So, I couldn't access my Internet last night (yes, Internet is capitalized), so I was forced to rely on the phone book to find a church to go to this morning and I really wanted to try somewhere I hadn't been before. So I got out "Lost Lucy" (name of my GPS device) to help me find the address listed under one that looked good and this morning I ventured forth. I arrived in the dead-ghetto of Mira Mesa, and the church looked genuinely sketchy. So I used the GPS to find some other surrounding churches. It found one that wasn't going to start for another two hours and one that no longer holds services. I know it makes me a quitter, but after driving to my fourth church (ended up being Christian Science) I threw in the towel and did a GPS search for coffee houses nearby. It pulled up "Lestat's" (as in the vampire, named so because they stay open twenty four hours a day), which I'd heard was a cool place from people at work. (Not the most flattering of photos, but adequately expresses my half-exasperation with the circumstances)
So here I am, sitting in Lestat's coffeeshop, paying homage to the damned (albeit, unwittingly) and--get this--sitting across from an underwear model. Okay, I don't KNOW that he's actually an underwear model but oh.my.gosh. Seriously the hansomest guy I've seen in a loooooong time, perhaps ever. He seriously looks like he tumbled out of some haute couture ad and landed at the table across from me. His perfect physiognomy is beautifully set off by his strong, square-jawed face complete with manly scruff and a sort of formidable brow with intense hooded eyes...not that I'm looking. Because I would never. Huh-uh. UGH, what's a girl to do? I wish I could get a picture of him for you to see yourself, but that would be beyond the pale. Okay, here's my solution. I will move seats in half an hour if he doesn't move before then and I brought "Mere Christianity" in what was apparently a moment of clairvoyance that I might somehow need the spiritual shot in the arm. I will proceed to read it after that half hour passes. Good plan.
My mother has an aversion to live performances because she always feels so nervous for the performers themselves. Will the dancer trip? Will the actor forget his lines? Will the singer miss a breathmark? I have a great affinity for live performances but I admit that I've always had a tendency to share in her anxiety for the performer and have some difficulty focusing on the art as I get caught up in putting myself in the person's shoes onstage and imagining the pressure they must be feeling--until Tuesday night. Rufus Wainwright's ease on stage and command of his art was at once refreshing and comforting. Red and blue spotlights illuminated the Yamaha grand on the stage waiting to come to life. Attendees of most ages, fashion influences, and varying degrees of reverence for the performer crowded "Belly Up," a famous west coast venue with the virtues of an average neighborhood bar. High-top tables, benches, and stair-stepped seating filled up immediately while hardcore groupies pressed themselves against the raised stage. Cool upon entering, the whole room temperature steadily rose as people poured in from waiting in line at the doors. I found a seat next to a guy of about 30, safe looking, on one of many padded chairs pulled up to a long wooden counter. While the person to my left shifts so we aren't touching overly much, I don't. It would be polite and arguably patriotic (Americans and their personal space, you know) for me to make myself as compact as possible and avoid violating my neighbor's "bubble," but I live alone. I don't touch people. People don't touch me and for some, like myself, being touched is like a quota that needs to be reached for us to feel okay. Besides, I knew that in half an hour, our bodies would relax and we'd end up touching anyway, so cramped were the quarters we occupied. So I sat my purse down on the sticky wooden counter before me, folded my hands on top of it, and looked around. I listened to the rustling, and even smelled little wafts of cologne coming from the man next to me as he fidgeted. I tried to seem like I didn't notice but was inwardly amused at his efforts. I determined if he seemed truly agitated that I would give in, and indeed he did seem to become somewhat flustered and he finally looked at me with not a little irritation in his face. I turned to look at him, took in his face for half a second and smiled at him with not a thought in my head except that I thought he had a nice nose. He looked puzzled then, but no longer annoyed and looked forward again. I resumed looking around the room. After a minute he sighed and relaxed his body so his height decreased by about an inch and our elbows and thighs touched. The show opened with a female singer, Julianna Raye, who sang a sensual song about an having an affair in New York, "one by one the zipper's teeth gracefully admit defeat." Soon after, Rufus came out on the stage wearing a red "ugly sweater," the kind that's ugly by definition but fashionable due to its character and credit done by the rest of the person's ensemble. He strode over and sat down at the piano without much ceremony and, commenced with a fantastic rendition of "Grey Gardens."
He looked somewhat slight against the large piano but his voice was more powerful that I thought it would be, much more so, in fact. I am no music expert, so excuse my amateur attempt at classifying Rufus' voice; perfect pitch, nasal almost stringent tonality enveloped in a warm and controlled vibrato, and low. Someone said that he sings almost as if he's between waking and sleeping--slurring some of his gorgeously written lyrics. All in all, it's an accomplished voice that is unapologetically original and beautiful. It was a one-man show (accompanied by himself on the piano and guitar), he openly discussed how this is a fiscal necessity as he's preparing an opera (!). Additionally, he is taking this low-profile tour along the west coast so his sister, Martha Wainwright, can have the spotlight for a while as she releases her new album. He admitted that he also may or may not have put some of the saved funds toward augmenting his entourage followed by a sheepish laugh. He had the audience in stitches later and throughout the evening. Between comparing his altruistic effort to step aside for Martha to Hilary's fading star versus Obama's success ("I'm like Hilary Wainwright"), forgetting the entire middle verse of "Little Sister" with hilarious effect, and ad-libbing lyrics in the middle of songs he was absolutely charming and singlularly at ease on stage.
