What words to say?

I had an epiphany recently. Well, actually, I was handed one. In my last post, I mentioned getting a reality check on my ego; which, while disheartening to an extent, was also incredibly healthy. But sometimes it’s nice to get a little pick-me-up as well – someone reminding you that you are a badass every once in a blue moon is like the sweet, creamy dessert after a few servings of humble pie.

That dessert was served over a breakfast conversation with a profoundly respected and totally kooky high school teacher. He’s a fellow writer and wonderful human and offered to mentor me. We concluded over far too many cups of coffee that although I’ve found my voice, I still haven’t found a path. When he asked if I’d ever thought of writing a memoir, I sat back and just stared at him. I could actually write a whole freakin’ book. Never before had I considered myself capable of such an undertaking.

No offense to Tina Fey, but when I read her book (I will say that I did laugh out loud), I remember thinking, I can do that, and maybe better. But then I also thought, Yes. I know how to hook and entertain readers. But what have I got to say that needs to be heard? And could it actually fill hundreds of pages? Who decides whether what you have to say is worthwhile? How did Dave Berry and Tina Fey and David Sedaris decide what to include in their memoirs? Did they just start writing and say, well, I think this is funny, so maybe someone else will, too? That’s how I started, but I’m in the phase where I’m forwarding blog posts to my parents for their completely biased approval. How do you leap from blurbs like the following snapshots of my thought pattern to full-fledged published authorism?

I want to give you a few snippets into how my brain works. Just read these and bear with me, k? 

Every time I go to get coffee from the kitchen in the office, my first thought is “I can’t believe I work in a place that has free coffee. This is awesome.” My second thought, no matter how many times I open the fridge, always winds up stuck on the carton of fat-free half and half. Can we just stop and think about that for a minute? Cream is the fat from milk. Half and half means half cream, half milk. Where does the fat go in fat-free half and half? I just DON’T understand why anyone would want to create something that’s not what it’s originally intended to be. That’s also why I don’t buy tofurkey or pens that double as candy or believe that Chihuahuas are actually dogs. Why is our society so bent on creating fake shit to impersonate real shit? Just be fully what you are!!

Or this one, on stating the obvious…

The last couple of weeks we’ve spent driving to the middle of the state for meetings. The view along the way is pretty bland, despite the occasional milkshake from Cookout, which tends to brighten any view, and beautiful patches of flowers along the road. Halfway between Asheville and Greensboro on I-40, one of these patches of gorgeous yellow flowers has a huge sign plunked in the middle that says: Roadside Enhancement. No one else seemed to notice or care that this sign existed, but I found it absolutely preposterous. How much did it cost to put that sign there? And what is the purpose? Of course we know that it’s roadside enhancement! Only people living on the border of South Carolina may be silly enough to think that little fairies planted the yellow flowers in the middle of the highway. And most South Carolinians think anyone who lives in a 100-mile radius of Asheville is a fairy anyway, and a sign will probably just confirm their suspicions of a government-fairy conspiracy theory. Do I post a sticky note with my name on the copy machine every time I fill the paper tray? No. That would be ridiculous and narcissistic. I could spend that time it took making a sticky note oh, I don’t know, reexamining the budget or planting more flowers. And what’s the point? Do they want a cookie? Should I call my senator and say, “Well, I can’t say I’m too pleased about Amendment One or the education budget, but woooweee – the roadside enhancement sure looks gorgeous in the armpit of the state!”

Ok. I’m back. Yes. These are the kinds of things that go through my head and that I want to share, because, well, it gets really loud in there if I don’t let the stories out somehow. But is this the crap that goes into a book? Are these the kinds of stories and thoughts that need to be shared with the world? How could I focus my energy into describing my biologically defective dating genes or the paradoxes of dairy products when the world is crumbling around us? People need to laugh, duh. But we also need to know about the truths of factory farms, the plight of farmworkers, religious diasporas, energy alternatives, natural healing methods, and the good work people are doing. I’m trying to save the world here, people, or at least tell the stories of those who are. So how do I choose what words to say? If anyone has any suggestions on how to marry these facets, feel free to contact me, or have your publisher call my people. In the meantime, I’m just going to continue writing about the ridiculous shit that falls in my lap. Thanks for reading.

