Saturday, January 31, 2015
Ah sensational headlines. But I do. I should say I love naked old women. I love the ymca and the tenth street baths because I can walk around the lockers and the baths naked and I get to see all of the colors and shapes of normal naked bodies of all ages, but primarily older. There is something so healthy about seeing humans, regular people comfortable in their skin. At the gym I see ladies in their 60s and 70s and 80s everyday and we say hi and chat about little things and dry off and get dressed. I am not interested in external perfection, but in internal beauty and the various vessels that house such souls. I need a healthy counter balance to the barrage of airbrushed images a person sees on a daily basis without even looking for them. I guess that is why I love Lena Dunham, She serves up a naked alternative, she is a walking counter culture. God bless human women, keeping it real. I love women.
Tom did not win the Eddie tonight. Iy was amazing just to be nominated. Que sera sera.
Near win made me think of some near misses that I was lucky enough to avoid.
Once I was tripping my brains out and I dropped my heart shaped Lolita glasses onto the train tracks. I stood on the platform staring down at them trying to figure out how deep the tracks were and if I would be able to climb back out once I jumped down to the tracks and got them. My brain was spinning out. I loved those rare precious glasses. I was foolishly determined to get them. I was ready to wrecklessly jump onto the subway tracks when a man jumped down for me, without my asking, grabbed the glasses, hoped back up onto the platform like a professional athlete, and handed the glasses to me. He didn’t try to talk or linger and that was that. His name was Angel, I am sure.
Much more serious was the time I was babysitting to kids in the east village. The Boy was 5 and was wild and demanded all of the attention and the little sister was maybe two and got by on very little. One night the boy went to play in his room, which was rare, and I got to play with the girl and give her all of the attention and we were having a grand time when I realized that I had not heard a peep out of the boy in a while and that I needed to check on him.
After finding his room empty and feeling a bit of panic, I saw him sitting on top of an upright piano that was up against a window, and that window was opened. The window was opened from the top. He was facing the open window, with no bars or guard rails. He had his back to me and I was able to grab him without startling him first. I have no idea how long he was there. All I know is that with one false move everything could be different.
Thursday, January 29, 2015
Tomorrow is my first black tie event. The Eddies, which is the American Cinema Editors big gala and awards. My husband is nominated. I have a fondness for this event because one year my husband was going and he had his tux and everything but the birth mother of my daughter went into labor and we had to go to the hospital and have a friend return the tux for us.
Some things you might not know about me:
I did not go to my high school prom. I was so much cooler than that. I had a boyfriend in a hardcore band, dude. Prom!!?? I had the second highest grades out of all the seniors. The first highest was a kid named Randy, a nice smart kid. He bravely asked me to go but I told him I wasn’t going, not just with him, but not going at all.
I am late to yoga everyday for the last eight years. I do not even try anymore. I just accept. I have a hard time with organization.
I did not paint my nails for my wedding because I did not have time to. I brought the pale lavender nail polish to the site, but my friends did not let me put it on last minute because they knew better than me.
I am going to get myself put together tomorrow evening, somehow.
I got my Halston style black cotton long sleeve gown, which is very chic hippie. It looks great next to my husband’s tux. In a classic holly move, I have not tried the gown on with shoes or a slip. I will be doing that tomorrow, and forcing it to work. I have a sitter and hope to get a chance to fix my hair and makeup. I am hand sewing the slip as i type. it is almost finished.
Anyway, I will let you know how it goes, you can count on that.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
Wasting time tonight, don’t feel like writing but I am doing it.
Sit and write. Can’t think of a single thing.
I had grown up in much deprivation. As a kid, I did not get to have many things or experiences. Never really got to splurge and just get stuff. Some of that was good. There is way to much money wasted on junk in this world. But lack has an effect on a person. I believe that there is a happy medium but I did not experience it till later in life.
So as soon as I had some cash I reinvented my experience. For a period I was just a kid in a candy store buying food and clothes and taking cabs and traveling and doing all the things I had never gotten to do. I went to Coney Island and rode all the rides and stayed on the cyclone 5 times in a row and played every game in the arcade to my hearts content. It was swell to just “H A V E !!”
On my honeymoon we stayed in a hotel I had always wanted to stay in and my husband took me to swim with dolphins and he bought the photo package, something I would never in a million years have gotten to do or buy. The cool thing is that when you adopt a child you need to have these wholesome photos of yourself, outdoors, no sunglasses and smiling. As art snobs, my husband and I had almost no such photos in our 10,000 plus iphotos, but we had the dolphin shot!
Anyway, I have gotten that lack out of my system, out of my cellular makeup. I want for nothing. I have everything and then some and much gratitude for it all.
