Intimate Pie.

"There are some people's pie I wish I could have more than just a bite of, that even a big piece leaves me crying for more.
There are pie's that are better to look at than eat.
There are pies you have heard about, or fantasized about, but never had a chance to try.
There are pies that belong to other people.
There are pies you want to steal, and pies you want to know how to make.
There are pies that you start eating and know you can't finish.
And then there are the pies I remember fondly. Ten years ago I really craved Clarissa's pie, but now I don't even like that flavor any more. Then there's Jennifer's pie from last year that I sometimes think I would like some more of, but I have to say "no, I've had enough."
Sometimes people only offer you a little pie, but once you've finished, and appreciated it, they offer you a little more. Then a little more. And that's the pie you keep coming back for.
When you offer someone some pie, they don't necessarily want the whole thing. They might just want a little taste of it. In fact, they might just be taking it to be nice, because how do you say no to pie?
They might only like the crust.
They might eat all the filling out, and just leave the crust sitting there in pieces.
They might take your whole pie, but only offer you a small piece of theirs in return.
Some people have a huge pie, some people have a small pie.
If you ask for more pie, people don't often want to give it to you.
You shouldn't take pie that isn't offered.
You shouldn't clamor for pie.
You shouldn't expect pie just because you like it.
You shouldn't expect compliments on your pie."

By this point my therapist was pretty red in the face. "The sexual overtones of this metaphor are killing me."

Free Write Afternoon

It's so rewarding to remove information.
When I was a freshman in college there was a girl named Terri (probably in her forties, actually- all I remember is that her girlfriend looked like a bunny) who made one of my favorite student pieces of all time using a mountain goat's skeleton painted baby pink, and that green fiberglass roofing stuff. The piece ended up, well, coquetish. ((<---hey Andrew, how do you really spell that word?)) Ever since I've wanted to paint bones. These have been floating around with me since P. Muzzy handed them off a couple years ago.
So, as I started slapping the house paint on these bad boys I wasn't exactly surprised how satisfying it was. All the staining and flaking and minor holes began to fill. Suddenly there were gradual planes and hillocks where there used to be exploded mine fields. Makes me want to paint the whole world baby blue.

Why does pandora insist I should love Oasis?

No, really?

That last post got a little out of hand. Here's what I started out thinking about, which, as soon as I went back to drawing, came back into my mind.

With so many passive seeming people coming into my life lately, "How do you get your ass kicked?" is actually a question I feel like I need to ask. I hang out with my rents, talk to Matt Causey on the telephone, etc. In other words, I'm used to it, I expect and enjoy it. When I'm not getting a healthy amount of it I wither.

There's a specific relationship that I'm in right now where I feel like I'm the wrong person to be presenting obvious challenges (and possible solutions) to someone who readily admits to needing help. In fact is even trying to get help. But I don't want to be the confronter in the situation. I don't even want to be in the situation. I want the person to figure their way out of it on their own, then call me.

But to talk to him you'd think that no one has ever sat him down and said "Hey! It's the (?), stupid!" or whatever. No one has actually had the cahones to push him hard, and therefore pushing himself is sorta sad to watch. Like he doesn't know where his ass is! I don't actually know the person well enough to feel entitled to ask anything besides "How do you get your ass kicked? Whatever it is- go do it. A lot."

I think it's a problem that this one person is just the current example of what seems like a trend. We spent so much time in our youths treating each other with respect, and pumping up our self-esteem, that we can't seem to roll our over-inflated heads past one another.

And, next post will be "What is Beauty for, exactly?"

how do you get your ass kicked?

((this picture has nothing to do with this blog post.))

