Rachel Kramer Bussel's Blog, page 117
August 16, 2012
August 15, 2012
My Jawsfest article at Vulture
I wrote about Jawsfest for entertainment website Vulture, "Jaws Fanatics Gather, Pray to God of Sharks." Photo below is of Carrie from Glasgow, Scotland, who painted her own Jawsfest nails! More photos at Vulture. And yes, my uncle was in Jaws. If you like the article, I'd love it if you'd pass it on/like it online. Thank you!
August 13, 2012
How far away can you live and still be a "girl next door" and other questions posed by this week's sex diary
I'm in the middle of revising an article and writing a short story (I trade off, in between cupcake blogging and refreshing sites I've written pieces for, because I'm the kind of person who cannot sit still, who looks down the subway tunnel waiting for her train and think sthat will speed it up), so here's this week's sex diary, which poses various questions in the comments, about blue balls, and how far a "girl next door" can live and still be called a "girl next door." Enjoy!
August 10, 2012
Home sweet rainy coffeeshop
I'm sitting in Espresso Love in Edgartown, my chair turned away from the table, laptop on my lap, empty coffee cup next to me, waiting out a storm. I'm pausing to recharge so I can interview people, and trying to not to indulge my urge to go home early. Last weekend, which I will grant its own post, I experienced the chasm of being where I didn't want to be, and that was awful, so I'm working on appreciating where I am. Here's a visual:
I have been sharing a room with my grandmother. I have my own twin bed, with just enough room to keep my assorted pile of books, Nook, phone and sometimes laptop. That part I don't mind, it's the incessant food pushing and nosiness and belief that everything everyone else is doing is of concern that I mind. That probably makes me a horrible granddaughter, but so be it. I'm stubborn and independent and need alone time, which is why I'm stealing some now. I've been in a slump for the last few weeks, full of great ideas that I don't wind up finishing. It's an awful state to be in if you make your living as a writer, but even when I had a job, I hated when I let myself down like that. The last few days I've been here, I've actually stayed up late, the way I always tell myself I will at home and never do, and brainstormed, pitched, got the words out, and that act alone erased, at least for a little while, all the guilt and frustration that's built up from the past few days of slacking.
I'm in the middle of planning lots of trips--Dubai, Little Rock, Texas--and I realize that it says something about me that I will be away so much. "You're going away for your birthday?" my boyfriend asked as we were comparing calendars. I shrugged, like, what else would you expect? For the record, he's invited. I know that part of that desire to get away is not so much about getting away from New York City as all the things there that keep me from what I supposedly want to do: write, long, hard, more than a few thousand words. I love short stories, love puzzling out where they will go, but they are a flighty girl's hobby, something I know I can do. Not always--I get my share of rejections and stories that just don't seem to get completed. I mean that I know I'm capable of writing one, and perhaps that knowledge makes them a little boring to me. I want to try something new, push myself, go further. I loved the portrait of the late David Rakoff Ed Champion painted here, of his meticulousness, his dedication.
Every time I think I'm over that fear of what other people will think, it returns, seemingly more insidious each time. It's that evil of people pleasing that so fucked me up last weekend, that awful desire to be liked by others even more than I like myself. I know that for me, the only way to like myself, is to take that time, however much I need--and sometimes it's quite a bit--to welcome the words, to welcome the ugly thoughts, the mean ones, the "bad" ones, the ones I'm not supposed to have. It doesn't mean I have to indulge them, to cultivate some image of the perfect bitch; if I'm a bitch, I'm sure people will figure it out pretty damn fast. And there's the rub--sometimes I am a total bitch. I'm mean, vicious. I see someone's name in, say, my inbox, and I want to vomit. I don't, literally, but I want to. I need to embrace that bitchiness, rather than rush to push it away as if it's the side of me that's inhuman, unnatural. Of course it's natural. Of course it's okay. It's a feeling, not an action. Writing about it is an action, but one that, in my experience, usually helps tame it, gets it out somewhere else, so it's not wrapping itself around me, cloying, clawing, suffocating me.
I feel awful every time I get upset at the prying, the petty annoyances of a family vacation, but they are just a part of it. The other part is my little cousin stealing my heart when we're looking at photos on my phone (which he knows is an iPhone) and coming to one of me and my boyfriend. "I meet that boy?" he asks me. "No, but we can call him." And we do, but he's not home, and we go back to looking up cakes with Foofa and Brobee and DJ Lance Rock. "I want all of these cakes," he tells me when I find Yo Gabba Gabba! character cupcakes. Later, I can't help myself from laughing when we visit abcmouse.com and I play "The Wheels on the Bus" and he acts it out, and gets really into the babies going wah wah wah and the parents going shh, shh, shh. That's home too, not just a coffeeshop that now sounds like its roof is going to cave in from the rain. I guess anywhere can be a kind of home if I let it, if I can bring all of me too it, not just the good or pretty or needy parts, but all of them, the girl who loves to be alone and the girl who loves to be around people who sometimes make her laugha nd sometimes make her cry.
I have been sharing a room with my grandmother. I have my own twin bed, with just enough room to keep my assorted pile of books, Nook, phone and sometimes laptop. That part I don't mind, it's the incessant food pushing and nosiness and belief that everything everyone else is doing is of concern that I mind. That probably makes me a horrible granddaughter, but so be it. I'm stubborn and independent and need alone time, which is why I'm stealing some now. I've been in a slump for the last few weeks, full of great ideas that I don't wind up finishing. It's an awful state to be in if you make your living as a writer, but even when I had a job, I hated when I let myself down like that. The last few days I've been here, I've actually stayed up late, the way I always tell myself I will at home and never do, and brainstormed, pitched, got the words out, and that act alone erased, at least for a little while, all the guilt and frustration that's built up from the past few days of slacking.
