Little Miss Addict

Whitney... etc.

2012-02-13T00:27:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-25T11:22:00.000-08:00

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.

2012-01-17T12:49:00.000-08:00

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.

2012-01-11T22:29:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-11-29T00:35:00.000-08:00

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

2011-10-15T20:06:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-13T15:39:00.001-07:00

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!

2011-09-05T13:35:00.000-07:00

**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.

2011-07-26T10:31:00.000-07:00

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...

2011-07-09T09:41:00.000-07:00

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

Europa.

2011-06-12T23:18:00.000-07:00

My Timeline on this planet has been super loud recently.

It's not that I think I'm going to die (right now)... or that 2012 is coming up and I'm scurred (mmmaybe 3% nervous)... but I'm pretty sure (90%) that the Timeline is hollering because I'm 28 and so many good friends are doing that babymaking thing right now. It's what us animals crave at the core. However, in this moment, I feel okay with the idea of either having or not having kids, but I am aware that if chitlins are in the cards, there are some gypsy bits I have got to do before hand. Like travel. I know everyone who has kids says you can still travel with kids... but my bio folks sucked bum at parenting because they didn't set their own wants and desires aside. If it's in the stars for me to be a mother, it will be different. Some travel- yes, gypsy haphazard hitchhiking travel- no.

So I made a plan. I have some great friends in Europe- from Amsterdam to Berlin to the Netherlands to Athens to Barcelona to Paris to Stockholm and London. I consider myself a very lucky bird. About half are artists and half are in recovery. It will be fun. London will be my homebase. Katie a wonderful comedian/artist/feminist who I met traveling in Texas 4 years ago will be my wifey while I bounce around the EU for 2 months.

Last year I met Benjamin, Matthew, Daniel and Holly (while I was hitchhiking out of Burning Man). They are all artists in London. I found it interesting how they seemed to romanticize the idea of the American Road Trip- all lodged into a Cruise America RV. I suppose this is because if they drive for a week they go through a dozen countries. Here you just hit more of California and more of Texas. Katie hasn't been on an American Road Trip and has decided that mid-August, when I return to the States, she will join me for a 6 week cross country car extravaganza. We are going to fly in to Seattle, drive down the coast to San Diego, then head east making it to Austin for a minute before touring the south on our way up to New York City.

Unless I fall madly in love with something (one) in Europe or find an outstanding opportunity for more International adventure (porn) (joking), the chances are I am moving to New York. It feels like it's time. Austin was the perfect baby-step away from the Bay Area for me- I had my newfound sister Cheryl (niece, nephew and brother in-law) here to provide the loving family-ness, I had an awesome fellowship of 12 steppers, and I had a badass apartment that afforded me the ability to travel back to see my Grandma, therapist, family, friends and clients in the Bay Area every 3-6 weeks.

It was perfect. But now, 16 months later, I feel resolved in leaving Austin. [Though I did just meet (another) cute boy, which I knew the Universe was going to happen... because my astrologist friend from the cafe told me so. He said "Austin is a vortex and you will find compelling reasons to stay right before you leave. Trust me, move forward. You are on the right path." So I will listen.]

But what is really exciting is that Katie and I are in the early stages of developing a travel web-series/website/phone-app/blog/vlog project that will keep you all updated on the chaos with an array of medium/content streams to pick from. We plan to interviews artists of all types from various towns/countries, a map of where we've been each week, photos of the places/people/food we've enjoyed, super personal handwritten diary entries about our romance, inappropriate questions/topics submitted from people we love, and photoshoots/stand-up/skit clips. It will be good.

So 4 months of travel: Europe and the US. You would think that I would've planned better... like saved a million dollars, but that didn't happen. I decided I'd visit New York for a week and fly from there since it's cheaper than flying from Austin. I leave for New York in two days. However, I am still waiting for photo shoot money to come in. I can't actually go to Europe (or buy my ticket) until that happens... so it looks like I will be in New York for an extended flash. Luckily I can take my business with me and I happen to have plenty of work to do.

As far as the book Little Miss Addict goes, it is in the hands of an amazing editor right now. But I'm pretty sure I'm living the last couple chapters as we speak... err type. I'm actually positive of it.

So, in the meantime, in the words of Tupac Shakur, keep your head up.

With love,

Frankie

Panic at the Disco

2011-06-06T10:46:00.000-07:00

I am irritable today. It is 96º with no breeze. It feels like 106º.

I just photographed my friend John. There are a handfull of people who have made a big difference in my time in Austin. John is one of them. He is a deaf addict and has been teaching me sign language here and there. Of course most of our talks have been about recovery and twelve step so my ASL vocabulary consists of many words associated with addiction: recovery, drugs, higher power, stay clean, meetings, etc. The other words I have picked up are dreams, idea, slow, fast, very, group, team, twins, sadness, dead and London. Ha. I am still working on it.

It was nice to take a break from my head and just be with another recovering addict. I have been beating myself up recently. I set a self-imposed deadline for the book and I ignored it as if I was a rebellious teenager fighting my inner parent. It seems that I create a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy of stress. It's ridiculous. I keep telling myself that if I have a deadline, or write at 2 in the morning, or sit at a cafe, or cut off all contact with other humans, I will finish the book. Perhaps it's just not time. Or perhaps this is just me not finishing something because I am still shitty at finishing projects. Ugh. I don't know.

I was at a meeting this weekend and a guy I super respect was talking about how growing up his father would tell him he had an attitude problem and that he had to change, which was always followed by some shitty criticism or a smack upside the head. His father never told him how to change, he just told him to change and so the message he received was that in order to change you have to be shitty to yourself. I feel like somewhere along the way I got the same message. So how I try to force myself into action through self-loathing and self-deprecation. Like if I guilt myself into it, it will happen. But mostly it just makes me want to run away and not do it.

Fred Wahpepah- my vision quest and a great cause.

2011-04-16T01:27:00.001-07:00

The first time I met Fred Wahpepah I was 15 years old. He came to my liberal Northern California high school to do a presentation on Native American culture, ceremonies and history. He brought a table full of traditional accouterments- an eagle head, eagle wings, a tortoise shell purse, handmade drums, rattles, and various other items that I can't remember. He talked about sweat lodge ceremony, teepee ceremony, sundance and vision quest. All of it fascinated me. What stuck in my mind was how pulled I felt to Native American culture. It was as if he was speaking directly to my core and my core responded with a resounding recognition of truth. I signed up to receive newsletters from his foundation Seven Circles.

Seven years later I had become very close friends with a girl I met at a truckstop at 3am off I-5 in the middle of nowhere who happened to also be an addict in recovery... named Kim.

"I am going on a vision quest- four days three nights up on a mountain with no food and no water- will you eat and drink for me? Just keep me in mind while you are eating. Especially meat. Hamburgers. Anything." This struck me as funny since she had just become a vegan. Not because she was asking me to eat for her energetically, which perhaps should have been the comical part. It turned out that she had been heavily involved with a Native American community in LA that was headed up by Wolf, one of Fred's sons. However this specific vision quest she was doing under the guidance of Fred himself.

A year or so after that my friend Podge called me and asked me to attend a sweat lodge ceremony with her. I jumped at the opportunity. It was held Sunday at 5pm in a residential area in Berkeley. We crept through the gate of someones house and found about a dozen people standing around a fire pit with Fred obviously in charge. This was my second time meeting him face to face. Fred is a funny, lighthearted man that egged-on participants to share inappropriate jokes. He talked about the importance of sharing his heritage with anyone who felt a calling to it, regardless of age, race, sex or any other factor we use to separate ourselves from each other. I began attending sweats on an inconsistent basis.

In 2010 I met my biological father and siblings. As it turned out my oldest sister Cheryl lives just north of Austin and works in Austin for the Air Force, so I've been given a chance to get to know her since moving here. For her birthday last May her co-workers organized a lovely lunch. On the way home Cheryl told me that I would really get along with her co-worker Jessica since we had similar family issues. I asked what nationality she was since she was obviously exotic looking. Cheryl said Native American and... something else... I'm not sure because I got stuck on the Native American part. I began to tell Cheryl that I was really pulled to that culture and when I lived in California I had been doing sweat lodges with this guy Fred Wahpepah... Cheryl interjected- "That's Jessica's last name!" It turns out Fred is Jessica's Great Uncle. So get this- the guy I had been doing sweats with for years has a great niece who had been working in the same room for years with my sister who I didn't know existed. Wild.

Last October I got hired to shoot a friends wedding in San Francisco and on a whim decided to buy a one way ticket. I hopped online to see if I couldn't find some other reason I should be in San Francisco- perhaps a writers conference or something. I didn't find a writers anything so I went to http://SevenCircles.org to see where the sweats were scheduled since they rotated between about four locations. It turned out that they were doing their fall vision quest in Mendocino starting the Wednesday after I arrived. My heart raced and picked up the phone to call Fred and ask if I could join them. It was late in the game, with less than a week to prepare but Fred said yes and told me to come see him as soon as I got in.

In a moment of panic I thought- What if I'm too white? Or what if this is wrong? I called up Nikki Scully who is a friend of my Aunt Jerilyn and does Shamanic Journeys for a living. My Aunt had been telling me to contact Nikki for years, any time I mentioned Shamanism or Native American anything. I called her and to my surprise she picked up.

"Hi Nikki, this is Frankie Brandelius, I am Jerilyn's neice. She had told me to call you a while back, but I am just getting around to it because I wanted to ask you a question. Do you think it's okay for me to go on a vision quest?"

"Frankie, hi. I usually don't pick up this phone after hours. You should be fine doing a vision quest as long as you are going with someone who knows what they are doing. Who are you going with, what community?"

"Fred Wahpepah of Seven Circles." Nikki let out a laugh.

"Fred took me on my first vision quest... what... 25 years ago... actually, 25 years this fall, right now. Fred is great, you will be fine. What are your fears? And how is your Aunt?" We talked for a bit longer and I felt affirmed. This was universal timing.

I got in to town I met up with Fred at his house in Richmond. He asked me why I wanted to go on vision quest and told me how the whole thing worked. I felt thrilled and nervous, convinced that I would somehow mess it up.

At the wedding the following day I told my friend Alecia about the vision quest. "Whapepah? That is my daughters doctors name. Ask him if is wife is a pediatrician! We love her." And indeed, of course, his wife is.

I met up with my Aunt while I was in San Francisco and she told me about Lit Quake- a writer's convention that was happening that week, that for some odd reason didn't pop up in my internet searches. I only made it to one of the panels where five new authors discussed what it takes to be in the industry. The next day, after much preparation for the ceremony that I'm not going to get into here- I arrived in Mendocino and met Joanna- she would be the woman cook in charge of the kitchen throughout the vision quest. "I recognize you- were you at Lit Quake?" She asked me. Wild. I also learned later that day that Fred had been on tour with Rolling Thunder who was a good friend of my Aunt as well. All of these elements affirmed that I was right where I was supposed to be.

So- why I am I blogging about this? Fred is 80 years old. His daughter- Kasha Wahpepah is 18 and has decided for her senior project to take a road trip with her dad from Richmond CA to Oklahoma where they will go to the reservation where he was raised. Kasha will be making art, taking photos and recording all that she can about her roots on this once in a lifetime trip to meet her family and see where she came from.