I grew up with challenging parents. I don't mean that they were excessively hard to please, or abusive, or malicious, those are things my therapist and I can talk about. But they are both, in their own ways, exceptionally challenging folks. They were/are both teachers, and, maybe not connected, perpetually dissatisfied with themselves.
My dad is an athlete, and as such is constantly pushing his limits. He's a great person to discuss fitness goals with because he genuinely believes you can get there. He also is constantly focussed on the next goal, sometimes even before the first goal is met, which can be a little overwhelming. When I started running I wasn't just gonna lose some weight, no, I was going to run marathons (notice the plural. Running is a lifestyle, not an ends to a means). I think he also, not so secretly, hopes I'll run ultras. Right now I'm learning how to swim, and it's not going to be for the pleasure of learning to swim, but so I can do tri-athalons, and eventually Ironmans. I've grown up listening to him harass his cycling buddies, remembering their accomplishments, trash-talking them into trying new sports. When he and his dad hike together the conversations is constantly about who has lost weight, who has gained weight, who is doing well in the group rides, who has fallen off the wagon, etc. This isn't competitive- they genuinely want to be able to congratulate people when they succeed.
Recently my dad was seriously injured. We are talking near death sorts of injuries, which he has recovered from remarkably well (GO DAD!). We just ran a 10k "together" (in costume, another story), and started at the back so he could pass as many people as possible. His rationale for not running at a safe pace on ice and snow with his daughter (who CAN"T get an injury because I don't have health insurance) who had driven 7 hours to run WITH him? The more people he passed the more people would know they could recover from such an injury. He is such a celebrity in our little town I'm sure he was cheering someone on every quickened, slightly stiff step of the way. And if he didn't recognize them from the back, then they were cheering him on as he passed.
And this is how my dad does it. He kicks ass. He has expectations of EVERYONE, not just his daughter. But, though he'll encourage you every step of the way, he is still going to beat you, and beat you good. He'll show you just how it's done- he'll school you. And people LOVE it. He had so many visitors when he was on oxy- and every one he encouraged. He got cards from his riding buddies that said things like "you'll be back hammering us in no time." And he will.
With out my dad I don't know if I would care about fitness. It is a way for me to relate to him, for me to be one of the people he encourages. I run, or try to run, becauseIi want to meet those goals he has for me. And fitness is perfect, because I can reach those goals. It may be hard, and it definitely feels self-indulgent and expensive, but my Dad doesn't care if I get married, or make buckets of money, or if I'm intellectually meeting my full potential. He gauges all of that by whether or not I run. So, I'm doing OK if I can go running. I'm not doing OK if I'm making lots of art work and having lots of sex and learning about new things and not running. Happiness is whether or not I can go hiking this summer. Success is can I keep up with him.