I ramble, but my point is please let go of the “what I never got” story, just give it to yourself now, rewrite that tired old story. The new chapter I am working on is not about stuff but about the inside job, one section is devoted to “empathy”. Man is it hard to give what you never got. So inch by inch I am trying to give empathy to myself. I write to remind myself. Keep reading you never know what will come up tomorrow….
Very hard night. I felt great despair. Nothing I won’t survive. Probably a gift. But hard. Anyway, I forgot to post so I am making it up this morning. The best I can do is share this passage from a book I am reading:
“So many inexplicable things happened in a life.
All those good people who helped when you were having a hard time. All those near misses. All those misunderstandings and explanations and worries and apologies. All that hurt and healing. All that anger and scowling. All those smiles.”
From the book Out There by Sarah Stark
Monday, January 26, 2015
My sister is snowbound here with me in LA. Can’t get home. Superfun for me. Yesterday she reminded me how picky I was about clothes as a small child. Even at 4 I was hating the styles presented to me by sales people. For my confirmation in 6th grade my father took me to at least 30 shoes stores and nothing came close to he adult styles I had in mind So here I am looking at dresses for the Oscars and having lots of feelings. Surprise. I hand tailored and altered all of my clothing for many years. Every inch of every piece fit like a glove, remember. Even my Vivian Westwood pants were not perfect to me so i changed them. Part of that is my specific body and part is my specific taste. I miss having the time to hand alter every garment to perfection, but I got bigger fish to fry these days. Still, if I could I would just design the dress myself. Wish I had more time. Who doesn’t.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
My first generation American parents had strong old style New York accents and I learned many words incorrectly and to this day still say some words oddly. Growing up I thought a floor length dress was a gownd. Someone might actually have said to me, “She had boughten the gownd before the fiya” rather than “she had bought the gown before the fire.” Over the years it has always fun to uncover the real word. I remember hearing an Elton John song where he sang “as the whores and the drunks filed in from the street” and I made the connection that the word whore was the same word my parents pronounced “who-ah”, which rhymed with our pronunciation of sewer, which was “sue-ah”. But I digress….
I went looking at dresses today and I remembered that 99% of gowns are not particularly attractive or flattering. There are maybe 7 cuts and none are that great. I can’t really make a look book because I like so few and given my height, they are even less flattering on me.
So I tried on a million gowns today and did not like single one. The one style I do like is the Halston-esque, long sleeve t-shirt style gown. I bought one in black to wear to a formal awards this Friday, The Eddies, where editors pick the best editing. The gown is super casual made out of cotton but elegant. It has a scoop neck and long sleeves and I’ve run around in that style dress in the east village many time. It is hippie-ish and looks good with bare feet. I will wear it with heels and it will look great next to my tuxedoed husband. Cool enough. The dress seems way too casual for the Oscars, but if I cannot find anything else I like at least I have it to fall back on.
The dresses I saw today were matronly or overdone or ridiculous or foolish or pajamaish or just unflattering. I will keep looking. This is exhausting. It is fun but odd. It is a bit like trying to plan your wedding in 3 weeks, or at least your wedding outfit, hair, shoes, dress, purse, and undergarment. And do I need a jacket type thing? Help.
One thing I learned is that if you are a nominated actor you are flown in, taken to a show room with tons of couture dresses and shoes and clutches, and stylists to help you pick the pieces and fit you. Then you are taken to another showroom for jewels and given free reign. Alas, we are not actors. So I am doing this single handedly. Wish me luck. I will keep you updated.
Saturday, January 24, 2015
oh hell, its late, I am tired, I am writing, forgive the writing, just focus on the tale.
sister in town, offered to watch kids so we could have a date. Offered to sleep over and let us sleep in her hotel room so we could SLEEP. How kind is that??!! Also offered to watch kids in ny so I could go to London with my husband for the BAFTA’s.
Leaving your kids overnight is so personal. I know that my son is not up for sleep overs yet. He is little, in separation anxiety (which is age appropriate) and he is adopted and was taken from the only person he knew at 2 days old and sent home with us strangers. That is a devastating experience. He needed so much love that first night I could not put him down. He slept only when on top of me for months and only recently can be moved from on top of me to next to me. I know that he is not up for a sleep over and it would be really hard on the caretaker as well.
So I took my sister up on the date, but not the sleep over part. I asked her to come back in the morn so we could sleep in and she said yes! How grand is that??!! While on the date got a text that at 10:30 that no one would sleep and that baby would not even drink his bottle. We were ready to come home anyway. It made me happy to know that I know my kids. So glad I am not going to London. I would love to but this is just not the year. So great to have kind people in our life rooting for us nd wanting to make our dreams come true and wanting to help us enjoy this special awards season. So lucky. Proud to be a sensitive mom. Good night.
Friday, January 23, 2015
I love books. I love stories. I love great minds. Tender souls, sharers and revealers. I like to support writers. Buy books! Give them away! I don’t do it enough.