I'm in the middle of planning lots of trips--Dubai, Little Rock, Texas--and I realize that it says something about me that I will be away so much. "You're going away for your birthday?" my boyfriend asked as we were comparing calendars. I shrugged, like, what else would you expect? For the record, he's invited. I know that part of that desire to get away is not so much about getting away from New York City as all the things there that keep me from what I supposedly want to do: write, long, hard, more than a few thousand words. I love short stories, love puzzling out where they will go, but they are a flighty girl's hobby, something I know I can do. Not always--I get my share of rejections and stories that just don't seem to get completed. I mean that I know I'm capable of writing one, and perhaps that knowledge makes them a little boring to me. I want to try something new, push myself, go further. I loved the portrait of the late David Rakoff Ed Champion painted here, of his meticulousness, his dedication.
Every time I think I'm over that fear of what other people will think, it returns, seemingly more insidious each time. It's that evil of people pleasing that so fucked me up last weekend, that awful desire to be liked by others even more than I like myself. I know that for me, the only way to like myself, is to take that time, however much I need--and sometimes it's quite a bit--to welcome the words, to welcome the ugly thoughts, the mean ones, the "bad" ones, the ones I'm not supposed to have. It doesn't mean I have to indulge them, to cultivate some image of the perfect bitch; if I'm a bitch, I'm sure people will figure it out pretty damn fast. And there's the rub--sometimes I am a total bitch. I'm mean, vicious. I see someone's name in, say, my inbox, and I want to vomit. I don't, literally, but I want to. I need to embrace that bitchiness, rather than rush to push it away as if it's the side of me that's inhuman, unnatural. Of course it's natural. Of course it's okay. It's a feeling, not an action. Writing about it is an action, but one that, in my experience, usually helps tame it, gets it out somewhere else, so it's not wrapping itself around me, cloying, clawing, suffocating me.
I feel awful every time I get upset at the prying, the petty annoyances of a family vacation, but they are just a part of it. The other part is my little cousin stealing my heart when we're looking at photos on my phone (which he knows is an iPhone) and coming to one of me and my boyfriend. "I meet that boy?" he asks me. "No, but we can call him." And we do, but he's not home, and we go back to looking up cakes with Foofa and Brobee and DJ Lance Rock. "I want all of these cakes," he tells me when I find Yo Gabba Gabba! character cupcakes. Later, I can't help myself from laughing when we visit abcmouse.com and I play "The Wheels on the Bus" and he acts it out, and gets really into the babies going wah wah wah and the parents going shh, shh, shh. That's home too, not just a coffeeshop that now sounds like its roof is going to cave in from the rain. I guess anywhere can be a kind of home if I let it, if I can bring all of me too it, not just the good or pretty or needy parts, but all of them, the girl who loves to be alone and the girl who loves to be around people who sometimes make her laugha nd sometimes make her cry.
August 7, 2012
Live from Martha's Vineyard
Every time I lie down to sleep, or today, on my plane ride, I plot out these long blog posts and assorted essays I'm working on and think I will then suddenly have them transform from my mental meanderings into brilliant explanations of what I've been up to, but...it hasn't quite worked out that way. I've barely had a "normal" day in over a week, with assorted travel and changed plans and Monday, waiting for a new refrigerator and doing some major cleaning and then finding out the firdge isn't coming until next week. But I wanted to say that I'm doing better than I was last weekend, and post occasional photos and tidbits on my Tumblr. It's taken me a few days to figure out why I've been so out of it, discouraged, frustrated with myself. I get it a little better, and will be posting more about my weekend revelations, in between writing about Chip Kidd and Hello Kitty and such.
Right now it's 2 a.m. and the only thing awake in my grandmother's house besides me is, as far as I can tell, one pesky mosquito. It's quiet, but not quiet like a typical suburban quiet, at least, not to me. The water is right outside my door. I'm surrounded by family where I"m staying, next door, up the hill. Watching the Olympics tonight, I remembered being 8 years old, such a big girl that I got to live with my aunt and uncle for the summer an take care of my then less than 1-year-old cousin. I loved that summer so much; I felt so important, so proud, to be special enough to stay with them. Now my cousin is 28 and has two brothers and we all very much miss his mother, who, though born to Icelantic parents, converted to Judaism and is buried in the Jewish cemetery right here, next to my other family members. Apparently, we are popular; my uncle told me on the drive back from the airport that our headstones are covered in stones.
We looked at photos in the digital photo frame I bought my grandmother for Mother's Day, but realized was truly a gift for me. I loved looking at those photos, with my cousin who lives in Park Slope who I rarely see and my uncle who lives in L.A. I found out my other cousin who lives one subway stop away from me is moving out of the country, and also got gossip updates on almost every other member of my family. Pretty much every conversation has involved some variation of, "So I hear your have a boyfriend" or "Where's your boyfriend?" I don't know if that should make him feel welcome or not, but I told him that since I was regaled twice in ten mimnutes with how delicious my cousin's Italian boyfriend's tiramisu was, if he cooks for them, he will win them over instantly.
My cousins and I are going to see a Martha's Vineyard Sharks baseball game tomorrow, and Thursday, Friday and Saturday I'm going to Jawsfest. Mostly I'm trying to make each day count, to push myself as best I can, to be proud of my work time and my play time, to live in the moment while planning what I'm doing and where I'm going over the next few months.
