Whitney... etc.

People like to joke about addicts. It's funny when people can't stop doing things that hurt themselves, right? I mean how dumb do you have to be to continually stick a needle in your arm or fuck your ex. again. Just stop. Right?

A lot of people get super freaked out about all the 12-step lingo... I get it, it sounds all culty and brain-washy with the whole "We admitted we were powerless over..."

Powerless? No one is MAKING you do anything, right? Wouldn't the correct action be to Admit Power? Admit that you are power full, that you are in control of your own life, that we each make the bed we lay in? You'd think.

As someone who firmly believes that I am a powerful creative person, I've come to understand it as this: I am powerless over You- what you think about me, how you feel, and what you do. (Sure I could expend a great amount of effort and energy trying to control you, but ultimately you will snap back to doing whatever the eff you want. It is the gift of free will. Ask the parent of any teenager.)

Obviously I can't control the flipping weather (rain dance fail) and I certainly can't control mothereffing traffic.

I am also powerless over this city. (Yes I can get involved in politics, volunteer organizations, and rallies. Yes, those things will make a bit of difference, but I can not get all the hookers therapy, feed all the homeless, or clean up all the litter/kill the litterbugs on my own. It is impossible.)

And my brain. Every now and then my brain pops in with these brilliant ideas: spank the spandex clad biker, rob a bank, tip over the motorcycle, trip a grandma... I LOVE GRANDMA'S!!! These thoughts fire in rapid pace and I laugh at them and ignore them. [or tweet them.] But I've learned that I am powerless over my first thought. (The second thought however, I can control. I can choose to either run with the fantasy or I can switch to a more productive/loving brain strand.)

Life is scary. Who knows why the eff we are put on this planet. We are literally a bunch of little specks locked on a giant beautiful floating rock in an infinite Universe trying to make purpose and meaning of our time here.

It is magical. And also anxiety inducing as hell.

We have our basic animal instincts- to fuck and fight and seek shelter and food- then there is this other part of us that wants something more, something bigger, extra, perhaps frivolous. Like validation, deep love, and great friendships all surrounded by badass art, music, and laughter.

So we create it. Or try to.

Time and time again folks have said that their first drink or drug was a social lubricant so they could talk to a person they liked, fit in, or escape anxiety. When I think about the incredible artists dying due to addiction I'm struck by how much they gave in order to produce the amazing music, art, books, and films for all of us to enjoy. It's sad because no one needs to die from addiction anymore. Not food addiction, Not sex addiction, Not drug addiction, or any other way this shit manifests itself.

Addiction isn't rocket science. It's about changing the way I feel just for a second. It's about trying to control my reality, which is a normal human trait. This person is going to make me feel better, that car, this sweet, that job, this workout, that food, this drink. It's going to help me relax, be better, work harder.

But eventually the Right Now overshadows reality and the outside world, the gears of addiction churn slow and steady. It doesn't happen over night. It's a gradual process of deciding to check out just once more. again. and again.

Though 12-step may be threatening or weird to the non-addicts out there, it is one of the only known solutions to stop addicts from spiraling towards self destruction. Plain and simple: it works.


-
ps... Back to the joking about addiction- I get it. Trust me. I get it. But it is also horribly sad to lose people to this shit. 

Paradisio

Last week a friend mentioned how he can turn heaven into hell just through the art of obsession.

Right now I'm sitting with my two lovely Grandparents in their nice home filled with art on a pretty hillside in a beautiful part of the world. And my head will still reel with non-stop banter of "What are you doing with your life???" and "You should be in NYC, LA, or London..."

It's ridiculous.

I first moved into this house when I was 14 years old. It wasn't that I hated hated it. I just felt painfully horribly uncomfortable with how comfortable and quiet everything was. My sister Margarite and I were fostered and adopted by different families at 13 and 14 years old. My foster parents were headed towards divorce before the adoption was even finalized and Margarite's new family moved her two states away as soon as the papers were signed, to keep her out of gang trouble. A year later I landed in the care of my adopted Grandparents.

Margarite and I are only a year apart and up until the foster homes at 10 and 11, she had always been with me. She had stepped up and parented me as we bounced around from caregiver to caregiver. Now we were states apart. There was some chunk of me that wouldn't allow myself to feel content or be happy in this house with these nice people because she wasn't here to enjoy it with me. It felt like if I appreciated it, I'd be somehow betraying my biological family and more importantly, my sister. No one ever said anything to suggest that that was the case, I just took it upon myself.