I bought my sister Dear Sugar by Cheryl Strayed last year and she finally read it on the plane out here. I love giving people books and it is even better when they read them!! And tell me about it!!
Junot Diaz: “But if these years have taught me anything it is this: you can never run away. Not ever. The only way out is in.”
“The absolute safety of your soul will depend on whether you can find the community or the courage to bear witness to what has happened to you.”
I passed on The Brief Life of Oscar Wao, by Junot Diaz to my brother in law who rarely reads from what I understand and he read it and talked about it with me!!!!!
I recently read Their Eyes Were Watching God, by Zora Neale Hurston.
Zora Neale Hurston: “Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can anyone deny themselves the pleasure of my company. It is beyond me.
I love reading women authors. I love reading Latino and Latina authors, African Americans authors. Tell me all about it. I want to know. Thank you for sharing your experience. So much is out there!!
I am too tired to have this wrap up in a brilliant way. Good night.
Thursday, January 22, 2015
So my sister is visiting from NY, which is amazing. I am so happy to have her here with the kids and the kids are so happy and we will have a great time. She asked me to get her at the airport and I said yes and then realized that it would be rush hour and I would have the two kids and they might melt or even worse fall asleep, which means they might get off schedule and not go to sleep at bedtime and then my itsy bitsy time to myself would get even smaller. Urg! Sometimes I think I LOVE and need schedules more than my kids.
So I called 75 people to see if someone wanted to make some cash and pick them up. I did not want to have her do a ridiculous expensive cab and I had never used those other services so I did not know if she would have to wait for someone to come, etc, too many variables. I wanted someone curbside for her like she always is for me, it makes a big difference after a long flight. Anyway, NO ONE could do it. I worked so hard and made so many calls and texts and thought of every person who might not be working and might need cash and I could not find a free soul. Then I somehow managed to just be in the moment and not fight it or dread it and so I packed a bunch of snacks and breezily went with the kids.
(Who knew my blog would get so domestic. That’s what happens with 2 kids I suppose. One kid you can get away with stuff, but two you are in the zone, no if ands or buts. I should have called this one domestic life dances on but I knew it would scare some of you away. By the way, it cracks me up how the Oscar posts get more hits than when my kids were born. Not everyone likes kids, I get that. But more people like the Oscars than kids? I guess so. To each his own….)
Anyway, my simple story tonight is that it turned out to be amazing. We got there fast, picked her and her pal up and we all got to hang out and talk and catch up on the long trafficy ride home. Her pal helped feed the baby when he got cranky since she was in the back seat and I had a lovely time. We got home and went to eat a delicious dinner and everyone was happy.
Simple. Sometimes things don’t turn out the way you expect them to. Sometimes they turn out way better. Sometimes you don’t get what you want and you get something better. Sometimes no one is available for a reason. I write this to remind myself.
not relevant to my story other than the first line, "hey little sister" but hell this is great http://youtu.be/ToH0Nw8G7Jc
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
So if you knew me back in the day, we, me and my crew and all the glamorous people on the lower east side, dressed up nightly. False eyelashes, Vivienne Westwood shoes, gowns or hot pants, or slips or just underwear, couture, vintage and handmade. Anything but off the rack. I ran with some lovely drag queens and fit in well because it was all about overdoing the feminine and f*ing it up with a punk edge. Fun stuff.
Fast forward to my wedding. I never sat around dreaming and planning for that day. The goal of our wedding was for it to be all about love and ease. I wore a hand made white cotton mini dress that I designed. Yes, I wore those Sigerson Morrison white crushed patent boots with the neon orange stitching and soles, but I already had them. I could not find a better shoe to wear so I wore ones I had. I was super casual and did not have the need to D R E S S UP. I had been dressing up for a decade and gotten it out of my system.
Now I am going to the Oscars and I have to D R E S S UP! I am figuring it out and have many pals asking me about what I am going to wear. The irony is that I barely have time to wash my face each day with two kids and a job, much less think about this stuff, but alas, I will do what I can.
Well this is the first dress to be considered. It is highly impractical. Of course it is, you say. No, this dress is REALLY highly impractical. It is 100 years old, a 1920’s silk sequined gown that is so perfectly ME- it is glamorous sexy hippie all the way. I should just get it and wear it and be done. The problem is that it is $1800 and it is final sale and I cannot even try it on. It lives in Canada and that is how they do business. They won’t ship this ancient work of art unless it is paid for with no return policy. For all I know it could tear in half when I lift my arms, as old garments can be way fragile. So it is truly impractical. But it epitomizes the kind of dress I would like to wear. Do you hear me universe. It epitomizes the kind of dress I would like to wear. Hey, any rich eccentric patrons of the arts out there, if you want to buy it for me, I won’t say no, but even without the price tag, the dress might still be unwearable. Alas, I will keep you updated when I meet dress #2. Peace out.
