TuchMyBlog

Monday, May 10, 2004

a love play
BALLAD OF THE BLUE WORM
A Love Play
The Beginning An apartment building.
An old city A new time.
Daytime, dark, steamy, dank.
The sunlight lights like candles or small lamps.
Water drips from something into something else and back again. Doink. Doink. Doink. Doink. Doink. Doink. Doink. Doink. A music box plays a tinkling, Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle. Stops. Then plays again. Then stops. More dripping.

THE MECHANIC: Sits at a card table below.
DIEGO: Sits across from THE MECHANIC.

Above them the clock on the wall has all sevens.

DIEGO: Stands on the table to read the clock. He is a dwarf.
THE MECHANIC: Reads his manual, paces, reads, paces.
DIEGO: Trying to repair his favorite music box that won't play a real song. He loves his music box. He is still a dwarf.
THE SMOKING LADY: Sits in her apartment, smoking, staring into her large mirror. She wears white gloves and an evening gown. She smokes all of the time. She puts on makeup.
THE HAIR LADY: Sits in an enormous chair in a tiny apartment. She is also tiny, but her hairdo is very, very big and shaped like the chair. She is very old and has a large choker of pearls on her narrow neck and blue, blue eyeshadow on her moist cloudy eyes. A fly buzzes by her hairdo. She is dressed in a style of days gone by. BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
THE LOVER: Cooks in her kitchen. She is expecting a visitor or a customer. She regrets never having said she's sorry. She doesn't have the right ingredients for her pie.
THE HAIR LADY: SLAPS at the fly. SLAP
EVERYBODY: Looks toward the slap. LOOK
THE MONKEY LADY: Paces on the top floor. Her television buzzes and lights the room. She shakes her finger at it, then paces some more. She has a blonde wig, high heeled shoes and is naked from the waist up. She is old. Where are the monkeys?
THE BLUE WORM: Far below, sews a new blue jacket. It is made of blue felt and has no arms and big, blue buttons all up the front. It is very long and will fit him snugly from the floor to above his head when he puts it on. He listens to a radio from the early 1950's. (“Don’t know why, there’s no sun up in the sky, stormy weather…) He hums, tunes the radio, hums, tunes the radio, sews his jacket. He is an actual worm and not a person so it is remarkable that he can sew. In the sky, there are two moons. One is large and one is small, both round, both cheese, both full.
HAIR LADY: My hair is enormous.
SMOKING LADY: Big moonlight.
WORM: Sewing. Mmmmmmmmmmm. Mmmmmmmmmmm.
HAIR LADY: My style is my style.
DIEGO: Music box music. Music box music.
LOVER: Big Moonlight. Big Moonlight.
THE MECHANIC: Drip. Drip.
HAIR LADY: So I said, "Winston, you know I don't like my lamb without mint jelly! Why would you serve it to me like that when you know full well that I have never had lamb without mint jelly? Who in their right mind would eat lamb without mint jelly! All civilized peoples have mint jelly with their lamb." Then we had a laugh and he went off to collect my jelly from the pantry. Ohhh.
SMOKING LADY: Gazing into her mirror. There are so many things I wish I had done. There are so many things I wish I had done.
SMOKING LADY: Smokes.
SMOKING LADY: Smokes.
MONKEY LADY: Small moonlight.
MECHANIC: Drip. WORM: Mmm. Mmm. Mmm.
WORM: Sews jacket.
MECHANIC: Remarkable.
HAIR LADY: So I said, so I said, he said, she said.
MONKEY LADY: Running. Quentin? Petey? Where's mommie's cream crepe bed jacket? Petey? Quentin? DIEGO: The Music box tinkles.
HAIR LADY: A fly buzzes by her hairdo. BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
MECHANIC: SLAMS his hand down on the table./ HAIR LADY: SLAPS at the fly SLAM/SLAP EVERYONE: Looks toward the SLAP
DIEGO: The music stops abruptly.
DIEGO: Squeezes his music box.
MECHANIC: Drip. MECHANIC: Drip.
HAIR LADY: I hadn't been out there for years and years but we often had laughs. So I said, "Winston, Lamb and mint jelly is comfort food, and a lady needs to be comforted in the fashion to which she is accustomed or it simply isn't comforting." He was wearing a grey tie that evening.
MECHANIC: Tick, tock
DIEGO. Tick tock. Tiiiiiimes a wastin.
DIEGO: Tick, tock.
HAIR LADY: One reason why the hair has to be teased at all is to give it lift and volume. Without that my hair would just lie flat on my head.
WORM: Mmmm. Sews.
MONKEY LADY: They always bring me flowers. He loves me, he loves me not.
LOVER: Plucking petals from a dead daisy…
MONKEY LADY: He loves me, he loves me not…