I spent years in my room staring out the window to the large twisted oak tree, talking on the phone, and waiting for nightfall so I could sneak out to go be with my friends. My adopted Grandparents were lovely people, but they weren't the ones who had signed up to parent me, which I reminded them regularly. I'd lock myself in my bedroom emerging only to eat dinner or get cookies from the cookie jar. (So Grandma met me where I was at and kept the cookie jar full at all times.)

When I'd do something disrespectful or abusive, they wouldn't punish me, they'd just firmly restate whatever original boundaries they'd set. 'Call if you won't be home for dinner', 'Curfew is midnight on weekends', 'We agreed you wouldn't drive your car into the city.' I would fall short and lie to weave my way around their rules, but they loved me regardless and let me spin out of control. Most importantly they were consistent. They are good parents.

I was judgmental of them for the most ridiculous things (like how their kids lived nearby...?), but one thing that made me feel better was that they both came from working class families- his parents were commercial artists and hers were farmers. They worked for everything they had and raised 4 children by selling pottery at crafts fairs and making commissioned pieces for architects. I also liked that his art was utilitarian; not some fluffery but real useful pieces of art.

At 19, still pretty thick with resistance, I realized that living with the Grandma for 5 years now made her my longest consistent caregiver next to my sister. Slowly my ability to let her parent me was seeping in. I moved away for a few years then came back, then moved away again, and moved back. Grandma let me know that this was my always home and I could leave and return as many times I wanted to.

Most recently I landed back here in October after two years of choppy traveling around the US/UK while working on my memoir (which morphed into trying, unconsciously and quite unsuccessfully, to find a person to make me feel whole). I came back home feeling defeated and irritated at myself and the Universe. But it was good to be home. Familiar ground, familiar air, familiar food, friends, and family.

Grandpa's Alzheimer's has accelerated in recent months and we spend our days talking about things that have nothing to do with everything and somehow or anyone. It's like a Rorschach test, but in conversation form. He starts a sentence and Grandma and I lead it in whichever direction we think he was heading, he giggles then says something else and we carry it in a new direction. Just like they let me be where I was at- an angry, defiant, cookie eating teen- I get an opportunity to be present for them where they are at. We take walks, Grandma is teaching me how to cook, and I get to hang out and pretend I'm retired while I try to finish the book [writing a memoir is way harder than I thought it'd be] and try consciously not to find a person to make me feel whole. I've been making art (and movies) going to meetings and being present.

I feel like for the first time I am kind of able to show up for them. For whatever reason, I no longer feel guilty being here. I feel okay. I feel like I am repaying them the gift they gave me of being present and loving. I feel grateful.

That's not to say my head doesn't pop up with occasional insane panic of impending doom and fear of failing as an artist... it does, but at least I know I won't regret being here with them.

So I decided to cook.

How does someone make it to 29 never having made a full dinner? Well... family, friends, take-out, and quesadillas. Lots of quesadillas.

Actually that's not true. My repertoire also includes: grilled cheese sandwiches, fried egg sandwiches, and pasta... though I did mess up pasta once out of the blue... after years of perfectly edible noodles came this one tragic -pasty- purple pasta night. (It was Lavender flavored pasta, so perhaps I dodged a bullet?) Oh, I can also make porridge or "oatmeal" (as we like to call it in America). Err...wait, I messed that up once too... in my defense, I thought it was instant oatmeal. It wasn't. After waiting 5 minutes for the oats to expand, I gave up, dumped out the water, added brown sugar and ate the soggy oats.

A magician in the kitchen I am not.

This last year I started a fire in a toaster-oven trying to heat up a pre-cooked sausage at 10 pm at night at my adopted Great-Aunt and Uncle's house in Seattle... which was two weeks after I tried to cook frozen fried chicken on the stovetop at my sister's house in Austin (my 11 year old niece stopped me after ten minutes of rotating the frozen meat, edges burning)... which was one month after I accidentally boiled chicken trying to cook dinner for my friend Livia in New York-  I couldn't remember if Grandma added olive oil or water to the skillet... I figured water...  I figured wrong. The result was multiple bouncable rubber eraser chicken breasts. Inedible.  And, my first month in Austin I over baked a potato by roughly 7 hours.  I really wish I'd photographed it before wondering how it the light airy charred black root sounded when dropped.  It sounded frail and lacy. 