BucketHead

Holy Moly. I can't believe it's been 3 months since I posted last. My world has been a whirlwind, in a great way, truly. I've been working a lot and I'm absolutely loving my non-profit job. Still trying to figure out how to save the world, but I think the answer is getting closer - it lies within lots of meditation, little sleep and a great many scoops of humble pie. I'm going to post an old blog because I'm also trying to do 47 things at once (typical), and I love this clip. I just didn't post it earlier because I didn't want to offend anyone. But I think it's ok now. And I swear that I'll write some fresh content for you (all 4 of you - thanks for humoring me ;)) soon.


This post is dedicated to all single men: I've come to the conclusion that my dating life is ultimately for the sole purpose of giving me good material to facilitate my writing career. So thanks to you. 

And now, Buckethead:

I had a “date” tonight. Concerts are typically not the first thing I spend my money on (usually that would be canned goods, toilet paper and the occasional $1 movie theatre night when my zany, gentile side takes over). But when the chance comes around once every six years, you figure out how to rearrange your schedule to accommodate an invitation – even a last-minute one. And the dude said these musicians were an amazing percussionist and a prodigious guitar player.  Sweet.

I realized immediately that we weren’t on the same page about the evening when I showed up looking spunky yet sophisticated in a thoughtfully coordinated outfit and he gave me a high five. My stature approached just around his nipple – a height difference that allowed me the subtle opportunity to read his t-shirt: “Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.” Thank you, Groucho Marx, for starting the evening off classy.  By the way, the cute guy that asked me to a concert will henceforth be referred to as “homeboy” to protect his dignity… 

We got a beer and immersed ourselves in the sound waves emerging from a large man playing synthesized tuba. It sounded like a techno didgeridoo and was actually pretty cool. But all I could think about was how his mother felt about his success after so many years of listening to him scream into his tuba in the basement.

As the next act came on – what I can best describe as Mel Brooks on speed beating on a fake harp to pre-recorded electronica – Homeboy finished his beer and offered to get us another round. When I politely explained that I was still hung over from St. Patrick’s Day, he responded, “Well, I’m gonna get boozed up.”  And lo, it came to pass.

We enjoyed the rest of Mel Brooks’s performance (the highlight of which was the screeching sock puppet) and bantered back and forth a bit, with profound questions like “What percentage of the audience do you think is stoned?” (I low-balled at 50%.) Finally, the man of the hour: Buckethead. Buckethead, the master guitar guru; Buckethead, whose fingers are so long and nimble he was destined  to become a world-famous a musician and a most dexterous lover; Buckethead, the man whose title is a symbolic exploration of our minds’ isolation from reality….well, perhaps it had more to do with the perfectly contoured KFC bucket he wore upon his dome. We’ll never know because the true artist was hidden behind a white mask, which probably is symbolic of his isolation from…oh, whatever. For the next three hours he proceeded to violate the guitar with truly impressive adroitness and entertaining compositions. Homeboy would intermittently lean down to scream sweetly in my ear: “This shit is blowing my mind!!”

When his digits became fatigued, Buckethead placed foam replacements upon his hands and busted robot moves that would have made Michael Jackson swoon. When he got bored with that, he swung a chainsaw around (powered-off, obviously) and a pair of nunchaku that he clearly had been practicing with for more than 3 weeks. Maybe he and tuba dude practiced in the basement together in middle school.  He chucked the nunchaku and proceeded to toss toys from a sack into the front rows. 

Meanwhile, Homeboy was getting progressively more intoxicated and asked if it’d be cool for me to drive him home. I mean, we were headed to the same neighborhood, and he smelled good. So I agreed.  As the show was wrapping up, he asked me to borrow a $1.50 to round out his cash for a CD.  I pulled a 20 out of my bra and handed it to him (which apparently was a magical trick to a tall drunk man with a great angle on a low-cut shirt). In exchange, he tossed me his entire wallet.