SMOKING LADY: Lights another cigarette. Lights another cigarette. You made me love you. You did it. You.
MONKEY LADY: Daisy's are my favorite. They keep for years and years. Oh, I love the theatre! The lights, the costumes!
WORM: Mmm. Pricks himself. RAAAAAGH!
MONKEY LADY: Petey? Quentin?
HAIR LADY: A woman's hair is her crowning glory.
THE LOVER: Love? What is love?
MONKEY LADY: I found a bad magazine under the bedsheets! Dirty little monkeys. Mommy is going to put you to bed without any supper. But how can she make supper without her spangly shoes? What was I looking for? There. Bad, bad monkey I see you.
DIEGO: Two single notes sound from the music box. TINKLE TINKLE
THE MECHANIC: Stares at DIEGO. DIEGO: Tinkle tinkle.
THE MECHANIC: Drip. Drip. Clang.
WORM: Puts on jacket. Rolls on the floor. Blue! Blue! Blue! Blue! Blue! Blue! Blue! Blue! Blue! Blue!
THE LOVER: If I had only made him stay home that day. There's NEVER enough sugar. How can there be a pie?
SMOKING LADY: There are so many things I wish I had said.
MONKEY LADY: I never would have had children if I had known about the sacrifices. My life on a silver platter. Layed out for the world to see. Consumed like cheese, like water, like… my daisies are out of water. Hey boys, would you like to come upstairs?
THE LOVER: Never sugar never sugar never sugar.
SMOKING LADY: There are so many things I wish I had said.
MONKEY LADY: I am a real chanteuse!
WORM: Blue! Blue! Mmmmmm.
HAIR LADY: I have seen women looking like that in public - and, well, and it is a shameful thing. Sometimes I have a mind to tell them. I want to say "lift your hair and lift your spirits!" But I don't. A woman's hair is her crowning glory. Well said.
DIEGO: Music box tinkles three notes.
MECHANIC: Always at the wrong moment. Clang. Begoing. Begang gang. Drip drip.
DIEGO: It was a fatal error. A mishap with the microtweezers.
MONKEY LADY: Mommy found her cream crepe bedjacket so she can lie forever in bed and look like a queen!
THE LOVER: Was there anyone down there in the rubble? Did they have any sugar? I could never ask that in public.
SMOKING LADY: Big moonshine.
HAIR LADY: Small moonshine.
WORM: Puts on his long blue coat.
MONKEY LADY: Satin crepe is soft and smooth on mommy's happy skin.
SMOKING LADY: Lights a cigarette. There are so many things I whish I had done.
SMOKING LADY: Big moonshine.
HAIR LADY: So I said, "Winston, you are making that up!" He had a habit of pulling my leg.
WORM: Mmmm. Admires his blue felt suit with his movement.
SMOKING LADY: Smokes. Smokes. Smokes.
MECHANIC: Drip. Drip. Drip.
LOVER: They said there was a Jew hiding in the rubble. That’s why they took him away. That’s why they took him away.
DIEGO: Tinkle tinkle. Ping ping.
LOVER: Turns on the sink faucet.
MECHANIC: Drip drip.
LOVER: Mostly I like them young. I can admit that. I can admit I can feel something for the young ones. A sugarless pie is all I can make do with now. Hello? Hello? Did someone knock? It's alright I'll be here later. Waiting for the bread to rise.
HAIR LADY: Once upon a time I became angry. "Stop the car," I said, "Stop the car. We are going much much too fast and I don't like it." And you better believe he stopped that car.
LOVER: We left the meeting together but by the time I arrived home I was alone. HAIR LADY: Winston? Yes of course that’s who I mean. He was, in fact, my driver.
SMOKING LADY: Lonliness is next to is next to is next to… smokes.
HAIR LADY: I had a perfect life. My children slept in my hair right where I could keep an eye on them. WORM: Mmm. Bluuuuuuuuuuuue. Bluuuuuuuuuuuue. Moves toward the stairs.
HAIR LADY: SLAPS at the fly. SLAP
EVERYBODY: Looks toward the slap.
DIEGO: Tinkle. Tinkle. Oh, box, play. My little box.
MONKEY LADY: Come babies! Time for telly! Time for the flower show. Roses are red.
LOVER: I should have known that I would never see him again. Just sent him away. They said someone saw him, though. At the jail. The supplies delivery. Too risky. Oh, what is love when a lover is alone? Turn on the gas. I have beads I bought in Switzerland in the early days. Between the boards. Before the rations. WORM: Has reached SMOKING LADY'S apartment.
SMOKING LADY: Moves toward the window and looks out.
WORM: Moves very close behind her.
SMOKING LADY: Smokes. Looks out the window.
WORM: Mmmmm.
SMOKING LADY: There are so many things I wish I had said.
LOVER: I didn't want to do it.
HAIR LADY: I’m the luckiest woman alive.
MONKEY LADY: Come on up and see me sometime.
EVERYONE: Big moonshine. Small moonshine. Big moonshine.

