Wednesday, November 23, 2005

I did a headstand!

Admittedly, a shitty one, but it was my second class, guys. So stop yer scorning.

Monday, November 21, 2005

We like to party? Da, Comrades!

When Eric "Snow-Dawg" Snow called to say that he was bringing all six feet five inches of his lovely self down from SF to visit my city of angels, I knew I had to plan a shindig to celebrate his descent. I'm not sure how it ended up being communist in theme, but hey - I like pierogies, and there was a pair of red fishnets wrapped docilely in the drawer that were just burnin' to be worn.

It was a great party. Eric and I stayed up until 4 in the morning, long after the rest of the guests had found soft spots around the house to curl up into. He's making the big move from the small-pond industry in SF to the vast ocean that is the L.A. entertainment machine, and he's understandably apprehensive. I always hesitate to use the phrase "everything will be just fine" in these situations, because quite honestly it's not often true (in the way that folks intend it to be, anyway.) I'll try to take good care of him once he lands here, at least; he's a terrific A.D., and that's a skill that will serve him well as he's acclimating.

Plus, I showed him Trogdor. Nothing can make you feel better like a little bit o' the Burninator when you're feeling ill at ease. Check out his majesty!

The raspberry vodka infusion turned out fabulously, by the way. I kinda want to make a big batch and bathe in it.

Spent the Saturday daytime run-up to the party in downtown, practicing my Japanese on the innocent waitresses at Suehiro and buying armfuls of flowers and potted plants for the house. I have purchased my very first Bonsai, which is parked proudly in the prized spot above the kitchen sink, and a lovely little lucky bamboo arrangement to inject a little feng shui into my wabisabi little house.

I can feel my Taurus on the upswing. As my Aries retreats, I'm starting to lust over paint and fabric and warm things to festoon the nest with. I find myself touching everything...strolling the vast expanse of the Los Angeles Flower Mart, my hands seemed to snake into all the bins of their own accord, fondling rose petals and orchids (gorgeous, healthy orchid plants, wholesaling for $7, everybody!) and spiky junipers and the fuzz on the gerbera daisy stems. I stuck my entire arms into the huge bins of peacock feathers and dipped my hands into the buckets of soft, cool sea glass. I pressed my face into so many flowers that I ended up sporting a little orange dot of pollen at the end of my nose.

Sunday meant a big group breakfast at the Coral Cafe, followed closely by Space Mtn's instore at Sea Level Records. They played a good set (bonus - a first track off the album they're currently recording, which is quite a beautiful four minutes and made me think I want to sing it to somebody) and was a fun band to meet. Then we popped back some espresso and jetted off to see Harry Potter a the always-breathtaking Vista yesterday evening. Christoper Nolan was sitting behind us, and it pleased me greatly to hear his little yips of delight harmonizing with our squealings.

Then there was a tremendously satisfying grilled-veggie stack sandwich on pesto-drenched panini between the exposed brick walls of The Kitchen, and we were off to the Blackheart Procession show at Spaceland. I was offically three sheets to the wind on overstimulation and lack of sleep, and I'm fairly sure I made a rather silly picture there in the smoking bar, lips fixed firmly on my Red Stripe, nibbling the glass and looking totally handicapped. Jeff made buddies with the band, though, and I was able to chat up sweet Brian from the Silversun Pickups. So it was worth the wobble home at 2 A.M., I suppose.

Whew. I am so. Tired. Somebody give me my pacifier and tuck me in.

Friday, November 18, 2005

Notes from hirugohan

Fish jello?

With fish lumps in?

Who had *that* brilliant idea?
There's something mystical up there, and it wants to hang out with me

So I'm tromping up the hill this morning - and it's beautiful, and the sun is shining and the birds are chirping, and everything is buzzing with the pretty morning and the perfect weather and the warmth of the November sun.

And then it starts to get quiet, just like it did before. And a cloud pulls over the sun. And I round a corner.

