Thursday, July 31, 2008
Communication continues via my newest addictions: Twitter and text messaging. I just upgraded to "unlimited text messaging" with AT&T so that I don't get screwed with charges. I have no idea how many texts I've sent this month, but I'm sure it's a lot. Hundreds and hundreds. I've got my Twitter hooked up with my phone now, both to post and to read other people's posts IMMEDIATELY via my cellphone.
The Twitter thing really took off for me during my last mini-tour with Cash'd Out. Suddenly I was plugged in and wanted to share all of the random, mundane, bizarre, whatever occurrences, thoughts, and goings ons of my travels with my "followers"... it's twisted, it's weird to me, and I'm having a really good time exploring this new realm of openness and banality.
The urge to Twitter is becoming automatic and reactionary. Yesterday, while stopping for a pee break while the Evangenitals were busking with the Collaboration Foundation on The 1 Second Film's Road to Oprah bus, I went in for the wipe prematurely and surprised myself by peeing on my hand. Immediately I wanted to Twitter, "Accidentally peed on my hand!" I thought better of it, though, and figured I'd keep that intimate accident to myself. Today, however, I had second thoughts. If I'm really going to give over to the Twitter phenomena for the time being, methinks I should truly GIVE OVER to it. I am reminded of David Hurlin's wife's first Twitter: "about to take my good morning dump" and am encouraged to be more honest about what's REALLY happening.
And what is really happening? That's is the question! I am having heavy philosophical/spiritually driven thoughts about my true nature and purpose lately. I am asking the universe what my purpose is and waiting for the answer.
In real-time, I am sitting on a porch watching my African Leopard Tortoise "Mr Turtle" just BE in tortoise-time. Right now he is struggling to crawl over a brick wall and his short legs are kicking in the air as his heavy shell teeters in the balance. He won't give up until he is over the wall. Eventually he gets his big 'ol shell on top of the wall, peers over the drop, and simply plummets to the ground on the other side. It is not graceful. There is much struggle. He really seems to enjoy it. No matter how many times I put him behind the brick wall, he keeps working at it until he can find a way over it. Free to explore the yard, to bask in the sun, to hide under a bush, to make a run for it down the driveway, to eat the clover, to stretch his legs.
It is a simple thing that makes me enormously happy, watching Mr Turtle the Tortoise walking around finding little things in the yard to eat. Tiny pink tongue visible between chomps from his sharp beak.
Right NOW he's making a run for it down the driveway toward the street. Must put him back behind the wall. Second verse, same as the first. :-)
Your thinking is slowing down a bit -- but getting quite a bit more intense! You may need to spend some time alone with your mind, just trying to get to the bottom of whatever problems has been bugging you lately.
Amen to that...
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
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Tuesday, July 29, 2008
a) a day that my mom left town, right after dropping her off at the airport, and
b) while my mom was visiting, in my kitchen, and she even helped draw the tattoo! :-)
The next tattoo that I want to get, methinks, is a series of bubbles going up the spine, from out of the sea grass, which is sprouting from the seed at the base. My love of bubbles knows no bounds.
Last night at the Evangenitals show at Tre Stage audience members blew bubbles during Quee Queg. Words cannot describe the beauty and happiness I feel watching bubbles waft by, illuminated by the lights, during that song. It is a slice of heavenly heaven on the heaven that is earth, every time.
In other news...
This is an old piece of writing from my 'ol play [or, the whale] that has been on my mind tonight, due to the bubble theme of the past 24 hours. I hope you enjoy it.
In the final moment,
when the day is done,
when the captain becomes one,
when it’s all complete,
and he turns into himself,
he turns into himself,
that is to say,
in the end,
a perfect moment,
a clean world,
a complete man,
a floating globe,
a temporary eternity,
the starting point,
beginning of all geometry,
such a clean world,
even if it only lasts for a second,
'tis long enough,
for mine eyes have seen,
at the perfect moment,
a point of light,
on the horizon,
a clean world,
as is everything,
as is it all,
alter of other,
either or whether,
before or before,
sink or swim,
to burst inward,
to undergo violent compression,
to collapse inward
as if from external pressure,
the act or action
of bringing to
as if to
And in the final moment,
all you are is all you were,
And memory is nothing but air,
and all you are.