Sunday, May 9, 2004

eternal sunshine of the spotless mind
So I wanted to write about this film but I cannot remember if I have seen it.
1:03 am edt

Sunday, April 11, 2004

premises
A woman.

A man.

A marble sculpture.

A renaissance sculptor stands alone in his cold studio.

Standing, a woman looses her way.

On a reconnaissance mission above the Patagonian wilderness, a WW II fighter pilot gazes down in wonder at the earth below.

A woman, cold as marble.

Photoelectric Effect.

Affected by a sculpture, a woman opens her mouth but cannot speak.

While searching through her stocking drawer, a nun in Calcutta suddenly discovers she has no soul.

A man sees a photograph of himself.

A woman takes a photograph of a man.

Due to the miracle of flight and the theory of transmigration, two barn swallows land on the arm of a renaissance sculpture in a Florentine Piazza.

Moved by fear, a woman turns her arm away from a man.

Moved by a woman, a man turns.

A single man moves.

Driven by a man, a car.

Lacking singularity, a woman combs her hair before a mirror in her bedroom and memorizes her own face.

After reading a poem by the goddess Sappho, inexplicably and without warning, a middle-aged man decides he no longer likes fishing and donates his gear to charity.

Due to navigational malfunction and genetic theory, a WW II fighter pilot crashes his plane on a beach in the south of France and discovers a drawing in the sand.

Cellular memory.

Quantum mechanics.

Intercontinental ballistic missiles.

A woman, desperate and hungry, cries in the dark and resolves to communicate only by means of photography.

Distracted from his work by the sound of flapping wings, a renaissance sculptor falls in love with his statue.

The half-life of plutonium is twenty four thousand, four hundred years.

The life of a fruit fly is twenty-four hours.

On a beach in the south of France, a stranded WW II pilot tries his radio but can only hear the cooing of barn swallows.

Driven by guilt, a man tells a woman he will marry her.

Driven by shame, a former gang member has his tattoos removed by a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon who practices raja yoga.

Overwhelmed by the madness of human emotion, a woman contemplates the redshift of a quasar and discovers inconsequence.

A woman watches a man.

After a meal of pate de fois gras and due to the miracle of plastic surgery, a woman sees her reflection in a store window and does not recognize herself.

A man sees a man he once knew.

A nuclear physicist is discouraged when he repeats the same experiment expecting different results.

One day after receiving a mysterious letter written in renaissance Italian, suddenly and without provocation a man turns the wheel of his speeding car and drives off the side of a cliff.

A Brahmin priest, having mastered the ancient art of Kapalabhati Pranayama, discovers a drawer full of black stockings at the bottom of the stairs leading to his lovely but humble home in Kerala, India.

Cultivating silence, a telepathic pilot suddenly understands the renaissance mind and is driven to adventure.

Unwatched, a man watches where he is going.

A woman dreams and watches a beautiful sculptor.

After suffering 245 rescue missions, an Air Force flight nurse admits her pathological fear of flying over biscotti and Pernod.

While on vacation in Florence, a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon gazes at the sculpture of a beautiful woman and is certain he saw her lips move.

Midair, a suicidal man suddenly finds the will to live.

On the other side of the world, unwatched, an isolated group of old world Colobus monkeys spontaneously and without example or provocation begin to wash yams in the surf and discover a box of fishing tackle.

Having suffered a botched rhinoplasty and several spiritual awakenings, a lost woman draws a picture of herself in the sand and discovers it to be a map of the ancient Moroccan city of Fez.

Due to the miracle of carbon dating, a woman returns to her former life as a meter maid in the Bavarian city of Garmisch Parten-Kirschen and studies to become a pilot.

Exhausted from the madness of the world, a renaissance sculptor looses his desire to live and becomes obsessed with the motion of objects in the sky.

A watch.

Rolling over in an empty bed, a man remembers the joy of collecting trains.

Startled by a pang of guilt, a dying man looks out the window of his flying car and sees a barn swallow pass by.

According to Red Shift phenomenon, the presence of longer red-spectrum wavelengths of light such as those observed in distant stars is a result of the rapid motion of these galaxies moving away from each other.

A WW II flight nurse, on the ground, opens her first wedding gift, quickly moves her hands away and says, "My favorite color is red!"

In an act of pronounced loneliness, a renaissance sculptor develops a neurotic fear of marble, moves quickly away from his statue and writes a long mysterious letter to his estranged brother in Patagonia.

After deciding to marry, a man and a woman move to different countries.

A theoretical sculpture and an artistic nurse take a walk on the beach in the south of France and declare their mutual affection for monkeys who eat yams.

Like radiation, matter continues to decrease in density after the first explosion.

Seeking solitude in the middle of a mad city, a charitable dermatologist realizes that he is uncomfortable in his own skin.

At a famous bookshop in Renaissance Italy, a young woman admits her attraction to marble and slips an unrequited love letter between the pages of a book about garden vegetables.

The fruit fly Drosophilae Melanogaster, widely used in genetic research, has only four pairs of chromosomes.

Unwatched, a woman dies.

A seventy-year-old city planner in the south of London receives a heart transplant from an anonymous donor and develops a sudden desire to study barn swallows and draw maps in the sand.

Unloved, a marble statue of a beautiful woman steps off its pedestal and walks into the crowded city but discovers that she cannot speak the language.

Driven by silence and anonymity, a woman swallows a bottle of sleeping pills.

A lost cartographer photographing fruit flies suddenly remembers exactly where he was when John Lennon was shot.

After a sad turn of events, a former nun receives in-vitro fertilization.

Full of joy, monkeys eat yams in a German zoo.

A car, driven by a man.

Driven to the edge, a man foresees his own death.

Driven by love, a woman draws a map.

A car, driven by a man, passes a renaissance sculpture and slows down as the man realizes he has never really been alone.

Alone and unwatched, a woman knows she has loved herself all along.

Having understood madness all along, time passes unwatched in a curve and all things are connected in a straight line.

