running and sweating

I think that I may be pushing for major personal adjustments with dangerous levels of manic commitment right now. And I can’t necessarily point to what I am even talking about. It’s just a “feeling.” Which is dumb. Maybe it’s all this running I’m doing. Maybe it’s all these activities to which I’ve committed. Can someone feel simultaneously purposeful and directionless?

Flitting

So now, daily, at work I feel simultaneously out of my depth, bored, frustrated and unmotivated. And I know this is entirely my own fault. I spend too much time in headphones, connected to virtual reality, thinking about all the things I should be doing (both professionally and personally) and not really doing any of them. Then I painfully overbook myself for all other hours of the day.

I’m not really sure if this is still coping mechanisms or what – there are parts of my current daily experience that is significantly improved; my relationships with people I hold dear have grown stronger, I have had piles of fun and significant experiences with a lot of very incredible people, I have grown more connected to many communities both real life and virtual. And somehow, all this connectivity and communication has made me only crave more.

It’s weird. I wish I could teleport, I wish I could share all the lovely people I know with each other, I wish I could gain even more experiences even faster. And I wish, somewhere in there, was some sort of financial support. I feel like I’m a composite of accumulation and am not sure what the output will be and even when I’m outputting it doesn’t feel like enough…or something. Something like that. I’m wondering if this feeling is a contemporary human condition. Perhaps everyone may feel similarly especially if life has recently wounded them significantly and shortly thereafter introduced them to shining and unexpected people of fun and merit. Maybe I’ll continue this thought sometime. Right now I am distractedly launching off in a different direction as an illustration of my condition.

birthdays

At this time last year, I turned 29. On my birthday, my best friend Janice invited my family and me to celebrate at her house. I can’t remember if I knew she had cancer then. I think I did because I think she had had her first surgery. But I could be wrong. I wish I could remember but I am also a little bit glad I can’t. Janice and her husband Marcus made us delicious fresh apple juice and whiskey drinks, Janice gave me beautiful handmade gifts and my family gave me the Gilmore Girls complete series box set. We concluded the evening with dinner down the street at a neighborhood pub. It was one of my favorite birthdays, full of family, love, fun and silliness.

Janice and I spent nearly every Tuesday watching the Gilmore Girls together so it was celebration that, particularly now, highlighted what a favorite Janice is to me.

Last August Janice turned 30. She had a big birthday with friends and family from all over the country there to celebrate. She had just gotten chickens and one of the party games was to help her name them. I still hadn’t allowed myself to accept that Janice was dying. I knew she was bald from the chemo under her wig but she just looked so beautiful, smiling and hugging everyone, being a gracious hostess, even having a little drink, showing her grace as we all drank liberally, maybe a little desperately. I remember seeing her at one point, standing back, watching us. I know she was seeing all that would go on without her. I wish I had been able to talk to her about it but I never crossed that line. I never really let myself believe she would die until after that night.

I remember talking to her older sister, both of us a little wild eyed from champagne and impending tragedy. She told me she couldn’t remember the last time she was that drunk and that she didn’t know what else to do. It was a party inspired and powered by love but underneath all the familial affection and appreciation, there was panic, an internal gnashing of teeth, a psychic, approaching wail of mourning.

The next morning, I sat outside with Janice, her husband, sister, and my boyfriend. It was a beautiful summer day, we ate breakfast leisurely, cleaned up a bit of party debris and talked. I remember telling Janice she was my favorite person. I remember that as we sat and admired the adolescent chickens, Janice got upset, the only time I saw her get upset throughout the ordeal, because the chickens couldn’t move into their coop right away and they would have to leave that day. That was the only time I saw her allow herself to feel fear about not being able to see a living thing she cared about again. I think it surprised her that she reacted that way to the chickens. We laughed it off but in hindsight, I think that was just the iceberg tip of her struggle with the end of her life.

Janice died the following month. I visited her on her last day. She couldn’t speak or breathe well, her lungs were filling up with fluid and there was nothing anyone could do for her anymore other than ease some of the pain – she was slowly drowning but was clinging to all her strength to stay alive to say goodbye to her sister who was traveling from out of state to see her.

I remember walking into Janice’s quaint, well appointed house. Hospice had set her up in the living room so that she could die in her preferred environment. The stark change in her appearance was a shock. Janice looked like someone dying; her skin was near blue, almost translucent, dark circles under her eyes, no wig to hide her bald head, yet she still radiated such beauty, such love. I was startled to immediate tears but I sat beside her, stroking her arm, telling her how much I loved her. She couldn’t really focus on me or acknowledge that she could comprehend what we said to her but I know she could.