Please check it out here, but zoom in and look at all of the angles to really dig it:
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
I was at the gym and I heard a woman in her 40’s or so say to another woman around the same age, when asked how her day was, “This day is not going good. I was talking on my phone while driving without a headset and they gave me a ticket.” The other woman replied, “That happened to me! All I did was answer my phone and the cops stopped me and gave me a ticket. It’s like a police state!” The first one said, “I know! The cops are unbelievable. I should move to Mexico. You know they have those drug cartels but that’s nothing compared to this bullshit.” The other one replied, “I know. We should both go. Really!” I kid you not.
I could not avoid the conversation because I was stuck there on the elliptical and for a moment I had the fantasy of charging at them both and knocking them down and beating them, just like in a Flannery O’Conner story!!! It was not an angry, rageful fantasy, but more of a joyous one. The fleeting thought brought a smile to my lips and made listening to them tolerable. I think I need to re read Everything That Rises Must Converge. Those are some of my favorite stories ever told. Peace out, peeps.
Monday, January 19, 2015
My daughter’s pre school talked about Martin Luther King on friday and my daughter was very into it. She told me all about him, saying that she knew more about him than anybody, which is a four year old's way of wanting to possess something, of saying that she was feeling strongly. She told me that people with white skin could do whatever they wanted and people with brown skin could not. Then she told me that she had brown skin. My heart hurt, just hearing this, seeing her have her first awareness of unfairness directed at her. She told me that Martin Luther King changed the world and he was very kind and very forgiving.
I told her that Martin was my hero. I told her that my skin was white, but I was the mommy of someone with brown skin, and the daughter of someone with brown skin, and how much it hurt me that she or anybody was not treated fairly because of the color of their skin. I told her I loved Martin and what he did. I told her how important he and his work was to me, that it matter because I cared, and not just because I was not the mommy or the daughter of people with brown skin.
Then we got out a birthday candle so she could sing happy birthday to him.
We did not get into the part about all the work that is left to do. I’m saving that for another day. This conversation is not easy, not perfect, but so necessary. I hope all moms are having it today. I hope you keep talking about race to your kids and each other. God bless you, Martin Luther King, thank you.
Sunday, January 18, 2015
The Peppermint Lounge on W 45th street was a gay bar in the 60’s that got popular with the celebrities when the Peppermint Twist song came out. According to Wikipedia, “Jackie Kennedy was such n enthusiast that she arranged for a temporary ‘Peppermint lounge’ to be mounted at the white House.” Even my grandmother had gone dancing there. The club changed names and then reopened at the same location in the 80’s and I saw Johnny Thunder’s there a few times as a young teen. It was a seedy spot, perfect for bands. Then the club moved to 100 5th avenue. And so many great bands played there! I remember seeing Iggy there in late 82 or 83 and not that many people were there. Iggy wore a hat with a light on it like a miner might wear and the stage was dark. He was so intense. The Cramps played there and it was not that crowded. They were brilliant. The place was not a rock club like CB's or even the old Pep. It had an adult drug club vibe, very decorated with lots of video screens and glass. But we went all the time because you could just stand around and see legends play. And I do mean stand around, because if you tried to sit anywhere someone asked you to buy a drink or get up. It was always uncomfortable there because you had to get there early to get in free or cheap and then you had to wait all night standing up to see the band. Ah the problems of a teenager with no cash.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
So I was around for all of the noise bands (forgive me for using a lame label and lumping bands together) in the mid 80’s. It was an interesting time in music and life. I saw Rat at Rat R and Swans and Missing Foundation and all the rest of them. I am a real pop lover, so I never fully related to these bands because I liked songs with hooks but I fully related to the chaos and the rage and the moment. Some bands were waaaaay cooler than others. I won’t get into it but i will say Rat at Rat R were my favs.
1986. The Butthole Surfers were playing Dancetertia and I happened to be there at what went down as legend. I was never a fan of their name to begin with, plus I was so new york, I didn’t dig the west coast sound as much but my supercool musicophile friend Peter Orth raved on about these guys and I indeed found myself at the show. The legend is that there was fire and drugs and sex and chaos, and the legend is true. No one can agree on what exactly happened but I will tell you this. I am a sensitive person and I picked up on all of the drugs and sex and the show was like a bad trip for me. The crowd was hyped up, pushing in hard and there was a hostile vibe. I was feeling trapped and grossed out by the sweaty skin that was touching me from every direction. It was hot and everyone was shedding their clothes on stage and the many of guys in the audience were topless. Sometimes a packed dance floor with sweaty skin is divine, but this was not joyous, it was deep and dirty and desparate. Apparently the band had been drinking for a long time before the show and that might explain the vibe. Everyone on stage and in the crowd seemed to be past the good peak and sliding down other side into the spiral, if you can dig it. Gibby was naked singing into a bullhorn, the room was foggy and smoky and a strobe light kept things disorienting. There was a fire on the stage and it was really late. I had a bad feeling and was not enjoying the chaos and was feeling like a fire and a crowd and these circumstances were not a good idea and evetually I left, missing the sex. There was an almost Altamont-ness to it, not fun, but the stuff legends are made of.
