Earnestness is the new irony

For once, I'm with Anil: April Fool's Day sucks.

It's rare that people get it right, coming up with a clever, playful joke that startles and teases, and then, with the reveal, delights. Most either fall flat, offend or have an effort-to-results ratio that reminds me of why I ran screaming in the night from the world of consumer advertising. It's not bad enough that you commit to doing the stupid and bad; you must also commit precious resources towards the effort out of all reasonable proportion.

Plus, I'm a dyed-in-the-wool patsy, hopelessly earnest, relentlessly optimistic, easily hoodwinked. I was the one who gobbled up the four squares of Ex-Lax my cabin-mates told me was chocolate; a year or two earlier, I was the one who, when greeted at the bottom of the stairs leading to my friend's family rec room by eight other friends yelling "Surprise!", on my birthday, actually asked, "What?" (The answer: "It's your birthday...Stupid.")

For years, I hated my seemingly inborn earnestness. Haaaaaaated it. I wanted to be cool and sophisticated, smooth and worldly. Unfortunately for me, the raw material just wasn't there. I was puny and inelegant and, let's face it, built like a pound puppy: big eyes, tiny body, funny face, gigantic paws. But I was also blessed...or cursed...or blessed...with a medium-sized brain and a will of iron, and over the years (and far too often) I used them in service of my own nefarious and silly desires. If I couldn't be elegant, I could be sarcastic. Oh, could I be sarcastic! I made a particular study of Oscar Wilde and Dorothy Parker, two profoundly funny-looking people who Made It Work, in the parlance of modern-day can-do maven, Tim Gunn, and honed my wit to a razor's edge. I was even mean, sometimes. Okay...a lot. Okay, more than it's comfortable to admit.

Somewhere along the line, it just got tiring, carrying all that crap around. To be organically funny is one thing; to work at it all the time is exhausting. It is also to live in fear: that you will fall flat on your face this next time, that you will be outed as a fraud, that you will fail and fall and be abandoned by all who said they loved you while you were entertaining them. Oy. Too, too much.

The setting down of my heavy load didn't come all at once. It was more of a gradual denuding. Like when you flee the old country with all your silverware and rugs and paintings on your overladen cart, and you're pulling it up that hill, and pulling it up that hill, and heaving things off so you can pull it up that damned hill, and finally you pluck one representative item from the heap, the scrap of cloth that didn't make it onto the quilt but that has a story, or your beloved grandmother's comb which is more missing than teeth, and let the rest of the rattletrap heap slide back down the hill for the Cossacks or gypsies to plunder. That amazing, liberating moment when you get that it's really love that's the thing, not things.

Of course, I still like words. And I still really like stringing words together to make people laugh. I'm starting to realize, though, that I really, really like stringing the words together to make people laugh so they'll relax, or laugh so they'll let down their guard, or laugh so they'll take a second look at an idea or a thought or a really good cause. Laughter disarms people, yes, but I don't want to disarm anyone so they're unprotected and squashable, but rather, to temporarily jam the force field and get some interesting interaction happening.

To get the do-gooders hooked up with the want-to-fund-do-gooder-ers. To get the do-gooders doing different kinds of good to lighten up and find more ways each other is alike than different. To keep the do-gooders doing good, or, if they'd do it anyway, to throw a little happy their way to make the job more pleasant. We each of us have our place.

My place might be on the ground, butt up in the air, a "Kick Me, Hard" sign affixed to the soft and fleshy part. So be it.

Some of us are born elegant; some of us are born clowns. You can fight it or you can work with it. Do the former, and while you may climb the ladder of fortune and fame, you'll also be resigned to a life of struggle and worry and looking over your shoulder.

Do the latter and you're nobody's fool.

Even if you will suffer a sore ass from time to time...

xxx c

Image by phitar via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

The role of personal integrity in change, or "I am my own homeboy"

Like driving in Los Angeles (or electricity most anywhere else), change continues to be both a sticky wicket and the only game in town. In other words, I'm not the only one wrasslin' this bear.

Exhibit A (from Andrew, in an email exchange generated by the last post on Change, that Bitch-Dog from Hell):

Lately, I find myself thinking a lot about all the aspects of personal integrity and how important it is to a person's sense of identity. Some of it is the aftermath of events from last year and some of it has to do with my dissatisfaction with the way things are in my life and my commitment to changing them.

By amazing coincidence (or not), the very same day I happened upon this TED talk on happiness by ex-pat French Buddhist monk (say that 3x fast) Mathieu Ricard. It's a fascinating talk, I mean, how can a discussion of the impact of mind training on happiness as measured by MRI patterns of high-level meditators not be?, and I'd highly advise a look-see, for the delicious fusion of book smarts (Ricard completed his PhD thesis in molecular genetics), humor (he's funny!) and orange robes (he's a monk!) (and he's funny!)

But if you're not into it just now, the salient point of his talk as far as this humble, little blog postie goes is that you are your own best shelter against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. In Ricard's parlance, the trick is a high enough level of detachment to see that you are a part of The Whole, and that emotions are not the truth of you, but more like colors, light playing on the waters of you.

The bad news is that some people come to it more naturally than others: he uses the contrasting examples of the very poor man who seems content despite having "nothing", and the very rich man who, ensconced in the most fabulous luxury, penthouse apartment, outfitted with the sweetest amenities, in the tallest building in town, sees his window only as a thing to jump out of.

The good news is that, according to tests like this on meditation and "happiness" (possibly better described as "peace of mind" or maybe "inner peace"), given a strong enough desire and a commitment of time and effort, one can alter one's default setting.

Where integrity fits in, as I see it, is in helping to actualize that good-news change. Buddhist teachings are chock-full of references to "right" this and "right" that, living, thinking, work, etc. If you've got no integrity, or it's on the weakish side, you're going to be far more likely to spend time on the bad path, partly because it's the easiest path and partly because you may, at a certain point, not be able to discern any difference, much less benefit, between various paths.

If, on the other hand, your integrity is shored up nicely, you not only have a keener eye for the salubrious choice, but you also have the spine (or the stones) to make it.

All of this stuff is pretty simple, when you get right down to it, which is why it's so blasted confounding. I know that I'll be better off if I keep it to two glasses of Pinot, a few hours of farting-around time and early to bed. But in the moment, the choice can be difficult, because, and I'm a little sheepish about this, my integrity is a little weak in places.

"But Colleen," you say, "don't you mean your discipline is weak? Surely one can have integrity and lack discipline."

I used to think that; now I'm not so sure.

I don't believe I'm a bad person for eating French fries when it's been pointed out to me by my very own intestines that I shouldn't; I believe I'm a weak person. But framed that way, I'd say "weak" equals "lack of integrity."

Or let's take another example from my pathetic life. I got in a big fight with The BF today, which both Jon from my new-favorite coffee hang and Neil, from That Blog About the Talking Penis will attest to. Ostensibly, it was about money, but as with most things, it turned out to be about other stuff: my inability to communicate, my fears about communicating, my fucked-up views about abundance and scarcity and my lack of integrity when it came to gossiping. Don't worry, The BF wasn't dumping on me. He was providing the valuable and needed service of Calling Me on My Shit, something that probably doesn't happen enough these days.

And that last thing, the gossip thing, was what finally got to me. Because I understand the power of early patterning about money, and am working on repatterning mine. I can talk about what a petty bastard I am; I brought up the very topic of my petty bastard-ness. What I was deeply ashamed about, that is, what pierced my heart with the flaming arrow of truth, was that I was foaming at the mouth about someone else whose actions over the past year, AN ENTIRE TWELVE MONTHS, had progressively enraged me to the point where I blew a gasket (behind her back, to someone else) over an absurdly insignificant display of cluelessness which should have invoked, if it invoked anything, pity or compassion.

So much for enlightenment.

Here's where the change part, and the integrity part, comes in: five years ago, I would have fought it, and him, and the whole #%$@! world. I would have carved out a bunker next to Mt. Self-Righteous and hunkered down for the duration. But I've been working on observing (first step of change) and acknowledging (second step of change) my self as expressed through my actions fairly actively for the past ten years, and assiduously for the past five. Simple actions, but with a significant effect on integrity. And, I'm starting to see, "happiness", in quotes because, sadly, I think it's become too often confused with "pleasure" or, more specifically, "fleeting feelings of pleasure."

Oo-la-la. Such fancy talk. Really, it all boils down to another good news/bad news thing. If you get on board the integrity bus, both the good and the bad news is you're responsible for your "happiness-in-quotes." I think it's good. I like the idea that if I make some possibly tough choices up front, I can change the way I see and move through the world. I like that anyone can do it, and that it doesn't cost money. I like that personal change, or an investment in integrity, can possibly effect other kinds of change.

I like that I'm my own homeboy. Except when I hate that I'm my own homeboy.

But liking isn't really the point. The point is, it is what it is.

Namaste. And out.

xxx c

Image by silverlinedwinnebago via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

What change looks like

Life has been a little tumultuous lately, largely of my own devising.

For example, earlier this year I quit, or at least, quit long enough to take a big-girl step back.

I started saying "no", a lot. And started saying "yes" to things that didn't always make sense. On the surface. To "normal" people. I'm making mistakes right and left and being both punished (depending on how you define "punished") and rewarded (ditto) right and left. It has been, to put it mildly, a confusing time.