We didn’t stay long. Janice’s family surrounded and supported her and I couldn’t really take seeing her in agony. That was the last time I saw Janice alive.

Now, a few days after my thirtieth birthday and a day before my big birthday party, I realized that my apprehension toward the impending celebration is of course connected to my loss. I wish with all my heart that Janice could be here now to celebrate with me. We have celebrated our birthdays together since we were in 7th and 8th grade. This past year Thanksgiving and Christmas were difficult but I had hosting duties to distract me from sadness – at my party tomorrow I will have no such role. I know I am going to have a fantastic time; I’m already flattered and excited at how much effort my friends have put into this party and I know it’s going to be fun. I just miss Janice.

From freends

ugh. Morning.

I began this morning with a cherry-blossom scented walk and filled my ears with The Best of the Left podcast (which always gets me riled up, dismayed at humanity, and angry to be american). Then I get to work, convincing myself that some kind of brisk commitment to the rearrangement of irrelevant data will have an industrious and fulfilling impact on me and I get an email from my mom sharing information about an upcoming retreat. A Grief and Loss Retreat.

This opportunity got a reaction from me very much like the poignant and brilliant Meghan O'Rourke article from the New Yorker did a few weeks ago: it made me immediately panic and weep. Of course, Pandora couldn't stay out of the fray and dropped in

which is also a weep-inducing song though here I tried to include a slightly more upbeat version than the more spare version from Once.

Falling Slowly - Glen Hansard ...

(This is actually a very good representation of how I typically think and operate all day at work. Sounds discombobulating and crazy-making, right?)

So, I'm thinking that since the chance to heal makes me cry and cry, I should probably do it, right?

Roots

For some reason I ran across Sepultura today on the internets and am now currently enjoying the Roots re-release from 2008.

I'm not sure why such a thing would inspire me to dig through my email for old Janice emails, but it did. Sadly, there are very little so now I am not only listening to loud, angry music while in my angry-making place (work), but I am also just plain angry that I don't have more immortalized Janice words. Boo death.

epic weekend

I had an excellent weekend and I think it deserves a recap and further contemplation. So, here I go. Beginning with Friday:

Our local community foundation was visiting my place of work in order to unveil their new Vital Community grantmaking strategy. They invited various representatives from community organizations to come together, discuss their new plan and brainstorm ways to share information and community-build. This kind of activity is seriously one of my very favorite things to do; since my Evergreen days, I could honestly spend half my professional time seminaring and the other half getting stuff done. I suppose that’s why I love a good meeting. So, we brainstormed with our peers, talking about the value of community roundtables, what their focus should be, who would attend such meetings, etc. It was fun and inspiring, I like talking, I like listening – it was good stuff. Some of my favorite nonprofit professionals were in the room, including the closest thing to a mentor I have in this town, and I ended up having some very delightful conversations which led to a continuing delightful conversation post-work. I met up with my mentor, we talked further and crafted a possible plan for my future in contributing to Tacoma and my neighborhood. So we’ll see but I felt good, felt affirmed, felt like there might be a reason I’m alive after all.

After that excellent meeting, I met up with my mom, a fabulous friend from choir, one of my oldest friends, and her soon-to-be fiancé. We enjoyed fantastic food and wine at Enoteca, a great little wine bar in the Stadium district. My old friend is moving to Montana with her man who I think is a rare person of quality and this is the first time in recent memory that I have seen her happy. My friend and I were both incredibly close to Janice and it was a treat to see a smile on her face after all we’ve been through.

We continued the fun at Tempest where I learned more and varied things about my choir friend (who is a huge talent and a general bad ass). She has been through just a ton of awful crap and has come out on the other end a star and it is a pleasure to know her. My old friend, her man, and my choir friend said goodnight and I was joined by even more buddies. So, a good and gratifying time into the night.

Saturday began with a trip to the Museum of Glass with the lovable and hilarious Jason Ganwich. I’m trying to recruit him to join me in a podcasting endeavor to which he seems amenable; hopefully this will result in hilarity and fun for all in the coming months. The museum has some really spectacular work on display right now and it was a nice, nostalgic throwback to the good old days. All my friends were blowing glass, we poked fun at the fancy visiting artists and cracked each other up reading the creature descriptions of the kid-designed glass pieces in the Kids Design Glass exhibition.

From The Law

Ah, culture. Jason and I concluded our time together at Hello Cupcake where I watch Jason enjoy a cupcake and overheard cheerleaders getting really excited about bubblegum-flavored lollipops.

