Odd Jobs

I’ve had many odd jobs through the years, or “jobby jobs” as most freelance artists call them, and as far as odd jobs go, this new one compares with the best of them. As a sometimes struggling artist, it's important to keep the employment-that-doesn't-serve-your-higher-goals in check and non-committal, as the term “jobby job” inherently by its creation denotes. Because you aren’t there to stay - it’s a means to an end. I think this latest one demands a nod. A good friend turned me on to it. I get to experience a real slice of other people’s lives. I make my own hours, and as a writer, this is a dream come true. But as a woman who wants to affect some positive change in this world, it’s nice for a temporary fit.

I drive for a cab company. Two actually. And the job requires spending time in an enclosed space at close proximity with complete strangers, if only for a matter of minutes, and it has opened my eyes to new ways of encountering strangers. First, I must remark on how quickly and readily people are able to place faith in an unknown human behind the wheel of a moving vehicle. It's incredible that people can feel so free to open up to a complete stranger. So many people going through very real things, and very willing to share. The human element has returned to Los Angeles for me, a much needed sense of community.

The job involves a lot of trust. For that, I always make sure to be the safest driver on the road. I am very watchful, and protective of my passengers. I must first put them at ease. Then I can ask questions, if the mood allows. And some people share really beautifully private things. I like to help them sort through it - we are all struggling through something. Sometimes an outsider’s point of view is just what a personal situation needs. I am generally moved by the human condition by nature. Everyone’s got his or her brand of battle, it's something we all share in common. Inviting a new ear on the matter, in the articulated retelling and paying attention to one's own voice, can lead to new ways of tackling the problem. I've seen more than a few shells crack wide open.

We all have it in us to conquer our challenges like a boss, yet we can’t operate in vacuums. I’d love to say that I can solve all my humps in the road by myself, but that would hardly represent the truth. Having a compassionate family helps. Great friends go for miles. Instinct is key. And trust in one’s self is your home base. From there, you can have at it. And learn from your choices because no outcome is certain.

Now, being in a position to be a friendly ear gives me a sense of purpose that transcends the making of the mighty dollar. I feel present. Undoubtedly, the road focuses me. But so does adjusting my energy and receptivity to each human that enters my car. An important skill to develop – reading your opponent. In any/every interaction. Keeps you sharp.

Those passengers that rise to the top of the crop are usually the ones who initially are polite and sweet to start, then slowly reveal very telling things about themselves. Whether it’s the girl in a messy ponytail with a spark in her eyes talking about her management job that’s stressing her health, or the Asian businessman who’s about to divorce his wife. They all matter. The clicking, purring Arabian queens turning on high their ipods that spew American teeny-bop music, or the hung-over hump in a thick overcoat with temperatures reading 97 degrees who projectile vomits out of my passenger window, a never-ending orange spray, with a perfectly positioned cluster of elementary school kids looking on and pointing and screaming. They all matter to me. I take pleasure in sifting through the mud with them, when appropriate. Throw around a few ideas on how to solve the problems of the world with real options - and it’s like watching flowers bloom. People can be so surprisingly articulate with the important stuff, the very things in their lives that have a tentacle on their attention. The issues that need rather immediate solving, utilizing our spare time together to talk about it. I don't ask frivolous questions (unless you want to talk about the weather, in which case, I can celebrate LA's weather ALL DAY and boo/hiss what's happening to my home state NY) because time-is-oh-so-very-precious these days. We have to be ace problem solvers in this day and age. And thankfully, I think people are still anxious to learn from each other. We are every one of us students, after all. Why wouldn’t we encourage each other? I’ll tell you this - it gives me hope for humanity. I'll take that where I can get it.

Why Dance Alone

Most often, we search out experiences because of the way they make us feel. The better the experience, the more we gravitate towards it. When we can't have what we want, a certain shift occurs, a hopelessness. Yet we must never buckle under the supposed gravity of the loss.  It's unfortunate that this life has given us too much, so much so that things (and people) can become disposable. Sometimes we let things get wasted instead of celebrated. 