Sunday, April 4, 2004

On the banks in the dark fold of the second turn in the river Tree, I remembered again the sleepy vineyard below the town and the tiny monks as they paced in a neat row around the mountain, humming and creaking in their sandals on the broken stones in the road. This vision will haunt me even though I swim. Even though I row. So I sat up from my wet root-bed and watched the brown humming of their moving mantra, following them to the impossibility of sound. It was a fold that caught us the first time, and another that would remind us, and bring us back. ... I realize that I am not alone.

Later, we pass the Abbazia di San Pietro and sing through the pine needle path by the woods and the groomed row of tiny eaten-chocolate caves and birds, and sit where the tiny man sat, look where the tiny man looked and breathe where the tiny man breathed. Every cave has a nut floor and a gate, a tiny desk, a feather pen and a blanket of antler moss and woven carpet grass. The first cave is wide enough for a person to hope and tall enough for a person to believe. No more, no less. Over by the road, outside the frame, happy Japanese tourists line up and offer travel advice to a lonely photographer. With a lens we burned sun-holes in leaves and made our mouths move like the tourists as they chattered, having double and triple-speak.

Beyond the chatter and leaf-holes, a wedding cake sits in a crease behind the mountain of little men. A well dressed cake baker's assistant with red lips and a huge gold and amythest ring takes tickets at the door, and tells us the story of Hemingway's cats as he fishes for our change. After the Germinians have gone past, we are led in one by one in single file through the sugary cake maze, ducking through sticky sugar doors, slipping by long corridors of white frosting fresias and lily petals... They say it fell one day from a party hosted by egrets living higher up the mountain. They tell up this was once a real house cake made for men living alone and one-by-one, and the egrets lost it forever. It is the only one of it's kind still standing after ther rain. So we climbed along, after, on the paved road, full of sugar ourselves. Our luches spoiled. That was before we reached the city. After we passed through the cake's Romanish antechamber - we saw him, there he was - the little monk on the ridge, waving us forward, hair trimmed in a neat rim-bowl, toward the cliff of bridges where we would have to make our last and final approach. This is not the end, we sang... la, la, la. This is not the end.
1:55 am est

Wednesday, March 31, 2004

re: kitchen monikers
Dear General Cakery, Being that you are at your ranch on holiday, the girls and I would like to reserve further inquiry till you are further less disposed-of-ish and become alongside. I have photellographs of mesopotamiss! Please wanda tell the president that we wish him expertise no doubt, and have Mark ring us about the situation and mnemonics. Your group has touched a nerve regarding the "window seat" and as we all well know now there is no president for alongsides. Just leave the jonsez, doubtless, and tell the crew to move quickly to the nearest " ." (I cannot resolve the fighting thieves.) Sincerely, Trades Manager, Assembly and Engineering ps - it IS possible to bake without pain.
2:04 am est

This book has been getting a lot of attention lately because the author seems to have made up quite a bit of the juicy bits. After reading much of the book - after forcing myself past some highly fictionalized-seeming sections of the book - I have to conclude that I simply find most of it very hard to believe. It just doesn't square up. Why not call it a "fictional memoir" instead of, for example, writing a bombastic account of being strapped down in the dentists chair while receiving two root canals, gum surgery, a cavity filling and two crowns - ALL without any novocaine? And ALL because the treatment center you attended did not allow any mood altering drugs? Why not wait until you are out of the facility to have major dental work done? I also find it hard to believe that any endodentist in their right mind would perform root canal procedures on a patient without any anesthesia. First of all, what would have been used is a local anesthetic, not a mood altering anesthetic or pain killer. Novocaine and her sisters are generally not considered a "forbidden" substance by treatment centers, unless of course we are talking about alcoholics and drug addicts in the middle ages who were forced under the knife with little more than perhaps a lot of grog and a swift blow to the head. I also find it hard to believe that a treatment facility would not only forbid the use of local anesthesia, but would also require that a client receive a major dental procedure under such circumstances. I'm sorry, he was allowed the luxury of two tennis balls he could squeeze when the going got tough. Oh that heiffer-shite aroma! Oooo-ooo that smell...

So whats the moral of the story? Whether he lied or not is an issue especially when he claims to have written some heavy non-fiction - good writers can turn everyday mundade activities into incredible adventures and make the dull seem funny just by their talent for poetry. You can live a simply or seemingly boring, uneventful life, yet in the hands of a talented writer, it can become fascinating on the page. It's all in the angle, the perspective, and what you choose to write about. It all depends on how you string the stories together and what you choose to leave out. I really don't think it is ever necessary to actually invent things with the intention of beefing up an otherwise perfectly good story. If you write from the heart, if you are brave and if you tell your truth as you see it, a memoir can be really great. But then again, why ruin a good story with the truth?