My mom, on the other hand, is constantly changing the rules on what would indicate success. I don't know if this is because she doesn't have the same tunnel vision focus on specific goals that my dad does or not, but it certainly has to do with the fact that she is never completely satisfied with herself. Which is GREAT! She's the least complacent person I know, and one of the most stimulating (stimulated) people I can imagine. Her interests are endless, her inner-dialog spontaneous, her appetites cosmopolitan. She was/ is the kind of teacher that smart kids dream about- always engaged, always ready to encourage flights of intellectual fancy. She never, ever, shuts down- her energy is boundless. She wants to talk about, explore, every topic all the time. She is passionate about so many things that it is hard to keep up if you aren't used to her. And so, my mother is challenging just by being my mother. She could stop right there- just chatter on about whatever and she would be stimulating. But, instead, she has the worlds highest standards for people. Which is GREAT because a lot people do their best to meet them, myself included. I often feel that if i didn't have this high, constantly higher, bar to reach for i would notice that it was a long time ago that my feet left the ground, and soon be in free fall. My mother expects me to be constantly reaching, and therefore I constantly am. Even if I begin to know more about a subject than my mother does, she requires constant updating. She will ask questions, ever more perceptive, and be disappointed if you don't have answers. Which is how she kicks my ass. In advance. Just in case she ever asks, I have to be ready.
But also she and I have a kind of mother/daughter relationship that can border on the "un-healthy." She needs me to be her "play-mate," to help her work through the things that a 60 year old woman works through, probably more conventionally, with a husband. And I need her to support me, both financially sometimes, and metaphysically. So we take on roles for each other that are, by their nature, combative. We are aiding one another in confronting demons! The demons of midlife, the demons of self-discovery. She might not always be right, she might not always understand a situation, but my mom always has an opinion on every aspect of my life. And it's her vocalized opinion, not my assumption of what she might be thinking. I know a lot of women who might think that their mother disapproves of their lifestyle- I'm made very aware when my mother disapproves. She says "I told you so," and loves certain of my ex's more than others (a lot more than others), and threatens to kick me out of the house when I apply to be a bikini barista. She jumped down my throat when I applied to be a brewer at Full Sail, a job I think in retrospect she probably would have been happier if I got. Her high expectations for my lifestyle are amorphous and sometimes strange, but she presents the hardest challenge of them all. She wants me not only to be stable, but to be HAPPY. And what happy "is" changes. So it has to be a variable happy, a happy for all seasons. She'll say things like "I knew you weren't happy when..." When I wasn't listening to the news. When I wasn't cooking. When I wasn't making art. When I was picking up men at bars. Notice, "When I wasn't running" doesn't enter into my mother's rubric.
Side note- I'm funny. I make people laugh. I think a lot about humor and how it works, about jokes and story telling. And my parents require completely different subjects, as well as delivery styles, to make them laugh. My mom was in stitches when I was telling her about the Mad Men party 4-some offer- and my mom doesn't like dirty jokes. My dad is much harder to get to laugh. In fact, even though I know I've done it lately, I can't remember how. But the 4-some offer story bombed, completely. Maybe it's because my mom is more into David Sedaris and my dad watches Nascar.
I have active relationships with my parents. And that's not just because I've been living near them for the last 2 years. I've always maintained very close ties to them BECAUSE they challenge me. I try to challenge myself, and I can do alright for awhile, but nothing gets me motivated like talking to my parents. Nothing that is, except a new, fascinating, preferably sexy, (hate to say it) Man. There have been a few female exceptions to this, but they have been few, far between, and with a very few notable exceptions, crazy.
I'm ashamed to admit it, but it's true. Nothing lights a fire under my ass like trying to present myself to an intellectually challenging, self-assured, appreciative, opinionated penis-wearer. That's why I have such a great, long-standing collaborative relationship with Matt Causey, why I miss A like the dickens, why I have a male therapist (though he's very gentle and a bit of a push-over), and why I adored my older male teachers in High School. But as I'm working my way into my 30's men are suddenly getting not only polite (boring) but also sensitive. They aren't used to having their ass' kicked, and therefore are unwilling to kick mine. I find myself tip-toe-ing around saying anything teasing, or overly personal. I try not to be specific. I find myself agreeing a lot. Which is so tedious. And here I am, miss lay-it-all-out-there-lest-they-find-it-at-an-in-opportune-time, ripe for the ass kicking, and I get nothing! The phrase "Grow Some" has worked it's way into my speech. I'm actually longing for testosterone. Not for cruelty, or judgement, as some of my male relatives are prone, but for worthy challenge.
I hung out with my cousin over Christmas, and he's given me hope. It took him all of 10 minutes get me to tell him my deepest darkest secrets, goofing off about art projects, showing off my newly accumulated TED talk knowledge. And, better yet, he showed off, he opened up, he threw down the gauntlet and forced me to sing karaoke. He put himself out there, the way my dad does physically, or my mom does intellectually to be followed, to be chased. And in a not specifically competitive way he let me know he has expectations for me. And that's great!

Now, how do I get more of that in Wheeler? That really looking, really listening, not just smiling challenge?

from the bar.

So, this is not the first time I've ever blogged at the bar, but it is the first time I've ever blogged at the bar on my phone. Generally at the beach bite I have Maggie & Tina & the bar to myself, but not tonite! Rock Away is an odd little city.
I am forced to watch ESPN info-mercials. Has anyone else noticed that the "Shake Weight" looks like the ultimate training tool for giving handjobs? I never would have thought in that position I'd be building my triceps.
It's times like these when I miss baseball. Recently I was teasing people for being mono-sportists. Im not, but im definitely a summer sportist. Give me cycling over basketball anyday. Those pan overs during the Giro de Italia are a lot more inspiring than half empty stadiums.
Something else I dropped the ball on was explaining why I love pitchers. In a general way I love pitchers because a lot of them fit my sexual ideal- long, gangly graceful animals wearing funny pants & contorting themselves into ptetzel positions that I get to watch. But really, its because throwing a baseball requires attention that I find compelling. It's the stillness of baseball that is exciting. I watch these basketball players, & their eyes are all over the court, they fidget, they take breaks. Pitchers don't take breaks. Pitchers can't take breaks. They don't get to run up & down the feild. They are only there, while they are pitching, to pitch. People who can concentrate, who can recover & refocus like that are incredibly attractive to me.
& I like funny looking folks. That's why Randy Johnson is in my wallet.& he makes my heart go pitter pat.