Next, my good friend Susan and I decided to run around all over Seattle, taking in some quality time with a baby, eating food and drinking drink. We managed to succeed in all respects. We first headed to Wallingford to visit the beautiful Miss Carmela, a charming baby person who holds my entire hope for humanity in her future. No pressure, baby friend.

We ate lunch at Jhanjay, a pleasant vegetarian thai food restaurant with her mother and caught up on stuff and things. I feel I must also mention that Carmela’s mother is a dear friend, not simply some awesome lady who made a great baby. Mama Erica is the hardest working woman in Wallingford, raising a baby and getting a law degree.

Susan and I then headed down to Seattle's south end to take in some art and culture. We checked out Western Bridge, a fantastic little gallery in the industrial wasteland between Georgetown and Sodo. The work on exhibit was refreshing

From bits and things

From bits and things

and the architecture of the space itself was sending Susan into fits of enchanted glee. You may or may not know that I am a big fan of mountain goats (the most magical of all goat varietals)and Western Bridge currently features an outrageous installation by Euan Macdonald involving a scale mountain top and two white goats that made my heart very happy.

At this point Susan and I acquired the company of the world-famous Chuck and proceeded to go on a Cuban sandwich hunt which ended in success in Ballard. Paseo’s sandwiches are something to be experienced. We enjoyed the scenery (the sky was doing excellent work), demolished our messy sandwiches, and I was pleased by Chuck’s canny identification of tofu's flavor as that of a cheesy pancake. Of course, a cheesy pancake sounds like the best thing to me ever and an apt homage to tofu which is perhaps a different opinion than Chuck’s when it comes to cultured soybean curd.

The evening was marred with mild tragedy when we witnessed a female duck get hit by a car. She and her mate sat quietly on the side of the road, we called animal control and hung out next to them, feeling useless. Just as animal control was about to arrive and Susan had gone on a mission to find some duck-holding containers from a nearby restaurant, the mallard quacked a few words to his lady duck friend and flew away. Lady duck rallied and took to flight as well, her broken leg dangling depressingly. Ah, humans vs. nature.

Since we were in Ballard, we stopped at Hazlewood, an agreeable, good-looking craft cocktail joint that definitely did me right when it came to a quality Sazerac (or two). Susan then made us a reservation at the Knee High Stocking Co. and we headed over to Capital Hill to see just how successful a speakeasy it is. Knee High was definitely disappointing: a tacky, thrown together, ineptly used space featuring a dreadfully formatted menu. But the service was decent (though untalented), my drink and Chuck’s beer were tasty and the ladies were pretty. So, not a total fail.

To cleanse the palate, we decided we needed one more stop and headed to Spur in Belltown. I really like this bar: drinks are phenomenal, good service, and a thoughtful and handsome space. I was very, very deep in my cups at this point which was embarrassing but was thankfully flanked by amiable and tolerant friends who seemed not to be offended or dismayed by my intoxication so there's a mercy.

Susan and I bade Chuck farewell and zoomed back to T-town where I managed to sloppily throw myself in bed. Apparently my state was clear to the chivalrous Christo who force-fed me liquids until I fell asleep.

Sunday was date day, beginning with a breakfast of Herman’s incredible ham (see boca) burgers and onion rings, moving on to a curtain-acquiring adventure (window curtains...not an innuendo), and concluding with a viewing of The Crazies. I will discuss the Crazies more over at Fully Grown Fan but I will say here that it is possibly one of the best genre films I have ever seen, no joke. I was HUGELY impressed.

I rounded out my Sunday with some much needed television viewing and an early bedtime. Really, it was possibly one of the best weekends of all time: you can’t beat day after day of quality time with (at last count) over 20 friends both new and old. Look at me, not moping on my blog!

frantic frustration

The opportunity to have a roundtable brainstorm/discussion with various other nonprofit workers today was a little bit mindblowing. I spend much of my professional time thinking about things that have little relevance to my current position and much relevance to my devoted volunteer activities. I think a lot about how frustrating the world is, how I am having an impossibly hard time thinking about how to put my talents to work, thinking about how my favorite thing to do is make connections and then see things happen via those connections. I truly think that is my FAVORITE thing to do.

I’ve been brainstorming a way to bring it all together: my love of the arts, my wish for artists to be able to thrive and make a living, my love for my deeply flawed community, my love for this silly city I find myself devoted to, a way to make the disparate but deeply similar activities I do come together holistically…I am looking toward some very contemporary models: Etsy, Shunpike, um, I can’t think of others.