Frequently, in the back of my head, I hear my sister relaying a snippet from our father when she expressed the need to take a vacation: From what? he said.

Because she didn't have a Job-job, like him. Because she wasn't pulling down massive dollars-per-year, like him. Because the ethos in our family has always been As long as there's more to be done, you will do it until there is no more "you" left.

Some things don't make sense while you're in the thick of them. And getting distance is a luxury that's rarely supported. I've worked hard to surround myself with hard-working people who also appreciate the value of real leisure, the ROI on hanging with friends, the importance of enjoying every moment, or, at the very least, as many as possible.

I'm still not very good at it; I'm new at it. It feels really, really weird to be in flow with my actual life, different...harder...different than being In The Moment as an actor, although that was good training.

One note at this juncture: Dad didn't mean to be mean when he asked that question that cut through my sister like a hot knife through butter; he was doing what he knew to be right, by rote. Holy shit, is that a tough one to remember, to fully accept. But there it is. He did the best he could with the thinking he'd done. At some point, I think he'd decided he'd done enough thinking. (There's a whole book in that alone. Someday, I hope to be a good enough writer to write it.)

Here's what I've learned: it takes more will, more strength, more doubling back and rethinking and re-plotting to effect meaningful, personal change than you can possibly imagine going in. Perhaps some people are better wired for it; perhaps there's something to this whole reincarnation thing and some of those among us have a bit of a leg up, personal-evolution-wise. No one here is gonna know until it doesn't matter anymore.

By definition, most of our personal growth is self-generated. But there's no shame in asking for help. Just today, I asked it out loud, again: Why can't I get anything done? Why am I stuck? What the $%@(^! is wrong with me?

And my friend, who is 10-odd years down the road, didn't bat an eye. Talked about it like I was showing her a mysterious carpet stain I needed help identifying the right cleaner for, or a piece of writing that was a little ganky and needed some tweaking.

"A lot of times," she said, "I find I resist things the hardest when it's becoming most obvious that they're really going to happen."

It was as if she opened a mysterious steam valve I didn't know existed, or tapped some chi point an acupuncturist might, or just plain old threw a light on in a slightly darkened corner of a room. All was well again, for a while, and the conundrum put back into perspective: as some Thing in my care to observe, and process, and deal with.

As I learned long, long ago in advertising, watching my friends' hotshit careers suddenly go down in flames with sudden downturns in the economy, there is no real safety; it's just an illusion. Just like there is no stasis: just periods where change is so incremental as to seem non-existent.

I am change and you are change and this, right now, is change.

This. Right now.

Learning to drift and steer simultaneously, that's both the trick and the lesson...

xxx c

Image by CowGummy via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

The Burger King® method* of Getting Things (Really) Done

I spent yesterday getting coached into organization by one phenomenal couple of personal productivity experts.

It was everything I'd hoped for. And nothing I expected. (Or, shall I say, feared.)

What I feared, and you can see this coming, if you've thought it through, is that I didn't clean up enough for the cleaning lady. Or balance my checkbook properly for the bookkeeper. Or any other of a number of analogies that basically boil down to Oh, god...please don't let my complete inability to do things the Right Way reveal the Hopeless Failure of a Human Being that I truly am.

I was expecting a protracted walk-through of my lame computer file structure, my equally lame physical files, my overflowing in-basket, my scores of lists and calendars and other Helpful Toolsâ„¢ creating redundancy and general chaos. Instead, we started with a surprisingly quotidian question:

"What's a typical 'Colleen' day?"

And so I spun it out for them: the getting-up and getting tea. The booting-up-of-computer and making-of-bed. That first, fantastic blast of email & Twitter goodness: all the missives and blog comments and howdy-dos from my friends, real and virtual, that have popped up between bedtime and now, thanks to auto-mailers and insomniacs and my location on the West Coast. Eggs and coffee. And then...well, then a day that could be anything. All writing or a mix of writing and talking and design. A lot of, as I told everyone I met at SXSW, farting around on the Internet. A 2.3-mile walk around the Silver Lake reservoir at some point. Consistent inconsistency, from somewhere around 7am to somewhere around 10pm, seven days a week, 350-odd days a year.

They listened and smiled and nodded. Non-judgmentally. With genuine courtesy and curiosity.

Emboldened, I mentioned the soundtrack of "shoulds" that accompanied my tasks like a non-stop iTunes playlist. I should be doing something else. I should be doing this better. I should do this now, but let me deal with it later.

After taking in the entire sweep of me and my neuroses, we got to work. Which, as it turned out, meant getting all my stuff in front of me, where I could see it in one place. And learning a few simple ways to process new stuff so that as it came in, I could put it in a place where I could find it later.

Amazingly, there was no talk of best practices or Holy Grails or Right Ways of Doing Things. There was just me, and my process, and some gentle guidance towards self-discovery of the best way to support it.

On my own, I realized I was carrying around a paper calendar because I thought I should, because I had seen someone else's paper calendar working for him. Like gangbusters. So I had tried several times to implement this paper calendar system: to map out my day to the 10-minute pod the night or the week before, and sit down each morning and follow it word for word.

It worked, a couple of times. And it felt great, having a whole day full of getting all these things done.

It also felt like a nun standing over my shoulder, guilting me into being a good girl. Or a noose around my neck, loosely tied, perhaps, and pretty...the Hermes scarf of nooses. But a noose, still.

I do not do well, you see, with being told what to do: I do well with suggestions, and the breezier, the better. I like the feeling, illusion or not, that I'm choosing my actions moment to moment.

No doubt this tendency to suspect the walls are always closing in is why marriage felt more like a straight jacket than a security blanket. I remember distinctly proposing to my then-husband that we privately and quietly divorce, but continue to maintain the outside appearance of being married. That way, we'd catch no flak from pesky outsiders, and we would have a profound and glorious shared secret: we would be choosing to stay together every single day; we would co-create our relationship as we went along.

No wonder that scheduling thing didn't work out too well. Or the marriage, for that matter.

At some point toward the end of our day together, Jason and Jodi explained the faulty reasoning behind so many well-intentioned attempts to get organized: if I perform these steps...buy this binder...sort according to this system, I will be free.

Instead, the way to look at it is more like this:

I am free.

I can employ my freedom in service of my unique goals and gifts. By getting very clear on what those goals are, whether by assiduous self-observation or third-party assessment or giving myself the space to let them bubble to the surface, or any combination. By any means that works for me.

I can also employ my freedom to unearth my natural working style. And then, again, to find the services and methods and structure to support it.

Like anything else, it takes a little more work and finesse to find your own way in the world. It's like the difference between couture and off-the-rack. Or styling things from the ground up vs. Garanimals. It takes a little work to find the unique sculpture locked in every slab of marble. But it's there. And, to paraphrase old Martha Graham in her famous confab with old Agnes de Mille, if you don't find it, you will seriously harsh on the planet's mellow.

I wish, oh, how I wish, that there was one answer in one book, and that all I had to do was find that book. Instead, the maps to your map are in the books. Look at that person's journey, and see what you can find in her struggles or his mishaps or their lightbulb moments that makes you tingly. The truth comes at us sideways, usually, and when we least expect it. Our job, I increasingly believe, is to prime ourselves for reception...and reflection...and synthesis.

Of course, there's nothing wrong with getting yourself a nice, new Moleskine notebook or a sexy MP3 recorder, if they'll make the journey sweeter. I'm down with the gadgetry.

But for me, for now, the road to enlightenment is paved with some calendars output from iCal shoved into a plain, old artist's sketchbook with a Uniball Micro shoved down the spiral.

Wave as you pass by on your way...

xxx c

*For those of you who have never subjected yourself to the media matrix, "Have It Your Wayâ„¢" is the trademarked tagline of the Burger King corporation, and a cornerstone of their operations, marketing and positioning. Because, as anyone who's ever tried to order a Filet-O-Fishâ„¢ with extra® tartar© sauce and No Cheeseâ„¢ has discovered, having it your way is not the way of certain other major quick-service establishments.

Image by walker clevelands via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

There's also a wealth of wonderful shots (for inspirational/idea-unsticking purposes) with the simple Flickr search of "moleskine" in the attribution/non-commercial/as-is section of Creative Commons licensing; one favorite is this one by Mike Rohde, which has a staggering comments section.

Crazy trying

About two years ago, I went nuts.

Well, some people might call it that. I called it A Certain Longing: for peace...for quiet...for a little patch of green that I might call my own. And I started my strange, Saturday-morning p0rn routine:

• Wake up at The BF's
• Make tea (and no, that's not code for anything)
• Pad into office and get online
• Surf for real estate offerings in Small, Midwestern College Town

A little weird? Perhaps. But you try living in Los Angeles as a middle-aged, middle-class person for 16 years and see how you react. I've "been there, done that" with the U.S. Majors (New York, Chicago, Los Angeles) and while I love urban life as least as much as I loathe suburban life, I remain somewhat in the dark about the in-between. Color me Small Town-curious, I guess.

Anyway, upon ascertaining that I could basically buy myself a phat pad in said Undisclosed Small Town for cash in hand, my fantasies grew more vivid and active. What, I thought, about a job? Perhaps I could throw away this freewheeling life of self-(sometimes-)employment, given the right opportunity. Could there be any opportunities worth throwing it away for?

It was a quick hop/skip/jump to the university's website. I mean, hell, here was the major employer, right? Why not give 'er a look-see?