After his "final" song, he graciously quit the stage but returned for an encore of "Art Teacher," a piece without which I would've been devastated not to hear, and one that will appear on his next album, "Who are you New York." He prefaced the latter with the fact that he was being terrifically stupid to perform it as he doubted it was "performance ready," but that he'd observed that performing a new song once for a crowd has the same effect as practicing it 33 times on his own, so off he went. It was wonderful, I can't wait to hear the rest of the album. This was a very important event for me because out of all the great performers anywhere, he was the one I most wanted to hear in person (hence the eternal blog post).
Line up of songs he performed: -Grey Gardens -Going to a town -Cigarettes & Chocolate Milk -April Fool's -California -Beauty Mark -Salty Sea -Vibrate -Little Sister -Maker Makes -The Art Teacher -Zebulon -I'm Not Ready to Love -Matinee Idol (which he originally wrote for River Phoenix, but dedicated to Tinsel Town's latest tragic death, the late Heath Ledger, star of Brokeback Mountain for which "Maker Makes" was written as the lovesong for the soundtrack) -Nobody's Off the Hook -In My Arms -Who are you, New York
Alright children, it's time for some quick and dirty tips for using more correct grammar, usage, and spelling. Pick up even one of these good habits, and what you write/say will become more polished!
Rule #1: "punctuation," in other words, punctuation ALWAYS belongs inside the quotation marks with the exception of the use of parentheses (case in point).
Rule #2: the word "OK" is only acceptable in three forms, including "OK," "O.K.," and "okay".
Rule #3: don't capitalize the first letter after a colon, this is an archaic and incorrect habit.
Rule #4: watch out for tricky words. I work in the capitol building, and the money I make can be called capital. The principle actor in the play was the principal of the school. I have a compliment for you, your shoes complement your dress. The nauseous sight of blood made me feel nauseated. I have to drive farther to work, but I feel it will further my career. *physical versus metaphorical A lot of people think "a lot" is one word a lot of the time.
Rule #5: it's = a conjunction for "it is" its = indicates possession Its problem is that it's wrong.
Rule #6: "anyways" is NOT a word! ALWAYS use "anyway."
Rule #7: ever have trouble remembering whether the superlative of a word is simply adding an "-er" or an "-est?" Or if you should use "more" or "most?" General rule, if the word only has one syllable, you can usually simply add "-er" or "-est" as a suffix (note: there are a lot of exceptions to this but overall, this has served me well).
Please always feel free to correct any editing mistakes I might make.
Anyway, I just thought I'd share my personal quick and dirty tips, but if you want to hear some from a true grammar queen, visit http://grammar.quickanddirtytips.com/default.aspx.
I had a wonderful Valentine's Day. I received a package from my parents at work containing a GPS navigation system, a Garmin, and I was overwhelmed by their generosity. If I wasn't the happiest girl in San Diego, I was certainly the most spoiled! The sick feeling I've repeatedly fought back down as I've ventured into six-lane traffic while simultaneously trying to read a map quest print out and keep the sun out of my eyes resulted in less-than-safe driving and I am so grateful for this gift. I visited "World Market" after a good day at work, bought a bottle of Riesling called "Polka Dot" (I'd been eyeing it for a while, today it happened to be on sale!), went home and wriggled out of my work clothes and put on a French film, "Avenue Montaigne." Actually, I don't recommend it, but it served its purpose. I enjoyed tearing open some mail from friends and family, Heather and Alison, thank you so much for thinking of me. Your cards were wonderfully encouraging! I'm concluding my day now by listening to my favorite mix CD from Heather and writing this note. Despite a really blessed day, I'm beginning to feel some of the symptoms of heart sickness loved ones gently warned me about as I prepared to leave home; gently enough that I wouldn't be too scared to go or sleep, numerous enough that I was mentally prepared. I have everything one would need to be content and I can literally list the things I "want" on one hand: patio furniture, a piano, an ankle that doesn't hurt anymore, and a friend. Four, not bad. Despite this, I can feel satan working so hard to draw out the joy in my life leaving a hollow space in my head where thoughts of greed, self-pity, bitterness, and malcontent echo off its walls. For some reason I'm finding it difficult to keep that space filled for very long, people far away are working overtime to do their part, God walks beside me constantly comforting me with his blessings -- quick fixes, no matter how worthy, are not the remedy. What I need is not something I can work hard for, not something I can strive to be good enough for, it is something that requires me to do the thing I'm very worst at; trust God. I must metaphorically unclench the fists I so bravely made and go before God palms up. I have to show Him, more for my sake than His (He already knows), that I have nothing to offer and I come broken and sad to be a daughter so unworthy. I can't tell you what the immediate benefits of this are because healing, at least for me, doesn't work like a shot in the arm, but more like a balm that is soothed on and goes to work with time. Today, I went to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription (face meds) and the woman behind the counter asked for my insurance card and said "I thought you might've stopped by yesterday, Mary." Initially annoyed by the subtle reprimand, I paused, hand hanging in midair as I extended the card toward her, and looked at her. "What did you say?", I asked. She repeated herself and I heard her say my name again without having glanced at my card or white Rx sack yet. I said "okay" and finished the transaction and wished her a happy Valentine's day. I felt better as I walked away, she is the first person to remember who I am outside of the office. It sounds ridiculous, but what had been "sweet anonymity" had begun to make me feel quite invisible in this place whenever I wasn't at work. I'm anonymous no longer, one person down, an entire city full of people left to go, a season of growing stretches before me. I feel more and more ready.