I wish I had a mentor, I wish someone other than me could help me think strategically about this, I wish I was more dedicated and could find a way to just sit down and be strategic on my own. I wish I wasn’t scared to just jump off the cliff. Apparently I don’t trust myself.

the fat and the ashes

It is a fat Tuesday, sun spilling through glass, birds fighting and somersaulting and caterwauling in the surrounding trees of my sedate urban forest. I am grinding my creative ability into dust and wishing for gods. I am answered by flowering quince and Professor Longhair and count myself lucky. It is not my custom to greet the spring with joy but this year, as I see age in my hair, on my hips, in old sprains that resist healing, I smile with the sun and the sudden shock of crocuses and snow drops. For the first time, this emergence means something new to me.

Until the fall, I had spent my conscious moments building my life, my family, my loves, and my home, making them strong and safe. I worked and worked at a deep and prideful labor and my eyes were bright. But then the dark months were heralded by dark events, by attack and dismay and grief and, try as I might to deny it as I snatch at my fleeting past self, I know I am harshly changed.

She came legion as summer faded, a swarming, quiet, utter invading plague. She pressed upon my world, flanked by a waiting, wanton darkness, and then she sank, spreading infection. She shared the end with me and with sure, relentless hands she stole my love and my work, bearing it away to a place where I had never, until now, thought to go.

I do not want to scar or heal or cover the emptiness I hold. My friends are dead but all we built together remains with me. It clings precariously to the living wounds of the new void and craves homage.

Now arrives this infant spring and the rolling world cradles its brilliant new flowers, its riotous birds, and a frantic, frolicking three-legged puppy. These vital glowing lives do not shield or distract me from the aching gaps in my fractured family - instead they circle this place where once my loved ones stood and danced and laughed and built just as industriously as I had.

So now I begin a new work: I construct my rite of spring looking to flowers, dogs, mud, clouds, and birds to find my way to befriend the dead. I search for my way to live in death.

What should Katy do with her "talents"?

I am good at a few things and one of the things I am good at and actually like doing is thinking about how small organizations I like can find funding, thrive, innovate, and continue sharing their offerings with the community.

What I would like to do is this “thing” full time. That, and develop a new kind of dating service called “Date My Friend” that would be a hybrid of internet dating and community building.

Both of these concepts are hard for me to articulate in a concrete way and I think what I need is help but if I start reaching out for real help, I would need a lot of processing time and then would have to quit my job and figure out how to fund these endeavors. And then I would have more ideas and it would be even harder to manage. A big part of me finds it difficult to see how large organizations can survive (and by survive I mean find sustainability/prosperity) OR how small, entrepreneurial ventures can either. My distrust of any kind of business sustainability is tied up completely in the fantasy of capitalism and of the international belief system built on the eternal feasibility of debt. I know expecting a level of safety is too much to ask.

Why is being a grown up and trying to make a difference in my community so freaking hard? And how do I survive without money but in an urban setting? And why did I forget to develop a marketable skill? And why did the world decide to make economic survival so difficult now?

The world, the future

I have become increasingly frustrated and agitated since the fall (as well as depressed and angsty, as is widely evidenced in this droopy blog). I have a lot of concerns about my professional/community contributions and options, am really feeling like my efforts and passion are misplaced and confused, and am striving to make sense of the craziness.

I have a lot of loves in this town and what I really wish I could be doing is attending to them, full time. I wish I had the ability to work for and contribute on various levels to a whole bunch of things. Let me see if I can list some.

- Tacoma Contemporary
I'm a board member for TaCo and I love the work but feel like we're just under our mark. Well, ok, not "just under," more like, desperately dog paddling to keep our noses water-free. We have so many good ideas, we have such a cool space, we feature such fantastic artists but there is so much more we could be doing and we're tired and pulled in too many directions, since we have "real jobs" getting in the way.

- Hilltop Artists
Maybe I'm just a huge fan of Kit Evans, the organization's executive director, but I just love the work Hilltop Artists does. I love the hot shop at Jason Lee Middle School, I love seeing the kids creating fantastic art, learning a craft, and gaining confidence. I think it's great and a very clear source for community connectivity and expression. I wish I could do more there.

- MLK Ballet
I think MLK Ballet has all the potential in the world. They teach ballet for free and they present the daring, compelling and thoughtful MOVE performance series that I think is one of the more exciting events in town. And they have no website, no consistent management (that I can see), and no outreach.

- McCarver Elementary
After tutoring at McCarver for a short time, I fell in love with the school: with the commitment you could see on the faces of the teachers and administrators, and with the inarticulated, deep appreciation the children felt for the school as their haven. You could see it in their expressions, in their rapt faces in class, in their gamboling on the playground. It is a good school surrounded by a neighborhood that is deeply invested in it.