Right now it's 2 a.m. and the only thing awake in my grandmother's house besides me is, as far as I can tell, one pesky mosquito. It's quiet, but not quiet like a typical suburban quiet, at least, not to me. The water is right outside my door. I'm surrounded by family where I"m staying, next door, up the hill. Watching the Olympics tonight, I remembered being 8 years old, such a big girl that I got to live with my aunt and uncle for the summer an take care of my then less than 1-year-old cousin. I loved that summer so much; I felt so important, so proud, to be special enough to stay with them. Now my cousin is 28 and has two brothers and we all very much miss his mother, who, though born to Icelantic parents, converted to Judaism and is buried in the Jewish cemetery right here, next to my other family members. Apparently, we are popular; my uncle told me on the drive back from the airport that our headstones are covered in stones.
We looked at photos in the digital photo frame I bought my grandmother for Mother's Day, but realized was truly a gift for me. I loved looking at those photos, with my cousin who lives in Park Slope who I rarely see and my uncle who lives in L.A. I found out my other cousin who lives one subway stop away from me is moving out of the country, and also got gossip updates on almost every other member of my family. Pretty much every conversation has involved some variation of, "So I hear your have a boyfriend" or "Where's your boyfriend?" I don't know if that should make him feel welcome or not, but I told him that since I was regaled twice in ten mimnutes with how delicious my cousin's Italian boyfriend's tiramisu was, if he cooks for them, he will win them over instantly.
My cousins and I are going to see a Martha's Vineyard Sharks baseball game tomorrow, and Thursday, Friday and Saturday I'm going to Jawsfest. Mostly I'm trying to make each day count, to push myself as best I can, to be proud of my work time and my play time, to live in the moment while planning what I'm doing and where I'm going over the next few months.
August 4, 2012
Failing better and other things I hope to do next time
I'm having one of those days where I wish I could disappear, I hate myself that much. Things were going so well, until all of a sudden, in a flash, they weren't, and it all feels like my fault. Poor planning, overload, lack of decision-making, guilt, stress, layered in and around each other, until all I want is to sleep until it's over, but I have trouble with that too. Sleep feels indulgent, at a time when I already feel like I basically said to the universe, "Money? I've got plenty so I can toss it around so freely I might as well burn it." That is not the message I should be sending, considering my level of debt. I should be telling the universe I'm ready to dig in, work hard, and when I do spend money, to appreciate it, to value whatever it is I'm buying rather than neglect it, treat it as an afterthought.
I don't know how to escape that suspicion bordering on knowledge that whatever choice I make is a mistake, a flaw, a sign that I am dead wrong. Sometimes you only realize you're making the wrong choice after the fact. I've known for a long time that I have a tendency to want to do everything, to be everywhere at once, which often leads to impulsive decisions. The difference is I thought I had it all under control. I thought I had a carefully coordinated plan, and when it fell apart, so did I. I've probably gone through half a tissue box and cried enough to feel empty inside, not because of any one single thing I did or didn't get to do, more because I feel wasteful and immature and basically like a loser.
I started going through my Nook looking for something to read that maybe I'd downloaded and overlooked, and came across Naomi Shihab Nye's There Is No Long Distance Now . In the introduction, she writes, "Thank you, lives we did not lead, might like to lead, might still lead." In the first story, "Stay True Hotel," she writes, "Sometimes after long sadness, you needed a new thought. Hold it awhile. Stay true to it." I have a lot of trouble not trying to peer into those lives I did not lead, trying to backtrack and try to basically lead that one I didn't along with the one I did. My boyfriend basically said, just make a choice and stick to it. Instead, I agonized over it, trying not to let it ruin a meal that I wanted to enjoy but couldn't help feeling like, again, I'd been wasteful about. I get that we all make mistakes. We all fuck up. Part of me feels like maybe things worked out the way they were meant to be, that rather than turning into someone I hate, who thinks the world revolves around her and should always get her way, I had to take a step back and realize I can't get everything I want, when I want it. Or maybe the lesson is don't carry so many damn bags and you won't have to worry about lugging them around and preventing yourself from doing what you want.
Maybe it's just that that long sadness needs to be given its due, not pushed into a happy face or coddled or exorcised, but simply taken for what it is, for however long it lasts. Maybe it needs to be appreciated, to remind me that it doesn't mean I'm a worthless waste, that if I'm stuck with projects, or people, or situations, or a body, or actual physical stuff, that aren't giving me what I need, I am the only one who can make changes in my life so I can not have a repeat of this situation. I have no idea what the lesson is. At the same time, I got notified of an opening in an Alaska writing workshop I was on the wait list for. I know I need instruction, guidance, dedication to my writing as if it were a real job rather than a throwaway stupid thing I don't really believe in so I don't have to actually risk anything devoting myself to it in any way that counts. The more I dig in, the more I realize that the retreat is not actually as easy to get to as I'd thought, and I know that should be a sign that there's all the more reason to go, to push myself, if only to prove that I can get there, so that I value what I learn all the more, so that I promise myself that it won't be like this trip, that I will be a better, more organized person. I've skated by with the bare minimum, and I have the pile of discards to show for it, the black marks against my name that, if I focus on them, feel so heavy, like they are pressing on my fingers, urging me to give up give up give up, you'll never make it so find something better to do, something you can actually succeed at. But my fingers are hopeful, always. They keep going back, they keep wanting to succeed in spite of my worst instincts, in spite of all the fuckups and failures and messes and mistakes. They want to imagine something new, or simply get out, onto the blank screen, the old ideas that I have talked myself out of endless times. I know there is a lot on the horizon, a lot crammed in to these lists I keep making and remaking, as if that means I will actually follow through. It's hard when you feel like you can't even do one simple thing correctly; if I can't get myself to our nation's capital, how will I get to Dubai?