Now... I should know how to cook. I come from a lineage of women and men who are talented in the kitchen. One Grandma worked as a cook her whole life, she fed the town during the day and her own clan at night. Another Grandma held swank dinner parties with lamb and duck. And the Grandma I moved in with at 14 (the only one still alive) is an amazing seamstress in the land of the all things food. She shops twice a week- once on Saturday at the grocery store and again on Wednesdays at the Farmers Market for local produce.  During the week she will then weave together the ingredients- what starts out as a rosemary roast chicken morphs to chicken pesto sandwiches, later to a pasta dish and ends on chicken vegetable and rice soup, with homemade chicken broth. An alchemist. She does this with fish too. It's outstanding.

And so I eat.

Now I'm back in California.  I'm staying with my adopted Grandparents again which is a really lovely place to be.  They are 80 and 87 and Grandpa's got the Alzheimers pretty good. It's fun to hang out with them and banter but about a month ago Grandma the Alchemist started casually mentioning multiple times that my cousins each have a night where they cook dinner for their family. 


"Cute" I told her. "Not for me. I'll end up killing us all. But cute."

However she wouldn't drop it. She's a feeder and deeply invested relationship with food. Eventually I gave in. I decided I would commit to cooking dinner the following Sunday.  Thrilled she invited my adopted dad, step-mom, aunt and aunt's boyfriend. Oh great. An audience. Barf. Then plans came up, and they all canceled (phew!) and Grandma rescheduled to Tuesday (ugh).

First order of business: The Menu. With a gentle nudge from Grandma I settled on chicken picatta as the main entrée (since she already had all of the ingredients and the lemon tree outside was overflowing). I’d been craving Brussels sprouts with pancetta for a week, so that would be the logical side dish. “Cook what you want to eat!” Grandma encouraged me. The salad would consist of pealed pears from my father’s tree, pealed persimmons from the farmers market, feta, greens and Grandma’s dressing. Desert would be ice cream. (Perhaps a cop out, but I’m absolutely okay with that.)

Adding an extra challenging I decided to photograph and tweet the whole process. You know, cause I'm deeply interesting and it's super important. At 3pm I pulled out all of the ingredients and read the recipe. My brain doesn’t want to soak up certain words. Or fractions.  I measured out the lemon juice,   (re-read the recipe), measure butter,  (re-read the recipe), measure capers (re-read the recipe), and measure olive oil.  I put each in their own separate bowl to help with my memory. I plucked the Brussels sprouts from the Dr. Seuss like stalk, rinsed them, cut them in halves, and put them in the saltwater for an hour as the recipe suggested.  "Brining"this is called and it seems completely counter intuitive.

I had to consult Grandma twice- on how to cut parsley. Apparently I was using the wrong type of knife. I moved at a snails pace, but I even had enough time to set the table and start a fire in the fireplace! Like a real housewife!  The guests arrived I offered them beverages and shuffled them in to the living room, out of my kitchen.

 Then my sauce was watery.  “Watery sauce! What to do!” I tweeted.  Multiple friends suggested flour (thanks guys!). I sprinkled in a little flour to my lemon-butter sauce which immediately formed perfect little unbreakable globules. Whisk, I thought.  So I whisked and whisked. It didn't work at all so I began fishing out the miniature clumps. Finally I gave up. I went to the livingroom and beckoned Grandma once more.

"Oh you have to stir together cold water and flour in a separate bowl."  She grabbed a bowl and took matters into her own hands.  "Any clumps left over, just call them 'dumplings'." She smiled. God I love her.

Finé! The six of us sat down.  I couldn't even participate in the conversation because I obsessively analyzing what I'd made.  My first full meal.  Was any of it off? I thought.  Lemony buttery tender chicken, salty bacony perhaps slightly over cooked sprouts, and sweet lemony dijon persimmon pear salad. It was delicious. Totally edible.

AND best of all, no one died.  Phew.

Russell Brand and Rapey Coaches.

In the wake of rapey sports coaches, the standard philandering politicians, and grabby priests, thank the Gods that Russell Brand didn't cheat on Katy Perry and hasn't relapsed. As an outed recovering sex and drug addict people are looking to him as a guide for what this so called "recovery" looks like. Most folks don’t trust addicts... we tend to be seen as shifty little liars. So when a celebrity says they are “clean and sober” people perch waiting for the shell to crack.  We all know what active addiction looks like: Lindsay Lohan, Michael Jackson, Tiger Woods, shitty drunk girls, junkies on the street corner- but people have few examples of what a recovering addicts is like. (Largely because of that whole "Anonymous" bit implied in all 12-step programs: it’s a super secret not secret cult not cult.)