Lo & behold, there was a job with all but my actual name on it.

And yet...

And yet, I was a kinda/sorta retired actor. Who was...who had seen many winters.

Who'd been living a semi-dissolute life off the company payroll since 1992. Translation: a woefully inadequate, almost 100% irrelevant résumé.

At least I still had one, I thought. And passion. I had shitloads of passion. Plus, that sense of humor. I mean, it had to be worth something.

Still, I was unemployable...right? Who would even look at me? A 45-year-old broad, who'd been off the market for years, tilting at crazy windmills like acting and TV writing?

Naturally, I did the only sane thing: I applied.

I drafted a crazy letter, and included a strange, not-especially-applicable, certainly-not-asked-for bio/one-sheet of my own devising. (And yes, I threw in an outdated résumé. Why? Who knows. Old habits die hard, I guess. Plus there's that Cornell thing, that impresses some people sometimes. Might as well use what Dad paid so dearly for.)

I sent off the Kit-'n'-Caboodle, expecting nothing.

A couple of weeks later, when I'd all but forgotten the escapade, I received a reply: "Missive received; continue communication." Okay, I'm paraphrasing, but there's a point to all this.

Never. Assume.

Never assume, as many foolish applicants to a dream job with Seth Godin did, that the Ordinary Route will serve. It will not. It may kill the deal.

Never mistake, as so many of us do, the un-thought-of for the impossible. They are not the same. People invent crazy stuff out of nothing every damned day. This country was founded on people inventing crazy stuff out of nothing. Embrace the wacko tradition. Let go of the bullshit notions that lash you to the mast of mundanity. They are not your friends. You are your friend. Innovation is your friend. Change is your friend, as scary as she may look from across the dimly-lit pavilion.

Sometimes, the trying does not work. Usually, the trying involves a bit of a leap. In the words of my beloved poet, soprano Beverly Sills, "There are no shortcuts to any place worth going."

You'll fall. You'll fail. You'll fumble.

I didn't get the job, you see. Bowed out too early in the process to know if it would have been offered. Boyfriend not ready to move. Me, not ready to move. Bottom line: while I flatter myself that the interview went well, I'll never really know. And I'm still in L.A., in the same, small (but beautiful! and rent-controlled!) one-bedroom apartment, two years later. Still muddling along with my own crazy, dream-fueled, solopreneur cocktail of endeavors.

No matter. It's the reaching out that makes the woman. Going out of your comfort zone, sniffing out something not quite in your reach, dipping a toe in the waters well outside your purview that matters.

This, I have done.

This, you can do.

Draft a crazy proposal. Reach out to other people and express, share, offload your crazy dream.

Crazy dreamers and crazy trying are the components of change.

And change, while scary, and yes, a little crazy-making, is the currency of growth.

Grow this world. Do the nutso thing.

Change the world, change your world.

Or die for crazy trying...

xxx c

Image by LeiLeiPao via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

SXSW 2008: The music happens between the notes

While I'm still a relative newcomer to this conference stuff, I learned a lot during my first South by Southwest festival in '06, and a lot more than that since then.

Stuff like...come alone! And with an open mind, the better to let old stuff drizzle out and new stuff pour in. Make plans, but be prepared to toss them out the window. Set goals, but don't be surprised if your ultimate takeaway is breathtakingly, stupendously, maddeningly different.

There are also some technical things to consider, like not showing up tired. Learning to listen to your body's "no" over your head's (or heart's) yes. We may be energetic beings with bodies, but the bodies are no less real for that, and will punish you mightily if you choose to ignore them too long.

So took a page from my own book and carved out quiet time here & there. Like giving myself the unspeakable (for me) luxury of coming in the day before even the "soft start" of the festival on Friday. One extra night of ramping up and sleeping in, plus one delicious morning of quiet, leisurely breakfasting with an old SXSW friend from Germany. (Bonus extra: super-short line for getting my attendee badge.)

Also, compared to all but the dead, I took it relatively easy with the parties. I am not built for loud and crowded places; my vocal cords were shredded after that first night of shouting over amplified music blasting two feet from my ears. Three more nights of same didn't help. And while we're at it, it's a bit on the noisy side in the old conference center.

Also-also, I slept in and opted out more. I probably averaged two panels per day, which is far, far less than I did two years ago, when I guess I equated sitting in panels and keynotes with getting my money's worth. As my friend, Eric, pointed out, all the panels are available as podcasts after the fact, but never again will you get so many nerds happening in one place at one time. Well, not until next year, anyway.

What did I do with my time? I hung. In the halls of the conference center. In this hotbed of A-list bloggery (I know, I know) dubbed the BlogHaus. In bars, a deux or trois or maybe neuf. Over breakfast and lunch. At my first BarCamp. At a movie. On the 'dillo. At the Whole Foods. On Twitter (yes, it can be a little scary hanging out there, too.)

Basically, I let my gut be my guide. And when it got overly nervous, I talked it down and walked through whatever imaginary fire it was edging away from. All in all, a pretty good five-day stretch for a hopeless introvert.

I did, however, eat crap. Worse, I drank beer: about as far as you can get from an SCD-legal beverage. I enjoyed BBQ (excellent pulled pork at Stubb's, no matter what the cranks say), and I enjoyed it with two acquaintances freshly made just minutes before. (Thank you, lovely Rebecca! thank you, charming Steve! You guys were so gracious, I forgot what a fifth wheel I probably was that night.) I enjoyed fucking Rolos, for chrissakes, almost every day. Not sure what's up with that, or the repeated trips to the lobby Starbucks one night for dark chocolate, shortbread cookies and a lemon bar. Even before I got sick, I wasn't much of a bar-cookie type.

We'll have to see if I get to skate on the gut infractions. There have been some nervous-making stabbing pains in the past 36 hours, never a good sign. I'm hoping it's me being overtired, and that a weekend of sleep (and a few weeks of fanatical adherence) will get me back on track.

If not, well, I'll deal with that, too. Life is too short for a whole lot of worry. Keep it loose. Keep it weird.

Oh, and for the record? It wasn't Quentin Tarantino. Not unless he's managed to replicate himself or teleport a white-haired version of himself 2000 miles.

Does that take away from the fantabulousness of me walking up to someone I've never met, someone I thought directed one of my 20 all-time favorite films, sticking out a hand, and telling him to quit following me around?

No. No, it does not.

Here's me, dorky as ever. But maybe, thanks to SXSW, just a little bit braver...

xxx
c

UPDATE 03/15/08: I also posted about SXSWi more from a general networking perspective on The Marketing Mix blog. Included there are some links to other summaries of this year's SXSWi, and a great comment from Kathy Sierra, who was a (terrific!) speaker at this year's event.

Image of my blog card deconstructed © 2008 Hugh MacLeod.

communicatrix & SXSW 2.0!!!

I headed over to the Hilton last night, figuring I'd find me some geeks at the bar and kick off my SXSW with bourbon and fellowship. Three hours later, I left having met a bunch of guys here for a Whole Foods conference, an Iron Chef contestant, and a medical sales rep from Dallas with whom I had a lengthy discussion about theism (he's pro, I'm not), socialism (I'm pro, he's not) and marriage (on this, we were of the same opinion, mixed.)

One never knows, do one?

It is from that profound place of not-knowing that I...proudly? sheepishly? tentatively? announce the redesign of communicatrix-dot-com. To coincide with this greatest of all nerd festivals, the place where, as a guy in line with me to pick up badges put it, "I come to have my head expanded without LSD." Because, like the doing of SXSW, the making of a website is an imperfect thing. (Especially when your coding skillz are minimal.)

Links are probably broken. Archives, for now, are non-existent (although individual entries are finally tagged.) For now, you'll need to search for the things you want, and leave yourself open to serendipitous stumbling. Kind of like me, here, bumbling around at the mother of all conferences.

And now, time to pack up my stuff and get out and meet the people! For my 20, follow me on Twitter.

Just don't forget to look up and say "hi!" And, maybe, "Hey! That looks just like your card!"

xxx c

Non-existent accompanying image due to technology choosing this precise moment to go haywire...of course.

Why and how I'm going to SXSW

I'm not a developer. (Oh, boy, am I not, more on that later.)

I'm not a gamer, animator, early adopter, Mac fanboy, social network guru, internet celebrity or famous author/change agent/superstah with a new book to shill.

But here's the dirty little secret of the South by Southwest Interactive Festival: you don't have to be a Real Geek to love it.

I didn't know what to expect at my first SXSW, two years ago. And, outside of creating some schmancy new blog cards (upon which I neglected to place my phone number, on purpose!), I didn't do much in the way of preparation. I went with an open mind, the better for the cosmos to stick a wedge in there and crack it the fuck open.

It turned out to be a very good plan, the not-planning. In fact, it worked out so well, I'm doing it again, with a few minor adjustments:

1. This time, I'm going solo.

No BF, no SXSW Gold Pass. It's interactive only, and one big, fat, glorious, piggy king-sized bed.

Don't get me wrong, I love traveling with The BF, and by "traveling," I mean exploring the turf, sharing experiences and having sex in motel rooms.

But I will be forced to get out there more and mingle. Having the Gold Pass (i.e., access to all the offerings of the SXSW Film Fest) and having a movie-freak companion meant I missed out on a lot of the schmoozing and boozing I hear tell happens outside the panels themselves.