I know that's the worst part of me talking, the worst part of me that is always there, somewhere, inside, telling me that I will fail, even as I send out acceptances for an anthology, even as I have a new idea for a story, even as I pick out a dress to wear to a party I'm covering and plot out how to go about venturing into new territory. Maybe I had to fail this time, to fall on my face like I did the other day in Union Square, to prove that I can pick myself up again, that I can keep going, and not let it derail my journey. Even if it's a journey with an unknown destination, with new goals and dreams and hopes and possibilities lurking with every sunrise, with every time I let go of all those self-imposed obstacles holding me back from even the tiniest flicker of the fantastical, the utopian, the that-couldn't-possibly-work.
I don't know how to escape that suspicion bordering on knowledge that whatever choice I make is a mistake, a flaw, a sign that I am dead wrong. Sometimes you only realize you're making the wrong choice after the fact. I've known for a long time that I have a tendency to want to do everything, to be everywhere at once, which often leads to impulsive decisions. The difference is I thought I had it all under control. I thought I had a carefully coordinated plan, and when it fell apart, so did I. I've probably gone through half a tissue box and cried enough to feel empty inside, not because of any one single thing I did or didn't get to do, more because I feel wasteful and immature and basically like a loser.
I started going through my Nook looking for something to read that maybe I'd downloaded and overlooked, and came across Naomi Shihab Nye's There Is No Long Distance Now . In the introduction, she writes, "Thank you, lives we did not lead, might like to lead, might still lead." In the first story, "Stay True Hotel," she writes, "Sometimes after long sadness, you needed a new thought. Hold it awhile. Stay true to it." I have a lot of trouble not trying to peer into those lives I did not lead, trying to backtrack and try to basically lead that one I didn't along with the one I did. My boyfriend basically said, just make a choice and stick to it. Instead, I agonized over it, trying not to let it ruin a meal that I wanted to enjoy but couldn't help feeling like, again, I'd been wasteful about. I get that we all make mistakes. We all fuck up. Part of me feels like maybe things worked out the way they were meant to be, that rather than turning into someone I hate, who thinks the world revolves around her and should always get her way, I had to take a step back and realize I can't get everything I want, when I want it. Or maybe the lesson is don't carry so many damn bags and you won't have to worry about lugging them around and preventing yourself from doing what you want.
Maybe it's just that that long sadness needs to be given its due, not pushed into a happy face or coddled or exorcised, but simply taken for what it is, for however long it lasts. Maybe it needs to be appreciated, to remind me that it doesn't mean I'm a worthless waste, that if I'm stuck with projects, or people, or situations, or a body, or actual physical stuff, that aren't giving me what I need, I am the only one who can make changes in my life so I can not have a repeat of this situation. I have no idea what the lesson is. At the same time, I got notified of an opening in an Alaska writing workshop I was on the wait list for. I know I need instruction, guidance, dedication to my writing as if it were a real job rather than a throwaway stupid thing I don't really believe in so I don't have to actually risk anything devoting myself to it in any way that counts. The more I dig in, the more I realize that the retreat is not actually as easy to get to as I'd thought, and I know that should be a sign that there's all the more reason to go, to push myself, if only to prove that I can get there, so that I value what I learn all the more, so that I promise myself that it won't be like this trip, that I will be a better, more organized person. I've skated by with the bare minimum, and I have the pile of discards to show for it, the black marks against my name that, if I focus on them, feel so heavy, like they are pressing on my fingers, urging me to give up give up give up, you'll never make it so find something better to do, something you can actually succeed at. But my fingers are hopeful, always. They keep going back, they keep wanting to succeed in spite of my worst instincts, in spite of all the fuckups and failures and messes and mistakes. They want to imagine something new, or simply get out, onto the blank screen, the old ideas that I have talked myself out of endless times. I know there is a lot on the horizon, a lot crammed in to these lists I keep making and remaking, as if that means I will actually follow through. It's hard when you feel like you can't even do one simple thing correctly; if I can't get myself to our nation's capital, how will I get to Dubai?
I know that's the worst part of me talking, the worst part of me that is always there, somewhere, inside, telling me that I will fail, even as I send out acceptances for an anthology, even as I have a new idea for a story, even as I pick out a dress to wear to a party I'm covering and plot out how to go about venturing into new territory. Maybe I had to fail this time, to fall on my face like I did the other day in Union Square, to prove that I can pick myself up again, that I can keep going, and not let it derail my journey. Even if it's a journey with an unknown destination, with new goals and dreams and hopes and possibilities lurking with every sunrise, with every time I let go of all those self-imposed obstacles holding me back from even the tiniest flicker of the fantastical, the utopian, the that-couldn't-possibly-work.
August 1, 2012
Choose your own adventure
I never read the Choose Your Own Adventure books as a kid. They seemed like too much work for me as a reader. I didn't want to choose my own adventure; I wanted the author to. I wanted to be swept away into a new world, to lose myself in someone else's adventure. I wanted one single, finite ending, not umpteen possibilities. Now, I think a little differently abut life (although I still probably wouldn't read a Choose Your Own Adventure, because to me the adventure is getting to the end of the story, and if it's, say, Gone Girl, it's adventure aplenty).
I wasn't always the type of traveler I am now. When I went to Israel while in law school, I went pretty much just to go. It was free. I never did a semester abroad or overseas spring break trips, perhaps because I was busy doing a double major in three years, but more so I didn't have the inclination, or the means. I was, looking back, pretty sheltered. I wouldn't have known how to be self-sufficient in the ways that traveling solo requires.