Maybe not all of them, I know. But a lot of them. Just last week at Borders here in Cary I pretended to concentrate on my work while two men behind me had an animated conversation about an exciting Powerpoint presentation for their church involving recent missionary trips. One of the guys had just returned from Africa where he went to defeat and I quote "witchcraft that is the work of the devil praise God." I got to listen as he talked about miracles involving poisonous snakes who, in the presence of the born-again christian minister, backed down and slithered away toward the local "witch doctor" and bit him. Upon viewing this "miracle," the witchdoctor saw the power that Jesus Christ had over the Devil, went to the minister, fell to his knees and asked to be "converted and born again in the name of Jesus Christ." (I wonder if he fell to his knees because he was dying from the snake bite?) I'm pretty sure I would be a little pissed off if someone sent a snake over to my house to bite me. According to Africa-mission-guy there had been difficulties in setting up their mission because there was a lot of resistance from the villagers. Basically they were told to pack up and leave. They were not wanted there. The Africa-mission-guy said that well of course this is because the villagers were living in the grips of the devil and it was their job as born-again-christians to cast the devil out of the village and save their souls in the name of Jesus Christ. So they refused to leave. There were problems. The local villagers cast evil spells on them. It seems that the Christian saviours were annoying the shit out of everyone - go figure. But once they saw that that the evangalists had more power than the "witch doctor" they asked them to say and apologized for being so un-hospitable. Then the Africa-mission guy revealed that he didn't actually see this happening, he just heard this incredible story, was humbled by it, and felt he was obligated to spread the story to others. The guy talked about his mission to drive the devil out of Africa and talked about other similar miracles that have happened and how good he felt about himself. Yes, many miracles are happening and he felt that somehow he was a vehicle for this transformation and triumph of good over evil, praise God. He went on and talked about how the people there really need Jesus and how much it sucked and how unhappy they were until his mission came and started a church where they take care of orfans and feed starving people and now it is such a miracle that the villagers now come to church almost every day! I'm shocked! Hungry people showing up for a bowl of free food and all they have to do is watch some crazy white guy yell and scream fom the pulpit for a couple of hours. It must be fairly good entertainment in the small village.

It's not that the work they are doing is not helpful, but how stupid can they be? Who is saving who? It brings back lots of ugly memories of the colonists and the starving Irish who miraculously converted to the Church of England when presnted with a bowl of gruel - and were starved by the English to begin with... The story of the "witch doctor" and they way they talked about them as "evil"... How utterly offensive. These are supposed to be Christians? How can they not understand what is going on and how totally arrogant and presumptuous they are? Did they not learn history? Or do they only remember the parts that suit them like they do with the bible. Africa-mission-guy then talked about how he tripped and fell and hurt his knee while doing God's work, and the other guy said yes he had heard about that, and he and the others felt that it was indeed the result of witchcraft, so they prayed for him everyday. The Africa guy said yes, the witch doctors cast evil spells on them all the time! WELL CAN YOU BLAME THEM???? I decided I, too, wouldcast a spell on them and the Africa guy spilled some iced tea down his shirt and on the computer. It was awesome.

Who do these people think they are? The arrogance necessary to actually believe that they, the born again christians, are the only people who will be admitted into the kingdom of God, that one must take Jesus Christ into their hearts in order to be born into eternal life in God's kingdom. What's God going to do with the rest of us? Throw us into the inferno, according to Africa guy. Well that's pretty mean, I think. Don't you? Gee, Hitler only incinerated what, 250,000 people and he was a seriously sick, evil guy. God must be much worse since according to the evangalists he will be incinerating what, several thousand billion people who just could't get the message? So the God proposed by the evangelical christians is a pretty bad guy, isn't he? And this is the message they are so keen on spreading throught the African continent and beyond?

I grew up Caltholic, and in many ways I still consider myself Catholic, give or take a few less-than-righteous social policies, and I never got this message about God. Being an over-educated Ivy-league, artist type, Ashtanga-yoga, Zen-meditation practicing lapsed Catholic from the (what color is it?) Northeast, I am almost an alien in these parts of North Carolina. No I am an alien. I am anathema to the born-agains. I am a soul to be saved. I am a market share. A potential comsumer of a black and white, good vs. evil world where God exacts revenge on consumers who do not buy their products. Maybe Madison Avenue should try this technique. Oh, yeah. I forgot. They already do.

I can let them be, in fact I encourage all kinds of creativity. What really bugs me is when they try to interfere with my television viewing entertainment. And this is the next step down here in the born-again south. Don't mess with my TV shows, OK? Don't mess with my art. That really pisses me off. If you think that watching Aidan Quinn as a vicodin addicted Episcopal minister on a television program is enough to elicit the revenge of God and destroy your chances of eternal life, then DON"T WATCH THE PROGRAM. Stop messing with my viewing pleasure or I will be inclined toward fisticuffs, get it big scary Christian guy? I'll come over to your house in my African "witch doctor" outfit and put a spell on you. Back off. I was born right the FIRST time. I am sorry that you feel you were not.

This article caught my eye and made me realize that my version of this book can be called "The Fifteen Years of NO F'IN WAY!" As you can tell, only the best come around these parts.

"And how many years were you in county?" "Thats great they finally let you see your kids!" "So how many times a week do you go to the clinic now?" "You've been sober for how many days?" "Don't they seal those juvenile records?" "Setting fires isn't so awful. A lot opf kids get into that!" "Five relapses isn't so unusual!" "Don't worry, it only takes seven years for that bankrupcy to clear off your credit report!"

