retro spex

I put together a 30 second look back at 2017.
Thanks for watching! and reading!

OverDoz

What I'm peeping today! Another gem from the Insecure soundtrack.

machen wir jetzt eine Pause

After all of the running around this month--shows and parties and events and good times--I finally had a couple of days to slow down, get out of town and hang out with some sweet little dogs. I detached from social media and writing and the news. I took naps. I went for chilly walks and runs with the pups.
This has been a shit year in many ways--SO MANY.
Will 2018 be better or worse?
Who can say.
In the last few days of 2017 I hope to keep writing (started a new story today), stay healthy (cover your mouths, people!) and enjoy life. And some whiskey.

bobrisky

Today's soundtrack:


I'm not familiar with Bobrisky but I love east African beats and this beat is sweet.
For context, read Okayafrica.

writing begins with

I've been savoring this post from 2014, by Daniel Jose Older.
He was asked about the old chestnut that writers should write every day.

---

Read on.

the swirl

Voicelessness and despair aside--snarky I know--it's been an insanely busy week.
Last Thursday I had the pleasure of ushering with a good friend on opening night for Homo for the Holidays. It's a deliriously demented and good-natured drag show featuring Ben DelaCreme and the DeLouRoue troupe of performers. This was my third year and probably the best so far. Cookie--call me. Mmmph.
The next night was a friend's holiday party, neighbors hanging out over Prosecco and treats. I made some new friends and may have a date to learn how to make bagels.
After that came a double-Xmas party-whammy. First a corporate affair down in Pioneer Square. A tad underwhelming but generous. Points deducted for someone's plus-one who wouldn't shut up about penis. (Seriously?) Then, thanks to Zipcar, a quick jaunt out to Bothell to a friend's annual bash. Catch-up time with old pals, a couple of Miller High Lifes, and out the door.
Sunday--you guessed it, more! Back to HftH, but this time with friends and a front row table. We sipped Tin Table cocktails and enjoyed the show.
Monday an after-work happy hour and some of the town's best nachos with a former employer and co-workers. My liver is begging for mercy at this point.
I have a couple days' break and then bunch of friends gathering for Dina Martina, a certain teen-ager's ballet recital, and then a Hannukah bash.
I feel lucky and tired but mostly lucky.
*
On a more somber note, a good pal is struggling in the most profound way. It's a matter of waiting and supporting. I'm scared.

the shadow

There's a shadow constantly hovering at my shoulder.
For all my gallivanting into the social whirl, nevermind the positive social media platitudes and my incremental successes, despite all this, the shadow persists.
It's negative self-talk.
The voice--my parents' voice become mine--telling me I'm a failure, that I'm not good enough, won't be good enough, can't ever be. That my friendships are false and my achievements hollow and my personality devoid of anything remotely attractive.
On occasion it's a deep, aching weariness. Being tired of being tired. Wishing somehow to shut off the voice.
Most times I can keep the shadow behind me.
Some days it edges closer.
No one cares.
You don't matter.
I think--I hope--this too shall pass.
*
Reading William Styron's Vanity Fair account of his struggle with the shadow gives me hope.

major MAJOR fail

I realized two days ago that my gmail signature link to BusySmartyPants was wrong.
As in, missing a key character.
As in, when ya clicked on the link, it went nowhere.
Fail.
A total fail.
A major, MAJOR fail.
I cannot even begin to guess how long the link has been wrong.
And I never double-checked it, apparently.
And no one said anything.
My visibility is nil.
Zero.
Nada.
Nothing.
I feel invisible.
Less than visible, if that's possible.
As though the slightest glimmer of possible visibility has been deducted throughout time.
Fuck. 

more more new construction

The odyssey of memoir continues (see posts #1 and #2 here).

• Last week, Lucky, by Alice Sebold, the true story of AS's rape and assault as a college student in the 1980's. I re-read it in a day, marveling at her fearlessness in recounting what happened, and continued to happen. The rare combination of immediacy and retrospection. I did wish she'd lingered more in the aftermath, where she battled addiction and some emotional disorders, but overall it's one of the best I've read.
• I'm also about halfway through Martin Amis' Experience. This is my third or fourth re-read. MA is one of my absolute favorites (e.g. The Rachel Papers, The Information). I fold over the bottom edge of pages I wish to return to ("is it you, is it now?"), and already the book is accordioned with bent page-edges. He writes with depth and precision, he's funny, he's heartbreaking, he's honest. As a writer, I despair at just how truly talented he is and as a reader, well, I can't stop reading. 
• I wish I had so much enthusiasm for another book I've also halfway read, Boy Erased. I'm struggling. The subject matter is so familiar--kid raised in a hyper-religious household, questions of sexuality and power and faith. And yet--it's dull. Nothing compels me forward. It lacks specificity. I feel the author holding back, even though he's revealing some quite personal information. I'll finish it, but it's a trudge.