Sarah Hepola wrote an essay at Salon about why every woman should travel alone. I don't know if every woman should, but I can say that there is this glorious freedom, especially now that I work for myself, to being able to identify somewhere I want to go and making it happen. Is it overwhelming to, say, try to pick a hotel in Dubai, having little to go on? Yes, but it's also this rush of power and excitement to make all those decisions, to not have to answer to anyone, to explore and investigate, to trust myself that it will work out.
Last year, I knew I was at, or maybe past, my breaking point. I was a mess, and couldn't see a clear way out of it, and when I started thinking about Hawaii, I knew I had to go, especially when I saw that I could book the flight for free on frequent flyer miles. At the time I did that, I didn't yet know about Air BNB. I didn't know where I'd stay or how I'd afford it, but I had faith that I would figure out a means to do so, and I did.
I get emails every day, from airlines, from sites like SniqueAway and Jaunted and Hotel Chatter and GroupOn Getaways and Iceland's tourism board. Sometimes I wish I could just click on some random place and go there, and I guess I could, but right now I'm looking into more strategic plans, figuring out what I really want to do, like finally eat my way through the Minnesota State Fair. Sometimes it's less about the place than the people. One of my friends moved to Texas, along with her kids, and when I go visit them, I don't care if I see much of their city. I'll be perfectly happy to lie on the floor and let her daughter draw all over me with markers, or whatever she wants to do. Still, it will be different, a marked contrast to this past weekend when I went extremely stir crazy from barely moving at all and not leaving the house until I realized my body was rebelling against me and took it for a walk at 9:30 at night.
All I have to do is set foot at a train station or an airport and there's this sense of possibility that washes over me, along with the knowledge that in a few hours I will be somewhere else. Especially when I'm traveling to somewhere I've never been, I know that in some way it will change me, open up my world to new people and adventures. There's a reason my second and third tattoos were inked in Portlands Maine and Oregon. It means I will always have a part of those cities on me, in me. I'm attached to them, and carry those trips with me wherever I go.
Part of why I bristle when someone tries to tell me where to go, or not to go, is that it's antithetical to me to what the idea of travel is, which, for me, is freedom. It's happened before, but hopefully is an aberration, and a lesson that I'm still sorting out, and a reminder of just how much that freedom means to me, that it is in many ways what keeps me going. Yes, I live in a capital of culture, but I still want to go to plays like this. It means shaking things up, exploring everything from historic Williamsburg to fair food. I didn't do a ton of touristy stuff in Hawaii; I was more interested in simply soaking in the warmth, wandering, not having an agenda. If I go back, there are things I would do again, like eat the best acai bowl I've ever had, but I would also go to a different island, push myself to try something new. I am actually someone who craves stability and finds comfort in routine; even with a very random non-scheduled schedule these days, I eat the same foods many days in a row. I go to the same coffeeshop because it feels like my home away from home. But the travel sustains me, allows me to dream that life doesn't always have to be the way it is as its worst, or even its best. That there is always somewhere I can go to remake myself, and that goes for the topics I cover. Forcing myself out of the comfort zone that can easily turn into a rut regarding writing means I'm proving to myself that I can try new things, and along the way I imagine I will feel less in a rut when the usual subjects are just one part of a larger package, not all I and others think I'm capable of. With that, I must get on with my day and pack for our road trip, and try to figure out what to wear to maybe be on reality TV.
I wasn't always the type of traveler I am now. When I went to Israel while in law school, I went pretty much just to go. It was free. I never did a semester abroad or overseas spring break trips, perhaps because I was busy doing a double major in three years, but more so I didn't have the inclination, or the means. I was, looking back, pretty sheltered. I wouldn't have known how to be self-sufficient in the ways that traveling solo requires.
Sarah Hepola wrote an essay at Salon about why every woman should travel alone. I don't know if every woman should, but I can say that there is this glorious freedom, especially now that I work for myself, to being able to identify somewhere I want to go and making it happen. Is it overwhelming to, say, try to pick a hotel in Dubai, having little to go on? Yes, but it's also this rush of power and excitement to make all those decisions, to not have to answer to anyone, to explore and investigate, to trust myself that it will work out.
Last year, I knew I was at, or maybe past, my breaking point. I was a mess, and couldn't see a clear way out of it, and when I started thinking about Hawaii, I knew I had to go, especially when I saw that I could book the flight for free on frequent flyer miles. At the time I did that, I didn't yet know about Air BNB. I didn't know where I'd stay or how I'd afford it, but I had faith that I would figure out a means to do so, and I did.
I get emails every day, from airlines, from sites like SniqueAway and Jaunted and Hotel Chatter and GroupOn Getaways and Iceland's tourism board. Sometimes I wish I could just click on some random place and go there, and I guess I could, but right now I'm looking into more strategic plans, figuring out what I really want to do, like finally eat my way through the Minnesota State Fair. Sometimes it's less about the place than the people. One of my friends moved to Texas, along with her kids, and when I go visit them, I don't care if I see much of their city. I'll be perfectly happy to lie on the floor and let her daughter draw all over me with markers, or whatever she wants to do. Still, it will be different, a marked contrast to this past weekend when I went extremely stir crazy from barely moving at all and not leaving the house until I realized my body was rebelling against me and took it for a walk at 9:30 at night.
All I have to do is set foot at a train station or an airport and there's this sense of possibility that washes over me, along with the knowledge that in a few hours I will be somewhere else. Especially when I'm traveling to somewhere I've never been, I know that in some way it will change me, open up my world to new people and adventures. There's a reason my second and third tattoos were inked in Portlands Maine and Oregon. It means I will always have a part of those cities on me, in me. I'm attached to them, and carry those trips with me wherever I go.