- Exit 133
This website means a lot to Tacoma and I feel like the mastermind is stretched thin and needs help. Unfortunately I do not think he can afford it. This is all just conjecture but, I tend to get frustrated with the content, the lack of quality in the writing and the lack of real news. I need a little more; I wish there was a way I could get it there.

- Tacoma Food Co-op
The Co-op drives me crazy. It doesn't even exist and it drives me crazy. TFC: your board is too big, your committees seem to not know how to prepare to run a grocery store, and the hype is dying. Let's get to work!

- Tacoma Is For Lovers
I wish there was a way to make Tacoma Is For Lovers a legitimate undertaking. I'm not sure how to do such a thing at all. I love Jennifer Adams and I would love to see her vision take wing.

- Shunpike
I think this organization is phenomenal and a phenomenon. I am so excited for them to be in Tacoma and I wish I could figure out a way to spend more time working with them.

- Vegans and Vegetarians in Tacoma
Where are you? Why do we only have one restaurant? Why won't anyone make us food? What are you afraid of, Tacoma?

So. What to do? Should I just freelance? Should I build a portfolio of projects for all the people and friends I love and then just do it full-time? What should I do?

Slogging through the season

So, it has been a really tough fall/winter and I am still putting in a lot of conscious effort to avoid truly engaging with my grief, my injuries, my support network, my talents, and really most other aspects of my existence that could encourage healing.

I spent a lot of time surrounded by love and comfort this holiday season and I am sure it helped on some level but for the most part, my pervading compulsions want me to spend significant time motionless and alone. This all sounds way worse than I think it is. I've been really busy and although I just had a pseudo vacation, I spent the majority of it nursing a sprained ankle and feeling intensely unproductive which is really the only time I feel guilty.

A nearly relatable thought/tangent: I have been successful in transforming certain chores into compulsions that control my ability to relax/enjoy(for example: I can't sit down and watch tv if the living room floor isn't swept, the throw blankets and pillows are not in their place, netflix dvds are not stacked neatly, etc.; and, I can't cook if the kitchen is a wreck)but when incapacitated, it just made the living situation hugely irritating as I was unable to compulsively tidy. These compulsions are a self fulfilling blessing and curse: because of them, selected areas of my living quarters are not a complete wreck; because of them I can successfully distract myself from greater, more important work (writing, Tacoma Contemporary, friends, family, community efforts).

Moving on to additional, mildly relatable thoughts: having experienced a lot of forced change, I have been torn to grab the momentum and continue changing or to somehow capture and hoard some stasis (which I know is basically impossible), and I think I have been definitely attempting both simultaneously. I guess I just have to keep it up since the conflicting movements, the progressive and the depressive, seem to be forcing me to think.

It is really hard for me to process loss and this was something that never occurred to me to expect (which I guess is silly). I'm such a control freak and manipulator that I don't think I ever considered that relationships could be ripped from me by forces completely out of my control. And now I have all these stupid dreams where I lose and/or break things; and in real life I accidentally lose and/or break/ruin things all the time. Grief and loss are embarrassing for me. I've been made a fool, clumsy, and out of control. What a mean universe!

I can't wait to be able to walk comfortably again. I need my thinking time: "All truly great thoughts are conceived by walking." - Friedrich Nietzsche

current, depressive thoughts

The dark came quick this year. Janice died, the flowers died, the leaves fell and the sun toddled away. Now I wander, trekking through quiet, dirty neighborhoods in the dusk and in the dawn and I don’t think about my dead and hurt and distant friends. Instead I insulate with information that puts no demands on my current personal experience. It pours into my head through green headphones, baptizing me in distraction. I am very alone and when suddenly, I do not feel alone, I feel hysterical. The love of the living makes me feel too mortal and I can’t deal with it. I can’t talk about Janice, I can’t think longer than that length of time it takes the slender stabbing pain to run me through whenever she comes to mind. I feel the blade slide in and out and then I think about something else; anything else. Like the holidays, like cat shit, like finding a new job, like growing my hair out, like planning every second of my week, like shopping, like cookies.

And this, my favorite time of the year is bearing down on me and a big part of me dreads it. I can’t cry anymore because all crying does is make my eyes itch. This is not a situation where catharsis can be applied. I have no means to process the end of my favorite friendship, of my favorite friend, and I don’t understand mourning because with every part of me, I feel that mourning is a skill, an ability, and I have no teacher, no talent for it, and no help.