There's a coyote sitting there, right in the middle of the fire road. Facing me dead-on. Big, inscrutable yellow eyes locked to mine. She is so calm.

Part of me - the primal part - freaks out a bit; wants me to run. But she keeps my eyes with hers, and she's not going to hurt me. We stay there for a moment in the stillness. She bows her head to me, gets up, and walks away. I get the sense that she wants me to follow her, but I don't.

The quiet dissolves into chirps and wind and the crunch of my feet. The moment's over.

I'm out for another hour after that, and though I don't see her again I can feel her watching me.

What's going on up there, and why does it keep finding me like this?

Monday, November 14, 2005

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

The promontory of the world


As I pulled out of the driveway to head for my hills this morning, a spatter of rain misted my windshield. A quick flick of the wiper blades pushed them aside, but I was thereby warned.

See, I've managed to find a canyon that escaped the recent firestorm; it's tucked deep into a cleft of the Verdugos, and its ascent is quite steep. As I pulled up at the end of the access road, the misting rain had settled a gauzy curtain - delicate at the edges, but thicker and whiter and quieter as I tromped onward up the slope.

The light, cold rain had driven every other living being from the hills, leaving me in a bubble of chest-high scrub and orange earth and the phantom tracings of bare trees shadowy against the solid bank of mist.

I reached the flat space at the top of the steep hill, and it nearly took my breath. The mist had come in so thickly that the cap of the hill was the only space I could see, and its edges - not five paces from me - were already nearly erased by the gauzy curtain that had fallen down around it. What sunlight pushed through the mists softened every curve and line in its path. The silence was deafening. I could feel my heartbeat ringing in my ears; could hear the subtleties of my breathing.

The silence deepened, and I felt a stirring in the air, and I had the unmistakable sense that the rest of the world around this promontory had dropped away. I felt as though I had been invited home to do reverance to my Celt ancestors; as though the blood of Niall in my veins had pulled me here to this place, to dip into the magic that is our shared birthright. I honored the moment as best I could, knowing the little I know of the old religion, but my words floated lightly on the surface of what was going on inside, like a light hand gently stirring a fire.

Then, as quickly as it had come, it passed.

I breathed for a moment, did a couple of (extremely) basic standing yoga poses to clear my head, and started off down the hill. The experience left me so stunned and foot-floaty that I hardly noticed when the rain started to pour down, soaking me to my bones.

(And oh, yes, there was petrichor. Musky and spiked with sage and eucalyptus and a hint of raw-sugar earth, filling my lungs and spilling out into my chest with memories of other rainy moments; other wet roads; other shrouded days.)

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Here's where I burst into Lee Greenwood:

Whoa. Didn't expect *that*. So I stroll into my neighborhood polling place, ballot book in hand, ready to take on the awesome responsibility of plunking the little inky thing into the little hole and changing the course of history.

What do I get?

Weapons-grade cuteness, in the form of a green-eyed, jet-black-haired, well-tatted devildoll with the name book in front of her. She has two clovers on her forearms and a pretty little nosering. Brittany.

What do I do about it?

Introduce myself. Flirt gently.

Get totally and completely shy, and amble abashedly off without a phone number.

Spend the walk home listening to Jeff making horrendous fun of my acute attack of the bashfuls.

Sigh.
Today has been liberally sprinkled in negativism. I feel like I've been floating anchorless in a sea of bad blood. I'm extremely susceptible to the influence of others' moods, and today has laid waste to my natural giddiness.

My funk is in small part due to the fact that I won't be kickin' it at the Fonda tonight with Broken Social Scene - for a number of reasons, but one of them keeps popping up repeatedly. I'm getting a little miffed at this process: once a band I get to love achieves some moderate level of popularity, someone whisks them off and chains them to the foot of Ticketmaster's bed. When I'm not working, it's just hard to justify the cost. Yeah, I can write it off...but owie.

Hope tonight's plans are up to the task of fixing me...