Dating: Positive Thinking

Jilly Wendell
Yes, Sir: Headley

Newsweek
Jan. 16, 2006 issue
Maria Dahvana Headley grew up listening to the "Just Say No" anti-drug campaign of the 1980s. As a student at New York University in the late '90s, she applied that advice to her love life, turning down most men who asked her out and dating only intellectual, literary types. Frustrated by those guys, she reversed course, resolving to spend one year responding positively to all flirting and saying yes to literally anyone who asked her out. The ensuing 150 dates included a homeless man, several non-English speakers, 10 taxi drivers, two lesbians and a mime.

Headley's memoir of the experience, "The Year of Yes," is now in bookstores, and Hollywood's already calling. She urges other people to say yes more often, despite some horrible dates. (One guy took her to a bar that, it became clear, was a strip club—and that's a tame example.) "Lots of women are pretty set in what they think they have to have in order to be happy, but it doesn't hurt to date people who are not that," she says. It worked for her: during her dating spree, she met a playwright who was divorced and 25 years older and had two children—baggage that would have ordinarily nixed his chances. They married in 2003; now 28, Headley lives in Seattle with two teenage stepchildren. "It's something I never would have picked, but it's turned out to be this kind of amazing experience," she says.
—Daniel McGinn

© 2006 Newsweek, Inc.

So I am thinking maybe I should lower my standards, or even rid myself of standards completely? What is the harm in just saying yes? Given some of the individuals I have fended off in my life, I am not only impressed with Ms. Headley's generous and adventurous spirit, I am amazed that she is still alive.

[k.]

I have received a couple of queries and comments from curious readers asking me if I do Ashtanga Yoga. This does not totally surprise me since I have yet to mention anything about yoga here on this new blog - (which is actually an old blog that has been transferred here..)

Yes I do. But I probably won't be discussing much about my practice since I find it akin to discussing really personal and boring things like bowel movements or kidney function. It must be rather tedious to listen to. I also think of Ashtanga as my personal Fight Club, where the first rule is ...don't talk about fight club.

For someone who tends to think too much to begin with, discussing practice can only serve to distract. I barely discuss my practice with my teacher(s) since everthing they need to know is evident in my practice and attitude. I don't even ask questions that either can't be answered myself, or are simply not going to matter in a weeks or a day or a year. In otherwords, if it is not essential, it does not get discussed since I respect people's time, space and energy and would rather not take from them what I do not need. I am not a user. I don't use my practice and I try not to use people.

I have been a regular Ashtanga student for going on eight years now, and I have been to Mysore and consider Pattabhi Jois to be my teacher, although there are a small handful of western teachers whom I trust and will assist me when I am able to see them. The first few years I went to a shala nearly every day, but now I mainly practice on my own and maintain a relationship with some of my teacher friends. My teacher is part of my practice whether I am in Mysore or not. My practice is part of who I am, what I think, what I do and what I write.

So what I post here are opinions of a person who is a dedicated student of Ashtanga yoga and therefore everything I write is about Ashtanga. I also hope to bust some unbecoming myths about self-absorbed yoga students by avoiding talking about my favorite subject (myself). And that is why I need to do Ashtanga. I am hoping to be free of the bondage of self. I want to be free.

[k.]

Trust me, I'm not that honorable and I'm not very reverent. I write about what I find interesting, and it bores me to death to write and talk about my marichyasanas and my supta padangustasanas. As it is, I spend nearly two hours almost every day fully engaged in the like and on myself, so I usually like to spend the rest of my time living life, paying attention to other people, (I'm nosy) and writing about what happens to interest me (just about anything). When I am teaching, I talk even less. That is not to say I wouldn't write about yoga. If something seems worth discussing, I will bring it up. I also understand that it serves some people to keep a log of their direct experiences as yoga students. I am not suggesting that others do as I do. And if it is a requirement to write about yoga on this ashtangi.net blog, then I argue that since I practice Ashtanga, everything I write about is about yoga because I am my practice, and everything I say and do is a reflection of that.

Aren't you interested in how people deal with their lives? I always wonder if a daily yoga practice like ashtanga really changes the way people see and experience the world. I also find it fascinating that many of the people I know who do this yoga are very successful at their chosen professions. I always wonder if there is a link, and which came first; the ambitious personality, or the ambitious yoga practice.

I kind of feel like I have paid my dues. I keep a blog because I like to write and it's good for me. Hopefully I can contribute something of interest or value along the way.

[k.]

I finished the aforementioned book and my response is I don't believe 90% of what he wrote. I am also not surprised at his hubris. Believing as he says he does, having the arrogance he has defined himself as having and being the chronic alcoholic that he claims to be while all the time refusing treatment, it is no surprise that he would write a work of total fiction and pass it off as an honest, autobiographical memoir. That is exactly the kind of thing alcoholics do. So yes, I believe he is a sick and suffering alcoholic. But no, I don't believe this story. It is too perfect - boy fucks up, boy falls, boy gets help, boy falls for troubled girl, boy saves troubled girl and becomes a hero, boy gets girl, boy gets better, boy gallops off into the sunset.

So it is definitely not a million little lies, it's one big fat lie. And this is just my opinion. If I think it is worthwhile I would fact-check the book, but someone has already beat me to it...