A part of the money is going to get Kasha the equipment she needs for the trip and for college- a camera, laptop etc. And did I mention she got admitted to Dartmouth? She is one smart cookie. This project sits close to my heart- everybody knows that my Grandparents are the world to me- I wish I could drive with them to where they were raised and record it all. Fred is like a father to so many people. He has opened up ceremony to everyone regardless of demographic and I hope we can all pull together to help them make this trip happen.

Triangles.

2011-04-06T13:32:00.000-07:00

So, we all know that I have a problem with making out. Well, now we all know that I have a problem with making out. It's not a Huge problem. It's not like I make-out with random strangers at bars...anymore... And it's not like I make-out on a daily basis unless, you know, there is someone I am doing that with. It's not like heroin addiction, I don't feel an overwhelming urge to make-out at all hours of the day, and I certainly don't have a desire to make-out with just anybody. But the problem is, as I have stated before, once I begin to make out with someone I superimpose qualities that they may or may not actually have. I also put making out and thinking about making out and planning to make-out above all other things.

Tragedy.

Iin this long-long-long process of writing my memoir (that for some reason I thought was going to be a really short process) all of my old *issues* have come blazing to the forefront of my awareness. I'm not exactly sure why I thought something else would happen, but I did. I thought meh, all this shit has already happened, it's interesting, get it on paper, blablabla done. Not so. All my shit, my patterns, my habits, my behaviors, are all really, really, apparent right now. Painfully apparent.

A while ago I found myself enamored with a guy. He traveled like me, was a photographer, a musician and an addict in recovery. It looked pretty good on paper. Then I discovered that his ex-girlfriend was really more of a girlfriend that lives in another country. I was pretty bummed and tried to bargain with my integrity. It's not like she's with in driving distance... so forth and so on. At the end of the day my resentments would spill over on to him and I started being passive aggressive and rude because I felt hurt.

I was sitting in a meeting a while later and a guy walked in who I used to be pretty good friends with. It hit me- he was another triangle. We had known each other for years and always had a heightened level of flirting which was fine until he got a girlfriend. Then one day he grabbed my ass, felt guilty and told his girlfriend that I was hitting on him. In all honesty, had he pursued me I probably would have moved forward with it, but I wasn't going to be the initiator. (For some reason that seems better???) His girlfriend is sweet and has a lot of class. She sent me a mature email letting me know that it was inappropriate to pursue an obliged man. Which, I completely agree with. It was not my highest level of integrity but I had it cloaked under the justification of harmless banter. That flirting pretty much ended that friendship.

Those weren't the only triangles. As I sat in the meeting I began to recall other triangles. Guys who had previously dated friends of mine. Guys who had just broken up with a girlfriend but were still in love with them. A guy who cheated on his girlfriend- One guy (... well, apparently two if I count that out of country girlfriend...) who, in my justification, I had dated him for years first and he said he was going to leave her and he wanted to get married and make babies... and apparently I'm delusional. And then guys who had strings of girls they kept around who were in love with them. All of these triangles!

It didn't add up. If I look back through my life, mother was single, my Aunt was single, my Grandma was single, then I got adopted by the Norstads. The first relationship triangle I remembered seeing with anyone close to me was at 12 years old. Surely any deeply engrained patterns had to be etched in at a much younger age.

I am currently reading this book Lust Anger Love by Maureen Canning. It is brilliant and awful all at the same time. She so clearly articulates the source behind sexual compulsions that each chapter feels like a softball hit to the sternum. It is really, truly, outstanding. Even if you don't think you have any major sexual compulsions this book will open your eyes to the reason behind your rhyme. Big shit.

Later it hit me. I don't remember any of it but my father left my mother for another woman. I was 2 or 3 years old at the time and all I recall is a few scattered memories- some of my father and mother, then some of my father and this other woman. Even without being able to remember the exact experiences I must've seen my father reject my mother.

There must be this idea, somewhere in me, that if I can get a guy to choose me over another girl, it's as if I am winning my father back for my mother. Boo.

Shitty.

I don't want to be just a product of the mold that I've been given. I don't want to repeat the same relationships over and over again, trying to right the wrongs of my childhood. Blech. What a mess.

My therapist said to me, "Frankie, you know your patterns. Most of my time is spent trying to get people to realize their patterns. You know what they are. For you, the change has to begin with action."

Grandpa Brandy

2011-04-02T10:25:00.000-07:00

My biological grandfather Brandy was married three times. My Grandma was his first and the only one he had kids with. His final marriage was to Katie Lee, an author and folk singer. They had an amazing love affair which she details in her book Sandstone Seduction.

Last night I looked at her book online to find a quote about my Grandma Dottie for my memoir. I came across this letter he wrote to Katie. It pulls all the right and all the wrong heartstrings.

we don't know how to date

2011-02-27T12:47:00.000-08:00

We don't know how to date anymore. Grandma says this is because we sleep together too soon which confuses things. My friend Alex read the Courtship Nouveau blogs and forwarded me to this article on a traditional Jewish approach to relationships. My favourite snippet of the articles is this:

"Most people are quite wary of physical risks. They will not, for example, jump off a diving board without knowing if there is water in the pool below. Feelings, on the other hand, are intangible. Emotional dangers are therefore far more difficult to identify and take seriously.

The sad truth is that because of the subtlety of emotional damage, countless people throw caution to the winds, dive into empty pools, and then walk around with the equivalent of open wounds and fractured limbs. Most of these victims don’t even realize the extent of their injuries. Yet one’s heart suffers as surely as one’s body. And although time may heal all wounds, the scars remain."

Fucking Brilliant! And it's true! A few years back after my last major break up I went to Grandma's house to mend my heart. She made me "break up cookies" (which are just normal Grandma Cookies: oatmeal/chocolate/walnuts) and left them outside the bedroom door for when I woke up. She has seen me go through four major heartaches; she offered one suitor a stern warning saying 'I don't want to see her cry!'; and I have graced her presence with enough boys that I'm pretty sure she thinks (or maybe hopes) I'm charging.

Each break up felt like it knocked open the wound in my chest. The raw ache behind my sternum was there long before I was aware of boys. I used to think that a part of me was missing, vacant. In my active addiction I wrote an excessive list in super tiny handwriting of "things to make me whole" because I was clearly deficient. It wasn't until I got clean that I heard of other people referencing this emptiness in the chest. It is such a common phenomena that in my 12 step program affectionately refers to it as the God Hole. No amount of boys or drugs or money or ice-cream (or facebook) is going to fix it. "The only solution is a connection with the Universe, some sort of spiritual practice." A sponsor explained to me.

But sometimes I still forget and try to make people places and things fill the void. (Though, I'm quicker at realigning myself now than I was at 21.)

Regardless, that's not what this blog is about. This blog is about dating, so I regress.

We look for love that matches what we were raised with. If we were raised in a family where our parents said that they loved us profusely, yet were never physically there- that feels like love. If we had parents that provided for us but were emotionally sterile, that is what feels like love. If we were raised by overbearing, physically abusive, or emotionally manipulative people- that feels like love. If we were doted on and spoiled with material possessions, that feels like love.

We are imprinted at a very early age with a fingerprint of what love, responsibility, and respect looks like. When we find relationships that fit the mold, it feels right. It feels familiar. It feels like family. It feels like Home. Even though it might be destructive.

Last week my therapist asked if I thought I had daddy issues. I am sure they are there because I have had hands-on exposure to all of major the leading causes of daddy issues, however I don't really feel that I do. "After all, I don't go for old men, or responsible men, or men who could take care of me," I told her. "I feel that my abandonment issues far outweigh my daddy issues."

She asked if I went for guys that were unavailable and likely to abandon the relationship.

"Can we change the subject?" hahaha. that's what therapists are great for- presenting reality on a digestible platter.

When I meet someone who is stable, responsible, or safe, their character fingerprint doesn't match the imprint that I've been given. In turn it feels as if the relationship is boring or is superficial- as if it is just brushing the surface. Whereas when I find people who are verbally present but physically not, I get to replay the old record. It feels like there is a deep connection with these people. It feels right. It feels like family and I get another opportunity to right the wrongs of my childhood... If I can get them to stay, it is as if my parents stayed.

The problem with that of course is that if I can get them to stay- it no longer feels "right"... so I push them away, then pull them closer, then push them away, then pull them closer, then shove them, maybe throw an emotional tantrum and eventually they leave. Once they leave- it feels right again, and then I try to get them back.

I'm not exactly sure what the solution is here. ha.

Dr. Drew (the source of all pop wisdom) said once that when when someone with abandonment issues sits through the uncomfortable feelings, eventually it breaks or at least bends the pattern. That's a novel idea.

Buddhist are big on sitting through feelings, observing them, watching them wash over you. On the other side of that wave of feelings we meet ourselves.

A while back I had the overwhelming urge to call a boy that I didn't like. It was completely illogical. I didn't like him as a person, I thought he was a douche, and yet here I was with this overpowering, unbearable desire to call. or text. or facebook him. [side note: Am I attracted to guys I don't like because I didn't really like my parents?] In that moment, with my skin itching, body aching, and my thoughts running through a rolodex of possible rationalizations, a concept came to me. This is what it feels like to rewire your neural-pathways.

The first time walking off any well-worn pathway we have to deal with thickets and bushes, rocks, shrubs and weeds. The second time the detour is slightly easier. We begin to learn where the bumps and holes are. We breathe and continue to trudge forward. Slowly we begin to restructure the brain. We build cities this way.

It sat through the urge to act. It was horrible and felt akin to coming down from opiates, but after a few hours I was fine. A couple days later I had another urge to contact him, about 1/3 as powerful. I sat through that one too and afterwards it was as if I was completely released from the desire. There is a saying in my cult- "you don't have to use, even if you want to."

I thought that was the stupidest thing I had ever heard when I first got clean. I told my sponsor- "but I want to use."

"Right, but you don't have to. Even if every bone in your body, every thread of your being wants to, you don't have to."

Wild.

To wrap back around to the top topic of we don't know how to date, I thought I'd mention the Third Precept of Buddhism which is sexual responsibility.

Thich Nhat Hanh writes:

"Aware of the suffering caused by sexual misconduct, I undertake to cultivate responsibility and learn ways to protect the safety and integrity of individuals, couples, families, and society. I am determined not to engage in sexual relations without love and a long- term commitment. To preserve the happiness of myself and others, I am determined to respect my commitments and the commitments of others. I will do everything in my power to protect children from sexual abuse and to prevent couples and families from being broken by sexual misconduct."

So many individuals, children, couples, and families have been destroyed by sexual misconduct. To practice the Third Precept is to heal ourselves and heal our society. This is mindful living.

The idea of not engaging in sexual relations without love and a long-term commit is foreign to me. My head says- How will I know if I love him if I don't sleep with him first? How will I know if I want to commit to him if I don't sleep with him first?

I guess that is what my Grandparents did. I know waiting to have sex meant that the length of courtship process was cut down greatly. My Grandparents met and were married six months later. They've been together 54 years. My aunt and uncle did have sex before marriage, but after 3 months she wouldn't move in with him so he proposed to her. They got married 3 months later and have been together 32 years. The pattern I see with my peers is that we date for years on end, get knocked up, decide to be a family, then maybe, eventually, get married. Perhaps that is because so many people are traumatized from divorce. Who knows.