Monday, November 07, 2005

Further consumption, conspicuously

Bought a pair of jeans that hug my ass like a mother hugs a son freshly returned from war. Between that and the boots, I'm going to go skeet shooting with human hearts this week.

I'm actually a very nice girl. Don't let me fool you.

Sunday, November 06, 2005

Como fue mi fin de semana

What a blur.

I just stepped in the door from my Jarhead screening. I fully understand that most of the world stands in disagreement with me on this issue, but I quite liked it. And *not* just for Sweet Baby Jake in two Santa hats; though, come to think of it, this contributes more than peripherally to the overall appeal. I was going to write a rather hamhanded review here, but I'll instead just note that there were moments that absolutely took the breath from my body.

Oh - and that Mr. Gyllenhaal, Peter Starsgaard, and Lucas Black will all be making an appearence in some dark corner of my subconscious mind, and it'll probably be in tandem.

Friday night's descent upon Mr. T's Bowl (the finest not-a-bowling-establishment in southern California, if such a thing should happen to exist elsewhere) brought Newcastles aplenty, as well as several charcoal drawings done as a collaboration between our little crew and a couple of completely boozled anarchists and some truly...um...memorable music, as Mr. T's tends to. First came a set by a band called The Modulators, which made me clap and rock out in exactly the same way as if I'd been cheering on a couple of guys from my high school in their own garage (really, it had a lot of charm). Then came the coup de grace - a bunch of guys dressed in short-sleeved dress shirts, ties, pressed pants, and bike helmets. Oh, yes - The Mormons. Keep in mind that all of this takes place in a womb of tinsel, Christmas lights, musty velvet and, on that evening at least, the soft glow of black light on fake plastic cobwebs. Behind the stage, a faded, six-foot-tall poster of a ghetto blaster peels amicably from the wall. The crowd is as mixed as a Benetton ad on a bender, and the front hall always smells faintly of recently-smoked pot. Truly pleasant.

Saturday started out cruising around downtown with Sarah, shopping madly for Christmas presents and nest-featherings. I'll photograph my lovely take and Flickr it presently. From that point, it was a flurry of cooking for the Jamaican dinner, which was a spiral into sweet madness. The spread was epic - chocho, curry rundown, rice & peas, rum bread pudding, boiled green banana, bammy, and a hefty dose of the platanos I used to be willing to swim to Taboga for. It was lovely enough, and soaked in sorrel-rum punch and Red Stripe and affection it became nearly transcendent. Cosku took out a guitar at about midnight, and we gifted the neighborhood with high-decibel versions of such I'm-drunk-and-feeling-ebullient classics as More Than Words and Wonderful Tonight.

I woke up this morning in a warm sunspot, cuddled between beloved companions, smelling faintly of Turkish cigarettes and just having emerged from an exquisite dream. We were sitting back to back on a beach, and you were playing the Iron & Wine cover of 'Such Great Heights'. I remember feeling your ribcage expand and contract with the little breaths you took between the stanzas. The imprint of the dream was so strong that I was sure when I got up, I'd have to brush the sand from the bottoms of my feet.

Of course, I spent most of today paying for it. Good lord, I haven't been that hung over in years. Slept until two, then went out with Rheanna and was convinced to buy a pair of (admittedly, white-hot) boots that cost as much as a weekend trip to the east coast. That's MISS Impulsive to you, smartass.

An auspicious start to the week, for sure and for certain...

Friday, November 04, 2005

Love is like falling, and falling is like this.

Something about the yoga yesterday opened me - cracked back my ribs and laid me bare. Everything wants out.

Thanks for the jeans. They feel nice...I know they're made to fit a boy's body and mine is nowhere close, but they're soft and beaten-in and long enough to fit my faraway ankles. This theme of sharing is the strongest sign we clutch between us - our differences being so many, and our long acquaintance spent almost entirely in helping each other boulder through The Tough Stuff. Wearing these, the complications seem surmountable - as here's a similarity; we both fit these. So thanks for letting it be complicated. Thanks for trying so hard.