What do you do when you’ve met death? When she’s crept inside and sunk in her teeth and curled up to gnaw? What happens when you can point to the decay? When you don’t simply move about in your day-to-day, feeling distinctly mortal but not able to distinguish whether it will be a car or a cliff or a tumor or a gun that will do you in, but instead, you know and recognize your end? What happens when you know at least that, but you still can’t and won’t know anything?

All I know is that no matter how I think about it, I get tangled in and embarrassed by my thoughts; my small, paltry language falters and collapses into whining when I think on how it’s all so unfair and tragic and incomprehensible. I think about death and think about how wrong I am about death. I can’t collapse the perspective I cling to, the perspective that reasons with my guts and tells me that I’m wrong as my every instinct screams that death is evil, that it’s cheating us of all we love and all we are. I know it’s like saying the same thing about birth. How can I hate one and be delighted at the other when it happens to every single thing, every human, every Thing. Everything ends.

Death, the promise fulfilled; death defining life; death defining the beginning, middle and end; death, the contrast; death, the oath keeper; death, the end of potential, the beginning of the absolute unknowable. And I rage, just as I am supposed to, as a mortal, at the dying of the light.

Shouldn’t I know, as I wrestle, instead of wrestling, shouldn’t I know and be comforted by the fact that the one who is being taken from me has built a life that would impact me in such way? Would impact so many? A person who’s life could be defined by joy and compassion and love and kindness and beauty? It is a life defined by depth and intelligence and talent and family and love and empathy and really, could someone ask to be blessed by more?

And how can I be so selfish to make so much of this experience about myself when she is the one leaving? How do you facilitate a beautiful, graceful, love-filled exit and not be creepy/shitty/self-serving about it? I suppose the best choice would be action—channeling the sorrow and panic into good works but when it is only one whose impact is so profound, not everyone can always be doing things. Sometimes you can only sit or run quietly or loudly with your thoughts.

Perhaps sorrow for the looming utter absence of a human of great quality is allowable. Maybe it is just acceptable to be sad to lose someone so precious.

Patton Oswalt on Paris Hilton

I am not someone who is typically charmed by references to Paris Hilton; she has had plenty of overexposure and we can now all just comfortably ignore her. But, Patton Oswalt said this of her in his recount of his time at Sundance:

"That being said, who cares if someone is mean to Paris Hilton? In her case, I think being “mean” is falling short of the social contract. She’s built an empire on celebrating exclusion, aggressive ignorance, pettiness...and meanness.

Not only do I think everyone should be “mean” to Paris Hilton, but I think she should contract a terminal, painless bloating disease that can only be cured if the sufferer can both read and comprehend any written work by Willa Cather, Charles Portis, Wallace Stevens or Roberto Bolano.

She’d be doomed, but she’d die oblivious and we’ll all be entertained (and enriched) by her failed attempts to save her own life."

heheheh. I like that bloating disease.

Support The Tacoma Food Co-op!

Support The Tacoma Food Co-op!

The Grand will be showing "Food, Inc." to benefit the Tacoma Food Co-op beginning August 14. The Co-op will receive $1 for everyone who mentions the Co-op when buying their ticket. Please consider viewing this eye-opening film and spreading the word to your friends. We need our co-op!

More about the film:
http://www.grandcinema.com/movie.php?id=317

taking a que from Bets: things stirring personal excitement

> Not to highlight my lushiness but...a new bar is coming. Chris is hard at work, revamping the old monsoon room space: it is becoming 1022 So. Or ten twenty two south with possible early spring opening! Thank freaking god I may be able to get a decent cocktail in this town for under $10 again!

> Two words: Battlestar Galactica. Not into the fact that it's "final episodes" but man, now the only scifi show that makes me cry and cry is Torchwood and I am totally alone in my love for that show so I need my community back! Its a very lonely experience crying over the death of a member of torchwood while I watch it in my bedroom, wearing headphones, on my laptop. Really, Torchwood deserves a more public presence! I am not ashamed!

> Naked Lady Party! Jan 17th! My house! It's only fer girls though; not that kind of naked lady party.

> Read 2 Me now officially has 700 tutors! Consider giving back and sign up to tutor in honor of Martin Luther King Jr! We only need 368 more!! Thank you to the precious, shining few who are already volunteering!

>Interns! I get two! I just have to find things for them to do!

I guess things aren't quite as gray and insular as I have been feeling that they are. Perhaps this silly exercise makes some sort of positive-thinking difference. blag.

in defense of seasonal giving and observance

We're in the thick of the holiday season which seems to translate to folks typically most aligned ideologically with myself as a time of stress/sugar/familial pressure/rampant, vulgar and unsustainable displays of consumerism/misplaced religious fervor/pointless, overdone and tacky decorating.