Here is the Court TV article from their website "The Smoking Gun"

http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/0104061jamesfrey1.html

I. An Apology
So James Frey appeared on Oprah yesterday to face the music for making up stories in his "memoir." I have to give him credit for appearing on national television and admitting to lying. However, it was very satisfying to see it, and after supporting the book widely and publicly, Oprah made a direct and heartfelt apology to the public for supporting a book that turned out to be a sham. I also want to note that she looks awesome. She is over 50 and she looks like a babe without trying too hard. Except she is laying on the glam thing a little heavy which isn't helping her case. But - go Oprah!

I have to say that it has been my experience that recovering (or not so recovering) James-Frey types like to engage in "who's the baddest" competitions. In treatment centers and indeed in support groups, those who went through the worst, did the worst and otherwise experienced a personal armageddon tend to be esteemed and often the popular and revered individuals. Since they came out clean and landed on their feet, they have come the furthest and made the most and best progress. They are the overachievers, the A-students of treatment, and often win the admiration of fellow like-mindeds. They are the "super bad" cowboys on the street. If this rings a memory bell, or buzzer, or brings back bad memories of sixth grade playground "I was the toughest" shouting matches, well you are probably right on. People who are accepting treatment, who want to get better realize that they are plain glad to be alive and do not find it in their interest to glorify the horrific experiences that landed them in Hazeldon in the first place. Others, who remain liars and cheats and loosers, write fake memoirs that become best sellers. Now what does that tell you about our society? Please make yourself into something we want. Don't be who you are. We like sensasional, dramatic, cowboy stories and we don't care if they are lies as long as is has the meat we eat. Can you blame James for buying into that? I don't know. But all you have to do is look at what is happening. He is just trying to be a good boy and get approval. He is a very good student. He tries and tries, and finally gets an A only to find it caving in on itself... except, his new book also remains on the bestseller list.

II. A Shocker
I like to think of myself as an informed person, but today I made a startling discovery that reminds me that we are still living in a world that cannot accept differences and non-normative things without a fight. I opened the DSM to find that being a transsexual and trans gender is still defined as psychological disorder. So technically that means you can collect disability support from the government just because you are a guy who likes to go around in a dress. That doesn't seem fair. I like to wear ties, and I even like to wear guys jeans and sometimes even I have gone so far as to wear a guys suit and a fedora. I wear boxer shorts sometimes when I do yoga. So does that mean I can quit work and collect a check from the government for the rest of my life? I don't think I should, but I wouldn't really want to. However, I could use the health insurance package, worthless that it is. It's better than nothing.

So if you are born with the sex genes of a man, but by all other accounts have the identity of a woman, you are considered psychologically disturbed? Hell, most people spend their whole lives not knowing who the hell they are. Does that mean they are qualified for an Axis I diagnosis and a lifetime of stigma, government checks and crappy health care? Maybe.

It makes me sad that we are still at that point. Homosexuality has been taken off the DSM Axis I list since 1972 (I think) why not all the rest? Do they deserve to be diagnosed along with the pedofiles and rapists? Deserve isn't even the right word. I don't know what it is, but if there is anything that troubles a cross gender person or a tranny, it is the fact that they are anathema to our society and have to face a sea of troubles just trying to get through the day, have a job, eat at a restaraunt, buy a house or rent an apartment. They should be admired and respected for being true to their identities, not diagnosed and marginalized.

III. Sage Advice for Intellectual Wannabes
"Before you talk, you should read the book."
-David Byrne

I just want to say how totally cool it is that so many people are into reading and commenting on these blogs (not just mine). I have been having the best time with this, and I want to thank Julie for everything she has done and is doing now.

[k.]

I nearly got my eyes scratched out last summer in Mysore by a woman who for whatever reason believed that I was making the moves on her husband (who was a friend of mine before Mysore), which was the last thing that was on my mind. I have always assumed that it is perfectly reasonable to act as though people around me are sane, and behave as though they are regular, grown up people who are not threatened by or otherwise misinterpret a social interaction for something more devious. Since I have nearly had my eyes scratched out again by another woman for talking to her husband, the only solution I can come up with is to assume that behind every man there is an insanely jealous woman waiting with a gun. So now I am actually kind of afraid to talk to guys. It's not as though my boobs are hanging out and I'm slobbering all over people. I just talk to people and I'm interested in people, and I don't have "ulterior motives." I have also found out on many ocassions that some male person I was talking to got the wrong idea and thought that I wanted to date them, when I was just having an innocent conversation.

So what happened was that I couldn't talk to my friend in Mysore anymore because I wanted to avoid going blind and he was embarassed. The whole thing bummed me out.

So are there just a lot of psycho chicks out there? Cause I'm not Elle McPherson or Ivana Trump or anything. I'm kind of a nerd, actually, and now I am avoiding talking to guys because apparently a lot of them have either some demented, insecure psycho spouse behind them, or I am throwing off booty signals left and right without knowing it.

I want to think that maybe I'm much more awesome than I am, but probably it has to do with people's fragile vews of themselves rather than my devastatingly beautiful presence. So for now I am going to avoid men until further notice.

Here are some basic rules I will outline at the beginning of any conversation with a guy:

1. If I laugh at your joke, it does not mean "I want to have sex with you."

2. If I say "Hey, how are you" it means just that and not "I want to have sex with you."

3. If we exchange more than two or three sentences, it does not mean "I want to have sex with you."

4. If I want to have sex with you, I will say "I want to have sex with you."

And for the women:

4. If I smile at your boyfriend, it does not mean "I want to have sex with your boyfriend."

5. If I want to take your boyfriend or husband away from you, and he willingly goes with me, then he was gone before I got there.