(Copywright 2001, excerpted from [or, the whale] by Juli Crockett)
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Tune in here!
Melancholia is a better word for it. Everything has a tinge of the bittersweet to it. It is a great state for songwriting.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Last night's dream:
I was working undercover and entered into a huge game being played by thousands of youth world-wide called "The Silent Yes", the purpose of which was to weed out fascistic tendencies in the youth and to test their decision-making powers in complex situations.
First I entered a locker room decorated with propaganda posters celebrating the winning teams, shunning the losers, and advertising missing children. The posters were all red and white and had "YES/NO" and "YES OR NO?" emblazoned upon them, along with graphics of planes dropping bombs, people screaming, or flowers and puppies and peace signs. Every decision within the game was a Catch-22; situations in which some population stood to suffer whatever the decision would be... such as, a plague would be released on a neighboring village if residents of the already-infected village was not exterminated quickly... WHAT DO YOU DO? Whatever the youth teams decided would actually happen. Genocides, wars, etc.
I was given a new name (my sister's name, Jaimee) and some money to get started in the game. Before I'd even entered the playing field, I made my first mistake and made eye contact with a more advanced player. Eye contact with any player who had been in the game longer than you was against the rules, so it was safest to never make eye contact with anyone, ever. This of course made it very difficult to solve a crime within the game, due to the fact that I couldn't identify anyone very well without risking "losing".
"Losing" was awful. There were these pixie-like creatures that were about 1 foot high, reddish colored, and rather beautiful. They had elegant, delicate hands with long, slender fingers and incredibly sharp nails. Whenever anyone broke the rules, a Pixies would be released on them and while a gentle wave of their hands their sharp nails would literally split the "loser" right open. The Pixies would playfully swat at the bodies in innocent glee while skin and guts spewed everywhere and the person was instantly killed in an incredibly gory manner.
Whenever someone had a "birthday" there would be a huge party in which all of their best game moves would be shown in a cinematic montage on a giant movie screen. Every single thing that anyone did was videotaped.
The point of the game truly was to find the few pure, peaceful souls in the world that could make the right peaceful, loving decisions even in the face of tremendous pressures and hardships. Only these people would have the ability to speak The Silent Yes... and it was the Silent Yes that could save us all.
And after all that..
I dreamed that my tortoise died. :-(
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
"where telepathy fosters the radiance of self sufficiency"
that is the place! the placeless place. the where its at, with it being nothing at all. the hole. the void. the empty room.
all day i have felt like crying. "who's pain is this?" i ask. methinks i am like a sponge, soaking up the feelings of others.
last night i dreamed of exploring a deep cave half-filled with crystal water. we were wading through. something in me knew that the water was sorrow. beautiful, perfect, perpetually flowing sorrow.
i also dreamed of being bitten by an adorable vampire puppy.
of what will we dream tonight, friends?
Friday, July 18, 2008
it's really late, i'm fresh home from a gig, sleep deprived and hungry, thirsty and in love.
at some moment or other during tonight's show, i experienced a joyous and profound love for every single band member and was filled with genuine child-like GLEE at just how lucky i am to be making music with each and every one of these people
we HARMONIZE. we join in song and make waves. it is collaborative and creative and generative and magical and i'm simply stupid in love with the whole marvelous thing.
the feeling of really, truly being in a band is something i fantasized about as a child and feel absolutely blessed to be experiencing, in burst of vibrating sound and light, on stage and off with the people of the evangenitals.
so yes, all you evangenitals out there, both the ones on stage with me and the ones in the audience who help our music to thrive with your open ears, open hearts, and goooooood energy, thanks for letting me love you. it feels real good to feel good in your direction. :-)
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
communicating piece by piece, bit by bit, i'm limited to mini-thoughts, and not having any mega-dish sessions of writing about life love feelings goings ons etc.