Everyone can agree that no one can agree on what exactly happened at the show. For me it was like we were all dosed with the same bad acid, but here are a few other accounts including the FILM, which is beautiful and cool in retrospect. This is an anomaly show where you did not have to be there, but looking back it does look amazing.
Friday, January 16, 2015
So I write everyday now because if I am not writing I am surfing the net and wasting my time. I have to care for my kids and family first and foremost but writing comes next. I try to write when I am sick, tired and have nothing to say, which seems to be everyday right now. Just keep flexing that muscle Holly.
Today I was remembering going to Danceteria as a teen. My experience of the place was so different from the legend. We would go up to the doorperson and say that we were on the list and make up a name. He (I have no idea who it was) would check and say we were not on the list. Then we would sit on a car parked right in front of the club and wait. What else was there to do?
In a bit he would shoo us inside, slightly irritated, certainly not joyously. My style was working class punk at the time, not goth and not glamorous. I wore plaid plants with worker’s boots and a grey plaid overcoat and had self-cut, spikey hair that was far from cool for a while it was platinum so that helped. I admired the very put together Goths with their amazing hair and black patent high heels but that was not my style and I did not have the money to go to Hair Power and get that great cut or extensions. I wouldn’t have minded that opportunity, but I did not experience it. I loved how everyone had either black hair or white hair. Very little in between.
Anyway, whatever our style, it did not hurt that we were young and cute enough. We would get in free and see the Pogues, the Replacements, Lydia Lunch, whoever. Sometimes we would sit on couches hoping to see the True Men Don’t Kill Coyotes video by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. It was their first video and the singer, topless, smooth, high maybe, looked hot to me and my friend, Sitting and waiting was the only way to see it. Where else would it be shown? Sitting through all kinds of boring avant garde stuff. Anyway, there was nothing else to do.
I was there in the height of that scene. I was there all the time. Snowy walks home down 5th ave, warm summer nights on the rooftop, seeing people having weeknight sex through their purposely open windows. I never noticed Madonna hanging out. She was not on my radar. Never noticed a lot of the peeps who hung out there or worked there. We were in our own punk world. Going there just because, getting a free drink at an open bar now and then and maybe hearing Alternative Ulster by Stiff Little Fingers loud over the PA in an emptied out room at 3:45. What else was there to do?
Thursday, January 15, 2015
So today my husband Tom was nominated for an Oscar for his editing of the film Whiplash. It is the highest honor in his field next to actually winning. There are so many layers to this so I will just tackle:
1. Being the Spouse. It is interesting to be the Spouse, rather than the person in the spotlight. I had/have been in the arts with very mild fame. I like to say that I have 100 hardcore fans around the globe. As an actor, musician, writer, I have dreamt of being recognized in a grand way, but it never happened. So it is an interesting test of my mettle to have my spouse get this honor. And it surprises me how easy and comfortable a fit this role is. I am so happy for him, so comfortable to support him and not have any of the attention. It is actually a relief. Putting myself out there has always been something I have done, but it is incredibly uncomfortable and an extremely difficult mental challenge to stay out of attachment to the external validation and to not buy into the judgment. He’s much better at it than I am. Tom is so naturally at ease in all of this. He is genuinely humble, gracious, kind and savvy.
2. Depth vs. Span. Tom is so hard working and focused. He worked in a video store in High School and knew he wanted to work in film his whole life. He has never done anything else. I on the other hand have done everything, tried everything and had mild success in many fields. Maybe that is why we are together. Maybe our different brain types go well together.
3. This is being called the whitest Oscars ever. Tom Cross is half asian. Represent, Tom Cross, represent!!
4. Being a peon in a land of giants. There was a time when some people would say I was a sex symbol in my little east village New York City Scene. That was a long time ago. It is interesting to go to an event where no one cares at all about me or even my husband. Hollywood is what it is. Tom’s category is televised at least but we will be sitting in the balcony. I did, however, find out that there are people who will be happy to dress me even if I am technically invisible. (Not to you guys but to the mass media etc.) Anyway, we will be perfectly happy and at home representing the Asians and Latinas, Inwood and Purchase, the imperfect and the human, enjoying the ride!!!