For the most part, I fully recognize and relate to my people reacting with a high level of vitriol and venom to the season. It is, for the largest part, a grotesque, painfully consumerist-based time coated with thick, misplaced doses of Jesus and sparkles. But really, I feel like all our american seasons are somehow this way.

A note before continuing: this post is based on my own pop-philosophy that should one choose to live in a community, thoughtful participation and deliberate choices of non-participation are mandatory and must be communicated to sustain the health of the community. If you choose to not maintain a community (and get all hermitized and make trees/squirrels/squid/ferns your exclusive community) then none of the following is AT ALL relevant to you!

So I'm going to address a few things about xmas and will begin with one thing that drives me crazy which is the attitude, growing in cultural acceptance, that I often hear this time of year: "I don't have to care about seasonal compassion because, as an authentic person, I care and am demonstrative about how I care all year round" or, as a writer from exit 133 put it:

"I’ve never been a big fan of gift giving. It’s a lot of pressure. I’m uncomfortable accepting gifts and I don’t like the obligation I feel to give them. I much prefer to give things to people as I come across them throughout the year, not on prescribed holidays. And I prefer to give what I want to give because I want to give it, not because I’m told to give it. Often there is an expectation to just give something, but I can’t resolve to give something that doesn’t have meaning. And I don’t like to give things that someone could have just bought themselves. That’s not a gift, that’s a favor.

For me, without some meaning behind a gift, the giving is a shallow exercise in responsibility. The best gifts are able to capture something unique about the relationship between giver and receiver; they create a union between creativity and intention, somehow holding the promise of a new start while expressing an appreciation for the blessings of the past."

Okay; I gave the writer more space than deserved in this post but I feel like this is such a quintessential "individualistic/non-consumer/sustainably" minded statement that so many of my peers identify with that I have to point at it and say: quiet you, with all your excuses!

I think the idea of utilizing a season as an excuse to reflect, think about the kind things people have done for you and choose to deliberately reciprocate is not a "shallow exercise in responsibility," it is instead a deep and often vital exercise in responsibility. I absolutely feel like you can identify ANY season for this exercise--it doesn't have to be xmas--but if you aspire to be a mindful, compassionate, responsive, loving and considerate friend, well then, you absolutely should pick your freaking season to give.

I know not everyone is motivated conscientiously when giving at Christmas but really, it’s not your place to say who is or is not. This whiney feeling of discomfort because of the "pressure" surrounding gift-giving; being "uncomfortable" with receiving gifts; and the idea that you should be able to give what you want, when you want to give it versus giving what someone may actually want and when are all just excuses for insecurity and laziness; so you:

-- deflect the pressure you may feel to be and/or show that you are thankful by making others uncomfortable when they put forth effort to show they care ;
-- put off digging in and finding your own meaning and impetus for giving; and
-- label other's efforts as "favors" vs gifts, drawing a completely arbitrary line for which only you control the definition.

I know a lot of people who harness this idea that meaningful giving cannot truly be seasonally-motivated and throw it back in the faces of those who do give seasonally(which is rude and mean); and I also know a lot of people who meaningfully give all year round (which is considerate and kind!).

I guess my secret to relative comfort in giving during the holiday season is that I am blessed with incredibly reciprocal and thoughtful friends who show they care year-round so I don't have expectations that people will give me shit. But for me, holidays help because consideration is a responsibility that shouldn’t be neglected: holidays force me to pull some time out of my schedule to think about whom I love, why I love them and how I can show them.

I feel like specially-designated days hold power: whether birthdays or holidays, I think it's important to allow certain days to hold greater significance because we can all use some outside motivation every once in a while; it's really hard to endow every day with significance (though we should! Must stay conscientious/conscious/considerate at all times!). If xmas didn't happen, I would never make cookies and then what sort of world would this be?

I also consider holidays to have huge communal impact that magically motivates emergence.* We all experience a holiday if we live in a community. We all feel some sort of pressure to observe even if that observation is as a spectator and not a participant. Either role is ok; it's ok to observe and make choices about catalytic occurrences but, like most things, it's not so helpful to jump up on a tall horse, point to everyone with a different method of observation/participation than your own, whine and loudly judge them.

The true challenge with a day that has been arbitrarily defined as significant is to make a choice about your response to the significance, to either find a method to make this significance inclusive or find a way to stay out of it without blaming/judging others for their choices. The search for inclusive practices is the true work of those of us who choose to participate. I think it's hard to feel included in christmas but if you can find what it is that makes you feel that you are, it can make all the difference. And this doesn't really have anything to do with presents.

