex windows wondering what it was like to call Venice home.
Saturday evening was spent in Hollywood with Caleb, partaking of some fab Italian food and wine and a strip mall theatre presentation of Romeo and Juliet, co-starring our friend Rick. They set the play in the south and the prologue was delivered by a bartender with a southern drawl. The bar and two black boxes were the only set in this tiny black box theatre. The southern location and accents really made me feel like I was there, that these really were two feuding families and a group of friends. The mother was cut out and the nurse was played by a black woman who spoke with a creole accent. Mercrutio, as always, stole the show. The Shakespearian words just poured right off his moonshined tongue, he was so at ease up there. Sadly, the leads were completely unbelievable. I didn't buy for a second that they were in love. Words came out of mouths, bodies were embraced, but the feelings, the passion, were locked somewhere far, far away, Perhaps in the nightclub downstairs. We drained the last of our convenience store bottle of wine and congratulated the cast on their performance as we headed off to more food and debauchery
Caleb and Rick and I spent the night hopefully lamenting the business of acting and commercials, agents, rent, improv, commitment, time, money, creativity, and making the waitress laugh. We ate fried plantains and cheese steak and beer. Where is it all going, what does it mean, how long are we going to do this, what's going to happen to us, will we ever get there and where is "there"? Where does it end? Does it? We snaked back through the streets of Santa Monica to Venice with a case of misery in a can and a wet behind the ears Green Day squeaking on the iPod.
Sunday morning was breakfast burritos on the beach and bus rides. The vendors and the sun and the tourists were out in full bloom. From stem to stern the boardwalk is sectioned off into numbered lots for vendors to stake out. There had to have been 7 different tarot readers and psychics, tumbling and fire breathing performance artists, the man with the upright piano, the hippie girl happily crocheting beanies for sale, the sand sculpturist carving an alligator in ridiculous detail, the would-be artists with their mixed media plywood paintings, the homeless burnouts with huge signs asking for weed, the glittering Day of the Dead skulls, the impromptu jam session musicians, and the professional artists with their credit card machines for easy access of purchase. Runners and rollerbladers, impossibly tiny dogs in sweaters, every fifth person you see carrying a massive camera with tripod looking for that perfect location, and not one sunglassless face.
I walked for miles and miles back and forth on that boardwalk. I had a peach chai latte at Sean's Cafe in Gingerbread Court, the former apartment complex rumored to have been owned by Charlie Chaplin, that now houses tiny shops overflowing with beautiful clothes. I took a nap in front of my open window on my feather pillow in the dancing ocean breeze. Back to Sean's Cafe for a cheeseburger and fries and a Diet Coke As Large As All Mankind. It's the only way I order them. I sat at a bistro table and eavesdropped on the staff and their friendships wondering what kind of people they meet every day. So many thoughts cartwheeling through my mind...about life and destiny, commitment and ambition, desire and passion, art and creativity, fate and blank notebooks. Possibilities. Choices. Acceptance. Limitations. Paths. Hope. Relinquishing. I see now how they came to be called The Doors on this beach. The perception blazed through that crack left by the setting sun.
Another trip up the dumbwaiter to my room to change and pack my purse for a trek. Trusty flip flops in place and iPod tuned up, I set off for that glittering wheel in the distance: the Santa Monica Pier. I don't know how far it was...at least a mile, maybe more. The air was warm, the path was lit and soon the wooden planks lifted me up off the beach. I had never been on the pier, sad to say. I didn't know it was a full blown carnival with games and rides and hot dogs. Buzzers and bells and kids and stuffed animals. Ice cream and souvenir stands, California name plates and your name on a grain of rice. Roger Clyne, you're always with me. I picked up an abalone shell and silver ring, and a funnel cake swimming in strawberries. One ticket for the ferris wheel where I shared a ride with a sweet 12 year old girl from East LA. High above the ocean and into the starless sky, over the screaming roller coaster and the glow of Santa Monica. With a deeply increasing ache in my ankles I headed back, past the swing sets full of laughing teenagers, along the rarely quiet and deserted pathways, to the fire escape on my second floor for late night phone calls.