5. It could not have happened to a nicer person. My husband is so lovely. He is still friends with three guys from kindergarten and first grade. He got two calls from old friends, men, saying that they cried when they heard the news. That speaks volumes to me. My husband is so sweet and his friends are stand up solid people. Tom is the personification of Conan O’Brien’s quote. “if you work really really hard and are kind, amazing things will happen”. He inspires me everyday. Yep.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
As a young youngster I loved David Cassidy. I have no judgment of a childhood crush, but I loved him because I watched the Partridge Family. I had only seen the show as a child and then I watched it once as an adult and saw that he was, or was playing, a neurotic uptight drag. So uncool. It was shocking to see the show and think that I fell for this character as a kid. Alas, a few of the songs stand up brilliantly to the test of time, so i will make room for the idea that art can move us beyond the obvious….or maybe he was just goodlooking enough. Wow, even little kids get tricked by looks.
As a young adult I was so into being a badass. I loved the idea of being too cool for school. There was this one female who was an x junkie and was so hard and tough and sexy and beautiful. She was my idol. Looking back, it scares me to think that that shut down damaged bad ass was what I strove to be. God bless her, but I have evolved into a much grander vision for myself. Soft and openhearted has replaced the need for a brick wall of toughness to be attractive.
The name “Rocket” for a daughter. Just not into it anymore
The name Papedrow for a son. (Pronounced “Pape”, like grape, and “drow” like in Woodrow) Me or my sister made it up, a name “that nobody had.” For awhile I thought it was brilliant. It’s not.
Hmmmmm, I run into some problems here because if I don’t want to offend anyone, and I think that is what the rest of this list might do. It’s ok to offend but not for a pointless, silly blog. Not tonight.. Peace.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
TOO tired to write. I will just post this poem by Hafiz, one of my favorites:
WHAT THE HELL
The real love
I always keep a secret.
All my words
Are sung outside Her window,
For when She lets me in I take a thousand oaths of silence.
Then She says,
O, the God says,
"What the hell, Hafiz,
Why not give the whole world my address."
The real love
I always keep a secret.
All my words
Are sung outside Her window,
For when She lets me in I take a thousand oaths of silence.
Then She says,
O, the God says,
"What the hell, Hafiz,
Why not give the whole world my address."
Monday, January 12, 2015
This is a story of domestic difficulty. How everything that could possibly go wrong did, and what that looks like. Read on if you dare….
Let me start by saying that the way that I am able to be a mother of two all week while my husband works “industry” hours is the weekend. During the weekend my body gets rested from carrying a heavy baby boy turkey around with me all day and I am available to do it again each Monday. Sooooo…..
My daughter’s school’s Christmas break from school was 17 days off so I had my hands extra full prior to this week. During the break my husband had to work weekends so I did not get to recuperate as needed and I hurt my back. He also worked on Christmas eve and new years eve. We made it through imperfectly and I was pretty shot by the end.
My daughter went back to school last Mondayand I was ready to get some rest and get back on my feet. But instead this happened:
Tuesday evening I got the flu. It was hard to be a mom and deal but I did.
Thursday my childcare person flaked on a date and I had to find child care while sick, which felt like enough already. My husband and I had a fight that evening and I was at the end of my rope.
Friday my husband said he would come home early to help me. That evening when my baby was going to bed, which he does like clockwork, my daughter yelled into the room and woke him and he did not go to sleep. Soemthing so normal was biblical in its magnitude. My expected rest did not happen, which is part of being a mother, but it just happened to happen on a terrible day, which I guess is also part of being a mother. I was starting to lose my mind from having too much on my plate, I could handle no more. Then, my husband did not come home early. I was done, spent, wrecked. He came home at last and we fought. I feel asleep finally, much later than I should since I was going to be the sole caretaker again the next day. An hour later he work me to ask about Tylenol for our baby who got the flu and was running a fever. I lost my mind, feared for my baby’s life, and somewhere around 3am pulled it together yet again and finally got some sleep.
Saturday my husband did not go to work due to the terrible family circumstances. I would not be sitting here writing had he gone.
Sunday, my daughter got the flu and was running a high fever.
Monday (today), I was housebound with sick kids. I put out an email asking for help.
Here is where it gets crazy.
Carla, a friend and neighbor was so kind to respond and to offer to do my shopping for me so we would have food for the duration of this thing. She was great and got clarity on everything I needed. Mainly I needed an organic cooked chicken to feed everyone for a few days.
Then I got a message that she had gotten me a raw chicken. I almost fell off of my chair. I was so shot and hungry and tired and wasted and now I was going to have to cook a chicken and clean up etc. I accepted that I had not communicated very well and I was ready to handle it.
Then my husband called to tell my that I am not invited to the Critics Choice Awards on Thursday. He is nominated but cannot bring a date. Someone had dropped the ball and forgot to tell him.