Gadzooks!

Why do only 1/2 my images show up at a time?

Hand Drawn Hearts

Some of you may remember the heart wall from yellow house. Really, it wasn't a wall, more of a chalk board that Matt Causey had procured me covered in heart related objects. Well, for this valentines I"m recreating the wall!

Sorta. Minus some key objects which have detereorated or disappeared. And I'm creating a supplemental wall of drawings of some of my favorites. Which means I'm spending a lot of time drawing (you can see the massive collection on the floor there...)

The other night some of my neighbors came in to chat while I was finishing up the last of the sequinning on, amongst other birds, G's heron. They were duly impressed by the tedium of my process. Believe me, the patience of sequinning has nothing on the patience of drawing, at least in the way I draw. And, another thing which those who know me know drives me scitzo-nutso is that, when drawing, you have to take breaks. That's what I'm doing right now. I've been drawing for 3 hours so far today. I'm maybe 1/5 of the way done with the larger heart that I'm working on (this one has wings). And I can't "see" it any more. The muscles in my brain that allow for me to translate textures and forms into little lines are exhausted. As I'm typing I'm not looking at the screen, but at my hands, and really not even focusing there. My eyes are dead. And there's nothing I can do about it but wait.

Which leads me to these thoughts- I love the Metro Green Classes on Birding. The guy who teaches them (who I think is named James, should any one be interested in the classes) has a lot of extra energy, and an exceptional passion for the subject. He also gives a great slide show (yes, those old transparent things.) And, for $10 a 3 hour class it's a screaming cheap and great way to spend a Tuesday evening. Anyway, (Let's call him James) James emphasizes that the only way to see birds is to go out and LOOK AT BIRDS. The only way to learn ID's is to actually go on bird walks. It's the same way with drawing, or, indeed, with being an athlete. You have to actually draw a lot in order to draw well or with any level of ease (these 2 things do not correspond).

At Christmas (on Christmas Eve, in fact) we had someone out at the house who sketched a chair to demonstrate something. The sketching was followed up with the comment "I don't draw." I wonder when I stopped saying that. Now I'm more likely to say "I haven't drawn recently" or "I do not draw well." But even though I've worked out more often than not in the last 3 years, I would not really say "I'm an athlete." However, after 3 days of drawing, well, I guess i draw...

Aw, half-finished thoughts...

sea vs pdx addendum

also, neither will have fired a gun,
and both will be pasty, wearing levis and a soft shell.

Seattle Boys vs. Portland Boys

In response to A always saying that Portland Girls are stuck up...

Seattle Boys probably grew up in the Pac Nord, and when they talk about "mountains" they mean the Cascades. Portland Boys probably grew up east of the Mississippi and don't know how to ski. They think it's hot when you can tell them which mountain it was they could see today.

Both hate California, Palm Trees, Heat. Both love/like Jazz. And they can't tell you why.

Seattle Boys don't sing Karaoke because they don't sing. Portland Boys either sing Karaoke better than you or they CAN'T sing. At all. Period.

Portland Boys want to go out for coffee somewhere well lit. Seattle Boys take you out for cocktails, and the selection of booths is sexier than the selection of beers (and there is generally a head of some hapless vegetarian species on the wall).

Portland Boys tell you they went to Mary's to go to the ATM so they could get a burrito next door. Seattle Boys pretend they don't like porn. Speaking of which, both will think they are entitled to an opinion on Mexican food.

