Wednesday, April 28, 2004
I can't remember the last time I felt wholly content with my life.
Things that used to make feelings of contentedness melt through me like butter fresh from a happy cow now do little more than buoy me to the surface of the water.
They can't even stop me from mixing metaphors.
This afternoon I walked by a patch of lilies of the valley -- my favorite flower. I crouched down on the sidewalk to smell them, their gentle, bright scent. I had the urge to just stay there on the sidewalk for the rest of the day, to get a blanket and a good book and lie there all afternoon, people walking around me, breathing in the scent of the flowers.
Instead, here I am in this musty office, typing on my blog.
For some reason, a memory has been coming to me a lot recently. It was maybe five or six years ago now, and I was lying in my acupuncturist's office. I was recovering from a long bout of lyme disease. I had needles in me, peaceful flute music was playing, the sun was coming in the window. I was in a beautiful, healing place. I knew I was being taken care of, that I was getting better. I felt so safe and hopeful.
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Things that used to make feelings of contentedness melt through me like butter fresh from a happy cow now do little more than buoy me to the surface of the water.
They can't even stop me from mixing metaphors.
This afternoon I walked by a patch of lilies of the valley -- my favorite flower. I crouched down on the sidewalk to smell them, their gentle, bright scent. I had the urge to just stay there on the sidewalk for the rest of the day, to get a blanket and a good book and lie there all afternoon, people walking around me, breathing in the scent of the flowers.
Instead, here I am in this musty office, typing on my blog.
For some reason, a memory has been coming to me a lot recently. It was maybe five or six years ago now, and I was lying in my acupuncturist's office. I was recovering from a long bout of lyme disease. I had needles in me, peaceful flute music was playing, the sun was coming in the window. I was in a beautiful, healing place. I knew I was being taken care of, that I was getting better. I felt so safe and hopeful.
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Tuesday, April 27, 2004
When I'm in nyc, I've realized it takes a lot of energy to not react in ways I usually would.
When I see someone trip on the sidewalk, when I see a child wandering away from her mother in the subway, I immediately steel myself so I don't reach out, don't try to help the person, steer the little one in the right direction, or make eye contact. I can't smile, can't say "are you ok?"
Even when someone asks me for directions (why do they ask me? am I the last friendly person in the city?) I steel myself from being too nice. My answers are terse, formal. After all, it could be a scam.
I dreamed I was in a city and a man asked me for directions. When I responded that I couldn't help him because I was so new there, it suddenly dawned on me that he was looking for easy prey who didn't know their way around.
I grew up in the country, in a little town where everyone knew each other. The system of defences and reactions necessary for living in New York are alien to me. I can pretend I don't care about everyone around me, and I know that this protects me from getting entangled with strange and potentially dangerous people, but it will never be natural. I never want it to become natural for me, no matter how exhausting it is to maintain my stony facade.
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When I see someone trip on the sidewalk, when I see a child wandering away from her mother in the subway, I immediately steel myself so I don't reach out, don't try to help the person, steer the little one in the right direction, or make eye contact. I can't smile, can't say "are you ok?"
Even when someone asks me for directions (why do they ask me? am I the last friendly person in the city?) I steel myself from being too nice. My answers are terse, formal. After all, it could be a scam.
I dreamed I was in a city and a man asked me for directions. When I responded that I couldn't help him because I was so new there, it suddenly dawned on me that he was looking for easy prey who didn't know their way around.
I grew up in the country, in a little town where everyone knew each other. The system of defences and reactions necessary for living in New York are alien to me. I can pretend I don't care about everyone around me, and I know that this protects me from getting entangled with strange and potentially dangerous people, but it will never be natural. I never want it to become natural for me, no matter how exhausting it is to maintain my stony facade.
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Monday, April 26, 2004
I have been reading Roberto Calasso's book on the Greek myths. The story of Helen (yes, of Troy) and her twin brothers really struck me.
Helen represents the concept of being irreplaceable. Her unique beauty, enough beauty to last nine years of war, that men fought over and wanted to possess, was unlike any other. No other person could have filled her role. Her twin brothers, Castor and Pollux, on the other hand, represent people who can be substituted for each other. For example, it doesn't matter which waitress brings your french toast.