Anyhow. I don't think there is a solution in any of what I've written. Though I do love thinking about all of this stuff. notes from my brain.

lé ex oh.

francesca.

familia

2011-02-24T21:00:00.000-08:00

I met a boy on a plane and in our 2 hour conversation he mentioned that he wasn't close to his family. I long to be one of those people who isn't super close to their family. Not because I dislike my family... I like most of them quite a bit, but there are just so many of them.

My biological mother's side (who raised me until I was 10) has about 24 members; my super awesome adopted family consists of 18 people (plus 15 or so extended); and my biological fathers family who I just met last year is like 40+ people. It's just too much. We are talking 80-100 family members and that's not including my friends who are more familial to me than most of the above. It's exhausting.

I am in contact with about 10 family members on a weekly basis. One of the pro's of being in Austin is that I only have two half-sisters and their families near Austin. That totals my local family count to 8. That is plenty.

Again, it's not that I don't love my family, but I constantly feel guilty for not visiting people or calling or going to dinner or responding to texts or whatever. To be one of those people who isn't close to their family sounds... relieving.

- - - - - - - -

So, to elaborate on that, my Aunt got her liver. I'm thrilled she got her liver. The donor was under 20 and was healthy enough to donate 20% to a baby and 80% to my Aunt. It's really amazing and she is really lucky.

My Aunt is one of many many people who had a hand in raising me. My sister and I were kind of thrown into her care in the mid 80's after our parents abandoned the parental ship. My Aunt was working on her book and was super involved in the Grateful Dead scene. I am probably a photographer and a writer in part because of her. Seeing every table and surface piled high with images of bare breasted long haired hippies leaves an impression on a developing mind.

But my Aunt in all her hippy glory was not really available to parent. She took to dropping us off with dozens of random hippies and acquaintances, which is how we ended up meeting the people who would later adopt us. There are pros and cons to those experiences but you will have to read my memoir for elaboration.

My Aunt, like most of her peers, was drunk and stoned all of the time. She talked a million miles a minute (like all women in my family) and wouldn't let anyone get a word in edge wise. She would call me as a teenager and ramble on non-stop. I'd set down the phone and come back 5 minutes later to her still chat-chat-chatting. How did she do this? How did she not notice that I wasn't listening? I observed and realized that she would periodically say 'Ya know?' then continue on her rant. 'Ya know?' was her way of including others in her monologue. As if we agreed full heartedly 'why yes! I completely understand what you're talking about!' The mannerism and rhythm in which she spoke, along with her inability to talk about anyone but herself, made it difficult to be around her.

She almost drank herself to death a few years ago, landing herself in the hospital for 2 months. She was forced to get sober if she wanted to live. The doctors told her that if she wanted Medi-Cal to pay for her liver, she needed to start attending 12 step meeting, though she never believed she had a drinking problem. As she put it- "I don't have a drinking problem. I have a liver problem. I drank because I was sad about Chet dying." News flash- most people with "drinking problems" drink in excess because they are depressed.

Regardless, with her off the booze she started to slow down. Then she got put on oxygen and slowed down even more. For the first time my Aunt began to ask questions about me and she began telling stories about topics besides the 70's glory days. Auntie became a huge resource for my memoir, telling details of our heritage and what she remembers of my childhood. Her sense of humor was always great and her wit- terribly sharp. She became better than tolerable; she became absolutely delightful to be around. I would visit her weekly, work from her house, run errands with her, take her to appointments, or nap while she watched tv. I felt like I was getting to experience and see my Aunt in her rawest most honest form. Two years of that was amazing.

Then she got her liver. My god. In order to do surgery they dope her up on all sorts of narcotic pain meds. The problem is our bodies don't know the difference between prescribed opiates and just for fun opiates. She was hiiiiiiiigh soooo hiiiiiiigh. Also, included in her anti-rejection cocktail, is a steroid called prednisone. Holy shit. It turned her back into Speedy Gonzales. She would not shut up. It made me terribly anxious and triggered all of the feelings of resentment for how unavailable she was during my childhood. I showed up 4 times at the hospital and stayed for as long as I could stand.

She called the other day on a huge rant criticizing me about my business skills and how I needed to do this and that, and I needed to come to the hospital, and I needed to get on her facebook and update people, and I needed to email so-and-so, and I needed to call x y z for her, and I needed to help her write the thank you letter to the donor.

I didn't return the call. I got on a plane the following day and flew back to Austin. Where I am safe. and sound. with minimal familial responsibilities.

- - - - - - -

That being said, my Aunt and Uncle who own Paragon Machine Works are in town for the North America Handmade Bike Show. They've hired me to shoot it. We met up today and had lunch at Franks Gourmet Hotdogs. And you know what? I love them. They are easy to be around, fun, light hearted, intelligent and totally great people.

family is a hard one.

One of the ways I deal with obsession...

2011-02-02T05:08:00.000-08:00

My neighbor teaches yoga in her amazing living room that has super high ceilings and hardwood floors. I've been trying to go on the regular, especially since the majority of my creative life these days has me sitting monotone in front of a screen. But the other day. I just couldn't. slow. my brain. On the short walk home I remembered that in the past, when all else has failed, this has helped me. [disclosure: I was still disheveled from yoga...]

Courtship Nouveau II

2011-02-01T01:54:00.000-08:00

Two blogs ago we talked about my untrustworthy vagina who has been banned from all decision making. I brought up how my go-to (null and void) solution in dating had been: vagina --> heart --> head; feel an overwhelming attraction to someone, make-out with them, start having feelings, then try to convince yourself that it's a good idea.

It's not a good idea. The mathematical mind would look at the equation and say that the logical thing to do is reverse the system. head --> heart --> vagina. Which, I think is maybe more of what the Grandparent generation had going for themselves.

I started the first courtship nouveau post mentioning a photographer turned dating coach friend that I have. I brought him up because in December, after I rolled in the hay with the gentleman I said I wasn't going to roll in the hay with, I found out that the dating coach friend is actually a pick-up artist. To be clear, I don't have anything against pick-up artists, besides that the idea creeps me out. For those of you unaware of what a pick-up artist does, they teach usually socially awkward men how to be better with women. Sounds harmless right? They also call themselves Professional Seducers, categorizing women into various types, giving out tips and tricks on how to manipulate women into bed, or possibly (rarely) a relationship. Again, totally not a terrible thing. They had all sorts of books on this subject in the 1950's (before women were performing soft core porn in trade for t-shirts).

But what irks me most about it is that I don't need help sleeping with people I shouldn't be sleeping with, apparently. Yet now I have be aware that there is this whole class of men out there who are using psychology and NLP to hook up with chicks? Bummer. It's not like there weren't hustlers before but now there is schools and conventions all over the world they can go to train. wee.

Even more reason to implement a total overhaul on my dating procedures. No more going with the gut and no more acting as if I have intuition in this area of my life. Both the gut and the intuition are greatly influenced by the vagina and the heart, completely dismissing the logical mind because "I have a feeling about this one." False. You have are delusional.

Really, a huge part of my desire to change my dating patterns is that I just don't have time to get lost in a relationship that will distract from my photography, writing, performing, producing existence. No time for nonsense.

While I was in California I got asked on a handful of dates from Austin gentlemen via facebook. The great thing about traveling so much is that I look like an obvious choice anyone who is terribly afraid of commitment and/or who is emotionally unavailable. How much do you really have to give when the person is gone part time? I know this to be truth because I too am primarily attracted to long distance relationships... they look so much cuter when they are 3000 miles away. Also, I have the added bonus of being new in Austin, which always makes you look shinier. New Kid Syndrome (not to be confused with NKOTB syndrome).

So at 3am the night before my lunch date with eligible bachelor one, I wrote out a rough outline of ideal rules/timelines and questions. As I've mentioned before, I fall in love with a single facets of a person, dismissing or distorting all other qualities. My goal is to observe and act from the head. I imagine that reading my new dating process will exhaust and disuade all readers from asking me out.

PREREQUISITE for a Date.

Under 40 and I must find them either Funny, Attractive, Smart, Interesting, or Talented.

I realized that I have often said yes to a date with a guy beacuse he's a nice guy. And nice guys deserve a chance too, right? But if I don't find them to have at least one of the other qualities above, it's a pity date. And in reality, whoever I end up with needs to have most if not all of those qualities.

PREREQUISITE for Kissing.

I must find them respectful, fun, honest, entertaining.

In my 15 years of kissing I have locked lips with many people who weren't respectful, fun, or honest. Most of them were either hot or confident, which seems to count as 'entertaining'... though eventually you discover that hot & confident usually fall short as a form entertainment. (Unless you count heartbreak as an extracurricular activity. bleh.)

Now I'm not opposed to kissing on the first date, though logically I would prefer to wait till the second or third in order to give my brain a chance to breathe. (again, logic has not been my drug of choice in the past.)

EVALUATION for Second Date. (and third...)

Answer these Questions:

- Do I want to go on a second date with him? (do I want to spend more time with them?)

- What were the red flags? (cause apparently I always think there are red flags)

- Do I still find him FASIT? (see: acronym for step one)

- Does he seem respectful, fun, honest, entertaining? (ie: would I kiss him)

The truth is most guys won't make it past a second date. Heck, because I don't drink anymore most guys don't even make it to kissing (which is actually true). And I can imagine that seeing this sort breakdown is pretty unappealing. Well, let me add to it then.

PREREQUISITE for Serious Dating (as in a regular activities where time would not be spent creating art/writing etc.)

Answer these Questions:

- Do I find myself wanting to spend time with him?

- If I get knocked up, would I want to be stuck with this man for 18 years?

- Do I trust him?

- What fears come up?

- Am I still creating art when I'm not around him, or am I stuck daydreaming and obsessing?

- Does he fit into my ideals for a partner?

screeeeetch.

That question kind of startled me, too. In recent years this idea has come about that you can make a detailed wish list for a partner and put the order in with the Universe. While I believe this is true, it's that whole 'be careful what you wish for cause you just might get it' deal. (Ex: I prayed for the Universe for a stronger spiritual connection... then I lost my car, which meant I lost my radio, which meant I suddenly spent more time observing my thoughts and the world around me. Not exactly what I had in mind, but it worked.) In the past my ideal partner list was super detailed, like cliché ro-co chick flick detailed, and inevitably, I would forget a mandatory point. Like can't be taking GHB multiple times a week. So, in order to leave room for the Universe (my Grandma's) to fill in the blanks, I made a list just of what my bottom lines, my absolutes, are.

IDEAL PARTNER absolutes. In no particular order.

Under 40 (my adopted dad is 50. If you could have been in high school with him, I can't take you home. it's creepy.)

Over 26 (I'm 28.)

Sexually Attractive

Optimist/Positive

Non-Active Addict (open-minded to dating someone who drinks but one of my sponsors said to me point blank, "Frankie, you are not attracted to normal people; anyone you are attracted to who is not in recovery... probably should be." But, I have multiple girl friends whose husbands are not in recovery and they are just fantastic together.)

Ambitious/Passionate

Open minded (can't be afraid of the gays, the blacks, the mexicans, or the white trash.)

Honest/Trustworthy

Socially Conscious (doesn't have to watch the news, but must vote and be able to hold a conversation on bigger issues)

Outwardly Affectionate

Fun/Funny

Intelligent (not necessarily book smart)

Talented (in something)

Health Conscious (doesn't have to work out daily, but must have acceptable hygiene, and a desire to not get fat and die of lung cancer.)