I had gotten a sitter for the night, an outfit, I had rearranged my work schedule and messed up a much needed doctors appointment in the process, all to go to this awards event that no one bothered to tell us I am not allowed to go to. I finally broke. It had handled and handled and handled everything and universe just seemed to push and push and push until I gave in: UNCLE!!! I broke. I sobbed out of pity and went to the darkest place on earth, my core wound. This rejection literally messed with my core wound. As a child I had my heart broken by pedophiles and addicts and adults making poor choices left and right. That is an old story. I have healed those wounds but after a full week of test after test after test, I was down for the count and the core wound was got busted open. All I could do was sob like the little girl who had had so much taken away. I was destroyed over not getting to go to an awards event.
Having a baby that wants his mama every minute does not give me much time for indulging so pretty fast I decided I would watch the awards on tv at a friends house, since I do not have cable. I was back on my feet, back in reality with a proper perspective. Then…
Then Carla came to my door with a cooked chicken saying that she figured it out and returned the other chicken and got the perfect cooked chicken for me. (it was delicious, more delicious that any chicken ever). She added that she was so glad that I reached out because she knows how hard that can be. Did I hear that correctly. She did me a grand favor and then had empathy for how hard it was for me to ask for help. My mind was blown by kindness. My Soul was eased yet again by the true healing medicine of empathy.
The night ended with my babysitter flaking about working thursday night, the big night I had booked her for because I was going to my husband’s thing, which I wasn’t going to. So much for watching it on tv. Universe really did not want me to see this event for some wacky reason. Ok, I will not see it. But the best part is that I am OK. I will be home bound with 2 kids with the flu if anyone wants to come by and say hi tomorrow. Peace out!
Tonight, two things:
The Golden Globes were playing on a TV inside a restaurant on a dark street. We walked past the silent broadcast, past the window, and turned the corner only to be hit with the audio of Maggie Gyllenhaal’s acceptance speech, playing to no one but us on an even darker street.
Later, two coyotes were brazenly walking down Hyperion, a well lit commercial street, without a care, talking about the very same speech.
(No, they weren’t really talking about it, just thinking about it.) Los Angeles on a Sunday night. God bless you, city of angels.
Saturday, January 10, 2015
Once my band played Maxwells and opened for Wayne Kramer. Wayne lent us his Marshall amp. When we hit the stage the Marshall was soooo loud that it was causing my body to not work. I felt like the vibrations were disrupting my heartbeat. I had felt fine and then I was caught in a wall of sound not unlike a giant wave that surfers pray for and dread.
Fur was so stranger to loudness. Giorgio Gomelsky said that we were the loudest band that rehearsed at his loft. Yet here I was having trouble standing up straight on the stage. I do not have the best brain organization so when I was sucker punched with a new problem on stage I was not great at problem solving. I never thought to turn the thing down, I just thought “get through this.” Ah, the coping devices of someone from a messed up home.
At some point I could not breathe from the sheer loudness and asked my bass player to sing the songs, something I had never done before or since. She did not know all of the words but fabulously faked her way through. I hit the final chord of the final song in the set and went back stage to lay down. I was spent. I saw a friend there and asked for a ride home and left the band to hump the gear back to NY while I rode home lying in the back if his truck, trying to hold myself together.
From there I clung to my toilet bowl as I vomited and howled before finally dragging myself to bed. There was probably more to it than the loudness, but that is how I remember it.
hold onto something before playing this link, weeeeeeeeeee
Friday, January 9, 2015
Fever continues, this is hell, but it has me remembering having scarlet fever as a child. I remember very clearly lying in my sisters bed and calling for my father and demanding to know if his “toes hung over?” I needed to know if his toes hung over the edge of the surfboard. No one in my family surfed.
My father did not know what I was talking about and I remember asking again and again and my family chalking my words up to delirium. I was not delirious. I was aware of them getting a kick out of my fever talk. I was not delirious, I just needed to know the answer. He answered my desperate plea, making something up to calm me. I forget if he said yes or no.
remember when bands sounded like this:
Thursday, January 8, 2015
Fever and chills have me thinking about being 19 and having very little to say. The 3 things that involved me that at the time I thought were interesting were:
1. I stepped out of a slowly moving car not thinking there would be a problem and fell and hit my head fractured my skull and lost my sense of smell for a time.
2. I went outside at a CBGBs hardcore matinee and came upon Vinny Stigma, the only other person out there, telling a dog “God Bless You”. When he turned and saw me standing there he said, “I’m just talking to the dog,” and went inside.
3. I found a coin and marveled at its beauty, it seemed to have a strange design that involved a peace sign and a cloud. I drilled a hole in it and made my special find into a necklace. One day I noticed that if you turned the coin upside down, it was actually an arcade token and the design was just an inverted Genie.
That was my repertoire.
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
I was going to publish a stunning photo of my untouched up/unaltered self and write “this is 49 looks like” in bold letters but I have a fever and muscle ache and am not in the mood. Maybe next week or so. I am sick as a dog on my birthday, which makes sense because I did a lot of psychic housecleaning this season and letting go of the old often entails some down time and mourning, yes?. I lay in bed and cried and the fever broke and the ache lessoned so I am suspecting that I am just down for the count and need to honor that.