Monday morning found me nearly crippled from the pain in my ankles and feet. I had to pass on the recommendation of a fabulous omelette house and opt for the crawling distance of the Fig Tree Cafe. Eggs over medium, homefries, sausage and fantastic spiced applesauce. I hobbled over to a patch of grass between the boardwalk and the beach and scribbled the midmorning away. By noon the shops started opening up. I choked back the pain and wandered up Gingerbread Court to the shop at the top that had a skirt I decided I had to have. Alas, they were closed. On the way back down, at the shop at the bottom was a top that went with the skirt perfectly. I went up and down that court about 5 times waiting and hoping that shop would open, with the other shop owners squinting at me with suspicious eyes. Just as I was about to retire the quest the shop owner decided it was a good day to make some money and I gladly handed over mine. The gauzy, lime green and pink flower confection was mine. One matching pink tank top later I was a complete outfit richer.
My tank sufficiently full of Venice mojo, it was time to mozy on up the coast back home. Out of the cramped hotel parking lot, slinking along the one way streets, gliding down the main drag to the queen of the highways, The PCH. Rolling along the ocean past the coveted neighborhoods, dream houses and landmarks. Surfers derobing roadside - a sweeter traffic hazard there never was. I pulled into Malibu Seafood round about sunset for some mahi mahi and a view I've come to the conclusion I can't live without. Home is where your heart is and mine is full of salt water and sand. I drank in that slow burn over the horizon as the highway veered away from the shore, and slowly sipped it on the winding road back home. Things are much brighter on this side of the door.
I booked a room at The Cadillac Hotel where Charlie Chaplin once lived. I didn't realize it was on the boardwalk. I thought I'd be within walking distance but didn't know that walk was 20 feet. The lobby was a dusty 80s magazine cover with mosaic tiled creatures running across the floors and a glorified dumbwaiter for an elevator. My room was nondescript with two twin beds, a TV, and an unnecessarily large bathroom. The windows were screenless and had I reached my hand out one I could have touched the apartment complex view. The mirror above the sink was one foot by one foot and luckily right at my face level. I peered into the apartment complex windows wondering what it was like to call Venice home.
Saturday evening was spent in Hollywood with Caleb, partaking of some fab Italian food and wine and a strip mall theatre presentation of Romeo and Juliet, co-starring our friend Rick. They set the play in the south and the prologue was delivered by a bartender with a southern drawl. The bar and two black boxes were the only set in this tiny black box theatre. The southern location and accents really made me feel like I was there, that these really were two feuding families and a group of friends. The mother was cut out and the nurse was played by a black woman who spoke with a creole accent. Mercrutio, as always, stole the show. The Shakespearian words just poured right off his moonshined tongue, he was so at ease up there. Sadly, the leads were completely unbelievable. I didn't buy for a second that they were in love. Words came out of mouths, bodies were embraced, but the feelings, the passion, were locked somewhere far, far away, Perhaps in the nightclub downstairs. We drained the last of our convenience store bottle of wine and congratulated the cast on their performance as we headed off to more food and debauchery
Caleb and Rick and I spent the night hopefully lamenting the business of acting and commercials, agents, rent, improv, commitment, time, money, creativity, and making the waitress laugh. We ate fried plantains and cheese steak and beer. Where is it all going, what does it mean, how long are we going to do this, what's going to happen to us, will we ever get there and where is "there"? Where does it end? Does it? We snaked back through the streets of Santa Monica to Venice with a case of misery in a can and a wet behind the ears Green Day squeaking on the iPod.