At the end of November I saw Russell Brand perform for a David Lynch Foundation fundraiser to help bring transcendental meditation into high schools.  I heard he was performing 3-weeks prior the show and decided to "manifest" a ticket, like the whimsical Northern Californian I am.  It worked for a loft in Oakland, a little black car I wanted, my Saturn Return Photo Exhibit etc., so why not this?  Two days before the show I realized that even with all my positive intentions and visualizations being sent out to the Universe, my tickets had not magically appeared. I was going to have to do some footwork. I looked on Craigslist and the only ticket available for the sold out performance was going for $500. Not happening.

I decided on a whim to email everyone I could find in relation to the show and tell them about myself- a 29 year old recovering drug addict who got clean at 21 which allowed me to pursue my dreams of becoming a sought after photographer who's shot [Name Drop] So-and-So and Bla-Bla-Bla, and I really want to go to the show but I don't have $500.  Is there any possibility I could somehow get a ticket? I pulled out all the stops figuring what’s the worst that could happen? It may have helped that the day I sent the email was the anniversary of my 8 years in recovery. Within the day I received two responses, one from an assistant at The David Lynch Foundation saying they would try to find me a ticket and the other from an assistant of Russell's saying they’d put me on the guest list +1.  I was thrilled.

At the show Russell was funny (duh) and intelligent (as to be expected). He talked about the Occupy Movement, How America is obsessed with the glitter-shitting unicorn (Perry reference?), and How he thought marriage would include an endless supply of sex... Wait what?  He quickly jumped to talking about porn but I stayed stuck on that last statement for a second. Was the implication that their sex life was minimal or perhaps he was just giving a nod to his insatiable appetite?  I couldn't help but psychoanalyze the situation.

In September I began attending a 12-step program for sex addiction. With 7 years off drugs and alcohol my petite saboteur had fired up the engines and once again my life was insane with bouts of epic despair, this time around carnal pursuits. Perhaps that is what got me analyzing Mr. Brand and Ms. Perry's relationship. After all, he is one of the few loud and proud recovering sex addicts in the world. In recent months my reading list has included books by leading sex psychologist Dr. Patrick Carnes (who started the treatment Center where Tiger Woods went post scandal). In one book Carnes talks about sexual compulsions falling on a spectrum from addiction to anorexia. However, most people’s behavior would more resemble "sexual bulimia"- binging and purging, swinging from destructive acting out to restrictive hyper abstinence, with little middle ground. Carnes also mentions how sex addicts will often pair up (consciously or not) with a partner who is sexually anorexic, this way their partner will maintain boundaries and offer structure for the sex addict.

Except it doesn't work. Both sex addiction and sexual anorexia stem from fear of intimacy, which can only be fixed with intense education, effort, communication, and deep work. Basically: therapy and gradual reprogramming.

In the time I've been clean I've dated a hand full of people who were not in recovery. In the beginning they are fascinated with the fact that I'm an addict, it has cliché Hollywood fancyness to it. They want to check out a meeting or come hear me speak. They quiz me and ask for war stories. It's sweet. It's flattering. It's supportive.

But after a while it's not. They learn the recovery lingo and start casually tossing it back under the guise of helpfulness.  "Isn't it codependent to pick up the phone in the middle of the night?"  My ex-boyfriend of a year asked with a passive aggressive irritation in his voice.  Pretty soon they get annoyed that I'm going to a meeting instead of hanging out with them and that I don't want to stay out till 3 am closing down some hip kid dive bar. Eventually, the boy who was so stoked to be dating a clean addict that he curbed his own drinking is now getting shitfaced, bringing home bags of drugs, and staying out all night partying.  

Even when someone doesn't have addiction issues, I've learned that I am attracted to excessive, obsessive, insanely brilliant, passionate human beings... who might as well be addicts.  Dating a civilian can be fucking great but it's one of the hardest things I've ever done. At the end of the day- I don’t get to get loaded.  My art, my relaxing, my partying, my romantic dinners are all sans chemical enhancement.  When it boils down to showing up for my Love or showing up for my recovery, I have to choose my recovery cause otherwise I die (or become a prostitute junkie, same thing). 

While it's sort of unfortunate that Perry and Brand are getting divorced, it is great it didn’t end with an added tick to the list of recent creepy sex scandals.  

One point for the Clean Team.

 

Russell reading my thank you note after the show. 

Eight eight let's make a date.