I had my akashic records read, which I s a trip. Has any of you done this amazing thing. Talk to me if you have. Basically, a stranger on the telephone knows everything about you and then some. It is a deep examination of your life and drudges up mucho garbage that is ready to be let go of. If only it were that easy, but it kinda is. Still, I am just a mere mortal and have wound up with a fever and body ache. Urg!
Anyway, I am so lucky and privileged. I belong to a few underserved minorities, have experienced being a second class citizen, grew up at risk, lived in a private hell unconnected to my social status, went there and back and still here I am thriving, blessed, happy, alive, moving and a grooving, singing songs just for you, growing everyday, growing up everyday, having every opportunity in the world really, full of love and gratitude.
I am loved and I am love. Money, love, wellbeing, and ease flow to me from an unlimited source with greater and greater abundance everyday.
I have so much gratitude for all of the kind and loving souls in my life, my family and friends. Thank you, thank you thank you for all of the birthday wishes and kind words.
Sorry if this was lame. I am going to lay down now. Peace on earth! Take us out Toots...
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
My mother was heavily drugged when I was born, as was the hospital norm. She woke at some point, however many hours later, and I was presented, washed and combed with a bow scotch taped to my head. An african american nurse, who my parents called “colored” when they told me the story growing up, handed me to my mother and said, “She gonna be bad.” How did she know?
No one knew what time I was born. No one remembered the details of my birth. My mother was not present so to speak and my father was not in the room, as was the custom. I took the lack of information personal and finding out my birth time became a cause.
I wrote away for my formal birth certificate from the New York City Hall of Records. I paid extra to get the document with all of the details. It took forever to come and when it did, they had sent the simple version with just the date on it. I lost my mind for a bit while I waited and called and explained and gave proof and waited and waited and waited. Not knowing was unbearable. It was so important for me to know. To claim my birth. To care about when that little pink blondie baby who someone labeled “bad” was born.
The funny part is, like in much great literature, when the certificate came, when finally i got the thing i so desperately needed, it no longer mattered. I have it somewhere, but I forget the time printed there in black ink on the white paper. But that has no bearing on my opinion of that little baby Holly. I love her and she is amazing. Thank you for living through it all so that I can be here now.
Monday, January 5, 2015
I read that Marilyn Monroe was broke at the time she was invited to sing at JFK’s birthday party at Madison Square Garden. She did not have good contracts with fair pay like a star of her caliber might have today. Her home had surprisingly few furnishings, according to those who visited to interview or photograph her. Her housekeeper has said that she had a modest lifestyle and owned just a few dresses. For the president’s birthday party she quite possibly had to fly herself there and back, get herself to the Garden, pay for her hotel and pay for all of her maintenance, like dress, shoes, hair, and makeup. Talk about working for free. Her mere minutes on stage went down in infamy but she didn’t get paid, instead she debted. She died 3 months later. Things are rarely as they seem.
Sunday, January 4, 2015
There are theories about money that say that if you give it away it will come back exponentially. The concept is that if you are clinging you are living in a deprivation consciousness, and if you are generous you believe there is enough to go around and thus dwell in a prosperity consciousness. I am not a saint walking the earth giving away all of my possessions, believing that I will be taken care of, but if I chose to do that I am sure that it would work out. Just read Yogananda’s Autobiography of a Yogi. Belief indeed creates reality. I have experienced that to be true.
Tithing is the idea that one needs to give 10% of their income to the church. I do not tithe, but I put a percentage of every dollar earned into a fund that I can give away to worthy or needy causes- a not for profit that educates at risk kids, a political candidate or cause like gmo food labeling, an animal shelter, a homeless person on the street, a friend’s or relative’s or stranger’s medical fund, creative project, or memorial- the list goes on and on. It feels great to have disposable income to help the world in whatever way I desire. It is only disposable because I have decided it to be so.
I once gave money to the kickstarter fund for the creative project of a person I am not fond of. I had seen that it existed and secretly wished it failure. Then I made amends for my misguided ego by sending positive energy it’s way in the form of dollars to help it succeed.
I give to live in prosperity always. I always have enough to share, no matter what my income. I was raised believing that I am privileged and can share my time, knowledge, money or good fortune with the less needy. That is how we can make the world a better place
I have worked in fundraising and it is crystal clear that there are people in the world who give and people who don’t. Giving is not based on income but on belief. Some people with tons of money have no idea that the might have a responsibility to the world to help others. Others understand that it serves everyone, including themselves to help others ascend.
I write this not to brag at all, but to inspire. If I can do it, anyone can. Give it away! Change the world! It’s easy.