Non-vegetarian (I will never date a vegetarian again. I ended up sneaking out to eat bacon.)

Loves Family (I'm undecided on children, pretty sure I want them but maybe not, either way I will adopt one day. Regardless, they must value, love their family. Family is super important to me.)

Respectful

Social (not necessarily hyper social, but able to hold their own at a gathering)

Spiritual (doesn't have to be actively practicing, but can't be anti-my hippy universe talk.)

Bonus:

is creative

likes to dance

stylish

has tattoos

is in therapy/12-step

has an accent. (hahaha, yes this was on the original list.)

------

That list triggered all of my negative, there is no way that person exists, thoughts. So then I wrote these questions for myself:

Am I looking for a life partner right now?

Is it okay to sleep with someone who isn't a potential partner?

If so, what are the rules of conduct?

And what are the bottom lines there?

That right there is plenty of overdisclosure for one evening.

Tom the Great

2011-01-28T11:34:00.000-08:00

In 12-step, people say that if you stick around long enough, you'll hear your story. Yeah right, I thought. I had such a gypsy upbringing and bounced around so much that I didn't think I would meet someone like me. Not that I thought my story was the tragic-est of the tragic, I knew it wasn't. But it also wasn't normal.

My first boyfriend in recovery was leading a meeting and asked Tom to speak. We drove down to South San Francisco and brought him to the Gilman meeting (which was held mid-week at an all ages punk rock venue where bands like L7, Fugazi, Bikini Kill, Primus, Pansy Division, Tiger Army, Rancid and even Green Day had played). Tom looked tough with his wide shoulders and black hoodie, but as soon as he opened his mouth a soothing, singsongy voice came out. It sounded like his voice was smiling; like he was smiling on the inside and it just over poured into his every word. We got out of the car and he told me to give him a hug, (which is common in 12 step). His hug was just as gentle and warm as his voice.

At the meeting he talked about being a young boy and living with his parents, who were just lovely people. At 3 years-old his mother and father divorced and his dad moved out. Being young and not really understanding what was going on, he blamed himself.

A few years after the separation his mother died. Tom was sent to live with his Aunt, who, after a few years, also passed away. So, Tom got sent to live with his Grandmother. Not long after, she too passed. Distraught, and still pretty young, he thought that He was somehow killing people! In the meeting he said he felt like he was a defective child. The words shot like a loudspeaker to my heart. Being passed around in my childhood as well, I too felt defective, like a broken toy; either too much to handle or not good enough to keep.

Finally Tom was sent to live with his father, which he felt terrible about it. He had wanted to live with dad for years and felt rejected that his father didn't offer before; but he didn't want to kill his dad! His dad explained to him that he couldn't have taken him sooner because he wasn't equipped to be a parent yet. They ended up having a four great years together, then his dad passed away.

At 13 years-old Tom became a ward of the State of California and was put in foster care. Convinced on some level that he was killing people, he avoided getting close to anyone. He took to running the streets, doing drugs, and committing minor crimes to pay for his habit. It carried on for years and years. He was in and out of jails and institutions, and had strung together a pretty impressive rap sheet. At one point, in the late 80's, after catching yet another case, he stood before a review panel in the jail. Three people looked at his file- a stack of papers 8" thick- most of it was drug charges and minor crimes done under the influence. The head of the review panel looked up from the papers.

"You're not a criminal, you're a drug addict!"

They released Tom on the condition that as part of his parole, he start seeing a weekly psychiatrist, Dr. Justice (yes, that was her real name). Dr. Justice had worked with addicts before and saw a light in Tom. In order to get him to come back for his weekly appointment, she prescribed him a weeks worth of a mild narcotic medication, which he would promptly sell on the street to buy his drug of choice. But, it kept him coming back.

After working with him for almost 9 months she said to him, "You know that there is a place for people like you. It's called Narcotics Anonymous. Just go check out a meeting."

It took Tom a while, but eventually he did. He liked Dr. Justice and wanted her to be proud of him. He returned to his appointment the following week, wide-eyed, and told her everything these crazy people said in the meetings. He was blown away at the level of honesty. People were saying things you would Never say in the street. She smiled at him and wrote him a prescription for another weeks worth of meds.

Tom continued selling his meds and continued using drugs, but he also started going to meetings. [Yes, it is okay to attend meetings high, they just ask that you don't bring drugs or paraphernalia.] Each week he would return to Dr. Justice with stories about these people baring their souls. Months passed and one day he walked into Dr. Justice's office. He stopped dead in his tracks, holding last weeks prescription in his hand.

"I can't be taking these things!" He said to her. "We are supposed to be clean from All mood and mind altering substances. That includes alcohol and pills." November 17th, 1988 Tom got clean.

Tom went back to school and eventually attended UC Berkley. At ten years clean he started working at Laguna Honda- a hospital and rehabilitation center in San Francisco. He specialized in the drug department- working with people who had gone wet brain from doing too many drugs; people who hit the pipe just a little too hard one time, got a hot shot, or picked the wrong drug cocktail. His first week there he walked down the hall to his new office. A few doors from his office he looked to his left and saw a name placard: DR. JUSTICE.

When I met Tom he had 15 years clean. Him and his sponsee Stanley became father figures to me. We saw each other every Wednesday and he would give me advice on boys and life. He, with others, walked me through the death of my Grandma Barbara- my first major loss in recovery. Tom called me affectionately "Frankie girl" and told me I was 'going to do big things'. In November of 2008 he got a urinary tract infection, which didn't seem like a big deal at first. But in active addiction Tom had contracted Hep C. It had been in remission for years, but the infection took over and his body couldn't fight it. November 17th 2008 Tom celebrated 20 years clean.

On March 4th 2009, Tom died in a hospital surrounded by well over 20 people who loved him dearly. They (now i am sobbing as i type this) were his family, and he was theirs. He was mine. His service was attended by 300+ people, mostly clean addicts, some non-addicts, some family members, and even a handful of addicts who had been clean, and chose to start using again. I wondered if Dr. Justice was there. I wonder if she knows that we all know about her and are so fucking grateful for her.

The sometimes disturbing thing the addictive mind is that it shape shifts. Addiction has nothing do do with what you used, or how you used, but Why you used. It's about the thought process and that thought process- the desire for an immediate... something... to change the way we feel (see: icecream, coffee, sex) or the desire for -something- to distract us (see: facebook, television, sex)- will always be there. Thankfully if you don't destruct on drugs... often the obsessive mind can even be fun and rewarding. (See: art, music, sex.)

Addicts can never do 12-step "good enough" to suddenly be blessed with willpower to just drink on the weekends. As my first sponsor said, there is no socially acceptable way to shoot up at a party.

For drug addicts there is no graduation. You either die clean or you die loaded. I really fucking hope I die clean.

Courtship Nouveau

2011-01-21T15:02:00.000-08:00

Last year I met this charming guy who used to be a photographer. He wasn’t over the top attractive; he was a little shorter and thicker than I am normally attracted to (I like them emaciated and still a little dope sick), but he had a cute face, bright eyes and dimples. God I love dimples. Beyond all of that he exuded confidence, could hold a conversation and banter. I asked him what he was doing now, if he’s not doing photography. “I’m a dating coach. I teach guys how to have confidence so they can find and pursue the type of women they want to be in a partnership with.”

Sounds simple enough.

Flash forward a few months. I meet a guy at a concert. He is fine. Fine like Dave Navarro, I only date porn stars fine. I automatically assume that he wouldn’t be interested in me. I don’t spend enough time on my hair or make-up for that kind of guy to take notice. But, still I would like to photograph him. We exchanged numbers, became facebook friends and a few months later we met up and went to another show.

Turns out apparently he was interested in me. We started a three-week long distance courtship while I was traveling. When I got back to town we met up for dinner.

Now dating has always been a challenge for me, though I don’t think it’s easy for anyone. I can see my thought process clear as day… in the beginning. Then, like a mudslide in a storm, I lose my footing and tumble down, scraping and bruising myself along the way, grasping for anything that has solid roots to keep me from falling further.

In order to minimize the damage, I decided that I needed to take things slow and observe this man. People show us who they are from the gate. Most of the time we… I… fall into a state where I begin to freely assigning character traits to people that they simply don’t have

We met up for our first date. I had a good time. It was fun, he was funny, intelligent and charming… but there was a baby pink flag. Nothing major, just a little- Hey! Over here. Keep your eye on this. We talked about life and art and career stuff and relationships. We both vocalized that we were starting to look for a partnership, not just someone to sleep with. Since I was leaving town in two days we scheduled a second date for the following evening. (I know… not taking it slow, but it was okay because I had decided I wasn’t going to sleep with him just yet. We were just getting to know each other.)

On the second date that baby pink flag turned into a fluorescent pink flag and up popped a few more equally vibrant caution signs. Observe Frankie. Take note. Towards the end of the night we were hanging out at my house and the final flag shot up. He said, “When I get old and my body starts to fall apart, I am just going to kill myself.”

First off, we say these kinds of statements when we are rebellious and 15 years old with a desire to shock people. But saying it at 35 means that you either seriously believe it, or have not put any thought into what you’ve said for the last 20 years. Either way, not good.

Second, I love my Grands. Anyone that knows me even in the slightest, knows, that I love my Grands. In fact, right now, they are getting old together and falling apart. But they are doing it together and it’s fucking incredible. I want that.

So it was clear. This was not my partner.

The next thought spawned from a back area of my mind where all thoughts after 10 pm are born. It’s the same are of my mind where chain-chewing a pack of gum seems like a good idea. It’s also the same area where drunk dialing used to come from, or the brilliant idea to re-fuck exes came from.

Well, if you don’t like him then it’s okay to sleep with him cause you won’t get emotionally involved.

And just like that, lickety-split, I turned up the heat.

Now, my therapist pointed out that sleeping with someone who you do not like as a partner is problematic for many reasons. It sends mixed messages… mainly to yourself.   If we are talking about carving out neural pathways and creating habits, I am training my body to get hot and bothered, for the wrong people. On top of that, I am telling myself that if my physical wants can be met, it’s okay to put my emotional, spiritual and mental wants on the backburner… heck, take ‘em off the stove all together! By that simple action, I am reinforcing my primary fear, which is that my needs and wants are excessive; that I am too much, that I am unlovable, and that I won’t meet my someone who is right for me.

Not to be crass, but I got this crazy idea in my mind growing up that I could portion off my vagina, from my heart, from my head. (I blame the baby boomers.) I thought that I could use those three parts separately from one another. It has taken me 28 years to realize that I cannot. It’s not possible.

After I slept with the guy [I decided I didn’t want to be with] I felt an overwhelming affection for him and I started to try to bargain… maybe it could work out… maybe that red flag could be green if we talked about it… maybe I misunderstood him when he said he’d kill himself.

I acted with my vagina, then my heart felt the pull, then my head tried to rationalize it.   Sex-->Heart-->Head.

It’s backwards.

So now I’ve decided to date in reverse.   Head-->Heart-->Sex.   My vagina cannot be trusted to make decisions.

Next Blog: find out my new rules of dating. Courtship Nouveau.

Blogging about dating.