Today (well yesterday since it's 12.12am) I turned 8. As in 8 years clean. Not 8 years old. Duh. I wonder if any eight year olds have blogs... what would they blog about? My friend's 7 year old daughter tried to start a facebook page while her mom was in the shower. She got stuck when they asked for an email address. Thank. God.

Anyways. That isn't why I started this post. I felt like I should say hi!!! since I've been sort of M.I.A. lately... not like the musician. Wow. I'm on it today.

Right now I am "wintering" in California. I have put myself on a no-fly-zone. Last year I traveled. so. so. much. and while it was totally badass and awesome, I wasn't being super vague and not actually making any plans. Which makes it a) hard to get hired for photography work without clear departure dates set and no advanced footwork done. b) stressful on my loving friends who've opened their homes for a weekend... or month. and c) tiresome and lonely and exhausting... basically Everywhere I went there I was. Shocker!

I was following whatever my heart desired, problem being that my heart is of the school that likes the more, the new, and the shiny. SO if there was a cute boy here or there I'd up and go. Let's get honest, I wasn't flying for ice cream. Which. I also really love.

So after hitting a pretty hollow place clean- where I basically realized I was going to get high if I didn't re-calibrate myself, I decided I would come home to San Francisco. It's been good here. The Grandparents are doing well- Grandpas Alzheimer's is slowly progressing but nothing that doesn't keep Grandma and I a bit entertained. And Grandma keeps bringing up this wild idea of me cooking once a week. I'm totally open minded but I also want them to stay alive as long as possible. I've been slowly warming myself up by looking recipes up online and even committed to cooking dinner Next Sunday. Whoa!

In other news, Well... I don't have any other news... I mean I have a ton, but I dont feel like writing anymore. I'm going to try and blog a lot more. I've been out of the groove lately... but it feels good to check in.

Ahh, here is an article I wrote for an E-zine that talks more about what life has been like lately.




ex to the oh.

Frankie

Occupy Wall Street- Eviction Day

Today is my 5th day at Occupy Wall Street.  My first impression when I arrived at 11:30pm on Tuesday night was Oh dear, what have I gotten myself into.  It was reminiscent of my days as a 15 year old kid hopping on the Green Tortoise from San Francisco to Seattle, playing drums and dropping acid.  Everyone I actually talked to was very sweet, but what I wanted to see more than anything was the Granny Brigade, the Union workers, the Veterans, the Librarians, Nurses and Teachers-- the people who have made this country feel safe for me-- the real heros. They weren't out at midnight nor did they come out at 3am.  However they did show up in full effect 7am Friday morning to help hinder the Mayor Bloombergs eviction and "cleaning of the park".  Between 15-20 thousand people poured into Zuccotti park, many who looked like they were stopping in before they went to work- suits and ties well represented.  It was lovely.  I kept my camera mostly on the police to try and get a feel for what was going on for them.  The reality is that there wasn't anything left to clean.  The Gods dropped down a torrential downpour of water the at midnight- thunder clapping lightning loudness.  The water worked as a perfect aid to help clean the park.  Over 50 brooms, mops and push brushes were donated along with buckets and cleaning agents. Protesters threw on makeshift garbage-bag ponchos and began frantically cleaning.  Occupiers organized and picked up all the sleeping bags, tarps and tables in 20 ft. squares all across the park.  Even the city rats were hard pressed to find a crumb afterward.

Here are my favorite shots below, check out http://photobucket.com/OccupyTheWorld for more.



WE ARE THE NEW MEDIA!


Prayer alter set up with sage a burning.


Art commerce.


The police "eye in the sky"






mop and broom

En Route to Occupy Wall Street

Right now I am en route New York City to go Occupy Wall Street.  [I’m sitting in the Chi-town Midway airport and they don’t have free wifi.  I want to throw a fit. Ahh, first world problems.]

Last week I texted my dad to ask who he votes for; I know he doesn’t vote Democrat or Republican, a source of much dinner table controversy.  The rest of us pretty much vote Democrat, even though a some of us don’t want to, we feel obligated because the alternative is too horrific to imagine: Palin, Cain, Perry.  But my dad won’t budge.  He votes for whomever he believes is the best person for the job.  Period.  It’s admirable.

We ping-pong’d political texts back and forth for a while before he asked if I wanted to go Occupy Wall Street for my birthday.  I turn 29 next Tuesday and yes, I would love to go Occupy Wall Sreet.