I know as a writer, I mustn't ever give up. Writing is a tough enough road. I really only think about giving up when I'm sad. Because sadness is directly linked to defeat. But WHY would I give up? What would I do if defeated - move home and be an absolute terror to my family, emblazoned with the knowledge dreams have been relinquished? What are my dreams - to make a difference. What does making a difference mean to me? Changing people's lives for the better. Making things matter. Shining light where there was once ignorance, darkness and pain. I vow to fill the world with more joy and less suffering. A tall order, I know.

This last week has been very challenging for me. I was forced to look at my life, in lieu of my "planning". I was told by a good friend early on - an Italian from Italy, no less - when it comes to love not to have expectations. But when you meet someone who captures your attention, someone you've granted their presence as having real value - you want to hear what they have to say and you want what they're saying to be true. We all do. It's our lives, our futures.

That shifted, and I felt at times during this week a deep sadness at what could be but may never be. When the pain finally abated, I realized again that my future matters. I was able to breathe and think. And what I surmised is this: Nothing is ever over. And forces that bring people together will bring them together again. The only thing I count on is the day. Because my heart races with possibility. I am at the helm. Ready to love, feel, and hopefully not ever cringe. I know what it's like to be doubled over in pain due to loss. Losing something meaningful sucks.

Happily, I have in my tool kit a tool that I either picked up along the way and polished over the years, or it was gifted me through good parenting, The wherewithal to stand up and strengthen my spine (See Steel Your Spine http://madglory.blogspot.com/2010/07/steel-your-spine.html). To always tackle the next challenge, whether that's with my relationships with friends, family or a potential partner. *Family constitute more forgiving creatures, such is the nature of unconditional love*. I have remained true to myself for so many years. The instinct I have cultivated has served me well. I continue to listen to it as it continues to activate when needed most. I am unafraid to stand up for myself, knowing self worth is always more than half the battle. Too many bad choices are made because of self-doubt. Downward spirals usually follow.

This life doesn't stop being tough, but it doesn't have to be crippling. Figure out the things you love and do them. Have the discipline to follow through. Find the people you love and move towards them as much as possible. They teach you and make you laugh. They open your eyes to new ways of looking at things, including yourself. You love them for a reason. And everything else about this skewed world can be managed when you are at one with yourself. When you can stop, and feel the sunshine on your face. That moment is all yours. Take it.

I went for a hike today up a mountain. Now, I know it's more of a hill - I lived in Colorado as a child and climbed a volcano that was 1,700 meters in Bali at 3 am as an adult, and I know a mountain when I see one - but this hill will surrender its limitations to location and allow me to relay this thought. It's not the climbing of the mountain that matters. Not even that you made it to the top and back. It's the tenacity to do so. It's that will that gets you off the couch, when you'd rather stay at home in your sweat pants, distracting yourself with some random pastime. I have plenty of shameful, self-imposed distractions (Damn you, Candy Crush Saga! I resign! A game that has you believing it's remotely based on skill. I call bullshit on that. I started to feel like the old folks belly up to the slot machines in Old Vegas, murdering time.) What matters is what's next. It's your show. You're in charge. And I say take it. Take charge over the things that distract and distress you, and let go of crap. There is still so much to explore, so much unraveling. Travel light.

I think of my Papa, who said if he had been born a woman, he would have wanted a life like mine. His words honor me. It's time to make my Papa proud. Shedding any sadness and doubt, never giving up faith in finding a dance partner, and fulfilling my word to myself to live a a life well lived. It's out there, and I am finding it. Piece by piece, trusting every step. As long as you like the company you keep, you're doing fine. 