Part of why I bristle when someone tries to tell me where to go, or not to go, is that it's antithetical to me to what the idea of travel is, which, for me, is freedom. It's happened before, but hopefully is an aberration, and a lesson that I'm still sorting out, and a reminder of just how much that freedom means to me, that it is in many ways what keeps me going. Yes, I live in a capital of culture, but I still want to go to plays like this. It means shaking things up, exploring everything from historic Williamsburg to fair food. I didn't do a ton of touristy stuff in Hawaii; I was more interested in simply soaking in the warmth, wandering, not having an agenda. If I go back, there are things I would do again, like eat the best acai bowl I've ever had, but I would also go to a different island, push myself to try something new. I am actually someone who craves stability and finds comfort in routine; even with a very random non-scheduled schedule these days, I eat the same foods many days in a row. I go to the same coffeeshop because it feels like my home away from home. But the travel sustains me, allows me to dream that life doesn't always have to be the way it is as its worst, or even its best. That there is always somewhere I can go to remake myself, and that goes for the topics I cover. Forcing myself out of the comfort zone that can easily turn into a rut regarding writing means I'm proving to myself that I can try new things, and along the way I imagine I will feel less in a rut when the usual subjects are just one part of a larger package, not all I and others think I'm capable of. With that, I must get on with my day and pack for our road trip, and try to figure out what to wear to maybe be on reality TV.
July 31, 2012
I heart Hello Kitty and New York
And they go together so well! Me in Times Square this morning. I couldn't resist, and if I am ever down I'm going to head straight to Times Square and watch tourists get their photos taken with giant cartoon characters. Instant mood booster.
Silly me
So...sometimes when I don't think I'm going to like something, I don't read an email or listen to a voicemail. I don't want to know, because I think I already do. It's a ridiculous bit of wishful thinking, as if by not looking/listening, I can make whatever it is go away. Yet sometimes these communications surprise me. I tend to focus so much on the flaws, or even when I'm reaching for the stars, don't think I'm going to succeed, that I forget that I'm just as likely to get a positive answer as a negative one. I'm also trying to remember something I know so well from the other side as an editor: You can't take rejections personally, because they're not. How many times have I had to reject an excellent story for reasons that have little to nothing to do with its content? Maybe there's not enough space, or I already have a similar topic, or for whatever reason, it just doesn't fit in that particular book. Of course. That's obvious, and yet when it's me, I think very dark thoughts. I let it pervade the rest of what I'm doing, rather than redoubling my efforts.
August is kicking off a fresh round of travel for me that will continue for the rest of the year. I've been looking into Dubai hotels and investigating fun things to do and story ideas. I'm trying to use what last year I thought was the worst thing ever, unemployment, as a way to expand the types of stories I can cover simply because I have the freedom to go anywhere I can get to by public transportation. Sometimes I just need reminders, little signs from the universe or whoever is in charge of these things, that if there's no good news, I have to make some. So with that, onto the making.
August is kicking off a fresh round of travel for me that will continue for the rest of the year. I've been looking into Dubai hotels and investigating fun things to do and story ideas. I'm trying to use what last year I thought was the worst thing ever, unemployment, as a way to expand the types of stories I can cover simply because I have the freedom to go anywhere I can get to by public transportation. Sometimes I just need reminders, little signs from the universe or whoever is in charge of these things, that if there's no good news, I have to make some. So with that, onto the making.
The lure of worthlessness
The below was written last night, before the full on insomnia hit. Off to Times Square to report on cupcakes this morning, and despite a very long night, I have a good feeling about this crazy week. Speaking of which, if you're in New York tomorrow night, August 1st, and want to hear a professional acting out my bondage story "Foot and Mouth," forthcoming in
Best Bondage Erotica 2013
, check out Liars' League's Sex and Drugs Show at 7 at KGB Bar, 85 East 4th Street. First few sentences: "Shiny silver bondage tape. Dangling bells at the ends of matching nipple clamps. A black leather paddle. A Wartenberg wheel, that tiny, mean, metal medical implement. Pink feathers. And an evil grin." Also, my book
Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories
is still on sale for only $1.99 on Kindle! I have no idea how long it'll be on sale (I was shocked that it was still at that price) so a heads up. Hopefully more ebooks in the works.
I go back and forth, clearly, on my resolve to try to be professional and not write about the inner workings of my brain and heart. That feels scary, but when I do write, it feels more scary to keep it all inside. It's tricky, because I have more to say but it isn't really fit for a blog post, and not only wouldn't I know where to start, I don't want to start at the beginning. I'm ready for the end, the part where things go back to some semblance of normal. I've been hoping 2012 would be the year that happens and, so far, well, the year has laughed right in my face about that, repeatedly.
I keep feeling this need to apologize, and I think it's part of what I want to write about, which was this perfect storm of anger and jealousy and sadness and, at heart, worthlessness, that rushed over me this weekend. I've never been surfing so I don't really know how to make that analogy, but it felt kindof like I was walking along a warm sunny beach and all of a sudden a wave of all those awful things jumped over the smooth, pretty sand and tried to drown me. Not permanently, but just enough to ruin my walk, to throw me utterly off course. So, points to the wave for that. The more I ponder it, though, it wasn't really like that at all. The wave built, and at first was just a splash of water hitting my feet. It wasn't even menacing, it was just a little inconvenient. And yet it was so familiar, so intimately familiar, that feeling of worthlessness, of being worth less, that I was the one who in some ways threw myself into the wave. It didn't feel like it at the time, but I let myself go there. I let myself sink into that because, I guess, for all the work I've tried to do on myself, there's a small part of me that believes that I am worth less, not just relative to this specific situation, but overall.