My life is privileged, I know that.  I don't pay rent and have made it so that my overhead is super low so that I can travel. Two weeks ago I went to Seattle from Austin Texas with my half-sister and niece for my full sisters 30th birthday.  We were supposed to be in town for four days, but on the third day I bumped into someone on the street with a tattoo of the original NA symbol.  It seemed like a sign from the Universe that I should just stay in Seattle.  So hours before I was to board my plane I decided not to.  This is pretty much how I life these days bouncing around looking for signs- connecting the dots- and trying be as present as possible in any given moment. I figured I could go to my grandma’s sister’s house, write for a few days and go to meetings.  My Great Aunt and Uncle live on a beautiful 1920’s houseboat in a community of other beautiful houseboats on Lake Union in Seattle, where they’ve lived there for over 50 years.  It’s a haven of calmness.  

The text from my dad offering to fly me to New York to go Occupy Wall Street seemed like the next logical dot. I am super excited and grateful for the opportunity to be in the middle of it, though I want to stress that all of the Occupies- Austin, Stockholm, small town America and everywhere else are just as important, if not more important, than Wall Street.  It started on in New York but it is truly a global movement.

In the 1960’s my grandparents packed up their four kids and hit the streets to protest. There was segregation, inequality, and a needless war. The 1960’s opened the door for my generation and we are opening the door for the next.

Advertisers refer to my generation as “The Echo Boomers”- the children of the Baby Boomers. We far out number previous generations.  The change that we can create is huge.  Together with the Baby Boomers, with the Granny Peace Brigade and Veterans for Peace, we are making it happen.

My friend Jessica texted me the other night worrying about the 2012 Doomsday prophecies. I told her not to panic- it is just like the 1960’s when everyone was in a panic about the Atomic Bomb.  Fear keeps us captive.  Left wing folks who don’t have family members fighting in the war are less fearful of terrorists. 2012 supplies the same level of fear for the middle class liberals as war does for the middle class conservatives.  It keeps us in line, ticking hours on a clock so that we can have some money to spend on our days off so that we can forget our fears through shopping or drinking or traveling.  However, that is not to entirely discount 2012.  We are 14 months away from what many Indigenous tribes refer to as a global spiritual rebirth. The fact that the 2012 prediction is smack in between the American presidential election and the inauguration does seem mildly poignant.  Either way, it's clear that we are in transition.  Think of it like forest fires- the burning has to happen to create nutrients for new growth.  It’s a part of the process. It's always darkest before the dawn.

These Occupy protests are coming up because of twitter, facebook and the ability to pass information rapidly. We are The New Media. We can change the world. Occupy Everything is happening largely in part because of Egypt and Syria rising up against their governments. It's big shit.  We are in control.  Like my friend David posted the other day “If you think you are too small to make a difference, try sleeping with a mosquito.”
― Dalai Lama XIV

Fire Help!

**Update** Late last night Sam and his brother went to check out the fire damage.  They were able to drive down their street even though the fire was still burning in the area.  It turns out Sam and Mollie's home has not been burned down even though most of their neighbors houses are gone.  They returned to the house and got out as much of the stuff as they could.  They thank everyone for their support and have said they will be returning all donations.  Larry has said that he is covered because of his insurance, all he is worried about is his puppies.  Hundreds of dogs have made it to the local shelters, so him and some other friends are searching high and low.

Thanks again for all the love and support and let's continue to send it to the other folks who have lost their homes.

oxoxox
Frankie


--------------------
original post:

Three of my friends have just lost their houses to fire.

The heat in Austin has been over 100º (33º celsius) since I left town June 15th.  Right now a fire has consumed massive parts of the suburbs.

Larry is an incredible man in his 60's.  He works for Child Protective Services and is one of the funniest most loving people I have ever met.  He has become a male role model, confidant, and father figure for one of my best friends who grew up in a family of extremely severe drug addicts.  Larry's heart is made of gold.  In the fire he lost his house and possibly his five dogs.  He is devastated about his pups.

Mollie and Sam are a married couple in their late 20's with a 9 month old son. They bought their house just over a year ago.  It was far out of town but had a huge yard and was spacious enough for them to have barbecues and game/movie nights with other recovering addicts.  Mollie is a social worker for the city helping terminally homeless men and women.  Sam works as a plumber.  I've known Mollie for over 8 years.

All three of these beautiful amazing people are clean and all have multiple years drug/alcohol free.  They are positive, kind hearted, loving and hardworking individuals.