The Irony of Content

  

This last year was the most brutal year of my life. They say life doesn't get easier, you just gain maturity through life's lessons and become more well equipped to deal with the curve balls. I'm going to agree with that theory, and raise it a holy-hell-what-the-fuck-was-that. I'm the oldest I've ever been, and have struggled most of my life. Yet nothing can explain away the pain of discovering that your choices have led you so far astray from your true path, the path you were meant to tread. The ultimate relief is finding myself on the periphery of this exhaustive dark fog that had permeated my thoughts, skewed my judgment, stifled my talents and ultimately compromised my goals. The worst part is it made me trust myself less. 

Finally, I am feeling like myself again. It is indeed good news to feel that dreadful fog lifting, and to be reminded - once again - that everything will be alright. I had (shamefully) allowed others to hurt me deeply, even though it is a lesson my mother taught me years ago - if someone tries to take your joy away from you, you stick it in their ass. Those people have been successfully removed from my life completely and I certainly wish them well, regardless of the pain they cause. Earning money these last few years has been challenging, and now I'm finally figuring out some ways to earn that will not only satisfy my basic needs, but also allow for my bigger projects to take shape. Because, as I see it, if I'm not willing or able to invest in myself, how can I expect others to do so? My family and friends are happy and healthy. And my heart feels safe. For the first time in a very long while - as long as I can remember, in fact - I feel content. It's a strange feeling for an artist, because very often it's the strife and struggle that compels us to crawl through broken glass on bare knee to write and sing and mold something into being, to represent - however trivial - the way this life can make us feel, in hopes to make sense of the chaos that constantly surrounds us. As if to help heal the hurt, we howl loudly at times just to ensure someone around us will hear it and make it better. I know that need for recognition well. I've been so lost, desperate for consolation and validation. Those were not my proudest moments, but the fear of being insignificant was real. My struggles were worn like a badge, thinking without them, I couldn't create.

And just like that (snaps fingers) it's gone. I no longer feel the need to prove anything anymore, to anyone - especially to myself. I already know I can do it, whatever it is. I've been through the worst of it, and I've come out the other side more myself than ever before. What remains is a white-hot desire to follow through on the seeds I've planted, with room in my garden for more.  I feel more creative and capable in the calm in my heart, then I ever did in the senseless confusion. The next step is the ultimate joy of watching those seeds GROW.

Answer America

Like many others I know, I am angered by the current economic conditions people all over this country (and the world) are facing. Nothing makes you feel smaller than not knowing what you as an individual can do to make a change for yourself and others. Indeed, as children, we are taught if we work hard and follow our dreams, we will have the success we have earned and undoubtedly deserve. Without that opportunity to do what we were trained to do, without menial jobs to put food in our bellies, it makes it almost impossible to believe this country has the American Dream to offer anymore. 

I have been following the Occupation of Wall Street with more than just a healthy curiosity, but with genuine interest in contributing in any form. When I was invited by a friend to join the protest of the 10-year anniversary of the war in Afghanistan, of course I jumped at the chance. If anything, I told myself, I’ll take a few pictures. 

Initially, I was intimidated. I was surrounded by such impassioned people and I couldn’t seem to find my voice to repeat the chants. Mainly because it taps into my rage that innocent people are being killed every day. And that the war is costing $330 million a day. The soldiers that come back who are suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder are not receiving proper care. That it’s been going on for 10 years!!! The list goes on and on. How could this modest protest make a difference in the face of our country’s incessant war mongering? It seems our government has outgrown us, we the people, and our voices no longer matter. Even as I write this, the president I voted for, who promised to bring our troops home, has not made good on that promise. I don’t know who or what to believe anymore. 

At one point in the protest, they played the sounds of an air raid over loud speakers and asked everyone to lay down on the ground. I took a photo from a crouched position and really began to listen to the sounds over my head. I imagined I was a soldier fighting over there, and that this was a sound that I awoke to, alerting us of an impeding air strike. I was overwhelmed with emotion and began to cry. I buried my face in my hand, fearful for all those men and women who are fighting a war they no longer believe in. Watching the people they served alongside them dying every day. How unfair it all seemed to me. Justice for no one. 