Ways I find to include myself in xmas:

Singing/ reading out loud with my family/ baking/ walking in winter weather/ watching an insane amount of seasonal movies/ listening to xmas music incessantly/ searching for new and stirring xmas music incessantly/ drinking mulled wine/ drinking toddies/ drinking silk nog/ writing xmas cards and forgetting to send them/ communing silently with my xmas tree/ progressively rearranging all my xmas ornaments/ inserting secret, seasonal accessories into my wardrobe that only I would care about or notice/ collecting vintage ornaments and décor/ reading old xmas cards/ buying holiday books at Kings Books/ making mixed xmas cds/ giving gifts of all sorts all through december.

Fonts

I am noticing an increasingly alarming trend which falls in direct opposition of my concepts of branding and font identification. Some background:

First: I believe that fonts are dramatically important. They are an essential accessory and means of expression. They can convey all sorts of important and eye-opening leanings in a person both professionally and personally. For example: as a grant writer, I have recently realized the deeper and reactive importance of serifs.

Second: I believe that consistency in fonts is important within a single work. I am not saying you have to limit your font choices to one (although that is preferable) but should you choose to mix it up your motivation behind that choice should be evident, readable and utilitarian. Because really, when you're trying to convey knowledge, what is more important?? I know I may have some font-consistency opponents out there but I am getting more and more vehement on the topic so I suggest you rally and deliver your opposing thoughts soon.

So, to get to the meat here: In much television and film, I have noticed a high and inappropriate level of attention being played to fonts that identify locations and places, the most laughable being that awful new show starring Pacey, "Fringe" and the most recent being the new James Bond " Quantum of Solace."

In Fringe, the fonts float in ridiculous ways, in ridiculous places and interact subtly and ridiculously with the locations they are identifying. It is hugely distracting and clearly a strange and misplaced allocation of creativity. It's like they have a whole team dedicated to font selection/placement/interaction/size which is insane when it's such a bad show and clearly needs creative work in other, more critical areas. It got to a point (and granted my household only made it all the way through one episode) where we were MUCH more excited about the next opportunity to spot the outrageous fonts and committed to their zany adventures than we were to the actual storyline and/or characters.

In Quantum of Solace, fonts are, again also used to identify setting and are nearly as distracting, irrelevant and ridiculous. Although Quantum of Solace is actually a good and fun movie which takes the pressure off the creative font choice team on having to carry the entire project. also, thankfully, the setting identification is much less prevalent than it is in Fringe.

Point: Hey, entertainment folk! Less creative energy expelled on font choices. It's real stupid. May I suggest identifying a signature font per project, make an executive decision about screen placement/size/color and then stick to it. It's better branding and, even more important, it will quell my wrath/ridicule!

off-topic FYI: the AMC movie theater in Tacoma (on Mildred) offers FOUR DOLLAR AM movies! They start showing films at 10am and, until noon, the shows only cost $4 a ticket. These are first run too! Neat! Cheap!

pots and pans

I was too excited to sleep and all the reports from the BBC, interviewing regular, incredibly excited and inspired americans was just too much for me to stay in bed anymore. It's so strange. I don't have high hopes for the obama administration, I am simply inspired by the movement of the people.

Americans have chosen to come together in one important respect: we will not be represented by people of questionable integrity and intellect motivated only by the interest of a few. And I know so much of this "change" is impressively powerful propaganda and spin but, goddamit, it was the right spin, the spin that I was looking for and clearly what the majority of americans were seeking. Obama has managed to harness the mistrust, the cynicism and suspicion of progressively-minded people and link it simply to a need for change and to himself as a catalyst, the first, on a national level, to crest the coming wave of new political leadership.

I don't believe that racism and bigotry and hate based on ignorance have been blasted from this country by electing a black president but it is heartening to hear so many people of different backgrounds and ethnicities sharing their own inspired and excited feelings regarding the significance of this change. I believe america is a country founded on opportunism, greed, dominance, and fierce and unyielding autonomy. None of these forces come together to foster any level of compassion or openmindedness but from it's inception, due to it's rampaging pace and growth, america has been in discussion with a strong and tempering force for reflection and compassion that at key moments has found footing and a voice, inciting change for the good of the people.

America's history has nurtured the debate between these two forces and for the first real time in my life, I feel that america is maturing: remembering this discussion, collectively leaning towards cooperation, towards community, striving towards some common ground where we can just begin to consider that we all may have more in common than not. I keep thinking on the words of the poem by Emma Lazarus, carved at the Statue of Liberty monument and I feel that today they ring a little truer:

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Fiasco

I really like that Lupe Fiasco doesn't edit out his breathing.