Sunday morning was breakfast burritos on the beach and bus rides. The vendors and the sun and the tourists were out in full bloom. From stem to stern the boardwalk is sectioned off into numbered lots for vendors to stake out. There had to have been 7 different tarot readers and psychics, tumbling and fire breathing performance artists, the man with the upright piano, the hippie girl happily crocheting beanies for sale, the sand sculpturist carving an alligator in ridiculous detail, the would-be artists with their mixed media plywood paintings, the homeless burnouts with huge signs asking for weed, the glittering Day of the Dead skulls, the impromptu jam session musicians, and the professional artists with their credit card machines for easy access of purchase. Runners and rollerbladers, impossibly tiny dogs in sweaters, every fifth person you see carrying a massive camera with tripod looking for that perfect location, and not one sunglassless face.
I walked for miles and miles back and forth on that boardwalk. I had a peach chai latte at Sean's Cafe in Gingerbread Court, the former apartment complex rumored to have been owned by Charlie Chaplin, that now houses tiny shops overflowing with beautiful clothes. I took a nap in front of my open window on my feather pillow in the dancing ocean breeze. Back to Sean's Cafe for a cheeseburger and fries and a Diet Coke As Large As All Mankind. It's the only way I order them. I sat at a bistro table and eavesdropped on the staff and their friendships wondering what kind of people they meet every day. So many thoughts cartwheeling through my mind...about life and destiny, commitment and ambition, desire and passion, art and creativity, fate and blank notebooks. Possibilities. Choices. Acceptance. Limitations. Paths. Hope. Relinquishing. I see now how they came to be called The Doors on this beach. The perception blazed through that crack left by the setting sun.
Another trip up the dumbwaiter to my room to change and pack my purse for a trek. Trusty flip flops in place and iPod tuned up, I set off for that glittering wheel in the distance: the Santa Monica Pier. I don't know how far it was...at least a mile, maybe more. The air was warm, the path was lit and soon the wooden planks lifted me up off the beach. I had never been on the pier, sad to say. I didn't know it was a full blown carnival with games and rides and hot dogs. Buzzers and bells and kids and stuffed animals. Ice cream and souvenir stands, California name plates and your name on a grain of rice. Roger Clyne, you're always with me. I picked up an abalone shell and silver ring, and a funnel cake swimming in strawberries. One ticket for the ferris wheel where I shared a ride with a sweet 12 year old girl from East LA. High above the ocean and into the starless sky, over the screaming roller coaster and the glow of Santa Monica. With a deeply increasing ache in my ankles I headed back, past the swing sets full of laughing teenagers, along the rarely quiet and deserted pathways, to the fire escape on my second floor for late night phone calls.
Monday morning found me nearly crippled from the pain in my ankles and feet. I had to pass on the recommendation of a fabulous omelette house and opt for the crawling distance of the Fig Tree Cafe. Eggs over medium, homefries, sausage and fantastic spiced applesauce. I hobbled over to a patch of grass between the boardwalk and the beach and scribbled the midmorning away. By noon the shops started opening up. I choked back the pain and wandered up Gingerbread Court to the shop at the top that had a skirt I decided I had to have. Alas, they were closed. On the way back down, at the shop at the bottom was a top that went with the skirt perfectly. I went up and down that court about 5 times waiting and hoping that shop would open, with the other shop owners squinting at me with suspicious eyes. Just as I was about to retire the quest the shop owner decided it was a good day to make some money and I gladly handed over mine. The gauzy, lime green and pink flower confection was mine. One matching pink tank top later I was a complete outfit richer.
My tank sufficiently full of Venice mojo, it was time to mozy on up the coast back home. Out of the cramped hotel parking lot, slinking along the one way streets, gliding down the main drag to the queen of the highways, The PCH. Rolling along the ocean past the coveted neighborhoods, dream houses and landmarks. Surfers derobing roadside - a sweeter traffic hazard there never was. I pulled into Malibu Seafood round about sunset for some mahi mahi and a view I've come to the conclusion I can't live without. Home is where your heart is and mine is full of salt water and sand. I drank in that slow burn over the horizon as the highway veered away from the shore, and slowly sipped it on the winding road back home. Things are much brighter on this side of the door.
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