Right now they are saying that they are in need of clothes.  But they will be rebuilding their homes so they will also need everything else as well.


If you want to send gift cards or clothing you can send it here.
6432 Bridgewater Dr.
Austin Texas
78723
p.s.
Just got off the phone with Larry, he said there are people worse off than him.  I told him that we would give him the money since he would know far better than me how the money would best help that community.

Amy Winehouse and Oslo.

I've been thinking a bit about addiction and Amy Winehouse the past couple days and I feel like it's shitty that she had to go up and die so close to the Oslo tragedy. Who does that? Really Amy. I mean, there is no way for me to feel anything but shallow when I choose to write about her- a single person who knew about recovery yet continued to use- vs. 73 murdered Norwegian youth who were actively involved in politics with hopes of bettering their already badass country.  WTF.

So I will try my best to do it all with grace.

First off- what a creepy photo of that guy. who took that headshot? and did they know he was psychotic?  cause they captured it perfectly.

Secondly- addiction is shitty. As most of y'all know I am an addict. I've been clean for 7.5 years, but that doesn't mean that I'm fixed by any means. It just means I've stopped doing the drugs and the booze... I still find many things to obsess on and ways to make myself crazy. The primary differences for me now are that a) I can manifest things and create art- where as before I was all talk, and b) I am better at seeing my thoughts from a disengaged perspective and less likely to ride the wave of whatever pops into my head (where as before I would say and do things that surprised even me).  Recovery has given me a breath of space between thoughts and actions.

There is a belief in some recovery communities that an addict is powerless over their use. This notion doesn't sit well with anyone who has ever gotten dicked over by an addict. It sounds like a way of dismissing responsibility. While I don't believe anyone is powerless over a substance (after all, if you don't drink- you won't get drunk), I do believe humans have a way of tricking themselves into believing their own bullshit.

My friend Alex said "I would wake up sick and tell myself that I wasn't going to get high, and I absolutely meant it, but at some point during the day I would convince myself that I had actually changed my mind. I was going to have just one, that it was my choice as an adult and as a free human, and that it was my way to relax and have fun, that I was in control."

This scenario has been played out in a million different mini-versions in my life:  I'm not going to look at facebook again today- well this is how I connect with people when I'm traveling; I'm not going to participate in a shitty friendship with xxxx again- but I miss her and she's funny and we'd been friends for so long; I'm not going to drink tonight- well, I'll just have a glass or two of red wine; I am not going to daydream my ex- but we did have some good times together; I'm not going to dye my hair again, but red looks really good on her and we have similar complexions; I'm not going to spend money on dining out, but I really worked hard today and deserve sushi. Over and over again. People want to separate addicts from non-addicts but the reality is- the gap is smaller than you think.

Much of life these days could be described as a perpetual setting of self imposed boundaries/breaking of self imposed boundaries. The flip side is that now this has become an infrastructure for how I live my life and achieve my goals. I am constantly raising the bar and pushing myself to succeed and grow, allowing failures and forgiving set backs, but continuing to push forward.

Psychology Today had an article out last year about addiction. "The big secret is that relapse is the rule, and anything else is the exception." Anyone who has tried to stop doing anything --eating sugar, eating meat, dating stupid people (only me?), drinking, drugs, spending money, buying shoes, etc. etc.-- has most likely relapsed in the process. That is because it is a part of the process. Two steps forward one step back is still a step forward.

Having 7 years clean doesn't mean I'm exempt from relapse. There are days where using still looks good. Pinot noir looks good, champagne looks good, mojitos look good, bloody marys look good, lsd looks good, cocaine looks good, smoking speed looks good, ecstasy looks good, oxycodone looks good, and shooting heroin still looks good. I didn't stop doing drugs because I didn't like them. I loved drugs. I just loved them a bit too much.

This is where that "one day at a time" thing comes in. I didn't mean to stay clean for 7 years. It's just happened. I know that today- Tuesday July 26th, I'll most likely stay clean. I try to be conscious of not going into crackhouses (but even that's happened since I've been clean). Being an artist means that I am around people that use, being from a family of addicts means that I am around people who use. And honestly, I've always loved people who are excessive in nature. Addicts are some of the most passionate, brilliant, ambitious, loving, creative, intelligent and reckless human beings throughout history. Who wouldn't want to be around that rainbow of energy?