2011-01-07T04:35:00.000-08:00

So I totally want to blog about my dating life. Mostly because I find it funny. But I'm also aware that blogging about my dating life might completely extinguish my dating life. For that reason I am going to blog about old relationships and work my way forward using pseudonyms, and (when appropriate) combining people and whatnot.

The idea of combining people alone is funny to me. A friend said- "I don't change boyfriends, I just change his name." As in, almost every guy she dates could be a replica of the last. Pretty close to the truth. But really I have more of a series. Like the set of figurines that were only available with a Happy Meal in my childhood.

Lets see. Where to start. I think I will all word them in present day as well.

So I decided to go on a date with this guy Tristan (obviously fake name). I knew him for a couple years before we started hanging out. He was sort of in and out with my group of friends, though he never dated anyone, so him leaving was never due to any of that sort of drama. More that he just liked to do drugs and would occasionally disappear for months at a time... (number one sign a guy will be a good boyfriend). SO, by the time I decided to go on a date with him he had been hanging around for about 9 months and was off the drugs. Now Tristan was handsome. Handsome in the would-be a movie star but lacks charisma sort of way. He was also smart. Smart in the super intelligent but too shy to say anything, so you think he's dumb, sort of way.

Now, anyone who knows me, at all, knows that shy is about the last thing I am, and my *charisma* is probably one of my better traits. (Up there with that healthy ego of mine.) But I thought Tristan deserved a chance, after all, I had been hanging out with him casually for years as friends and I really wanted to make out with him. The problem is, I sort of have this rule that I won't date guys who aren't at least a year off of drugs and alcohol, if they identify as an addict.

(I have my reasons for that, but they will make a couple of other good stories, so for now I will just leave it at that.)

The solution I decided was to take it slow. We talked on the phone, texted, all that nonsense. He showed me his art, talked to me about investing money etc. (As it turns out he was about 7 years older than I thought.) We went on a couple dates, keeping it at kissing, but then one night I ended up at his house super late. I decide that I'm definitely not sleeping with him, because we are "taking it slow". So instead we are tangled up in each other, cuddling and making out, fully clothed mind you... well, I'm wearing his shirt and boxers, and we are talking about life and art and what not. It seems all romantic and shit. Then he says:

"I have something to tell you."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"We just started hanging out, what on Earth can he have to tell me that needs an introduction like that? I hold my breath assuming that he is going to tell me which STD he has.
But no.

"Well... I'm gay"

Not, 'I think I like guys', or- 'I'm bisexual', or 'I have fantasies of experimenting'. But rather, flat out, straight (far from it), answer- 'I'm gay'.

The question that comes to mind, as our limbs are literally wrapped around each other, in an embrace, in his bed, late at night, is... What are we doing Here? Not that I would have a problem with him being gay, but I certainly would step back and let the men have him. In my most non-shocked, non-judgmental voice possible, between held breaths that only serve to barely cage in my creeping smile and self-mocking giggle (only you Frankie), I ask, "What do you mean you're gay?"

He gives a vague non-answer.

"Have you told anyone else?" No. "Are you seeing someone?" No. He looks at me like I've just asked if he's ever fucked a donkey. "Do you fantasize about men?" No. "Do you find a masculine body attractive... I know I do," I try to coax the Queer out. But he says No. I try to encourage him, telling him that I've experimented with girls... it's part of being raised in the Bay Area! But he says, no, he's never hooked up with a guy.

Finally he says, "Well, these guys the other day said that if you would let another guy suck your cock, you're gay."

Not 12 hours earlier Tristan was explaining to me how to trade stocks. Can he really, possibly believe this is true? I go on to ask him: "Have you had a guy suck your cock?" He says No, but he's not opposed to it. "But do you fantasize about guys?" No.

I let him know that I would/have let a girl give me head, in part because they know what the equipment is, thus, I am sure they are better at it than many of their counterparts. He still seems pretty sure he's gay.

So I tell him my truth. "I believe that sexuality runs in percentages. Sure some people are probably 100% straight or 100% gay, but I know straight guys who've kissed other men and I know gay boys that have (drunkenly) hooked up with girls, and queer girls that have (drunkenly) hooked up with boys and obviously there is the standard straight girls making out." It's like that song... no... not the Katy Perry one (eff her, she married my husband) That other song. The one by Blur.


 [For the record, I'd rather be quoting an Elastica song.]

That was my last date with Tristan.  Although he may or may not be gay, I will let him figure that out on his own.   I have so many good stories.  I know which one is next.

Manifest Destiny (was the name of a band when I was a teenager).

2011-01-02T17:22:00.000-08:00

It's a New Year, which, although it is pretend (in the sense that our calendar is based on the day some guy supposedly died... albeit some possibly rad guy who knew cool magic tricks), it still offers the opportunity to look at our time on this planet, refresh ourselves and recommit to conscious intention.

I have always been a fan of resolutions. Not because I actually believe I will do them... but because it is an outward sign of inward intention. It is us projecting our higher selves onto paper. Even if we don't do all of the things we say we want to do (or even if we only do them for a short time) we are allowing our hopes and goals to make it out of the head- where they will only live and die as a private fantasy- onto paper, where the Universe, our conscious and subconscious can process them.

Yesterday I stumbled upon a file in my computer called "Wishes". Years ago I read a book that had quoted a Harvard study about students who record their goals and students who didn't. They interviewed the graduates one year, five years, ten years, and twenty-five years later. The people who wrote down there goals with consistency were far more successful in life, relationships and business than their counterparts, and earned 3x as much on average.

The book also suggested that you write down 100 wishes. At first my head gave me reasons not to- my wishes are petty, they won't come true anyways, there is no way I can ever make that happen, or if anyone saw them they would laugh at me. But I did it anyways.

Just write them down.

I've done this for the past couple years now. Things that have come true (that I can remember off the bat) are- finding my birth father, speaking at a convention, living in a loft in the Cottonmill Factory in Oakland, having my photos published in international magazines and so on. I opened up the Wishes document (I started typing them on the computer last year) and found that 10 of my wishes had come true. Now, I wasn't out there trying to make these things happen- I had forgotten about the list. But the act of writing is magical. It helps process things, it helps manifest stuff, it creates indentations in the subconscious and can change the course of life.

The ten wishes that came true were this past year were:
I wish for a traveling photo show.
I wish to go to NY in 2010.
I wish to have a fancy bicycle.
I wish to attend Burning Man 2010.
I wish to have my 2011 photo exhibit funded before December 15th 2010
I wish to be able to ask for help without fear of rejection.
I wish to find an Austin based therapist.
I wish to find a psychiatrist that I trust.
I wish for an iphone 4
I wish to have a strong daily practice/routine that grounds me and builds stability.

Okay, so the iphone 4 seems silly, but I wanted one. (Which I got after I accidentally drowned mine in h2o... subconsciously intentional? not sure. but I wasn't terribly disappointed.)

The two that really strike me as interesting are the- Being able to ask for help without fear of rejection, and Having my 2011 photo exhibit funded before December 15th 2010.

It's interesting to see that one of my wishes was to be able to ask for help without fear of rejection. I remember being younger and being afraid that people would think I was needy or that I was using them, so I wouldn't ask for help. I would try to be self-sufficient and in turn, struggle.

Without being conscious of it, this whole year I have practiced asking for help. I went to Austin and couch surfed for almost three months before I found my house. I borrowed money for airfare twice (and repaid it). I asked for help proofreading and editing my book. I yurt surfed at Burning Man and hitchhiked from there in a RV with 5 European kids and 2 Canadians. I borrowed a sleeping bag, a wood burner, a letter stamping kit, and multiple cars throughout the year. To top it off, I launched the kickstarter project, asking for people to pre-order prints and shoots in order to help fund my 2011 photo exhibit (which happened before December 15th). This year was hugely successful because I was willing to ask for help without fear of rejection.

At my art opening last thursday three of my friends were sitting at a table chatting. David said lovingly "Frankie has no problem asking for help." I laughed, "Thats right, if I took a shit and didn't have toilet paper I'd be facebooking and texting people to get some!" We all laughed. "Yeah, not me" Leslie said. "I'd be like, 'oh... I guess I'll just use my hand!" Again, laughter.

Because my sister and I were passed around so much in our childhood, I thought that we were either too much to handle or not good enough to keep. I thought that we were some how defective. Broken toys. So I learned impeccable manners and attempted to become Need Less. If I didn't have needs, no one would leave because they wouldn't have a reason to, because I didn't ask anything of them. As I got older brought this practice into relationships, settling for less than I deserved because I was too afraid to set boundaries or ask for what I needed. Over the last few years I have learned that my strengths are in my opinions, in my needs and in my boundaries. I have learned to ask for help and in turn, I have been able to show up and help others when they need help. I have shared time, couches, resources, food, shoots, cameras, money, experience, knowledge and support. It's a circle. (Note: not that you should give when you don't have... that would just be silly and fall under the category of people-pleasing, which is another word for manipulation. But if you have a hammer and someone needs a hammer, lend it)

Paying It Forward was a concept that was given to me when I first got into recovery. I had 3 months clean, I just got dumped, it was the day before I was supposed to assist my favorite advertising photographer for the first time and my phone got disconnected. A guy at the meeting asked me for my phone number. "I'll give it to you but there isn't any point, it's turned off." The next day I was at the photo studio trying to focus although I was obsessed on the stupid guy. My phone rang, startling me. It was the guy from the meeting telling me "This is how we get through life. Together. You don't have to pay me back, just pay it forward when someone else needs their phone connected." And so I did a couple years later.

Manifest your destiny. Write down your goals. Help one another. And be gentle with yourself for being human. We are our toughest critics.

Art Opening and Catching Up!

2010-12-26T02:29:00.000-08:00

Hello!

I hope everyone is well! I am sitting in my Grandparent's living room, well fed and feeling pretty content. The name tags Livia and I made for the show triggered a memory of mine. My birth Grandma had a family tree on the wall and each time a child was born she had a little silver cameo-profile of a boy or a girl engraved with the new additions name and birthdate. The metal dog tags I have are far more rugged than the profiles... but the memory inspired me to make a family tree for my adopted Grandparents. Who are total, absolute, craftsmen, so it works out.

I asked my adopted dad if he had a piece of wood that I could use. He asked if it needed to be really nice or if it could have 'character'. The more knots the better, I told him. He cut me two pieces, one to practice on. I then asked my uncle to borrow his letter stamps again, and then asked the other uncle to help me sand the wood. The one thing I wasn't too sure on was how to get the drawing of the tree onto the wood. I didn't want to use a permanent pen because I thought it might bleed at the edges since the wood is so porous. I ended up asking on facebook if anyone had a wood-burning kit and my friend/kickstarter supporter Molly said she did! You are all so helpful!!!

Below is a photo of the family tree I made. The first one came out looking sort of like a 5th graders art project, or a mushroom, so this was my attempt at a more sophisticated tree. In the lawn are tags for all of the family pets my Grandparents have had over the years, including: Wally the raccoon that my uncle Ric adopted (who slept, ate, and shat in the house), Squelch & Company-- the duck's who were in charge of de-slugging and de-snailing the garden, and the many cats and dogs. All of these animals are in the pet cemetery on the property, which is kind of morbid.

By proxy, you all had part in this. The family tree. Not the pet cemetery. Obviously.