Feels like reckless driving when we're talking
It's fun while it lasts, and it's faster than walking
But no one's going to sympathize when we crash
They'll say "you hit what you head for, you get what you ask"
And we'll say we didn't know, we didn't even try
One minute there was road beneath us, the next just sky
"Intimacy junkie," she called me, laughing, and let her fingers dig slightly into the fleshy part of my thigh where it emerged from my skirt.

Oh, god - maybe.
Out this morning, I walked by a hill that looked like it was piled in green velvet. The sun was striping through the trees and laying across it a thick gauze of morning-soft gold, throwing up sparks in the dew liberally sprinkled over the surface. When the light breeze came through, the patterns of light would shift slightly, beckoning.

"If I had that song with me," I thought, "I would lie here. And listen to it."

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Oh. So that's it.

I shouldn't have fretted. I feel long - and warm - and beautiful. Like somebody emptied pebbles out of my gut and gave me a kiss.

I like this exotic stretchy thing.
Some days I wonder if I'm doing it all wrong. I guess this is just one of those days.

I caught a bug from Rhee last week - or, at least, I'm demonstrating the exact same sequence of bizarre symptoms - and she told me that, if indeed we are nursing the same illness, I should expect to feel restless and ill-at-ease with the world for most of this week. I guess I'm either:

1. Happy it didn't take hold on Monday.
2. Actually, factually doing it all wrong and blaming the illness unfairly.

Yoga, lift my funk from me! You're my only hope.

I was going to see Exene Cervenka perform at her art show tonight in Santa Monica, but the drive wrung that desire out of me - that and the odd companionship I certainly would have found there. I wonder what's going on tomorrow night, or if I'll end up wandering out to see Jarhead instead of taking advantage of any of the billions of diversions I can only partake of in Los Angeles. Ooh! I could go see it at the Vista and follow up by taking everyone for tapas to Cobras & Matadors (the lowest corkage in the city - so maybe I'll start to chip away at the prodigious collection of Hatcher I'm hoarding...)

Stream of consciousness, I know. I'm yanking the leash to get to my weekend, yanking the leash to get to Hawai'i, yanking the leash to get to Christmas, and New Years', and... Sigh. The stuff in between seems like a sorry excuse for filler, and my cravings are only getting stronger.

Poetry can not express this.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

OK, so I'm doing it...

...I made arrangements to start down the path of pretzelhood. I take my first yoga class tomorrow at 6.30pm.

The studio doesn't even have a website. I'm having flashes of Heart of Darkness here.

I can only imagine how dumb and unwieldy I'm going to be. Have you seen Bambi? The scene where he's ice-skating with Thumper? And his feet won't stay squarely underneath him, so he ends up all sloppy and careening and stuck in snowdrifts? Yeah. Me, tomorrow, without the snow.

I will not be taking video.

Hey, maybe after I shake off the chains of suckiness I can use it as a shameless excuse to get out of town. Ooh, to bend myself into silly shapes on foreign shores. Pleasant.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

A helpful chart for reference when buying me candy:

Hates:
Dots
Cheap red lollipops
Most jellybeans
Double-Bubble. I've actually never managed to convince this stuff to be single-bubble. Bazooka, too, despite its macho, warlike facade.
Wax lips. Why are these distributed as candy? Not only are they non-caloric, but wildly unflattering besides.
Big, swirly, colorful lollipops sold for $15.00/ea at Disneyland and other theme parks of significance.

Loves:
Most candies involving peanuts or the butter derived from same
Candies that include cherries somewhere in the synthesis (dark-chocolate coating a plus). Mani's has one of the best ones; I'll take you there if you come and see me.
Junior Mints
That sour-apple lollipop with the caramel dip
Coffee candy
Most saltwater taffy. Makes me think of sticky-fingered beachwalks, big hats, and sand between my toes.