Neither will have a car to come visit you, even though you live at the beach. Both will ride bikes, but not very far, fail to signal, and it's a fifty/fifty chance whether or not they will wear a helmet. You will offer to drive.

You might be treated to free food with the Portland Boy because he and the waitress are related/friends/former lovers/used to date the same girl. You might get free food with the Seattle Boy because you leave the bar too drunk to remember to pay.

Neither will know how to handle garters. Seattle Boys will tell you they like to watch, Portland Boys will flounder for a minute and then tell you it's their first time with such complications. Honestly? I'm 30!

When a Portland Boy offers to let you sleep on his couch he fully intends to "sleep" with you on the couch (have condoms in your coat). Oh, the Portland Boy also will probably not actually have a couch "per se". When a Seattle Boy offers to let you sleep on the couch it'll be leather, he might offer you a blanket, but he probably thinks you have a sleeping bag stashed in your car, and he will not be surprised if you would prefer the floor to the couch.

Both prefer blondes.

Neither will take you to the movies without coercion. If you manage to convince a Portland Boy to go to the movies it'll be a brew and view, and you won't be able to hold hands. Seattle Boys would rather walk to another bar, preferably one on Capitol Hill (see comment about booths and beers), which will make you grateful you didn't wear heels.

Both have no inhibitions about asking for back rubs. Both do not intend to even offer to return the favor.

You know you are "just friends" when they want to go thrifting together. Fuck That! I am not trying on that "little black number" unless you are willing to come in the dressing room! If the jeans don't make me look like Tina Turner then don't tell me to buy them!

Seattle Boys are polite. Portland Boys are sincere. Neither are monogamous.

Both will diss on "Hipsters" while they are in a bar full of people who are the same age group, general color and demographic as they are.

You want Seattle Boys to want your number. Portland Boys gave you their number a couple of years ago.

Though you can pick up either at a bar, Seattle Boys will have a clear beer with a whiskey back, Portland Boys will signal the bartender for their Pabst.

Neither have a particular smell until after you've slept over (on the couch or not). How does that work?

Seattle Boys will tell you they don't watch television. Portland Boys hate Donald Draper, but that they watched it on Netflix.

Seattle Boys love soccer. Portland Boys love baseball, but not the Mariners, so you can't get them to watch a game with you unless their team is in the play-offs. Post Script- Portland Boys love "FootBall." Mostly because they studied overseas.

Seattle Boys might actually grow up into being Seattle Men. I have yet to meet a Portland Man of any age.

These are gross generalizations, but still....

Blog Challenge!

So, Miss K and I are in a keep-each-other-honest blog-off! Check hers out- well-intentioneddabbler.blogspot.com We'll see if we can give A a run for his money... (www.oudevoida.blogspot.com)

So, the big exciting news is that I sold artwork out of the gallery today! It was to someone I know, but hey! It's food money! And it was a baby duck! So it was even my work! Which makes it even more exciting! Exciting enough to head to the rockaway tavern after I finish the saturday night job hunt...

It feels amazingly good to be back in Wheeler, listening to TED talks, working in the gallery. I've moved more stuff into this place- I think I would have to get a small uhaul to get everything back out that is mine. Mostly because of the rowing machine and the sewing table, both of which I would be loathe to go without. Bix seems happier here than he was at the place I was house sitting- he sniffs contentedly, even was playing in the open on the gallery floor today, which NEVER happens.

But what is really different is not being surrounded with people. I was very aware of cramming people into both my time at home and in PDX. And though I was glad to see everyone, even the ghosts that were following me, I'm much more, well, for lack of a better term, ME in Wheeler. Where I don't interact with anyone. I've reached a point in all my relationships where there is no immediacy. Though I like hanging out, and love playing games and making music and drinking coffee and sharing ideas with new people and especially singing kareoke, it's not necessary. Making things, doing work, feels needed. Even as I acknowledge that no one in their right mind needs a sequin covered duck decoy. Being isolated in fabulous dresses surrounded by objects I am proud to be near and listening to things that inspire me is pretty much heaven. Now, how to make it last...

I will want to have people near again, soon, possibly later this evening, but right now? Bix and plastic birds are enough.