So, back to news about the show. I met up with one of the Kickstarter supporters 10 days ago to do his shoot. We went out into the foggy, wooded hills of west Marin. It was great. He had checked out the show before we met and encouraged me to look into galleries. He said that the images are gallery quality and that standing over people at the cafe, trying to get a good look at the detailed art, is a little awkward. I really appreciated the feedback. Now I just need to learn about how to show at and get involved with galleries. He put me in contact with a friend of his who has experience. Yay.

The opening is this coming Thursday, the 30th from 6-9pm. The cafe owner let me know that he doesn't want any outside food or beverages since the cafe serves beer, wine and food. He also doesn't want any live music, which is a little bit of a bummer. I am trying to think outside of the box for ways to make it feel like an opening without these things. (Another reason to show at a gallery, I suppose.)

I printed high quality bookmarks to give away at the opening. They have a photo of mine, info about what Saturn Return is and survival tips. I will also have a guest book there. If you have any other ideas, please feel free to pass them onto me! In the past I have had an Eve of New Years Eve tea party where I encouraged people to write down things (thoughts, people, habits) they wanted to leave behind in the old year, then we would fire-place burn or paper-shred these old scripts. Perhaps I can work out a setup for this sort of activity in a corner of the cafe... borrow a paper shredder or something. Hmmm. Maybe I am getting too "creative".

Alright, I hope you all are thriving and in good health. If you are in the Bay Area, please come see me at the opening- 6-9pm, 1122 Fourth Street, San Rafael, CA 94901

xoxox

Frankie

the Undead.

2010-12-18T13:30:00.000-08:00

Hello!
Well, an update as far as the last post goes- my birth mother is not dying. Her ex-boyfriend, who I totally trust, called me and let me know that yes, she does have hospice care, however, no, she is not dying. Hospice can provide her with some consistent care that the hospital can't. So, surprisingly, I was a little disappointed. Not that I want her to die! It just affirmed that she is the same person she has always been. I had a thread of hope that maybe her impending death would offer an opportunity for her to show up and be the person I had always hoped she would be. Like maybe I would go to see her in San Diego and spend a week getting to know her. She could tell me about her life, what led up to her disappearing, and what she did for the 20 years she was MIA. You know, all that sort of stuff. But, apparently, no such luck. There is a quote in a book I like that says "for me to expect an insane person to act rationally, is my own insanity." For me to expect someone who has always been unavailable, evasive, and irresponsible to suddenly, miraculously, become available, responsible and honest... is my crazy. People show us who they are. We just need to listen, look, process, and accept.

love,
Francesca.

Everybody's Dying.

2010-11-26T20:00:00.000-08:00

Well, not everyone. I mean yes, in that zen sort of life is a circle sense, we are all dying. However I just found out that my birth mother has had hospice care for the last 6 weeks. I don't actually know how true this is. She told me weeks ago that she was dying but I didn't believe her. Not that expiration isn't a possibility- she has been a smoker and drug addict the majority of her life- but if you know anything about active addicts you know that they are liars. I told her to have her boyfriend call me. Until I hear from him I'm not 100% sold on this death thing.

What comes up for me is how resentful I am at her. Still. I have seen her once since I was 4 years old and now I feel like I don't get to be mad because she is pulling out the Death card. I wanted to deal with it on my time. She put me on hold for 20 years and now I feel like I should get to put her on hold a little longer while I live my life before I have to show up and be available to play "daughter" to her pretend "mother". And I probably will show up because I am so caught up on not having her, that I will probably step up and... do... what? Hang out with her while she dies? Ugh.

On top of that my favorite man in the whole wide world is getting older and misplacing his marbles. Last night I had nightmares about talking to a vacant and deformed him, and other people near and dear to me being really upset about it. I woke up at 3:30am with an overwhelming panic and sense of impending doom.

Last week a dear friend called me saying her mother was diagnosed with cancer and had a few months to live. I connected her to two other just lovely friends of mine who had also lost their mothers in the last couple years. "What a sad sorority to welcome you into," one of them warmly responded. "I wish we were connecting in happier times." The day after that I bumped into a girl friend who is 24 years old and has been diagnosed with stage 3 cervical cancer. I connected her with my cousin who is 30 years old and facing stage 4 breast cancer, which she was diagnosed with at 26. Oh this life we live.

It's not just me. We are all dying. And I am terribly afraid of not doing or saying or learning something before the most influential people in my life leave. The thought of not having my Grandmother alive to see me get married, teach me how to be a mother and a wife alone is too much too think about. She is the only woman I can imagine taking those lessons from.

fcuk.
Generally I am grateful but today I have the sads.

Dog tags.

2010-11-24T21:37:00.001-08:00

Hello Everyone!

The past few weeks have been crazy! I had a minor scare on Saturday when I received an email saying the funds had been deposited into my bank account, however my bank account said otherwise. On top of that I accidentally made two Amazon accounts with the same email and different passwords... how that is possible I have no idea... so I couldn't log into my Amazon account to check on the deposit- it would just send me to an error page saying that the email account was already in use by someone else. It was stressful. Luckily, like a few people had said, the money delay was probably a Sunday issue. Sure enough Monday morning the funds appeared in my account. Phew!

I was mostly stressed because as of Monday (read: 8 days till hanging) I still had not ordered the prints. I called the lab and they said they could have all my prints (and yours) done by Friday! Which is way faster than I expected.

Livia asked me about how I was going to show the names of the prints. I hadn't even planned on putting names up but the question got me thinking. The lab offers to drill holes in the corner of the prints so that you can hang them by wire. And the lab also makes metal photo dog tags. How cool would it be to have the name of the print and edition number hanging from a dog tag off the lower corner of a print? So cool.

So yesterday I set Livia on the task of pricing engraved dog tags. (I felt like the photo dog tag would distract from the print). She walked down the huge hill we are staying on, to a pet store that only had brass ones. There was another fancy-pants dog place in Mill Valley we checked out, however they only had chrome ones which, since the prints are on aluminum, felt too fancy. I don't want the tags to outshine the prints! However, on the counter they had silver and copper hand stamped dog tags ...for $24 a piece!!! I fell in love with how they looked. So we left the store and I started calling around to jewelry enthusiasts and DIY'ers to see if they knew where to get a stamping kit and the metal dog tags. I was so excited about the idea. Plus, it gives Livia something to do. She is so eager to work but I keep running out of projects because she is so efficient.

At dinner that night I was telling my Grandparents about my idea to custom make the tags. My Grandpa said "if it has anything to do with Metal, talk to Mark. That is his area of expertise!" I had completely forgot! My uncle Mark owns Paragon Machine Works- a machine shop that makes custom titanium, aluminum and copper parts. I walked over to his house and interrupted his family dinner. He was super willing to help and seemed, even for his calm demeanor, excited. He gave me the catalog for a company that makes metal tags in a variety of shapes and allowed me to put them on his account. He also lent me a letter stamping kit!

So one day after coming up with the idea, we have the tags ready to be produced. How exciting.

Tomorrow morning Livia and I are waking up to get on the 4am ferry heading to Alcatraz for the Sunrise Ceremony. Native American tribes all over California come to dance. It will be freezing. The forecast says 37º. Wish us luck! Poor Livia, she thought she was on vacation from the cold weather!

I am really very excited for the show.

So much love,
Frankie

Kickstarted

2010-11-18T02:35:00.000-08:00

I am back in San Francisco for the next few weeks. If you look below you will see my Kickstarter video. I decided to do a Kickstarter project because my upcoming photo show got bumped up from January 1st to December 1st, and I had yet to get any prints made... and I had no money to make said prints.

For those of you who don't know what Kickstarter is, it is a great website where people can post up projects and ask for funding to help "kickstart" a project. In trade for donating, or backing as they call it, you receive rewards. Rewards vary project to project. A musician might give a reward of a CD in exchange for funds to help record the cd. Essentially you can pre-sell or promote your project before it exists in order to bring it to life. It is pretty great way to see if your project will float and if people are interested in it.

With Kickstarter you have to set a dollar amount that you would like to raise by a deadline. If you do not raise all the money by the deadline, the project is a wash- no one has to donate any money and you don't have to provide rewards. One of the projects that was recently completed was a tripod for an iphone. The two guys who came up with the idea were asking for $10,000 to manufacture this product and one of the rewards was a pre-ordered iphone tripod for $20. By the time their deadline came they had raised $137,000 instead of $10,000. This is an extreme example but it is a great way to "test market" an idea or product with minimal overhead. Brilliant.

I had no idea if my project would succeed but I set a goal of $3000 in 8 days.
I asked my friend Chad help with the editing. He agreed and suggested that he help shoot the video too, which was awesome. I sat down the day before Halloween to brainstorm what I wanted the video to look like and what I would say. Then I opened up imovie and began sort of roughly piecing it together. Next thing you know it was 5am and I was totally obsessed. Chad and I were supposed to meet the next day to shoot the video but I let him know that I thought I had it handled. He said to send it over to him if I needed any help.

I ended up completely pitbulled onto the project for about 30 hours, missing all Halloween festivities. I had never made a video with imovie though I had recorded a few clips with the built in camera. Immediately after I finished it I posted the video on Kickstarter and Facebook and people started sending in donations. At first a few friends donated, then some friends of friends, then some complete strangers who found me through Kickstarter. It was incredible. Then people began posting my video on different pages and it all sort of took off.

Within 3 days I had reached my target goal of $3000 and by the deadline it had totaled at $4450 which is very exciting. Because the project went over the target, by quite a bit, I was able to hire my friend Livia from NYC to come and assist me. Which is really exciting. Right now we are waiting for the funds to come through Amazon. It is sort of a hurry up and wait situation. I am loading all of the photos up to get sent to the lab and Livia is assembling a database and organizing things for the show. Once the funds clear we will be sent into turbo mode.

I am really excited and grateful about all of this. I feel blessed. It is very humbling to feel so much support from the people around me. I feel as if I am community built. I am community built.

Kickstarter!

2010-11-01T14:17:00.001-07:00

The writing process.

2010-10-26T11:17:00.000-07:00

I have known since I was young that I would write a book... because... well, the reality of my life was just too weird not to write.

2009 and the Great Recession offered me the little push I needed. If I wasnt making $ at least I could make art. I signed up for an autobiography night class in San Francisco at the City College and for online course through the Gotham writers workshops in NYC. The class had us read nine memoirs and work on our writing techniques.

The funny thing about the Universe is that when you put something out there you are bound to get a response. Two months after I started writing the book my half brother found me on facebook. It turned out that i have 7 half sisters, a half brother, and 13 nieces and nephews. My birth father, who I hadn't seen since I was four, and the majority of my newfound family was alive and well, living in Kansas and Oklahoma.

What great material for the book. I decided to take February through May off in order to just write. My goal was to bring my writing up to present day. I joined a writers group and posted my daily word count so that I had some support and accountability to what I was doing.

My sister and I scheduled a reunion with our birth fathers family and it hit me that maybe this is where the book would end. We went to the reunion in rural Kansas on Easter Sunday and met our very very large family. While it was a great experience, it was clear that this was not the ending point.

For the next four months every time I tried to pick up the pen (by which I mean computer) I would hear an external tv announcer version of my voice narrating my every sentence. "I thought to myself..." or "then she said..." It was terribly distracting and impaired my ability to write.