It wasn't quite the vicious jealousy that seemed sharp as an arrow before; it was more an overall not quite jealousy, but just sensation that nothing I do will ever be good enough, and conversely, everything this person does is perfect. Of course I know that's not really true, but that's what I told myself for so long it's still hard to see the difference. And I believe that the stories we tell ourselves, whatever mix of fact and fiction, are coping mechanisms. They are as vital and real, in their way, as anyone else's perspective. You can try to tell me why that's inaccurate, and trust me, many people have, but that doesn't change how it feels when I'm in the middle of it.
Purging that feeling of being worth less has nothing to do with seeking outside approval, not for me, anyway. I've learned through trial and error that you can't snort, starve or stuff your face to vanquish it. You can't rip off your clothes and expect to somehow toss it in with the wash. You can't run away from it no matter how far you go, because it's there, waiting for you, when you're done with whatever self-destructive activity of choice you've decided will placate it. Maybe all those things simply let it fester, lying in wait, until a moment like this weekend.
It's funny too because we're so inundated with the idea that love will save us from, well, everything else. That being in love will make all those feelings of worthlessness disappear, like some magical cure. Maybe it works that way for some people, but not for me. In fact, in some ways it's harder to receive that love when that feeling is still there, waiting for me, because I'm not sure I deserve it, I wonder when whatever it is he sees in me will dissolve like a mirage and reveal the real, flawed, fucked up person inside. That's happened, actually, on more than one occasion. I've fallen apart and I've hated, passionately, doing so in front of someone else, no matter how close to them I am, no matter how much I plan to spend the rest of my life with them. I still want to save falling apart for just me. It's too raw, too much.
My boyfriend said to me this weekend, "Not only don't you have a poker face, you don't even have a poker body," and he's absolutely right. I can't hide it when I fall apart, when I'm distracted or upset or anxious. I certainly couldn't this weekend. It was like it was not only coursing through my veins, but multiplying, getting stronger, like I could hear it start to take over, demanding my attention in the most bratty, brassy way. I so wanted to ignore it, to do my "real" work, which is funny, because while I'm trying to branch out and write about travel and events and topics unrelated to sex and dating, those are always what I go back to, not because I've built whatever career I have on the, but because they're what interests me, and clearly, the rest of the world (hi, Kristen Stewart scandal). I don't know where that line is between what I'm supposed to write about and what I'm not, though I'm dead fucking certain that it's a line I am the only one fit to decide its width and length and boundaries.
Today felt more normal, perhaps because I came back home. There is something so welcoming to me about New York, about its vastness, its simultaneous indifference and seduction. I could walk for miles and miles and not have to talk to anyone if I don't want to, but as someone who spends a large amount of time in coffeeshops, I've also been privy to so many beautifully random, unexpected conversations with strangers. Even when I don't talk to them, they're my coworkers, for an hour or two, my neighbors, my fellow New Yorkers, even when they are clearly tourists. Sometimes it's easier to let them judge me than it is anyone a step closer.
That's all I know. I'd love to say that I hope I never feel that perfect storm again, but that seems unrealistic. I definitely learned a few things that I hope will aid me in future similar situations, ways I'd try to react differently, to fight back my own feeling of being worth less, whether it's real or imagined. I'm not sure what that will involve on a practical level, and I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm glad shit went down, but it definitely gave me some insights into my own issues that I need to work on, ones that long precede particular messiness. At the end of the day, I can only work as hard as I can to figure out how to make better choices, how to not react quite as impulsively, how to prioritize myself so I don't fall into the exact same very sharp trap I kept practically leaping into gleefully the past few years.
That makes it sound worse than it was, because it's not so black and white. The trap is often hidden behind layers of soft, fluffy beautiful clouds that look so inviting, so pure and welcoming I just want to lie down on them and have them hold me there, resting on what amounts to the softest bed ever, floating on air, a natural high. Sometimes I even got that blissfulness, but the crash back down to earth was never, in hindsight, worth it. It's a sad paradox and I kept and maybe keep, to a degree, trying to separate them. Those clouds, for a long time, held so much promise to me, they were mystical and breathtaking and so pure, they obscured anything else below them. There was nothing else, there couldn't be, and yet when it came time to actually rest on them and take advantage of what they were promising me, it was like a cartoon where the dim-witted animal is suddenly swiveling around and realizes they are suspended in the air, helpless, and no sooner does that happen, then they crash. Despite having spent, I don't know, a conservative estimate of hundreds of hours pondering all this, I have no idea what the right answers are, how to hang in midair and not have the ground rush up to meet me, littered with sharp objects, ready to devour me. Maybe I'm not supposed to know, and I'm okay with that. I have grudgingly accepted that maybe whatever "right answer" there is is beyond me and my petty narcissism, my greedy selfish heart. I just know that I have to try new ways of dealing, new ways that maybe have a chance of bringing the thing I was looking for in the first place: closure.
I go back and forth, clearly, on my resolve to try to be professional and not write about the inner workings of my brain and heart. That feels scary, but when I do write, it feels more scary to keep it all inside. It's tricky, because I have more to say but it isn't really fit for a blog post, and not only wouldn't I know where to start, I don't want to start at the beginning. I'm ready for the end, the part where things go back to some semblance of normal. I've been hoping 2012 would be the year that happens and, so far, well, the year has laughed right in my face about that, repeatedly.