Plus, communicatrix was pretty new to the internets a couple of years ago, and social media hadn't really taken off yet. I knew one or two people going in, and met one or two more. This time, I'm excited to meet up with a whole slew (for me) of people, including Chris, Michael, Becky, Adam, Merlin, Alissa, Eric, Sean, Scott (who took this most excellent shot of the terrifying Podcast Pickle) and (your name here*).

2. I'm also planning...a little.

My natural tendency is to schedule myself down to the pee break, so I like to use vacation, which I characterize as me not doing my normal routine at home, not me sitting on a beach with a fruity drink, to mix things up.

I've made some oh-so tentative plans with a few people, and put their mobile numbers in my phone. I am also planning to be a total weinerdoodle and hole up in my hotel room alone with the cable TV on Thursday night. Because I know how tiring SXSW can be, and I want to experience as much as I can.

But other than that, the planning, as such, includes only one other thing:

3. An exciting and long-delayed image overhaul.

Watch this space, is all I'm saying...

xxx c

*I'm serious, people, if you read this, and you're going, for chrissakes, contact me! Who knows when we'll get this chance again?

Image of the Famed Podcast Pickle by Scott Beale / Laughing Squid via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

And now what will you be?

I've been thinking a lot about aging lately.

Part of it is closing in on the halfway mark to my birthday. (It's September the 13th, in case you want to mark your calendar now).

But a lot of it is all these metaphoric Post-It Notes that have been popping up on the metaphoric mirrors of my life lately.

Delightful reminders like the sponge cake around my middle (which, on the bright side, has qualified me as a blood donor for the first time ever, free OJ & cookies!!).

Or the ten minutes I spent in my Toastmasters meeting a couple of weeks back trying desperately to pull the word "malapropism" from my ganky-ass RAM after hearing "exacerbate" get swapped out for "exasperate" for the third time.

Or the fact that my college roommate has a son who is going to be a third-generation legacy when he enters college...next year.

And a lot of clothes that I swear to you were perfectly fine even six months ago?

Hooba-dooba.

There's a window of about 20 years where you look like a total tool if you wear ironic tees, and I seem to have been defenestrated in my sleep. Which concerns me, because I will not be 70 for another 23 years, and SXSW is next week. What am I supposed to do, go to the UX panels naked? My sponge cake will show!

It is weird, having this age thing happen seemingly overnight. I realize that everyone has this moment in front of the mirror (except the lucky few who have a portrait stashed in the closet, let me know how that plays out for you). I just got to put mine off for an unreasonably long time.

I never had kids, for one. I live in the land of No Seasons with Which to Mark One's Death March to Invisibility. Hell, I live in L.A. and I'm not hot or rich, I've been invisible since I got here, 16 years ago.

And mostly, I don't mind being old any more than I mind being invisible (although I'd quite like to be rich, as I've heard it affords one a great deal of freedom.) Like my pal, precocious codger Jim Garner, I kind of enjoy being an elder, or, in codger-speak, an old coot. I have always rounded up, claiming the next birthday's age shortly after the new calendar year begins. It makes things incredibly confusing on my actual birthday, as I am bad at math and my parents, bad at planning. I mean, would it have been that hard to meet a year earlier and have me in 1960?

No, I don't exactly mind the idea of being old, I am just not crazy about the getting there.

I would like to skip ahead to the part where I have a full head of snowy white hair like Mom. To the part where I've already done 20 years of yoga and am this lithe, inspiring, elder-model type who takes a lover 15 years her junior. And maybe female. You know, just because.

Basically, to the part where the young part of me is long gone rather than slipping away by degrees, and the old me is this fabulous, rock-'em-sock-'em me unimaginable to me now, much less actualizable.

I am not young anymore, except to old people. I am not old yet, except to young people. Just like being born into this crazy non-Boomer, not-quite-Gen-X cohort, I cannot quite parse myself yet, and I gotta tell you, it's a little irksome. Like that deep, phantom itch I get in the library that won't disappear no matter how hard I rub my shoulderblades across a corner of the stacks.

On the other hand, this is a perfect frame of mind in which to sail into the aforementioned SXSW: not quite sure, a little on the wobbly side, with lots of cracks for old stuff to leak out of and new stuff to sneak into. Last time I went, I was wobbly because it was new to me and I was new to the internets and on top of everything else, as it turned out, I was sliding into a Crohn's flare. This time, it will just be wacky, wobbly me, seeing a few familiar faces, meeting a few People Behind the Handles, sucking down some of that SCD-legal Tito's, having my head cracked open.

As long as I remember my vitamins, I think it should be fine.

Provided I can get my hands on a few plain t-shirts...

xxx c

Image by master of felix via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

The Happiness Project

Alex Shalman has a lovely and ambitious project going on over at his eponymous personal development site this month. He got an impressive cross-section of people to answer a simple, five-question interview on their own feelings re: happiness, and aggregated the answers, along with some other various & sundry information.

There are some big names on the list, 800 lb self-dev gorilla, Steve Pavlina; 800 lb biz/self-dev gorilla, Tim Ferris (the 4-Hour Workweek guy); and 800 lb social media/self-dev gorilla (and my pal!) Chris Brogan.

What's neat, though, is that not all the entries are from what would explicitly call the self-dev blogging pool. And their interviews are at just as fascinating and illuminating, BoingBoing co-founder, Mark Frauenfelder and Brian "Copyblogger" Clark turned in wonderful takes that owed as much to tight writing as right perspective.

Not that there's a wrong perspective when it comes to happiness. The proof is in the pudding, and while the new, positive psychology has gone a long way towards illuminating certain consistent traits found in the happy person, ultimately, it's a pretty personal pursuit. Another internet friend of mine, Gretchen Rubin, studied happiness for a year, turning herself into a lab for the experiment, much in the way I try to do with communicatrix; it was no surprise to me that her interview was one of the best of the bunch.

Of course, I've dwelved into and on happiness here, as well as created my one-and-only Squidoo lens on the subject. But Alex is welcoming submissions, and I think it's good exercise to wrap my head around other people's questions now and again. So here are the five questions, along with my answers. If you'd like to do a little thinking and sharing, too, you can either grab the list and post to your site (don't forget to link back to Alex!) or write out your thoughts in the comments section of his post.

Either way, to borrow from one entrant, so much more happiness-inducing, to focus on the positive than its musty, sad sack cousin, Mr. Boo-hoo-hoo.

The Questions

1. How do you define happiness?

First off, to differentiate Happiness with a Capital "H" from the fleeting kind of woo-hoo! happiness, I like the phrase "deep contentment" or "private joy." I mean, I don't actually like these more, I'd have to be an utter asshole, as "happiness" is way pithier, but the word been been co-opted by too many hair care products to be truly useful anymore.

And to me, Happiness with a Capital "H" is either or both of those things: an abiding inner peace that's matched by a sort of "thrum" in the heart area. Making me the world's biggest cornball, I know.

2. On a scale of 1-10, how would you rate your happiness now, versus when you were a child?

Until age 10, 8 or 9. From 10 - 40, around 4 or 5.

Today, praise jeebus, I'm back up to around 8 or 9. And plan on keeping it that way!

3. What do you do on a daily basis that brings you happiness? (and how consistent is the feeling of happiness throughout your day)

It's not anything in particular, but an aggregate of right thoughts and right actions. To put it in Stephen Covey terms (I'm heavily into the 7 Habits right now), when I spend most of my time in quadrant 2 with a wee sprinkling of time in quadrant 4, I'm good. I need my quadrant 4; I've just got to be diligent about not spending too much time hiding there. (Here's the time management matrix for those of you who have yet to drink the Kool-Aid; I know, I know, I'm on the tail end of this curve.)

Oh, and a little one-on-one time with Arnie will snap me back into shape if I veer too far off course. It's good to have a short list of non-prescription mood enhancers for when Monkey Brain takes over.

4. What things take away from your happiness? What can be done to lessen their impact or remove them from your life?

As soon as I move off of what I have and onto what I don't, I'm tobogganing down the icy slopes of Mt. Misery. You can pick up serious speed on that sucker.

Fortunately, a quick adjustment, looking at the myriad riches of my life, usually gets me back pretty quickly. That, or remembering the days of my colon being a greased and bloody chute.

5. What do you plan on doing in the future that will bring you even more happiness?

Committing to a life of greater service. Sharing more of what I know. Letting go of things that hold me back, and ceaselessly working to identify new outliers.

And treating myself to lots more walks with Arnie, of course...

xxx
c

Image by carf via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

What is the why? vs. Fake it till you make it

I was recently introduced to my favorite new word of easily the past five years: unpack.

Since then, I've learned that it's been a term long in employ by the code geeks, but the context in which I first heard of it was a cultural-anthropological one (or sociological, I get them confused.) Either way, the essence of meaning is pretty much the same: an not-quite-impossibly dense situation is dropped in your lap; how do you begin to untangle it so that it makes sense to you and/or others?

I no longer get down on myself for my minor obsessions. Instead, I generally indulge them, well, the ones that don't involve meth or whoring, anyway, until I've sussed out, or unpacked, why they hold me in their thrall.