As the sun set, a group of Aztec Indians, dressed in full garb, came forward led by a beautiful Elder. They performed a ceremonial dance that had everyone standing around in delight and awe of the beauty of such ancient, skilled formation. The Elder began chanting, asking for dignity for all. The word Dignity took on a new meaning. As I write this, I still am not sure what it means. Defined, it is the quality or state of being worthy of esteem or respect. Inherent nobility and worth: the dignity of honest labor. Poise and self-respect. And I ache for all those who share in the loss of dignity for a day’s work well done. Who have lost their self-respect because their homes have been taken away from them. There is no nobility when you are unable to care for your children. And how can we respect those who govern when they continue to lie to our faces and strip the fiber of this country? There are too many without the means to live decently, and too few who are indecent enough to eat the largest pieces of the pie.

I’ve asked myself for many years, in the face of extreme wealth, how much is enough? How many houses, cars, and lavish trips does one person really need? How many nannies, how many expensive shoes? Now, that question has shifted. How much is enough - to survive? When you are willing but unable to make ends meets, willing to work every day but finding nowhere to turn and see your standard of living slipping through your very fingers, unable to sustain and provide for yourself and your family, how much injustice can you possibly take before you’ve had enough? How much is enough?

A Platform From Which to Soar

This feeling is like no other. It encompasses everything learned through experience, all the trust and hope and faith in one’s self and taking stock of your abilities with pride. Defying fear of loss, denying regret at every turn, fueling your present moment with a vision of tomorrow that is tailored by you as artist – in front of a gigantic canvas surrounded by fresh paint. 

Many attend and try to describe the sensations that surround the event and the subsequent euphoria when one overcomes the challenges faced by just being there. No one talks about the minor setbacks and the long, hard hours, and the exhaustion that can take you out of your comfort zone, slapping you for being in any way spoiled from such creature comforts. It’s a personal battle that you wage in signing up. Given enough time to negotiate one’s limits, embracing your human element and honoring that inner voice that wants to protect you from feeling under the task at hand, only then can you see just how far you really can go and what you are truly capable of. The only thing that ever stands between you and what is already inside of you, waiting on you to recognize its been there all along, is you. Once determined, and the steps are taken, you find everything you need at your hands, and the thrust forward is remarkable! It’s as if there never was a time when you felt you couldn’t do, whatever that may be. You are capable of that which you can imagine! 

Looking outward with that new found confidence that comes from within, trusting yourself to do right by you and others, it’s amazing to me how not alone we all really are. So many like minds with the goal of achieving their own personal brand of brilliance. I am encouraged by the choices belief brings, knowing when you focus on an outcome that gives back in such generous and supportive ways, what you get back is far greater than any expectation you can assign to an event. People do care. They want to soar, as you do. Reaching your capable hands forward, allow them to be clasped by those ready to lead you further along that path, or help guide those ready to learn how to grow. We are all in a unique position to do a great many things with the time we have left. All it takes is the giving of ourselves to ourselves the permission to fly.

“Come to the edge, he said. They said: We are afraid. Come to the edge, he said. They came. He pushed them and they flew.” - Guillaume Apollinaire

Photo by: Pear Biter

Fourthcoming

She came barreling down the path in a pink, ruffled dress, her legs barely keeping up with her whimsical drive. Such a tiny girl, her spirited dash infectious. I found her father with my pointed gaze. She couldn’t have been more than 3 years old and yet she left her papa in the dust.

“Wow, can she run!” I said to her dad as he struggled to catch up.

“She’s really excited” he smiled. And as he passed me, I wondered if my frown would burn on my face forever, the well of disappointment sinking deeper.

See, this was one of those days set aside to break up our oft-mundane existence, otherwise known as a holiday. And on this day, we celebrate our self-gratifying independence with noise and bright lights. We wait all year to do this in such a memorable display. And it’s fun for the whole family. At least, it’s supposed to be. I’ve always enjoyed this holiday because I’m surrounded by family and friends bbqing and celebrating. And honestly, fireworks turn me into a giddy 10 year old.