I keep feeling this need to apologize, and I think it's part of what I want to write about, which was this perfect storm of anger and jealousy and sadness and, at heart, worthlessness, that rushed over me this weekend. I've never been surfing so I don't really know how to make that analogy, but it felt kindof like I was walking along a warm sunny beach and all of a sudden a wave of all those awful things jumped over the smooth, pretty sand and tried to drown me. Not permanently, but just enough to ruin my walk, to throw me utterly off course. So, points to the wave for that. The more I ponder it, though, it wasn't really like that at all. The wave built, and at first was just a splash of water hitting my feet. It wasn't even menacing, it was just a little inconvenient. And yet it was so familiar, so intimately familiar, that feeling of worthlessness, of being worth less, that I was the one who in some ways threw myself into the wave. It didn't feel like it at the time, but I let myself go there. I let myself sink into that because, I guess, for all the work I've tried to do on myself, there's a small part of me that believes that I am worth less, not just relative to this specific situation, but overall.
It wasn't quite the vicious jealousy that seemed sharp as an arrow before; it was more an overall not quite jealousy, but just sensation that nothing I do will ever be good enough, and conversely, everything this person does is perfect. Of course I know that's not really true, but that's what I told myself for so long it's still hard to see the difference. And I believe that the stories we tell ourselves, whatever mix of fact and fiction, are coping mechanisms. They are as vital and real, in their way, as anyone else's perspective. You can try to tell me why that's inaccurate, and trust me, many people have, but that doesn't change how it feels when I'm in the middle of it.
Purging that feeling of being worth less has nothing to do with seeking outside approval, not for me, anyway. I've learned through trial and error that you can't snort, starve or stuff your face to vanquish it. You can't rip off your clothes and expect to somehow toss it in with the wash. You can't run away from it no matter how far you go, because it's there, waiting for you, when you're done with whatever self-destructive activity of choice you've decided will placate it. Maybe all those things simply let it fester, lying in wait, until a moment like this weekend.
It's funny too because we're so inundated with the idea that love will save us from, well, everything else. That being in love will make all those feelings of worthlessness disappear, like some magical cure. Maybe it works that way for some people, but not for me. In fact, in some ways it's harder to receive that love when that feeling is still there, waiting for me, because I'm not sure I deserve it, I wonder when whatever it is he sees in me will dissolve like a mirage and reveal the real, flawed, fucked up person inside. That's happened, actually, on more than one occasion. I've fallen apart and I've hated, passionately, doing so in front of someone else, no matter how close to them I am, no matter how much I plan to spend the rest of my life with them. I still want to save falling apart for just me. It's too raw, too much.
My boyfriend said to me this weekend, "Not only don't you have a poker face, you don't even have a poker body," and he's absolutely right. I can't hide it when I fall apart, when I'm distracted or upset or anxious. I certainly couldn't this weekend. It was like it was not only coursing through my veins, but multiplying, getting stronger, like I could hear it start to take over, demanding my attention in the most bratty, brassy way. I so wanted to ignore it, to do my "real" work, which is funny, because while I'm trying to branch out and write about travel and events and topics unrelated to sex and dating, those are always what I go back to, not because I've built whatever career I have on the, but because they're what interests me, and clearly, the rest of the world (hi, Kristen Stewart scandal). I don't know where that line is between what I'm supposed to write about and what I'm not, though I'm dead fucking certain that it's a line I am the only one fit to decide its width and length and boundaries.
Today felt more normal, perhaps because I came back home. There is something so welcoming to me about New York, about its vastness, its simultaneous indifference and seduction. I could walk for miles and miles and not have to talk to anyone if I don't want to, but as someone who spends a large amount of time in coffeeshops, I've also been privy to so many beautifully random, unexpected conversations with strangers. Even when I don't talk to them, they're my coworkers, for an hour or two, my neighbors, my fellow New Yorkers, even when they are clearly tourists. Sometimes it's easier to let them judge me than it is anyone a step closer.
That's all I know. I'd love to say that I hope I never feel that perfect storm again, but that seems unrealistic. I definitely learned a few things that I hope will aid me in future similar situations, ways I'd try to react differently, to fight back my own feeling of being worth less, whether it's real or imagined. I'm not sure what that will involve on a practical level, and I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm glad shit went down, but it definitely gave me some insights into my own issues that I need to work on, ones that long precede particular messiness. At the end of the day, I can only work as hard as I can to figure out how to make better choices, how to not react quite as impulsively, how to prioritize myself so I don't fall into the exact same very sharp trap I kept practically leaping into gleefully the past few years.
That makes it sound worse than it was, because it's not so black and white. The trap is often hidden behind layers of soft, fluffy beautiful clouds that look so inviting, so pure and welcoming I just want to lie down on them and have them hold me there, resting on what amounts to the softest bed ever, floating on air, a natural high. Sometimes I even got that blissfulness, but the crash back down to earth was never, in hindsight, worth it. It's a sad paradox and I kept and maybe keep, to a degree, trying to separate them. Those clouds, for a long time, held so much promise to me, they were mystical and breathtaking and so pure, they obscured anything else below them. There was nothing else, there couldn't be, and yet when it came time to actually rest on them and take advantage of what they were promising me, it was like a cartoon where the dim-witted animal is suddenly swiveling around and realizes they are suspended in the air, helpless, and no sooner does that happen, then they crash. Despite having spent, I don't know, a conservative estimate of hundreds of hours pondering all this, I have no idea what the right answers are, how to hang in midair and not have the ground rush up to meet me, littered with sharp objects, ready to devour me. Maybe I'm not supposed to know, and I'm okay with that. I have grudgingly accepted that maybe whatever "right answer" there is is beyond me and my petty narcissism, my greedy selfish heart. I just know that I have to try new ways of dealing, new ways that maybe have a chance of bringing the thing I was looking for in the first place: closure.