Calasso says it was a new idea in that mythical time for someone to be irreplaceable, not to simply fill a role. It's an idea I've been wrestling with as well -- who am I irreplaceable to? To my parents I am, and to my brother. I know that my friends could probably cobble together aspects of me in other friends.
I've been thinking that perhaps it's that idea of irreplaceability that makes a family. Maybe it's a strange way to put it, but it might be the basic feeling. I've been trying to decide who is irreplaceable to me... and who is not.
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Helen represents the concept of being irreplaceable. Her unique beauty, enough beauty to last nine years of war, that men fought over and wanted to possess, was unlike any other. No other person could have filled her role. Her twin brothers, Castor and Pollux, on the other hand, represent people who can be substituted for each other. For example, it doesn't matter which waitress brings your french toast.
Calasso says it was a new idea in that mythical time for someone to be irreplaceable, not to simply fill a role. It's an idea I've been wrestling with as well -- who am I irreplaceable to? To my parents I am, and to my brother. I know that my friends could probably cobble together aspects of me in other friends.
I've been thinking that perhaps it's that idea of irreplaceability that makes a family. Maybe it's a strange way to put it, but it might be the basic feeling. I've been trying to decide who is irreplaceable to me... and who is not.
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Friday, April 23, 2004
I recently got back in touch with my dear friend from Bard, an amazing woman, an amazing dancer. She has a blog, and I've loved reading it, being back inside her head again, seeing the sweet little details of her life. Her new little baby daughter is having some surgery today, and I am praying for her, sending her the energy of all the new spring flowers, the power of life coming bidden and unbidden from the secret darkness of the earth.
I hope it's okay that I wrote this, I don't want to spill anyone else's private moments. But I feel so strongly about this little girl who I've never met, who I hope to meet one day, the daughter of my friend.
When I hear about something like this, something so momentous that it makes all my daily worries seem trivial - I feel I want to get more serious about life - really live it, not just live on the surface of it anymore.
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I hope it's okay that I wrote this, I don't want to spill anyone else's private moments. But I feel so strongly about this little girl who I've never met, who I hope to meet one day, the daughter of my friend.
When I hear about something like this, something so momentous that it makes all my daily worries seem trivial - I feel I want to get more serious about life - really live it, not just live on the surface of it anymore.
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Wednesday, April 21, 2004
I have the strangest life lately.
Last Thursday, I modeled French lingerie for a photographer from London. I haven't seen the results yet, but it was fun to prance around in clothes and shoes I could never afford (fake eyelashes too!).
Saturday Scott and I went to his childhood friend's wedding. We danced the slow dances together, him resting his cheek on my hair. The dj handed out black sunglasses for the rock and roll songs, then fake sombreros for the conga line. We ate huge pieces of cake. The father of the groom dragged Scott out to catch the garter.
We got home about 11 pm. There was a frolic that night, and I was torn between staying home and connecting with Scott - who was in a very mooshie mood, or going out dancing - doing my own artistic creative stuff. I pulled on my dancing clothes and went.
Yesterday I spent the entire day in the garden, in grubby cut-off sweats and a t-shirt, pulling out dead leaves and baby weeds, watering, and just generally scrabbling around in the dirt. My hair was twisted into a bun on the top of my head, my nose was burned. My fingernails were black with soil.
Anyone who had seen me modeling, or at the wedding, or dancing would never have recognized me! But I think I was at my happiest yesterday, alone in my tiny leafy paradise.
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Last Thursday, I modeled French lingerie for a photographer from London. I haven't seen the results yet, but it was fun to prance around in clothes and shoes I could never afford (fake eyelashes too!).
Saturday Scott and I went to his childhood friend's wedding. We danced the slow dances together, him resting his cheek on my hair. The dj handed out black sunglasses for the rock and roll songs, then fake sombreros for the conga line. We ate huge pieces of cake. The father of the groom dragged Scott out to catch the garter.
We got home about 11 pm. There was a frolic that night, and I was torn between staying home and connecting with Scott - who was in a very mooshie mood, or going out dancing - doing my own artistic creative stuff. I pulled on my dancing clothes and went.
Yesterday I spent the entire day in the garden, in grubby cut-off sweats and a t-shirt, pulling out dead leaves and baby weeds, watering, and just generally scrabbling around in the dirt. My hair was twisted into a bun on the top of my head, my nose was burned. My fingernails were black with soil.