everything limited to 160 characters or whatever fits in a single sentence ADD burst of not too much information. something chatty and fun.
i did, however, have a 3 and 1/2 hour conversation with a very sad 21 year old girl last night while eating homemade vegan curry. that felt like being of service to humanity.
i am so grateful that i have a boyfriend that i adore who is an amazing cook and has the softest most touchable skin i have ever felt.
when i was breaking up with my ex he put a curse on me... it didn't come true!
blogging, for me, is the place to be embarrassingly un-deep. as if the world wide websurfers were invited to read my high school journal.
i didn't keep a journal in high school... only a highly coded date book/calendar which would, via symbols, remind me on which days i did which drugs and what sex acts and with whom. these were the key facts of my existence that struck me as "worth remembering"
once, in high school, i took (stole) all of the thermometer's from chemistry class, brought them home, broke them open, and made myself a glass full of mercury. i played with it often... spilling it on the rug and picking it up with my bare hands. as far as i know i am fine.
there are so many projects that i have started and haven't finished. i am feeling a call. the call.
a sound/image struck me today:
my relationship with god = a jolly game of marco polo. i say "marco" and wait for the response. a sign comes. "polo". i move one step closer.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Prior to the show, we were all sitting around having dinner and geeking out over an article/interview that had come out in the paper that day about Cash'd Out and our appearance in town. It was the first time my name had appeared in print in association with the band (albeit misspelled) and the whole thing was pretty exciting.
I just found the article online, and figured I'd share it with y'all. Follow this link:
Johnny Cash Tribute Band - VeilDaily.com
Hopefully you'll be able to come and see me in action in this new gig. It's really something else, very different from the Evangenitals; in Cash'd Out I wear dresses and heels and makeup and curl my hair and pretty much sound the profound depths of my inner girlishness.
Much to my surprise, it turns out I'm quite a lady and am having the time of my life letting my femme flag fly. :-)
Saturday, July 05, 2008
In case you don't own the book, here's the Chapter, in full, all 6 inches of it, for your enjoyment:
Some chapters back, one Bulkington was spoken of, a tall, newlanded mariner, encountered in New Bedford at the inn.
When on that shivering winter's night, the Pequod thrust her vindictive bows into the cold malicious waves, who should I see standing at her helm but Bulkington! I looked with sympathetic awe and fearfulness upon the man, who in mid-winter just landed from a four years' dangerous voyage, could so unrestingly push off again for still another tempestuous term. The land seemed scorching to his feet. Wonderfullest things are ever the unmentionable; deep memories yield no epitaphs; this six-inch chapter is the stoneless grave of Bulkington. Let me only say that it fared with him as with the storm-tossed ship, that miserably drives along the leeward land. The port would fain give succor; the port is pitiful; in the port is safety, comfort, hearthstone, supper, warm blankets, friends, all that's kind to our mortalities. But in that gale, the port, the land, is that ship's direst jeopardy; she must fly all hospitality; one touch of land, though it but graze the keel, would make her shudder through and through. With all her might she crowds all sail off shore; in so doing, fights 'gainst the very winds that fain would blow her homeward; seeks all the lashed sea's landlessness again; for refuge's sake forlornly rushing into peril; her only friend her bitterest foe!
Know ye now, Bulkington? Glimpses do ye seem to see of that mortally intolerable truth; that all deep, earnest thinking is but the intrepid effort of the soul to keep the open independence of her sea; while the wildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to cast her on the treacherous, slavish shore?
But as in landlessness alone resides highest truth, shoreless, indefinite as God- so better is it to perish in that howling infinite, than be ingloriously dashed upon the lee, even if that were safety! For worm-like, then, oh! who would craven crawl to land! Terrors of the terrible! is all this agony so vain? Take heart, take heart, O Bulkington! Bear thee grimly, demigod! Up from the spray of thy ocean-perishing- straight up, leaps thy apotheosis!