At this point I had 106,000 words and no ending. What do you do when your life hasn't caught up with the book? In June I sent out a handful of query letters to literary agents. I got a response from a New York agency requesting a book proposal. Well, I had worked writing the book and spent no energy at all on a proposal, so I put out my tentacles and a friend forwarded me to a writing coach, Kristy Lyn Billuni.

We worked together for 5 sessions on the proposal at which point I mentioned that the book wasn't done and I was having teleprompter problems. Her suggestion was to print out what I had of the book in a landscape page set up, two column format so that I could see it in real life, then- put in on the shelf. She suggested that I pick a date and until that point- quit writing on the book and just focus on living life. In addition she suggested I write morning pages-3 pages stream of conscious- when i first wake up- before the voices are really active. What great advice.

The date I picked was October 18th, my 28th birthday.

So here it is. I am 28, Venus is in retrograde and I am beginning my Saturn return. I have tacked up butcher paper on the wall of my studio that has the timeline of my life and chapter layout of the book. Today I will pick up pen and paper (computer) and start working on the book again.

My goals for myself are:

Write morning pages

Cook at home

Write/Edit 6 hours a day

Bike ride, walk or yoga

Read other memoirs

Study the craft of writing

Contact and communicate with other writers

Spiritual maintenance

Spend time with other creative folks coexisting or collaborating

Burning Man

2010-09-01T11:57:00.001-07:00

artSo decisions have been made. My goal of Burning Man is to get a creative flush; a good brainwashing. I have been shooting a lot of boring stuff for a client I love. It has made me want to throw in the hat with photography as a whole. pursue some other random creative art career. Like comedy (I am not a comedian). The truth is that work is good, money is good, but I need to keep my eyes on my bigger goals. I want to shoot advertising and editorial work. I want to work with stylists and art directors and make-up artists, interesting subjects and story lines

I crave a challenge and I crave collaboration.

The teenage me would never have admitted that I wanted to shoot ad work, there was much fuck-the-man talk of Selling Out among my peer group. But I came to terms with it a couple years ago. Selling Out is doing something you dislike doing in order to make money. For me that is catalog work, babies and weddings (with the exception of the occasional friends celebration). So, while I have been in Austin I have been blessed with a great client who I love. Everyone who works for this company is awesome. But the shoots lately have consisted of me, in a shoebox cinderblock room, by my lonesome, shooting product. Part of me feels like an asshole for being discontent while I have work and so many others don't. What I need to remember is that everything is a process and every experience is a stepping stone. I am right where I am supposed to be.

So back to Burning Man. Along with my goal of creative brain flushing, I want to try to be as present and in my body as possible and open to experiences. Last time I went to Burning Man was in 2000, fresh out of high school and high as a kite. My goals were very different then; to get as fucked up as possible and take photos. I spent good portion of my time nursing my pill and alcohol mix induced hangovers. While I had fun (no doubt I had fun) I am so not that girl today.

So in order to give myself some structure (I respond good to structure) I have come up with a basic goal list. My daily prescription if you will.

1/2 hour of sitting meditation somewhere in the playa in the mornings

1 hour of shooting photos

1 hour of writing

1 meeting

1 hour of walking or biking meditation around the playa

1/2 hour of sitting meditation at night.

So really 5 hours of the day occupied with some form of being present is good. I don't think it's too much and of course I will probably fall short on different days and that is totally okay with me. It's good to have a basic structure and idea of where the mark is.

As far as the camera goes. I have decided I will bring it and not allow myself to make Burning Man about *hunting* out the perfect shot. There is a photographer who gave himself a challenge of taking one photo a day, for a year. Only one. So if he got his shot in the morning and saw a great shot at night- tough luck! It's a wild idea. The concept of limiting oneself creatively. So, while I am not giving myself one shot a day, one hour is a start.

Wish me luck and thank you alll for all of your support and love and support and love.

Audi 5000 G.

2010-08-27T09:13:00.000-07:00

I admit that I am terrible at dating. There is not a lot of confusion on that front. I pretty much date people based on whether or not I think they are inspiring and/or talented. And if I can't find some area in their life that I think is inspiring and/or talented, I will superimpose it on them. *poof* like magic. He is such a good...

So as most everyone knows I am a photographer (or most anyone who might be reading this). I am living in Austin these days and I got hooked in with a agency that hires me pretty often to shoot videos. Note, I am a photographer- not a videographer. A month or so ago I was hired to shoot videos for a huge national company. It was exciting, but... I am a photographer. Which only matters because I still don't really know how to light for video. Amidst the 6 day shoot I got really stressed to the point of being really melodramatic and wanting to quit. Of course I am professional so all of my freaking out was done off the clock and away from the eyes of my client. Instead of quitting the job, I quit the guy I was dating. But I was eloquent about it, as to be expected. With all the class I could muster- at 1:30 AM- I sent a drama-rich text message and went to bed.

I knew I would be so embarrassed by the message I sent that it took me three days to put together the courage to re-read it. More or less it went something like this: I want out. I can't do this anymore. I know it's late and I may be sabotaging, but this is taking up too much brainspace for all the other stuff I have going on in my life. I am the only one who has ever been here for myself and I need to take care of my self.

Insert embarrassed shudder. What really strikes me as *funny* is how incorrect the blanket statement of- I am the only one who has ever been here for myself- um... NOT true. Ha. People love me. People love me bad. People have gone out of their way to shed their love on me and help me and that has been true for all of my life. Teachers, therapists, friends and especially my adopted family. Anytime there is a statement that is so absolute, it can only be wrong. Furthermore, I could have easily been talking to my client.

Ha. Oh well. Another one bites the dust. We've talked since then and made out again. It was good. But just not right. Whatever that means. (I think it mostly means that he is weary of having emotional grenades tossed in again.) Regardless, one thing that I know to be truesies is that the Universe has a plan. I don't need to squeeze people into it and I don't need to push people out of it. Everyone who has been put in my life was meant to be there. There is a saying: a reason, a season or a lifetime.

Hair obsessed...

2010-07-18T13:51:00.000-07:00

These are my gold plated problems today... long hair or short hair; blonde, brown, red or black hair.... okay, i know none of you truly care... but I am obsessed and indecisive so could you pretend you do for like 2 minutes and I will love you forever... and yes, I know I am being super ridiculous.

SO... 8I and 8J are what my hair looks like now...

Questions
1) which length do you like best?
2) which color do you like best?

Trip Home

2010-06-25T09:50:00.000-07:00

I just got back from a week long trip home [San Francisco]. I was worried. Before I left Austin it hit me that I didn't really miss California. Sure, I absolutely missed my Grandparents, my friends, my aunt, my kitteens that adopted my neighbors (aunt. uncle. cousins.) But, I didn't really miss living in California. On a daily conscious level anyways. I was worried that going back for a visit would suddenly trigger all of the ache to be there.

Before I left I did my routine tantrum with the guy I am dating. But I forgot it was routine, so it seemed really dramatic and important. The truth is, for as long as I can remember I have been terrible with goodbyes, even if logically I know that I will be back, or you will be back, or it's just a short trip, whatever. None of the logic changes the fact that the day before departure I start a fight. I nitpick, I throw mini-emotional grenades and I push people away. It first became apparent when Margarite (lé sister) and I were adopted by separate people and she was moved to Sequim Washington. I would go and visit her for week long stays and notoriously we would have a big blow-up my last days there. She doesn't do it; this isn't a habit for her. Just for me.

Anyhow, the guy dealt with it well. He talked to me for a bit, expressed that he was happy I was vocalizing my ish and then he went to bed. I however continued to have a meltdown which resulted in a very long text banter: the world is ending, I'm done, it's over, blablabla, with one of our mutual friends. Who, again, dealt with my mini-drama well, but basically told me I was cray-cray and everything was fine. Which it was. The next day, post sleep delirium haze, I remembered that this was my pattern and really, probably, had very little to do with him.

I got in on Wednesday and was scooped at the airport by my lovely friend Branca Nitzsche. My week was spent in the company of various lovely family members and creative friends. Thursday my 18 year old cousin graduated high-school. We went to dinner with his parents, our grandparents, his brother and brother's wife (who I love and who were visiting from NYC). Friday I went to the art show of my dear friend and amazing painter Justine Frischmann, Saturday I went to one of my favorite meetings, Sunday I went to the Fairfax Festival with Jesse Crosswhite then headed to a bbq at Theo Mindell's house. Monday I spent hours cleaning out the basement (much to Grandma's happiness) then headed to sf to see some great friends including Kim Harmon, Susie Harris and Ryan Debonville. I even squeezed in a regrettably short visit with my Auntie, Jerilyn Brandelius. Tuesday I got to speak at the first meeting I ever attended (and boy was I out of practice). Then Wednesday Justine and her lovely husband took me to the airport.

One of the highlights of my trip was getting a call on Sunday from a woman who I met at Justine's art show. She is a fellow photographer and writer Christine Krieg. I had told her about my get-up-and-go move to Austin. She called to let me know that I had inspired her to sublease her SF apartment and take off to Africa to shoot documentary photography. Whoa! How cool is that! I felt honored.

Of course the visit did exactly what I expected it to do- instil the miss. I have so many incredible wonderful friends. Brilliant, creative, ambitious, lovely friends. I didn't even mention the dozens of others I got to see briefly. It hit me that my abundant Bay Area social life is part of the reason I need to be in Austin. Less social life= less distraction= more productivity.

I love San Francisco. It will always be home. But for now, Austin is where I need to be.

Now for setting up shop.

Apparently...

2010-05-26T23:30:00.000-07:00

Apparently I'm that girl who blogs about her ex-boyfriends. Really? How did that happen. Oh well.

So, a New Life I have before me. Not like New Life like "pregnant" (like Mollie is, go Mollie!) but New Life as in new town, new people, new things. Austin mothereffing Texas. So much has gone on in the last few months.

To review in bullet points beginning in January 2010:
• I had a perfect little nest but I got stuck. stagnant. So I decided to
• Take a month off to write a book. I
• Bought a ticket to New York for February 1st *what was I thinking?* Of course,
• It was too cold so a week later- Feb 8th, I left for Austin Tx.
• I couch surfed for weeks between dear friends JW, Neia and baby Charlotte, and my oldest friend Lila.
• I wrote 65,600 words of a memoir.
• I went back to CA on March 4th.
• Stayed for ten days and on the 14th I turned around and went back to Austin to go to
• SXSW. Magically I
• Found an house for rent in 78704 (which I guess is the desirable/hip area) and
• Signed a lease. My sister Margarete flew in from Sequim and we
• Drove with another friend to Oklahoma and then Kansas to meet my birth father, 4 new half sisters, half brother and many nieces, nephews and cousins. It was
• Wild. I
• Continued to write and now have 106,450 words typed up. I
• Realized after I signed the lease that I wasn't too sure there was photo work here... hmm... Luckily my friends let me
• Couch surf for another 6 weeks until
• May 1st (my Grandma's birthday), at which point I moved into my new
• Nest.

Turns out there is work here. I have been shooting for an marketing agency and I love my clients. Yay for work.

At some point I need to go back to CA to get my stuff. That some point looks like it will be June 9th. My awesome friend and painter Justine bought me a present- *a ticket home*!! She is having an art show on the 11th. It is going to be fantastic. I can just tell. You should come:

All in all life is good. so good. I feel like my ducks are getting rowed up. I think my time in Austin will be about balancing the scales. A little of this, a little of that.