I had flash visions of encountering passport-sized pornographic photos and raisins: “Um, I don’t know what to do with this. Do you really want me to dig through your wallet?”

“Oh. Um, here” – he handed me a $5 bill and said “we’ll work the rest out later.” I sighed and headed for the door, pausing once more so he could trace prospective traffic routes on the plaid sweatshirt of an equally inebriated Buckethead enthusiast.

He spent a portion of the ride home explaining how he was hoping to meet up the next day with all of the people who had bailed on him for the concert. Oh….so, you mean, I probably could have spent a little less time on my hair then, huh? We finally got back to the place where he was crashing for the weekend (I forgot to mention he was an out-of-towner), and he leaned in closely to me, looking deeply into my eyes. It was not romantic – he was simply trying to focus. “This was awesome. Thanks for coming with me” (a sentiment he would reiterate via text hours later - sogreatweshoulddothisagainsometime). He raised his hand for one final high-five as we parted ways and I drove off into the night with sock puppet screeches still ringing in my ears. 

Getting into Deep Shit

I can’t remember why I was wandering around downtown late Friday night – I do so on occasion, feeling like I’m searching for something that I can’t really pinpoint. Is it food? Is it love? Is it a human connection? I like peering into peoples’ stories as I pass by – a couple on a date; a family having dinner; a group of girlfriends on their 3^rd round of martinis. On my second lap around town, I got distracted from my soul searching by the overwhelming stench of dog shit, which had been smeared down the sidewalk for half a block. As I dodged the poo and fellow pedestrians, I caught myself saying “Ew” aloud. This is where I totally diverged from whatever cookie or love story I’d been fantasizing over, as I began to consider how quickly we adapt to our surroundings.

My mind flashed back to August 1, 2007 – I remember the date because it was my first day of classes in Buenos Aires and I had decided to walk home to familiarize myself with the huge metropolis. The second block from my university,  I squished down into a huge pile of dog poo; my newly lubricated shoes carried me sliding into the intersection where I stopped a few inches shy of the broad side of a taxi. These little land mines were a normal aspect of Argentine life; I didn’t bother with being grossed out, but simply learned to maneuver around them.  In Mexico, although droppings from every kind of animal littered the roads like fiesta confetti, we quickly realized that sidestepping poo mounds was not as crucial as learning to evade the wild dogs that dropped them. Carrying a rock and the air of a beast-tamer became a part of our daily commute.

So here I am walking down the sidewalk in this amazing city in a very privileged country and I say “ew” to dog crap. Has my identity changed from the girl who stepped off the plane and marveled at her hotel’s shiny toilet seats? When I get dressed for work, my boots remain in the corner; my fingernails stay clean (and sometimes even pink); and the sun doesn’t shine into my cubicle to beat down on my neck. My calluses have worn away, my new phone can Google your mom, and though cutting the lawn with the push-mower seems to be only a small step up from the dull machete I still boast about, it is a step forward nonetheless. How quickly we adapt to our surroundings to find ourselves comfortable and necessitating what we have within our grasp. I was totally content surviving on beans and tortillas for two weeks straight. Now I find myself perusing the farmer’s market considering spiced pumpkin ravioli and sprouted nut butter for $12/jar.

Does our identity change as we transition to new chapters, or do we carry the past chapters with us and build on them? I’ve always had this theory that we swap little bits of our souls with the people and places we encounter as we move through life.  Perhaps this is why I feel perpetually unsettled – because I have parts of me everywhere; a chunk of my identity is still in the campo with the dog poo and amazing neighbors, Mayan ruins, pot holes, beggars and horses in pickup trucks.

I guess I’m in a matrix – always adapting to the present elements, but eternally trying to get my soul whole as I leave its droppings around the globe. That's deep shit.