Here's another one. (For those of you concerned about Ashtanga yoga, all events here happen around Ashtanga. The people involved all practice Ashtanga, or did at the time, and still might. I do.)

I had a really good friend "Mary" who was one of my closest friends for about three years or so. She was married to a guy who was also a good friend. Both were high-achieving professionals, and both of them do, or did, Ashtanga. We lived in nearby cities, and we saw each other frequently. They wanted to have a baby, and asked me to be the Godmother, but they lost the baby and went on to have another one full term who is presumably now about two years old. I wouldn't know because I have been cut off since then. Before they got pregnant, Mary started confiding in me about a guy she was really interested in and who was also pressuring her to have an affair with him. Both she and the other guy were married, and I told her I thought hew sounded like a creep which she agreed, but she couldn't help herself, she said. Her husband was soooo boring and she didn't understand her change of heart at all. She wanted to leave her husband and even asked me if she could stay with me. "What should I do?" She asked. She had made a big mistake and knew that she couldn't stay married to her husband who had become suddenly boring and un-sexy. She kept seeing this guy and started messing around with him in weird places, like behind trees in parks, in supermarket aisles, and in restaurant bathrooms. I was kind of weirded out by it and tried to change the subject after the first few conversations since it was clear that she was seeking my approval rather than my opinion. It was weird because her husband was also a good friend of mine, and I actually saw him (at yoga) more than I saw her.

Eventually she stopped seeing the creep, and she and her husband became pregnant. They asked me to be the Godmother, and then they lost the baby early on. A few months later, they became pregnant again. and Mary started acting like a psycho unit. Emotional, moody to the extreme, sick, whiney - all not entirely unexpected especially after she lost the first one. Then, she called me up and told me that she was having trouble with her friendship with me and needed a break. She said she was under too much pressure to spend time with me and felt that her schedule was too full. I was not totally surprised since she had always been rather fickle, making plans and cancelling them constantly. I knew she was having problems, but I didn't know how I could have contributed to them. Although I felt slighted, it simply never occurred to me to tell her husband about the affair.

I sent her a card and said I hoped everything worked out for her and that I was sorry she was having problems, and that if she ever wanted to talk to me to just call anytime. I never heard from her again. I was bummed and really didn't get it, but obviously she was having troubles. After a year or so of thinking that I had somehow contributed to the "break-up" by behaving badly or something, it occurred to me that she had to cut me off because she told me about her weird "affair" and my presence caused her too much anxiety. Now that she was having a baby with her husband, and knowing that he would absolutely leave in a heartbeat if he knew what she had done (he absolutely would, although I had no plans of ever discussing the affair thing since I couldn't even be sure it was true nevermind the fact that it was none of my business and I wished she had never told me in the first place) she had to remove me from the picture. Completely. I knew that her husband would simply say goodbye if he knew about the affair. Mary had armed me with information that could wipe out the house that Mary built - totally goodbye that's the end see ya later. A weapon that I did not ask for, a weapon that I did not even want. I had unwittingly become a persistent threat to her security simply because she had confided in me about something that could potantially ruin her life - one which she didn't seem to care too much about a few months earlier, suddenly became essential to hold on to. It was clearly more important to her than keeping me as a friend. After all, it seems that she only needed me around to use me anyway.

So needless to say, it all made sense, and I had more information that I could use to be certain that I wouldn't want to be around someone like that anyway. I felt used and very sorry for her. So I suppose that the moral of the story is never assume what people's motives are. Usually the motives have nothing to do with you or anything you can, would or could do. And although I believe the world revolves around me most of the time, things like this remind me that I'm just not so important as I think I am, especially in the drama of other people's lives - which is actually a tremendous relief. It seems that so many people are deep down lonely and afraid, and their motives are rooted in this pool of fear and uncertainty. Often, they don't even realize how much it colors their relationships and behaviours. And I do not exclude myself from this tenedency, I am just aware that this is part of human nature - to have our basic needs met and to act self-centerdly in a vain attempt to achieve this goal.

So I have decided that I just cannot alter my behaviour to accomodate other people's presumed neurosis or insecurities and live assuming that everyone is a potential mental patient. I will behave as though they are healthy, confident people, and the worst thing that can happen is perhaps they will start acting that way. I just can't let the crazies define my world, or define my behavior. I will talk to nice people, male or female, and I will tell them to shut up if they start telling me uncomfortable secrets that are none of my business. I'm just going to wear sunglasses and turtlenecks when I do it.

I finally posted my Mysore entries from last summer which were on a different site - which you can get to by clicking the "India" category if you are at all interested. I had a hard time adjusting to India and had some really weird things happen which is actually not so weird since it is, after all, India. I have not figured out how to make things appear only in seperate categories and not all on the main page here. I had to go back and re-date the entries so they wouldn't appear at the top of this blog thus obscuring recent posts. I suppose that is what I will have to do. I clumped a months worth of original entries in each new entry in the India category, but they are all dated respectively.

Soon I will put pictures up too.
Soon I will figure out how to work this blog thing.