you gotta

Been thinking a lot about creativity and success. The difference between those who struggle and eventually make it, and everybody else.
Lots of people love the idea of being an artist but not a lot of people can do the time.
Here's what I think: you gotta believe in yourself. You gotta put in long lonely hours. You gotta be persistent, stubborn even, you gotta feel pain, find the good people, avoid the haters, and honestly, you gotta be a little crazy.
This NY Times article asks, "what if the secret to success is failure?" Well sheeit, call Oprah and I'll kick off my book tour.
Another one profiles a Russian headmaster who teaches kids that 2+2 doesn't necessarily equal 4. I don't get all the philosophical arguments but I sure do love the idea of challenging the given.
*
All righty enough heavy stuff, let's get to the beats: MSTRKRFT y'all.

struck

What is going on around here? Worlds are flying apart at atomic speeds.
Fisticuffs at a friend's workplace. Health worries and silence and seismic news.
#
I've run into six former amours this past week.
One was such a regret that I immediately deleted his message.
Another passed by me on a sidewalk, arm-in-arm with a girl. We smiled hello.
One invited me to a party. Another propositioned me.
The last two asked after my well-being, with uncharacteristic good manners.
And I--well I forge ahead, and if not ahead, I forge on, still confused and sometimes lonely and sometimes not but mostly with hope, that I can be good or good enough and connected.
#
Tonight's soundtrack: fresh beats by DJ Limerence

looky what showed up in the mail

I laughed out loud when I opened my mail the other night, sifted through the usual crap, the Trader Joe's flyers and grocery store ads and bills.
The gift of stickers, yo.
#
Today's soundtrack, from the dreamy Nosaj Thing:

flowing

On a bittersweet Wednesday, peace out DJ Mehdi:

monikers

On my flight home a couple weeks back, the two money men and I chatted about nicknames. One claimed he'd never had one and never would. He was un-nicknameable.
Not possible! I said, horrified.
I'm proud to have collected a back pocket full of monikers:
Lisi/Greasy Leesie/e-dogg/Lee/Davis!/Sparkette/sleezy E/e
$
Nicknames can say a lot; they can be an affectionate shortcut or demonstrate a condensed and concentrated hatred. You don't nickname people you don't care about, either on the plus or minus side of things. (Although, a caveat might be the Geo W. Bush school of nicknaming, which seemed to be a way to mock people, to reduce them to a particular stereotype or force a nonexistent collegiality.)
As with pie dough and romance, you can't force a nickname. They happen, they grow on you, they stick. They remind you of an inside joke. They're a way to acknowledge a moment.
So: Davey Jo and Yula and Wiener Hotline aka Davelicious and Skinny Lynnie and Pops and ThaBoss and Big Spoon and Sparky aka Dancheska and Phatty and Jojo and Billy Boy and T. Wizzy and CL and Local Time and the Frannies and the Goof Troop aka Hammy Smackbooty, Baffank and Jamer and and and--you know who you are. So do I.

max

You know you're traveling somewhere fun when you need to dig up your passport and your yellow fever certificate, when you need visas and a packing list, emergency contacts, batteries, a Z-pak, a handwritten phrase book.
And passport photos.
I get mine done at a sweaty little copy shop on the Ave. It smells of chemicals and an overheating fan. The smiling dark-eyed clerk, Max, speaks a half-dozen languages, including Russian and Farsi. He always remembers to greet me in German: ah, Elise, es freut mich.
Yesterday he told me all about a Russian cartoon show.
And he took my picture.

confusion

what a fucked up week.
I've been alternately confused and tired and lonely and angry -- with brief jagged interludes of delight -- and I've thought a lot about that quotation from George Saunders at the top of my blog.
I feel like such a godforsaken outsider--and not the cool kind in skinny jeans and weird hair with ear plugs and face tattoos--but the one mumbling at the bus stop about the spider bite antidote that's turning their skin all splotchy (true story from today bee-tee-dubs), the one you don't make eye contact with or speak to, the one you thank the merciful heavens that you are not.
$
if confusion is a state of mind then call me Governor, because it's where I rule.


capitol hill doorway -- see more at Photobucket yo.

weekend beats

who I'm peeping these days:
*I went fanboy over badasses Shabazz Palaces -- their Bumbershoot set killed -- my girls Stas and Kat sat in and beat-posse OC and Chuck danced in the crowd
**104.rog (music is my) Therapy
***Wesley Holmes' new mix--catch him at Rebar or the Woods cause these beats are not online
**Trombone Shorty!
*and today's soundtrack:

don't mess with

This has been a trying few days. Maybe trying is the key word here.

• Trying to make things happen.
• Trying not to lose my shit.
• Events were trying. So were people. And the weather.

You have to know when to push, when to push back, when to yield, when to walk away. All delicate maneuvers, and I feel like I’m wearing combat boots on a dance floor.

*

But there were some supremely lovely moments, too.

I visited a good friend in Texas and it was hot! We played outdoor ping pong and pool, we drank beer and looked at art and went for a late night swim. At a down-home BBQ joint we danced outdoors amongst bubbles and sweat to Gramatik and STS9.

As the weekend waned, I met family I never knew I had and they treated me to a spicy brunch and a cooling jaunt to their lake house.

Then: adios. I’m a mess with good-byes, you know. But you have to have good-bye to have hello.

On a very delayed flight out of Austin, traveling money men regaled me with stories of stolen cars, shaved legs, bubble butts and tumbleweeds.

*

Now – what’s next?

A quest for a nickname (Local Time and Mike, stay tuned!).

Facing reality. Realistic expectations. Missing my 3B’s.

I am somber, and yet I have a feeling. I have hope. Good things lie yet ahead.