Anyone who had seen me modeling, or at the wedding, or dancing would never have recognized me! But I think I was at my happiest yesterday, alone in my tiny leafy paradise.
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Okay, I'm going to have to get an expert to help me add comments! I just had the joyful experience of almost deleting my entire blog.
I don't want to go through that again! For now if you have comments, please send to joellefairy@yahoo.com
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I don't want to go through that again! For now if you have comments, please send to joellefairy@yahoo.com
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Monday, April 19, 2004
It was hot today. Really, really hot. It's been in the low 60s this past week, and today it was close to 90.
As I type this, I'm looking out my window at the sunset. It's an intense pink/fuscia/orange which -- if old sea chanteys are to be believed -- guarantees another day of heat. Sailor's delight!
The plants love it, though. Everything is flowering and leafing out like they're late for a party. Part of me is beginning to leaf out a little, too. In this spring air, anything is possible.
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As I type this, I'm looking out my window at the sunset. It's an intense pink/fuscia/orange which -- if old sea chanteys are to be believed -- guarantees another day of heat. Sailor's delight!
The plants love it, though. Everything is flowering and leafing out like they're late for a party. Part of me is beginning to leaf out a little, too. In this spring air, anything is possible.
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Wednesday, April 14, 2004
You're The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe!
by C.S. Lewis
You were just looking for some decent clothes when everything changed
quite dramatically. For the better or for the worse, it is still hard to tell. Now it
seems like winter will never end and you feel cursed. Soon there will be an epic
struggle between two forces in your life and you are very concerned about a betrayal
that could turn the balance. If this makes it sound like you're re-enacting Christian
theological events, that may or may not be coincidence. When in doubt, put your trust
in zoo animals.
Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.
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Wednesday, April 07, 2004
The last entry I made was true, but there is more truth. I take a lot of baths. Scott and I dream of getting a kitten. I try to be peaceful most of the time.
I've been trying really hard to find what I want to do with my life, what my purpose might be - why I'm here. It seems like all the things I really love to do - the things I could do every day and not get tired of doing them - are things that nobody pays for. Changing around the things in my house so it looks like I've redecorated. Finding a complete new wardrobe of sexy-young-professional clothes at Goodwill for $50. Reading. Dancing. Watching new spring plants grow in my garden. Kissing. It sounds silly, but these are the things that really bring me joy in life, that I'll never get tired of doing.
I'm great at making costumes for myself for Venetian masquerade balls, May Day festivals, friends' art openings. I can go from a gypsy ghost to a "golden fairy" en masque (Kristin's words) to a completely chic woman in black leather whom no one in the room will speak with because they're intimidated.
I love going on hikes. I love driving through the mountains. I love the mountains near New Paltz, but my new loves are the craggy Catskills near Jewett. They feel forgotten. One road I drove on, a horse in a field watched me go by - its head actually turned.
There are a lot of good things in my life, that I enjoy the hell out of. I almost think I enjoy them with a measure of desperation, because I need so badly for them to make up for the rest of it. I can get a little manic at parties. Sometimes my head almost blows off.
I long for a good, quiet, comfortable life. In this comfortable life I dream of being married to someone I adore, living in a little house near a forest, planting flowers everywhere, having a baby. I want normal things. I don't want to worry about money so much. I don't want to feel I'm quite so on the edge of life.
I want normal things but I don't know if I'll ever have these normal things. I might be a bit too quirky. I might want exciting things. I know - I hope - one day I'll find a niche in all these rocks that doesn't rub me in all the wrong spots, and I'll curl up there on the moss, content.
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I've been trying really hard to find what I want to do with my life, what my purpose might be - why I'm here. It seems like all the things I really love to do - the things I could do every day and not get tired of doing them - are things that nobody pays for. Changing around the things in my house so it looks like I've redecorated. Finding a complete new wardrobe of sexy-young-professional clothes at Goodwill for $50. Reading. Dancing. Watching new spring plants grow in my garden. Kissing. It sounds silly, but these are the things that really bring me joy in life, that I'll never get tired of doing.
I'm great at making costumes for myself for Venetian masquerade balls, May Day festivals, friends' art openings. I can go from a gypsy ghost to a "golden fairy" en masque (Kristin's words) to a completely chic woman in black leather whom no one in the room will speak with because they're intimidated.