For example, I've watched Play Misty for Me, an excellent but hardly earth-shattering 1970s film directed by and starring Clint Eastwood, roughly 50 - 75 times, by conservative estimation. I wrote about it a bit here, but if you're feeling lazy, the gist of the why was wrapped up in eight flavors of comfort: my love for the Central Coast of California (see also here, here and here); my love for an emotionally distant dad who loved Clint Eastwood; my (probably misplaced and idealized) love for a long-lost decade; etc.

Via years and years of talk therapy, I've also unpacked the bulk of the why about...

• my ridiculous fear of asking for help (overly high parental expectations for first-born baby genius girl)
• my predilection for Judge Judy, Dr. Laura, Tom Leykis and other dogmatic arbiters of fairness (lack of control over chaotic events in my childhood)
• my desire for ridiculously soft toilet tissue in bulk, excessively long and hot showers, and a narrow range of acceptable inside temperature (draconian year-and-a-half incarceration at Gloomy Manor)

The thing is, as I've intimated above, in most cases this knowledge was not immediately and readily accessible. So I didn't exactly live the unexamined life, but I did a whole lot of crap (the meth! the whoring!) while I was busy doing the unpacking.

It's maddening, sometimes, because it's hard not to think that if only I had the key, I could unlock these chains and shrug them off. I could stop eating or stop drinking or stop being mean or stop self-sabotaging in any of a million-billion ways, if I just knew what the fuck this was about.

This, of course, is how people end up morbidly obese, alcoholic, friendless and dead in alleys before their time. This is the Big Lie. Ultimately, it may not matter, or at least, right now it may not matter. If your boyfriend punches you in the face, you could spend a lot of time mulling over how you got there, or you could get your ass to a safe house and maybe live to find out later. (Oh, and for the record, while I've grappled with all kinds of darknesses, one thing I'm relieved I never had to was domestic abuse. And I say "relieved" mainly because I'm not at all sure I'd have had the wisdom to see the early signs and the ladyballs to get myself the hell out.)

Right now, I'm in the throes of unpacking some really overstuffed, super-compacted situations. They're old, these things, even if the lead thread is new. I've noticed alcohol creep, for one, never a great thing, mainly because I really enjoy it and don't want my consumption to escalate to the point where I've got to give my beloved vino the heave-ho entirely. I'm hating the phone more than usual and still fighting my way through every invoice (to send, not to pay) and check (to deposit, not to write).

It is good to know the why, and I can't imagine abandoning the search. My ex-mother-in-law, whose problem set did not align with my own (one reason, I'm sure, why she was exceptionally easy for me to love), had a little framed Engelbreit-esque illustration opposite the can that used to drive me insane, a sullen Ye Olde Girle, with a hand-lettered exhortation: "Snap Out of It".

Hated. It.

Especially when I was sullen because my delicate bowels refused to function in a home with one toilet per four people. (Even Gloomy Manor had an excessive amount of plumbing, rickety as it was.)

But I get it. There are times for reflection, and times for soldiering on: when kids are involved, or survival is threatened, or even when things really Need to Get Done. In these times, I use carrot, stick or what-have-you to get there. So much is at stake, and honestly? You can be contemplative when you're dead.

At least, I think you can...

xxx c

Image by bulldog1 via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

Notes to a Young Lady upon reaching her majority

I had a ladies' lunch with an old friend today. I know it was a ladies' lunch and not a girly lunch because:

• a goodly amount of time was spent discussing Things of a Lady Nature, like our shameful confessions about listening to talk radio and our surprise over the arrival of a new kind of belly fat that laughs at our attempts to dislodge it
• an equally healthy amount of time was spent marveling that we are the exact same age as the Possible Next President of the United States
• the above morbid topics unfolded with a level of enjoyment and detachment that simply didn't exist in my 20s or 30s

Here's the thing, whippersnappers: I like being a lady of a certain age, 46 1/2, to be precise. I don't mind being called "ma'am." And the only reason I'm at all upset that I'll be turning 50 in less than four years is because I've finally realized that time is not, in fact, infinite, and I have way more shit to do than I probably have years left in which to do it. Less still, should that Mayan calendar business prove true.

More and more things have been happening lately to remind me of these days of my life slipping away like sands in the hourglass of time. A dear friend whom I've known for 25 years turns 50 this year and asks for some reminiscences, a few stories and observations picked up along the way, which is something old people ask for and other old people accommodate. Another old friend has taken to insisting I call her "my friend I've had the longest." I turn things down and accept other things not because they are or are not "happening," but because they are things I do or do not want to do with the time I have left.

I got another request lately from another old friend: she has a stepdaughter who is leaving girlhood and entering her official womanhood. Which, in this country, anyway, means she is too old to pose for Playboy and old enough to buy her own Marlboros and Tickle Pink at the White Hen. (Do they still sell Tickle Pink? Are there, for that matter, still White Hens?) My friend asked her circle of friends if they could gather some thoughts to honor this auspicious transition, since apparently, the vision quest had to be bumped on account of exurban sprawl.

So here, my young lassie, are my words to you. You won't mind if these other lovely people read them, will you?

The List of Things I Hope Missy Will Take to Heart as She Leaves Girl-dom Behind

1. Live within your means.
2. Always wear shoes in which you can flee an assailant.
3. Do something creative every single day. If nothing else, it will help you expand your notion of creativity.
4. Do not listen to anyone or anything that tells you when you should have sex except for that small voice inside you.
5. And that small voice? It's always right.
6. About everything.
7. Be yourself, but be gracious.
8. Screw resolutions, but always have goals.
9. Everything in moderation, moderation inclusive.
10. You are beautiful.
11. No, seriously, you are beautiful.
12. Anyone who thinks you're not is not someone you need to concern yourself with overly.
13. Develop your "I believe" speech. Revisit it every year or so.
14. Never stop asking questions.
15. Realize, however, that there are such things as stupid questions, as well as people who will make your life unpleasant for asking them. Spare yourself unnecessary cruelty and cultivate a circle of trusted advisers to consult with as needed.
16. Speaking of which, sparing yourself unnecessary cruelty is a great idea, in general.
17. As is asking for help.
18. Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.
19. Have friends who are older and younger, as well as friends of your own age.
20. And it should go without saying, but make sure fully 75% are women.
21. Take stock, but try not to beat yourself up over perceived shortcomings.
22. Take care of your teeth. When the world blows up, dental care will be hard to come by.
23. Read M.F.K. Fisher, Virginia Woolf and my newsletter.
24. Don't read women's magazines.
25. Oprah excepted.
26. Don't dis your sisters.
27. Even the ones whose heads seem so far up their asses they couldn't see you flipping them the bird in broad (no pun intended) daylight.
28. Build bridges, not walls.
29. Be very careful who and what you give up work for.
30. Keep your tools sharp.
31. That goes double for the toolkit.
32. Try to spend time in nature and with animals.
33. The only person who should be the boss of you is the person cutting your paycheck.
34. And even then, be very clear about your limits.
35. Remember that mental health is a necessity, not a luxury.
36. Know the difference between meat and treats, but don't deny yourself either.
37. Give more than you get.
38. But don't keep a scorecard.
39. If at all possible, live in another major metro area before settling down.
40. And no suburbs until absolutely necessary.
41. Avoid TV unless you're being paid to watch it.
42. Acquire private health insurance and keep it, even if your employer has a plan.
43. Never skip a pap smear, mammogram, or, down the road, colonoscopy.
44. Explore.
45. Have a lot of (safe) sex.
46. Develop a list of go-to books, films, and songs for difficult times.
47. Find something to do that gives you joy outside of your work, even if your work gives you joy.
48. Avoid PowerPoint.
49. Travel light.
50. Make peace with the living while they're alive; it's much harder to do once they're gone.

Congratulations, young lady. We're glad to have you in the club...

xxx c

Image by Big Swede Guy via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

Live by the cha-cha, die by the cha-cha

The BF and I went to dinner tonight with the Happy Couple, an impromptu sort of a thing, as we all worked up a mighty hunger looking at yet another example of moderately-priced Los Angeles real estate. So many abound!

Anyway, we went to a neighborhood joint, The BF's neighborhood, which ain't the 'hood, but ain't fancy, neither. And it's Sunday, right? A day of (putative, anyway) rest. Low-key is the operative word. And the place is hummin', albeit in a decidedly non-partying, non-alcoholic, school-night-y way, because (remember?) it's Sunday! We're eating our beet salad and high-end ribs in our jeans, the people next to us are eating their pistachio-crusted salmon in their jeans, the people next to them are eating their high-end meatloaf & mash in their jeans.

And as we're mopping up the last of the delicious broth from the grilled calamari, in walks Sister Satiddy Night, rocking the cha-cha like she's there four days early for a big Valentine's Day out. Tight, shoulderless dress with boobage. Four-inch heels. Hair. Makeup. The whole, uncomfortable works, including her slightly homely fella in slightly less fancy fella-garb, whom I'm guessing, and I know, I know...I'm totally guessing, was picking up the check.

Now, of course they could have been coming from a wedding. Lots of people have them on Sunday because it's cheaper and hey, if you're being frugal, maybe you're saving by not having a meal, either. Maybe they work regular nights out and this is their big, do-it-up night. Maybe a million things. But on top of it all, that dress is not comfortable. No, I've never worn it, but I've worn plenty of uncomfortable dresses and heels and I know. I know.