After a dreary weekend of rain, disappointing company and poorly prepared calamari (tasted like fried rubberbands), I am resolved to be better. I had said before that loneliness is a state of mind and not a state of being. This weekend it seems I had a lapse in memory. However, my old boss from Lincoln, NE came into the office a couple of days ago (the San Diego office, that is) and left today after a grueling 48 hours of meetings. On his way out, he asked me how I was doing in my new position in life. I thought it was an odd sort of way to put it, but I did a split second analysis and responded "I'm doing great. I love it here.", and I was a little shocked to hear myself saying it. But as he smiled, gave me my first hug in weeks, and walked away, rolling suitcase following behind, I realized that only a small part of me wanted to follow him back to Lincoln. I wasn't ready to leave. I'm not ready to leave. I won't be ready to leave here for quite some time. And guess what? I don't have to. Between finishing my first book since October, letting my nails grow long, watching movies I didn't have time or money to see in the theaters and feeling the exhilaration of being somewhere new every single morning as I drive to work -- I knew that this place is good for me. I wouldn't go so far as to say it's good for my soul, but I'd go farther than saying it is good for my mind...my spirit. This place is good for my spirit.
P.S. So no one sues the pants off me, this photo is courtesy of Getty images
Okay, don't think I'm crazy, but when one spends enough time on one's own, one gets ideas. Tonight, I had a Leslie Night. Leslie Dickey is my good friend living in York, NE--though she is the kind of person one would imagine living in New York. To describe her, I would begin with words like edgy, creative, epicurious, aesthetic, funny, and intriguing. She is off-beat enough to test the limits of my life inside the box, but never so presumptuous to push me outside of it without my consent. There are certain small things Leslie had made me appreciate that, were it not for her, I would've passed up without a thought. So it was the least I could do when I decided to dedicate an entire evening to her. My agenda was as follows: Come home and take off all the accessories that made my outfit fabulous, yet a little less than comfortable during my workday, made a real meal, poured a glass of chardonnay and turned on "Paris, je T'aime", at her recommendation that I rent it. I proceeded to cry through most of the middle, baked three chocolate chip cookies for myself, then ate them warm out of the oven and began to feel better immediately. Finally, after the movie was over, I made a mixed-CD to be proud of and flipped through Blueprint magazine she'd loaned to me before I left Lincoln. I wasn't reading it though, I mostly just flipped through looking at the pictures and imagining what motif she would decide on when she finally got her own place. If I had read the magazine, I imagine all the funky fonts would've read, over and over, "I miss Leslie". When she reads this, she will probably make some girly-cooing noise, then come to her senses and realize how hideously corny that last sentence was. I'll put on my newly-mixed CD before I go to bed and let it run until it runs out or I fall asleep, whichever comes first, and include Leslie in my prayers because I am thankful for her and God deserves to know it.
1) Read one book every two weeks, at least two of them in Spanish (26 books in 2008) 2) Develop some kind of regular schedule for doing devotions/having quiet time with God 3) Keep track of my "firsts", currently on the list: Making an omelette, negotiating 6 lanes of traffic, going to a movie by myself, learning how to spell croissant, working a 40+ hour week, drinking black coffee for a whole week 4) Learn yoga 5) By the end of this year, cook half the recipes from the NY bakery cookbook, Magnolia and perfect at least three of them 6) Walk/jog a 5k this Spring, jog a 5k this Summer, run a 5k end of Fall 7) Create at least one painting I can be proud of by the end of the year 8) Listen to Spanish radio stations to and from work every day 9) Make it through my "French for Dummies" CDs, master one of them 10) Save some money and buy a piano by Spring (finish mastering music from "Amelie") 11) Go to Mexico this summer 12) Write letters to loved ones once a month 13) MUST start drinking six glasses of water a day 14) Stop using cream in my coffee 15) Take a surfing lesson (one from my Great-Aunt counts, even if it is just boogie boarding...) 16) Draw 17) Find a fantastic church (pray about it) 18) Become a prayer warrior 19) Wear my hair down more often 20) Find new ways to introduce creativity into my life: take a different route to work, fill whole grocery basket with foods I've never tried before, doodle in the margins of books, ask others about who their favorite musicians are and find new artists to listen to.