I love going on hikes. I love driving through the mountains. I love the mountains near New Paltz, but my new loves are the craggy Catskills near Jewett. They feel forgotten. One road I drove on, a horse in a field watched me go by - its head actually turned.
There are a lot of good things in my life, that I enjoy the hell out of. I almost think I enjoy them with a measure of desperation, because I need so badly for them to make up for the rest of it. I can get a little manic at parties. Sometimes my head almost blows off.
I long for a good, quiet, comfortable life. In this comfortable life I dream of being married to someone I adore, living in a little house near a forest, planting flowers everywhere, having a baby. I want normal things. I don't want to worry about money so much. I don't want to feel I'm quite so on the edge of life.
I want normal things but I don't know if I'll ever have these normal things. I might be a bit too quirky. I might want exciting things. I know - I hope - one day I'll find a niche in all these rocks that doesn't rub me in all the wrong spots, and I'll curl up there on the moss, content.
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How can I possibly be a metaphor for truth, I wonder as I read his email. I look around at my life. The shitty below-me job I've just cut down to two days a week. Various half-assed hobbies - Duncan dance, club dancing, gardening in my rented yard. I no longer write. I'm scared of being a therapist. I've been dating a guy for two years and we still live 2 hours apart.
I guess this is truth. More truth is that I've danced with two sweet guys recently - three if you count Jonathon - and felt the heat. That I want to scream because I let Scott scare me away from poetry. (He can't stand my poetry - he said he would never read it.) I read a letter from my father yesterday and couldn't stop crying because I felt like such a failure.
If truth is beauty and beauty truth, this isn't truthful because it's not very pretty. I have beautiful experiences in my life, but they're not strung together in any way. I danced the role of Primavera for 80 4 & 5 year-olds last week. I'm proud that I've figured out the NYC subway. Sometimes Scott and I have intense moments of contentment and bliss.
Some days, only memories sustain me. The sunny fields of dandelions around my childhood house. Certain kisses.
Mostly I feel I'm really bad at figuring out how to live life. Maybe I was raised on too many fairy tales. Maybe I grew up in a place where people were mostly nice and never developed a certain defensiveness, forcefulness. Maybe I'm just plain clueless.
I don't find too much to like about life lately. Part of me knows I'm just in a rough patch, that I'll figure it out - but part of me worries that my individual, unique flame will be smothered before I ever get there.
Michael holds a key to a beautiful part of me that might be forgotten if we didn't stay in touch. I was hopeful then, and alive in a way I rarely am now. When I write to him, I remember myself that way, and I know part of it survives. It's a treasure I keep forgetting where I've buried it, and Michael reminds me. He gives me a map with a big X on it, marking the spot. And when I dig for it, it's always there.
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I guess this is truth. More truth is that I've danced with two sweet guys recently - three if you count Jonathon - and felt the heat. That I want to scream because I let Scott scare me away from poetry. (He can't stand my poetry - he said he would never read it.) I read a letter from my father yesterday and couldn't stop crying because I felt like such a failure.
If truth is beauty and beauty truth, this isn't truthful because it's not very pretty. I have beautiful experiences in my life, but they're not strung together in any way. I danced the role of Primavera for 80 4 & 5 year-olds last week. I'm proud that I've figured out the NYC subway. Sometimes Scott and I have intense moments of contentment and bliss.
Some days, only memories sustain me. The sunny fields of dandelions around my childhood house. Certain kisses.
Mostly I feel I'm really bad at figuring out how to live life. Maybe I was raised on too many fairy tales. Maybe I grew up in a place where people were mostly nice and never developed a certain defensiveness, forcefulness. Maybe I'm just plain clueless.
I don't find too much to like about life lately. Part of me knows I'm just in a rough patch, that I'll figure it out - but part of me worries that my individual, unique flame will be smothered before I ever get there.
Michael holds a key to a beautiful part of me that might be forgotten if we didn't stay in touch. I was hopeful then, and alive in a way I rarely am now. When I write to him, I remember myself that way, and I know part of it survives. It's a treasure I keep forgetting where I've buried it, and Michael reminds me. He gives me a map with a big X on it, marking the spot. And when I dig for it, it's always there.
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