The last time I wore a serious cha-cha outfit without getting paid for it was on a particularly pathetic birthday, my 26th, maybe, or my 27th. Between when I dated the Republican and married the Chief Atheist. I had no date, not a lot of friends, and one good, fun, funny, kind male friend agreed to go out with me on my birthday. I'm not certain, but I'm fairly sure we split it down the middle. Outside of a regular relationship, that's how I roll, as my feminist mother drilled into me that to do otherwise was tantamount to selling cooch for steak. Plus he was a kind friend, but a cheap one.

So I was in the cab, which again, I'm fairly sure we split, and I got attacked. Full-on mauled by my good, fun, funny, kind male friend: the whole gimme-baby, Radio Tokyo thing. My umbrage, shock and dismay were at least equalled by his. Why, if I didn't want to act like a ho, was I dressing like one?

A very good question.

Because my boyfriend had dumped me.

Because I was turning 26 or 27 and I honestly thought my stock was falling.

Because that cursed Robert Palmer video came out with the impossibly hot chicks in the impossibly tight black spandex dresses.

Because I was sad. Because I was angry.

Because I hated myself.

Because I wanted people to love me.

Because I could. Because they sold them in stores so regular ladies (okay, girls) could buy them and turn themselves from good-looking people to good-looking objects.

Because I wanted to be pretty. Because I wasn't pretty enough.

Because I wasn't enough.

That's really it, isn't it? Because there are ways to look good without the cha-cha, just as there are ways to be in relationships without compromising your integral self. Good luck finding them in this world, though, without a lot of trial and error and a lot of looking. It is almost impossible to raise a girl in this world with enough self-esteem to say no to the cha-cha, to believe in herself enough to not compromise herself, to know that she can look great without putting the goods on display. I know; my mom tried. "Don't get too attached to your looks," this breathtaking natural beauty would say. "One run-in with a bus, and it's all over."

And then she would put on a little lipstick, because that made anyone feel better.

I'm not advocating the burkha any more than I'm advocating dumping on sisters who, for whatever reason, choose the cha-cha. I know a few for whom it really seems to be an outgrowth of their personality. But I see a lot more of us putting it on, trying to be someone else, someone else who's really, really slutty-looking, because of some bullshit notion we picked up from a million signals around us suggesting that it's a logical, desirable way for all of us to be. That to not choose it is to choose invisibility or un-sexiness or some other undesirable state. And I'm calling bullshit.

If it's in your stars, go ahead, go for the cha-cha. But for god's sake, have a Plan B. Your tits and ass are not a retirement plan. Your pretty face is not job security. Do not get wrapped up in some crazy notion that by putting on the cha-cha, you are investing in yourself.

If nothing else, have a sense of humor about it. Know that it's drag, and own it. Know who you are underneath and own that. I had a dentist once whom I called Dr. Cha-Cha. She was a good dentist and hey, if she felt like pouring herself into a porn-a-licious dentist outfit and fuck-me pumps to scrape my teeth, more power to her. But that is the natural order of things, ladies: work first, cha-cha second. Not cha-cha for cash. Not cha-cha so a dude will buy you dinner and maybe later, a ring and a car and a house.

And for the love of all that is holy, if you do opt for the cha-cha, do it on your own damned terms. To squeeze or push or starve yourself to become someone else's idea of fabulous, for love or money, is a fool's game.

Of course, all this from someone who's not even sure what color her hair is under all that dye. But hey, I never said I was consistent.

Just comfortably dressed on a Sunday night...

Image by edward olive via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

Barack at the bottom of the ninth

I usually post something a little earlier of a Monday.

(I usually post something of a Friday, too, but last week, I was out there honing my speaking skills, and had no time.)

But today, my internet was down from 10:30 am until recently, about 10:30 pm, or 12 hours. An eternity for a nerd like me.

That's what these past 8 years have been like: an eternity for a nerd like me. A nerd who still dreams of change so momentous, the whole world sits up and takes notice. And changes. A nerd who, despite loving many peoples of this great, wonderful world, still holds a quaint, nerdly belief that there is goodness in the original concept of this, our America. A nerd who believes in sharing her toys, sitting at the communal table, reaching out to the less fortunate, and feeling to the edges of every cell the great fortune she already has.

The years of great health care, though now they seem numbered.

The freedom to express myself freely, without fear of reprisal.

The ability to determine how I want to live, and where, and with whom.

I am also honored to be living in a time where the top two contenders for the Democratic nomination for the highest elected seat in this country are a man of color and a woman. I am terrified that people still fear these two things too much to see clearly, and also that perhaps some people who hold out hope for change will try to outguess the fearful, voting for the candidate who can win instead of the candidate they believe in. I am afraid, yes, afraid, that many will vote with their heads and not their hearts tomorrow.

I get it; I do. Just like I get how huge huge huge it is that a woman, a WOMAN, for GOD'S SAKE, has made it this far. It doesn't matter that sometime around the time I was 10 or 11, they amended it to "a land where any boy or girl can grow up to be president." It still feels impossible and wonderful and huge.

No matter who makes it on Super-Dee-Duper Tuesday, I'll put my weight behind him/her in November. But tomorrow, I will be casting my vote for Obama. Because he was never for this war that I have, from before the beginning, been horrified by. Because he is an outsider, but an outsider who has stumbled and fallen and picked himself up and learned from the fall. Because should he make it to the White House, we will send an unmistakable message to the rest of the world: we're sorry. We're done. It's over, and we're setting a new course.

Because goddammit, I'd like to be able to visit the rest of the world without having to apologize for my fellow countrypersons.

I hope you will vote for Barack Obama. But mostly, I hope you will vote. A strong showing, period, will mean almost as much as a strong showing for him.

You. Me. This America.

For the love of all that don't have what you have yet, freedom...health care...the right to marry a loved one...to pursue happiness...to say what happens within their own bodies, vote.

Vote.

Vote.

xxx c

Image by montauk beach via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

What are you really buying, anyway?

It's been an interesting week so far, and it's only Monday.

First of all, something seems to have been dislodged in my brain, that thing that keeps me from processing stuff I don't feel like, like paperwork and phone calls (wah wah wah, First World white girl) and from finishing things I've started, like work. Not that I've gotten everything tidied up and on its way: today saw the dispensing of my DMV registration, some queries about my post-COBRA world (universal health care cannot come soon enough) and a number of other annoying/scary if smallish items, but several others are getting rolled over (again) to tomorrow, my favorite day. (Just like my favorite week, month and year are "Next.")

I made a dent in it though, especially by my standards. And I felt so gosh-darn good about it, I decided I would spread a little of that sunshine and head over to My Country House (a.k.a. The BF's) to visit the dog (a.k.a. Arno J. McScruff) as his master (a.k.a. The BF) is living in the Land of the Stupid Day Job for the next several weeks and poor Arnie, well, he has dogly needs.

Now, this sort of thing does not occur to me usually, and when it does, to actually do it feels burdensome. Yes, I'll go see you in the hospital or water your plants or take in your mail, but only if I'm allowed to feel grumpy and put-upon, at least to start with. Do not let the cheery photo fool you, my Internet friends! I am a crab and a bee-yotch of the highest order, and I've got plenty of real-life backup on that.

But today, I'm driving the five miles from my place to Arnie's and practically whistling. At 3:30, no less, pretty much guaranteed that I'll hit traffic going at least one way. In fact, I think I probably was in traffic; it just didn't bother me, so it didn't feel like traffic. And as I'm cruising through this traffic-that-is-not, I pass a place I've passed 1,000 times before. No, really: this is the route I take between my place and The BF's; I could probably drive it blindfolded. Once, anyway.

It's a shitty little storefront restaurant, nominally Chinese, but selling all manner of crap from gyros to boba tea like every other shitty little storefront restaurant I've seen like it. Might not, probably isn't even run by Chinese people. Could be Koreans, could be Salvadorans, could be Armenians: it's that kind of neighborhood.

But whoever owned it had hung one of those bright paper lanterns with the fringe on it that you see in Chinatown stores. It was kitschy and alive and pretty, and one thought flitted through my head:

I want.

Now let me assure you that while my taste in furnishings is somewhat eclectic, it's not so boho-funky that a Chinese paper lantern would fit right in. In fact, it would look dreadful. I know this because I'm a designer, and I make my living knowing what will look right and what will look like ass. This would be the latter, trust me. There's not one place in my place it would look right, including outside my front door, bapping about in the breeze just like it was in front of the not-Chinese restaurant.

Instead of feeling disappointed, though, I had this amazing flash of insight into why, for most of my life, I've been a hopeless accumulator of crap: I want that feeling.

That feeling that a particular shirt or dish or gadget gives me. The promise that's inside that book, I want to retain that rush of inspiration I felt when I pulled it from the shelf. Or to be the person who has absorbed and processed its contents. Or to have a piece of that author (or artist, or musician) in my hands.

Or I want to be the person who can cook a perfect omelet with that pan. Who has pictures filling frames hanging on walls that burst with life, a host of beautiful craft projects made from these bolts of fabric, a lady who has the carefree life requiring, as my old art director, Sherry Scharschmidt used to call them, "Running-on-the-Beach Dresses."

Maybe that's why Peter Walsh and his ilk are making so much money these days: because we all have needs we're shortchanging ourselves on; we're all spending money instead of time, which becomes starting instead of finishing, which becomes a heap of never-worn, never-used crap we eventually haul off to Goodwill. And, since I've trained myself to understand that I never will have the time, that I will rush and rush, on and on, never stopping to take a breath and do the thing or even feel the feeling, I buy the souvenir instead.