This year, no such joyful regression occurred. In fact, it was all I could do to hold myself together and not throw a child-like tantrum. I had no one to blame it on. The faceless internet gave a list of locations to view fireworks, the shows all starting at 9:00pm. Picking a park nearby, droves of people show up only to meander around aimlessly, questioning the validity of the ad. Children waited with their parents on blankets. Teens, doing their part to stay out of trouble, kept to themselves. Couples and families awaited the sky to be set ablaze. Yet, the fireworks never came.

“They had them here yesterday”, a kid told me, as he and his friends walked out as shadowy figures with their heads down. I could feel his disappointment in the dark. It was too late to drive to another location. We had missed the show.

I wanted to cry! How could I be robbed of this small pleasure? I wait all year for this day! Why did I pick the wrong venue? As I made my way back to my car, I was too upset to speak. Which was fine, because I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news for all those still waiting for a light show that would never happen. And then I saw the little girl in the pink, ruffled dress. She had the determination of a marathon runner. And her father, gasping behind her, shattered my heart with his exasperated smile. In that moment, I pulled what little grace I remember possessing, and found my way out. Not just out of the park, but out of this depressed space. It’s okay to be disappointed, I told myself. An innocent mistake certainly doesn’t define you.

On the drive home, I opted for back roads. Something in my gut told me that because I was in no rush, I should take my time and work on shifting my mood. Suddenly, as I was making a left at a traffic light, and enormous “Boom!” went off directly above me. I looked up in time to see a spray of green lights about 40 feet above my head! Then, each green dot of light turned to white and the white light slowly fizzled down like snow across the dark night sky. I have never been this close to a firework this size. I laughed out loud and told my fast beating heart that I am very much alive and well. And that's indeed what matters.

Le Pew

Holy shit.

While I was getting to it (and I will), the Fonz, who was resting by me out in the cabana, started barking and ran off – before I could stop him. Now, I already had words with him about the neighbor dog – an exhaustive topic of conversation – so, I was taken aback when he ran towards our back door. Barking ensued, and because he stayed so close (and not run up the back of the yard, as was his signature move) I realized something else was happening. I got up and drew back the curtains. The Fonz was confronting a skunk!!! Who had already sprayed him!!! And I can only wish that you had been here to see my reaction. I picked my dog up and started hollerin' HOLY HELL to the skunk. Like a real mad woman, or – rather – a mother, protecting her young. “GET OUT! NOW!!!” I SCREAMED, at the top of my lungs, at this furry rodent, his tail positioned-at-the-ready towards me. He wasn’t budging, and I wasn’t having it. Although the Fonz already REEKED, I wasn’t about to have another demonstration. I told the skunk where to go, and how high to jump getting there, my blood popping through the veins in my neck. I was literally daring him to make another motion towards the Fonz, and now me. My focus never left this skunk’s eye. He skuttered away.

Now, The Stinkiness prevailed. Allow me to interject. I have always loved the smell of skunks. Especially when they are hit, unseen, near the side of a deserted highway. When that glorious aroma wafts in through the cracks of my windows, I'm wide open to receive. Of course that sounds terrible, in lieu of prior tragedy. But as I get a sense of it’s intoxicating smell, I cannot roll both windows down fast enough, breathing in deeply. Call it taste. That smell has always appealed to me... However, the actual fight or flight scent is very different. Not unlike what gasoline would smell liked if it turned sour. And worse than that. It penetrates. Into everything.

Into the shower, I rush us, with the cans of tomato soup, juice & paste (surprisingly, there were many in my cupboard) scrubbing us both down, clothes, shoes, & towels - anything we might have touched. The Fonz shivers under such an unknown solvent. Still, after everything, there’s something in the house that lingers. I’m continually blasted with the smell. No amount of scrubbing floors and cloth will guide me to it’s source. If I am to believe that a single patch of hair carries THIS potency, well then, I have a new-found respect for that creature, the skunk. No wonder that poor cat in the cartoons was always trying to get away. I now understand it. After all these years, only now I get it.