It's said that everything we do in life is either based in Fear or Love. When I first hear this it seemed too simplistic, I was sitting in a meeting listening to this woman talk and I had to pee bad. I thought, alright, so I have to pee, how is this based in fear or love? It seemed ridiculous. But why didn't I want to pee? Well, I wanted to wait till she was done talking. I didn't want people to think I wasn't paying attention. I didn't want people to thing I wasn't 'getting' recovery.  And I didn't want people to think I was getting high in the bathroom.  Alright, so if everything is based in fear or love, what's the loving thing to do?  Go fucking pee. Simple.

This is how I try to live my life today. To the best of my ability I try to slide my actions towards love. I'm not always successful in this. I send shitty emails when I'm mad. I throw emotional grenades when I've been hurt and I tell white lies because I don't want to hurt peoples feelings. But I want people to be honest with me even if it hurts... so why lie? It's silly.

Little by little.  two steps forward. one step back.

And while it's sad addicts die, the reality is that there is we are all headed that way.  Addicts who find recovery just have a choice- whether to die clean or die loaded.

Magic Happens...

So I gave notice at my amazingly cute cottage in Austin for June 15th and did what I normally do- wait till the very last possible minute to pack/clean etc.  I ended up shutting the door, apartment tidy and ready for the next tenant, at 1:30 am with my plane leaving to New York at 8am.  I like to live on the edge if you haven't figured that out by now.  

I slept on the plane, folding myself in half onto the meal tray and arrived kink-necked in NYC a few hours later.  Livia met me at the airport and we caught a taxi to her apartment in Ridgewood- which is a purgatory neighborhood somewhere between Brooklyn and Queens.  (Livia is really resistant to calling it Queens since she has always been a Brooklyn girl.  And it's true- everyone we asked had a different opinion of which borough it's in.)  Her house is lovely with pristine vintage wall paper and good window light.  Her roommate is a guido looking Italian guy who kept getting drunk and asking me to make out... luckily I am the opposite of attracted to guido types. Their house is right off the L train, which is the same line as Bedford/Lorimer Williamsburg stops (ie: hipster central).  This worked out well for me since Williamsburg is now home to multiple California friends, including Blue Bottle Coffee (San Francisco brand crack).  

My plan this whole trip has been very liberal- I would go to New York, wait for money to come in from clients, then buy a ticket to London.  After that I would bounce around Europe as time and money permitted until my return ticket on August 17th.  I kind of interfered with this process by buying an ipad then realizing that I didn't really need it and if I returned it I could actually afford my ticket.  So I was a proud ipad owner for 4 short days.  

My time in New York was spent hanging out with girls, going to meetings, doing photoshoots, having lunch with family friends and going to parks/beaches.  

I went to Philadelphia for two days and visited my dear friends Craig and Melissa.  Craig is hands-down the best artist I know.  He does stop motion animation, sculpture, drawings, and installation art.  Not only is he totally prolific and often bizarre in his concepts but he creates detailed, exquisitely crafted pieces.  It's rough watching him at times because he has the stereotypical artist drive- he builds empires and then walks away or torches them at their peak.  I frantically recorded his latest project- a Sushi restaurant with handmade tables, lights, and fixtures.  In turn he made my cousin Meagan (who drove down from Jersey) and I the best sushi I have ever eaten- it had lemon zest. Before I left Craig arranged a shoot for me with Beth Beverly of Diamond Teeth Taxidermy and performer Melissa Bang Bang (his girlfriend).  I should have photos from that up later today.  

I bought my ticket leaving the 4th of July ($960 JFK-->LHR) on Virgin Atlantic which is kind of the dreamiest airline ever.  First off they dress in really cute red fitted skirt suits with hats and black stockings, then they serve you tea and coffee, and dinner and a breakfast snack, plus all of the movies and entertainment is free and they give you a sleeping kit with socks and a sleeping mask.  On my way to the airport I gave my subway ticket that had a few extra days on it to an airport worker.  It turned out he was the luggage loader for my flight!  He said he would put my bag in the first class bin so it would come out in the beginning of the line.  Then, when I was checking in, I told the guy that I booked this flight so I could see fireworks from above and he upgraded my seat to a fancier window seat with more leg room!  While waiting to load the plane I was watching the fireworks off in the distance and started talking to a handsome Mexican man who was traveling with his kids to Ecuador.  His 15 year old daughter loves photography so she and I started talking and I ended up giving her an impromptu photo lesson- going over aperture, exposure, ISO, white balance and posing people.  It was great.  

That is my update for now- which doesn't include any of this last week or the project I am working on.  I will write about that tomorrow.  lé xoxox