It's scarcity thinking in the middle of unprecedented abundance. And it's a bitch of a habit to break.

I stopped myself today, though, in the middle of a thought of buying such a lantern. Because for ONCE, I realized I wanted the feeling of serendipitously stumbling upon a beautiful thing like that, blapping around in the clean, post-rain breeze. And I can't own that any more than I can bottle happiness and save it for later. The wet jewels you find along the shore on holiday are just dull bits of rock when you get them home; a fleeting whatever is beautiful, in part, because it's fleeting.

I'm not quite ready to do a spend-out yet, although I'm starting to see how it might help people like me who are used to going too fast and treating themselves too roughly. For now, though, I think I'll try something else: going slower and treating myself more kindly.

Better. Cheaper.

And takes up a lot less room in a tiny apartment...

xxx c

Image by Geopelia via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

The black hole between okay and fantastic

I quit smoking about 20 years ago.

(Go ahead, applaud. I'll wait.)

Thing is, while my 2-pack-a-day habit wasn't doing me any favors, neither was it impeding my life in any major way. You X- and Y-ers might not know this, but back in '87, you could still smoke most places, like...indoors. In your hospital room!

Plus lots of other people smoked, too, so you had your pick of people to date and hang out with and drink with who were also smokers. And, save the bronchitis I'd had a couple of bouts of in years past, smoking hadn't really affected my health yet. I looked fine, was in reasonably good shape, and since a pack still cost under twenty bucks, smoking barely made a dent in my hefty, ad-hole salary.

Still, I'd come of age after the surgeon general's thumbs-down, so I knew I'd have to quit at some point. I was switching jobs and figured it was as good a time as any: start at the new place with new habits. So I quit right before I started.

And then I farted for a month.

No, that's imprecise, I sat in a methane miasma of my own making for a month. Or longer. In a cubicle, that's a "room" with no ceiling, people, surrounded by brand-new co-workers who had no idea I did not always smell like a dead rat the horse shat out. I sat, head pounding from withdrawal, chasing my farts with matches as I wrote jingles and taglines and blurbs, grinding my teeth, chain-sucking Halls Menth-O-Lyptus tablets.

And that was while I was at work.

Every minute of every day for the first three weeks was a living hell. I had a mantra, one that worked so well, I wound up using it again several times during bad breakups:

If I can make it a minute, I can make it an hour If I can make in an hour, I can make it a day If I can make it a day, I can make it a week If I can make it a week, I can make it a month If I can make it month, I can make it forever

The basic point is, my life went from being...well, if not perfect, then pretty good, to a whole lot better. In between, however, was another story. In between, there was the Big Nasty. A great big stinky sodden mess of upheaval that there was no way past but straight through. And I get why we give up there: really, I do.

I reorganized my apartment around the end of last year. And because I am on the non-robust side, any serious reorganizing requires me to empty all critical bits of furniture of all their contents. And because my apartment is also on the robust side, this means that for a time, everything ends up in a gigundous heap in the middle of the apartment. Only it's not the middle: it's the whole freaking place, one big shitheap of all my crappy, earthly possessions, lying inert in a mass like we just had a 7.2 on the Richter scale.

Also, I timed this really, really perfectly back in December, which is to say, right when it gets dark. So it's dark, and it's cold, and it's the end of the year, and I'm lying in the middle of a shitheap. And this grand vision I had for the total reorganization and streamlining of my life is not only not working out, but the mess and the darkness have conspired to show me that I am, in fact, an idjit, that my furniture will only fit into ONE configuration, that change IS impossible and I am both an ass AND a boob for daring to think otherwise.

So I sat in the midst of the rubble and I cried a little. And then I started hauling around furniture anyway. And wouldn't you know that by gum, those old sticks would go together differently and I did get everything put away and when I was done, it was not only not just okay, it was fantastic. Fantastic!!!

Why bring this up now? Because I'm in a hole. It is maybe not so black and deep as Fartville or The Night My Furniture Almost Ate Me. But it is dark and it is vast. It is the great, not-so-great unknown I must cross to get from "okay" to "fantastic." Okay was okay, too, really it was. I've had a good life. But life can be fantastic, and I don't mean from a swimmin'-pools, movie-stars perspective. I mean the full living of your actual life: being there, doing that thing you do 100%, whether or not it earns you a thin dime. Fulfilling your purpose. You can do a lot of it from the land of okay, but eventually, you gotta go. And that is a scary gulf.

So if you cross...when you cross...stay aware. Reach out for a Halls or a hand or a good, sturdy, safety match, as appropriate. Know it won't be the miasma forever. Know that even if you can't see them, there are millions of people crossing their own impassible swamps.

Know that it's okay to cling to the shore for awhile, but also know that once you strike out, there's no going back.

You'll be okay. You'll be more than okay. You'll be different.

You'll be fantastic.

xxx

c

UPDATE: There's a pingback below, but for those of you who don't click on comments (and hence, might miss it), Amateur Manifesto has a wonderful post up about her own, current experience with the Black Hole. Strongly recommended.

Image by cheekybikerboy via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

And life begins when you start giving

I had an interesting chat today with my colorist (and good friend), Marc. Really, I have interesting conversations with most folks these days, since I discovered that the art of conversating (as the kids say) lies in the asking of questions and the hearing of answers rather than the spouting off of commentary. (Fancy that!)

Today's conversation was interesting because it revolved around kabbalah, about which I know little save it's an esoteric offshoot of Judaism that has something to do with red string and expensive bottled water (thank you, Madonna.) But Marc studied it (if that's the term) for many years, and he was able to shed a surprising amount of light on what I confess has always been (to me) a dense, deep and impenetrably mysterious practice. After all, it is very old and complex and we only had about an hour, as I'm a single-process kinda gal.

The topline of kabbalah, however, is really easy to get, and lovely, to boot: the more we learn to give, the more will come back to us. It's about "giving" as world view, which of course carries all kinds of other nice things along with it, like cultivating trust and fellowship, learning to communicate by finding common ground, and practicing abundance rather than scarcity thinking.

It got me to thinking about where to start. Because really, that's what I would've loved to have known 20-odd years ago, when I was flailing around in a sea of my own misery: where the hell do I start? Just tell me where to point my damned guns, already! And, while I now think that "observing" is probably the absolute best place to start, the very critical first step of many, and a mode to stay close to always, I think giving is a really good practice to have in your head even while you're in observation mode.

Part of what makes me think this is my many years of experience as a corporate tool. There was very little uncalculated giving in that world, and precious little happiness, too. Coincidence? Perhaps. Held up against the world of strings-free giving I've been blessed to live in these past five years, though, I think the causality is obvious: the nature of life is change, and we're happiest when we let ourselves go with the flow of that. It takes awesome fearlessness or, as in my case, having nothing left to lose. When you weigh 90 lbs (45 of which is your enormous head), and your intestines are in tatters and you're so weak that you can't walk to the end of the bed without support, you learn to accept help, to accept giving, with the very clear understanding that you certainly cannot pay in kind now, and may well never be able to pay it back later. Get down with that, and you've got one big, honkin' secret of life under your belt.

I'm not advocating sap-hood. I can only give to the extent I'm able and willing. Ironically, before I understood this, I used to give too much, receive too little. Now I finally understand you've got to let go to receive as much as you do to give.

To take this down to a practical level, Marc charges what I think is an incredibly reasonable price for his services, and I pay him. He gives me what I see as a deal, and I accept it. Occasionally, I get a bug up my ass and give him a bunch extra, just because. And he accepts that. I suspect that if I showed up one month and had no money, he'd give me coverage for free. He's that kind of guy, is Marc. And I'd do my best to receive it, graciously.

If you're not so good with the money yet, and I get it, I do, I have issues myself, start small. With compliments. Give one. Maybe give five. And be on the lookout for ones you get, and see how you are about receiving them. I used to answer every compliment about clothing with a rundown on how much I paid for it at the Goodwill. Still do, but at least I (usually) say "thank you" first.

Remember this year's motto: "help is everywhere." And the corollary, which I may not have shared yet, "...so ask for it, dumbass."

It is. You should. We are.

xxx c

Image by Mrs. Maze via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

Balance is also a #@$!)* journey

I was tired most of today, am still, in fact.

Am (stupidly, short-sightedly) drinking coffee in a (stupid, short-sighted) attempt to work through it, as I'd feel like too much of a schmo bailing on any of the commitments I have in the next 24 hours.

Why is this feeling so familiar, I wondered briefly as Trader Joe's Bay Blend and the moka pot prepared to bail my ass out once again? Because it's My Thing, for one, my overachieving, approval-needing, lack-of-entitlement-ing thing. But also because the nature of balance is...imbalance.

Okay, bear with me here. You have a scale, one of those jobbies like Miz Justice is holding, above. You put something on one side and then, to balance it out, you put something of equal weight on the other side.

But for however long it takes you to put that other thing on, even if it's a split-second, things are, all together now, out of balance! Out of whack! Off-kilter! Completely fakakta!

With planning and practice, of course, the lag time between farkakte and perfect balance gets shorter. You learn to keep the pile of feathers right next to the pile of cotton or drywall screws or JELL-O. You learn, in fact, that if you are balancing drywall screws and feathers, you will need far more feathers in ready supply than you will should you be balancing cotton and feathers. But the first time you try to balance feathers and JELL-O? Dude, you are looking at a serious mess. So, you know, try to roll with it. (And have the equivalent of paper towels at the ready, if possible.)

Even when your repertoire of items to balance becomes both vast and deep, though, you can't keep the scales balanced perfectly all the time. Why?

Because of air.

Yes, stupid air is messing with your scales. A good, honkin' breeze or a sudden draft when someone comes in the door and you have a window open will mess you up. Heck, even just floaty, floaty air will throw your scales off balance: it may be imperceptible, but it's happening. Unless you're in a vacuum. And you know how Nature feels about that.

This week, I had a surprise overabundance of good times dropped in my lap. I don't know about you, but I have already passed up enough good times for three lifetimes, and I'm over that crap. So I went a little crazy, hanging with my peeps, talking my cords dry, generally raising a ruckus.

And, rather than let down anyone who was depending on me, I did the work, too. Smart? Maybe not. Balanced? In the short run, definitely not. I'm here, fingers crossed (well, when they're not wrapped around my coffee mug), hoping that the stretch I get to include on this particular balance sheet extends through Monday. I have payment in full for the piper: Friday post-COB to Tuesday morning, I've stripped down to the bone. Excepting a hair coloring appt. (hardly rough duty), I could spend the whole three dancing nude around my living room and not dismay anyone except Eileen, my across-the-way neighbor. (She's a proper lady, is Eileen.)

Here's to me...and you...and (thank you, Miranda July) everyone we know not beating themselves up over imbalance, optical illusion that she is. The reality of imbalance is more like us: constantly changing, messy, equal parts wabi and sabi.

And compelling. Because hey, when you look at that frieze above, what's more interesting: the stone lady and her sword, or that endlessly shifting scale?

Yeah. Thought so...

xxx c

Image by Monacle via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

How you use things vs. how things "should" be

Time. Living rooms. Wardrobes. Relationships.

Somehow, over the years, you start building notions about the way things are supposed to be. It stands to reason, I guess: we learn to talk by mimicking; ditto writing, cooking, sex and a host of other things I'm probably not thinking of.

A lot of this is fantastic, as it saves crazy amounts of time. If we each learned our own language and then had to teach other people how to use the subjunctive, it would be really hard to get the lawn mowed and dinner on the table. Even in artistic endeavors like writing and acting and, well, art, there's a steep learning curve that's eased somewhat by treading the path that's already there for a bit, until you can find your own way.

That's the thing, though: in artistic endeavors, it's assumed that you will mimic the greats, your idols, and then, through trial and error, practice and more practice, your own "voice" will emerge, a fusing together of all you have learned and all that you are, magical alchemy of sorts.

What's more, unless you are a hack, it's assumed that your work will change and grow as you do, not stay as it is in perpetuity.

So why, I wonder, does it not work this way with other stuff? Why do we suppose (with few exceptions) that the way we have learned relationships or vacations or work habits or what-have-you is the way? Why, even when we bust out loose from our past, do we find the words of our parents coming out of our own mouths; why do we find ourselves in the same relationships over and over, with people who seem so different on the outside and yet who are so much like the previous beloved, we call them by the wrong name?

Why, even in a life examined and shrunk and mulled over and shrunk again, do we end up doing the same dumbass thing over and over again?

The answer, of course, is obvious: change is hard; imprinting is strong. So I insist on keeping a couch in my apartment for years, even though I'm not really a couch person. Even though I have always felt safer and happier reading in my bed. Even though I really wanted a big table where I could spread stuff out and gather people 'round.

I insist on staying married, even though the arrangement feels stifling and wrong. Even though I cannot recall one good model of marriage from my childhood, nor one ringing endorsement of it from any of the people who'd signed on to one.

I insist on wearing my hair a certain way or my pants a certain cut because...because that's how I learned to do it. What a revelation low-rise jeans were for a short-legged, waistless wonder like myself.

I insist on taking weekends off, or taking my vacation in two week chunks, because that's how it's done; I stop doing it because that's how it's done when you're working for yourself.

I'm calling bullshit.

Because my apartment really is better without the couch...for now. My relationships, for now, are better without the hammerlock of marriage. My hair feels better up, off my neck, my pants fit better without fabric around the waist and my leisure time feels better scheduled in where I need it. For now.

I'm (slowly) learning to let go of what doesn't suit and look into what does. It's an interesting journey, full of more delightful surprises than I'd have guessed going into it. I don't like TV; I do like watching movies on the computer (for now.) I don't like board games or sports or brunch; I love talking and talking and talking. (Followed by long stretches of not-talking.)

I like work when the scope is clear and the parameters locked down but there's tons of room for exploration inside. I like working weekends and taking days off during the week (for now), probably because of the delicious feeling of getting away with something.

I like treats, and I'm starting to treat myself to more of them. Slowly. Within a carefully arranged structure. (I like surprises within a carefully arranged structure, too, but that's a little harder to arrange!)

Mostly, I like the idea that what I like can change, that someday, I may have no table and two couches, or a closet full of party dresses, because for whatever reason unfathomable from today, it makes perfect sense.

For now, it's a Tuesday off.

Or as I like to call it, Me. Getting Away with Something...

xxx c

Image by -syko- via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

Also, the woman who made the dresses makes cute scarves & stuff, too. Love that robot jersey scarf! From Finland.

Sometimes searching is the work

I gave myself a rather extraordinary gift this year: no new clients for the first three months, to be reviewed and possibly renewed come April 1st.

This is extraordinary (meaning absolutely not the usual thing) for a few reasons:

1. I am obsessed with the idea of achievement
2. I have resident fear of living out my days eating cat food out of my shopping cart/home
3. I was raised by a workaholic who died rich (see Reason #1) and an alcoholic who died poor (see Reason #2)

Excepting the five months I was out of commission because of the Crohn's onset, some brief cipherin' sez I have not taken more than two weeks of complete non-work since I was 17. That's 30 years ago, for those of you just joining us. And unless I'm missing something, I can count those two-week hiatuses on two hands with fingers left over.

30 years.

No wonder I got sick. No wonder I fell apart at 41. No wonder my relationships were fraught with difficulty; can you imagine the kind of person who'd tolerate that in a mate?

Of course, there's an advantage to being obsessed with achievement, the kind backed up with action, anyway: you, um, tend to achieve stuff. Unfortunately, without time off for digesting, for rest, for replenishing, for the all the things that give one a little higher-up perspective, it's easy to lose one's way (and by "one", I mean me). You know, this is not my beautiful house; this is not my beautiful wife. Or simply, "Rosebud."

One gift among many given me by my ex-husband, The Chief Atheist of the West Coast, was the philosophy "Life is a series of techniques." It amused me and then annoyed me and finally, amuses me because it is true. However, while pithy as hell (he's a witty dude, the Chief Atheist) I have grown to believe that for clarity and usefulness, the line should be slightly amended to read thusly:

The living of life is a series of techniques

Or even more pedantically:

The successful living of life demands the acquisition of a series of techniques

Yeah, yeah, I sucked all the poetry out of it. But not everyone will have the benefit of hearing the line delivered personally by the Chief Atheist, and too many of those pithy lines get mucked up in the Big Game of Telephone. How many lives have been irretrievably fucked up by the perversion of the line, "The love of money is the root of all evil"? A lot. (Of course, those who have been attacked in their sleep by hordes of shiv-wielding Euros will probably disagree with me.)

Two of my big problems are "Eyes Bigger Than Stomach" Syndrome and its kissing cousin, "Shiny Object Syndrome" (which I believe was coined by a way-brilliant art director partner, Sherry Scharschmidt, back when you could actually make a living writing TV commercials.) Knowing my weaknesses, I've come up with some workarounds to help: a marketing coach who's kind of a hard-ass; a social media guru who's very gentle but insistent; a projects list to shame me into saying "no" or at least "maybe" when yet another irresistible opportunity pops up in my RSS feed of life. Oh, yeah, and a shrink. Sorry...make that two shrinks.

What do all these governors have in common? They give me ground-level guidance, sure, but they also provide a higher-up perspective. They are not mired in the me of me, and so can give me some reasonably objective input regarding where I'm on track and where I'm going off the rails.

This is great. Nay, this is fantastic: asking for help is a miraculous thing. Now the time has come to start giving myself some of that perspective. To stop working so that I can examine at where my Work is taking me.

I'm building in some granular hacks: one hour of enforced reading per day. A minimum of one meal or coffee with a friend per week. Five walks per week, to be sliced up however (a dog is your best partner in this exercise, pun intended.) This all falls under the rubric of this post's sister essay, "Sometimes Joy Is the Work," which, if you check the date on that link, is something I've been working on a long, long time.

But there's also the big, scary, new experiment I mentioned up front: no new clients for 90 days. And "no" to some projects from current clients. I think this will help give me the time and space I need to understand my own big picture, or at least, the next five years of it.

This is my work, too: making sure I'm doing the right work. And that means a lot of not doing work-work: money-work, easily-explained-to-the-outside-world work.

For the record, if you run into me at a coffee shop or a meetup or SXSW this year, I may still say, "Oh, I'm a graphic designer." It is scary to divulge too much at once, and tiring, for introverts.

But you will know what's really going on under the hood.

Keep a good thought for me...

xxx c