¡Los enamorados! ¡Te amo!

2010-04-23T22:47:00.000-07:00

Watch more cool animation and creative cartoons at Aniboom

Calm Down

2010-04-22T01:04:00.001-07:00

Calm Down he said May 15, 2005 7:38:37 PM

And I still can't quite calm down.

It's years past the initial expiration date and I am once again late night reminiscing, beating myself up for leaving. Beating myself up for running. But it's what I do best. My childhood may as well have been a series of marathons. I am olympically trained in the art of abandoning. But everything happens for a reason. Right? This (mother meeting, photo succeeding, quadruple death dealing, father finding, word writing) journey since we split would have been more than he could have handled. It was better left for the light hearted haphazard love affairs. The simple surface scratchers.

But ala Sinead... nothing compared.

He said:
-
subject: calm down
-
it is going to be ok
the future will unveil itself when it needs to
you are the most beautiful girl i have ever had the chance to be with
i love you too much sometimes
i am not going to fall away
it is you and me from now on.
i miss you also
have a productive week
you are an amazing talent who hasn't even begun to scratch the surface
if you remain willing and keep working
avoiding being ruled by fear
there is nothing you and i control
you own me
and i will prove it
i love you to death
remember your closed
those are the rules
love
----

We drove hundreds upon hundreds of miles and talked all sorts of early bird nonsense. He would get my initial- a sprawling F- tattooed in script across the length of his ribcage. I would get his. Not sprawling but delicate. We would move there and do that and make them. It was so good before I ran. And he ran. And then we tried to fix it with broken fingers and broken hearts and instead just caused wreckage.

It was gross and human and embarrassing.

And I still miss him. Mostly at night. And when I hear cat power or antony, heartbeats, sinead, cocorosie, the boss, the beatles, the pixies, yyy's ... Fuck.

Welcome to Austin. You're still here.

- This blog was posted using an annoying, yet convenient, handheld device. Please excuse any unusual grammar and/or awkward spelling.

The art of the dirty note.

2010-02-26T02:07:00.000-08:00

I have always loved the dirty note. It's a special little something to say "Hey, I want to take over your mind and distract you from all your responsibilities with thoughts of my xyz." It's hot. It has always been hot and it will always be hot.

My first dirty note attempt was with Tommy. We were in 7th grade I think. He had a cut on his finger and I joked about him not being allowed to finger me because I might get AIDS. Of course I had yet to be fingered, and I had done a school report on AIDS, so I knew that the chances of two virgins passing AIDS through a paper cut was ridiculously unlikely, but hey, it was a way to slip something sexual into an otherwise tame note.

A few years earlier Nirvana's Rape Me had been released and was filling up the Live 105 airwaves. So, snap forward to 8th grade and I pass a note joking about rape. He so fine, I'd let him rape me. Okay, it probably wasn't that crass, but still, I got caught and sent to Mr. Meroff's office. He was the Vice Principle and in charge of sentencing. My teacher had another student bring the note to the office so I wouldn't destroy the evidence. I got called in and sat down, red-faced, eyes cast down. Mr. Meroff looked at me, the note still folded shut in his hands, he rips it up and tosses it in the trash. "If you don't read my stuff, I won't read yours." He gave me a week of detention. Not bad I thought arrogantly as I walked back to class, only to find my teacher in the middle of a lecture about how Rape Is Not A Joking Matter. (It's not, it is very serious business.)

That slowed my dirty note passing for a while until I got into my first "real" relationship with Winston. For Valentines day I made him a book of red card stock, hand bound by black electrical tape. It had a big black X on the front and said "to W heart F". It was a fiction story from the perspective of a guy. It rattled off all of the scandalous things the 15 year old me could think of. What I failed to realize is that a guy doesn't really want to read a fiction piece written from a guys perspective. Hahaha. He seemed a little confused. I took that from him as soon as we broke up and lost somewhere in my house (I know exactly where it is).

Let's jump ahead to 2002. I am 20 years old and have (once again) magically orchestrated a boy visiting me from across the US. [This is a pattern I would keep up for the next... actually to present day. I happen to be pretty talented at making guys fall infatuated with me from a distance. Unavailability: The ultimate aphrodisiac.] So yeah, Ryan a model I shot while in photo school, was in town touring with a metal band (side note: metal and techno stress me out). He and I had been ticking away long over-romantic emails for months. The band was playing at the Pound his first night there, so Lila and I went. I decided to write a dirty note on a napkin for him. The first draft came out poorly so I put it in my pocket and started a second one. I gave him the note and about 20 minutes later, a girl comes up to me, followed by a video camera, with the lust note in hand. Turns out it was the rough draft which I had dropped on my way in from outside. Apparently a bouncer picked it up and showed it to half the club before the girl got her hands on it. Pretty funny.

Now, this has nothing to do with dirty notes, but it is of similar embarrassment level. My first boyfriend when I got clean had a thing for internet porn. (A common occurrence when you take the drugs out of the addict.) He had downloaded Limewire on my computer and I had no problem with him watching porn. Year's later after we'd broken up I am working on a shoot with Dell computers and the art directors and the photo assistants decide to swap music. In case you are unclear on what that means, I was swapping music with the Client. We all brought in our harddrives and one gentleman took them home, filled them up with everyones music and brought them back. A few days pass and all of the guys start looking at me funny, a little more smiley than normal. Apparently all of the Porn downloads to the same place the Music downloads to, so not only did they get my Massive Attack and QOTSA, they also got Gang Bang 5 and a whole mess of other titles I didn't know existed on my computer. They ruthlessly teased me for weeks. I swear it wasn't mine.

Now lets briefly talk internet. Nothing is sacred on the internet. Heck, nothing is sacred on cell phones either. There was something so sweet about notes passed in traditional form- pen to paper. You know, the scribbled, the nervous, the exceptionally neat handwriting (god forbid they get confused about what you're trying to say), and then the actual passing of. Nowadays we're detached, relying on monotone text messages and perfectly orchestrated emails. The tone of both is completely dependent on the recipients state of mind. Add the whole "dating" scene that we have going on (this is not our grandparent's generation) and things get especially confusing. Flashback to 24, I am dating 2 great guys (one in Santa Cruz, one in Sacramento, neither in San Francisco). One comes to visit me and takes a shot with my cell phone of me, topless, wearing his jeans. It was a hot shot and you couldn't really tell they were guy jeans. So I decide a few days later that I am going to send it to him, and Sacramento. (not my moral high point.) The next day I get a call... "So, who is the 916 number you sent it to?" I owned up to it and since there had been no talk of monogamy there wasn't technically any boundaries broken, but I still felt like an asshole.

My friend JW from Austin teases me now "You couldn't have sent it in two texts? What, was that was too much work... too many buttons Frankie? It was just easier to forward it to both of them? Classy." Then he laughs with his crooked smile and shiny eyes.

So now I am 27, still haphazard with the dirty texts and somewhat liberal with the written notes as well. My latest experience with the written word was a New Yorker. (again, never from home, if they are from home, move- keep 'em all at bay- arms length away, lest you -I- get knocked up and forget that I want to write and shoot and write.) The elaborate emails and detailed snail mailed letters, art projects, colored floor plans, booklets, dinner photo texts, dirty late night shadowy shots, all fizzled to a pathetic pop. I didn't get it. It looked so good on paper (but anything can be justified when worded right).

The truth is it doesn't matter. I think back on all of the archives of art projects, poems and letters I've received and how much I value them. Even when the things didn't work out (but what does 'work out' really mean? Marriage and bebes? Nah.) These people took the time to make something from their pumping heart. Crafty snapshots of me through the eyes of another. I like me. I like having proof that I affect people. (I know all the psychobabble reasons why- blablabla childhood bla- but all of that aside- it makes me feel good.) I like that I make you crazy enough to write something, make something, do something, even if it's temporary. Somehow I sat perched in your mind, separate, hidden and guarded. Like a gem. So, a casual note of passing adore isn't a bad thing. We just keep in a box. Store it for a rainy day. Evidence that you are human, I am human, capable of shedding drops, openhearted as a heart can be (we all a ruin like broken leaves). Capable of breaking and being broken. We are passionate and whole; beautiful, fucked up, intricate, lovely, lovely people.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AAY00ZyZt_E

Lyrics to Promise :

Open hearted as a heart can be

'Cause we all a ruin like broken leaves

I give you me in oceans of tears up to my knees

Stitched together like pants and sleeves

I carry this carapace worn thin by he and she

Danced to dust and dusk and

Strung along the highway

I found my way belligerent

Following the stars of your eyes

Promise me that you'll cherish

This tarnished

Oh this tarnished offering

And if you take me inside

And you give me a place to hide and cry

I'll bathe you in the crystal light

That sleeps between my thighs

At times you fear the angle's sigh

To the lord and heavens that this ain't right

But in this chalice you'll find the wine

Our hands hold bonfires burning bright

And the heart is dumb and the heart is blind

But I think you'll find that the lord is kind

And I pray you'll cherish this tarnished offering

Burnt silver brushed lavender offspring

Promise me that you'll cherish

This tarnished

Oh this tarnished offering

Oh this offering

Burnt silver brushed lavender offspring

Sprung from me when first we kissed

You held me quietly a rush purged me of my past

Opened a desert of diamonds vast

Glinting and a tiny chorus of swallows

Swing open the door freed the caged bees and wallows

Swarm geometric patterns on the sun

Eclipse new moon

And tempt my werewolf not to run

Tempt my werewolf not to run

Promise me that you'll cherish

This tarnished

Oh this tarnished offering

My final for my Autobiography class.

2009-12-17T21:51:00.000-08:00

Life is art. Every shift and turn is an opportunity, or not, to grow and discover gems of insight and experience. For as long as I can remember I knew that I was going to write an autobiography. I suppose part of that is because I began to tell my story at a young age. Early on I saw how people reacted when I told them parts of my past, and I enjoyed it. People always seemed to be shocked at how I could rattle off the various trials and tribulations and not flinch, even as a young, obviously affected girl.

My decision to return to school this past semester was because of a positive experience I had with taking the Women's Initiative for Self Employment course (this was the closest I had gotten to a classroom environment in 5 years). The 11 week course gave me a new frame work to look at my business and life through. This excelled my ability to produce work and use my time in a way that I was proud of. I decided that in order to continue to grow at this excelled pace, it would be best for me to continue taking courses at a community college. Originally I looked at College of Marin, since it is closer to my house, however there was nothing there that really drove me. I signed up for Psychology and Yoga. Later that week I went to the City College website and was reminded of the incredible classes they offer– Archery, Butchery, Lingerie Design, Auto Upholstery– all of the classes are so specialized in comparison to the standard English-Math-Science of other schools. I found the Autobiography class and an Advertising class and signed up, dropping my College of Marin Classes.

What I didn't expect from this class was the various levels of intimacy that naturally grew out of the reading and the course load. I found that while I have told this story in my head, over and over, it is not the same as putting it on paper. There is an art to the words, an art to the story telling. Arriving in the class the second week I was excited and scared. The professor [you] was convinced the class was full, understandably, since all of the seats were taken and the overflow students were either sitting on the ground or holding up the walls. I was determined though– this damn autobiography had been on my resolution list since 2000 and if I didn't get it out of me I was going to explode, or at least it felt that way. At the end of the class I informed Dr. Crockett that I was willing to audit the course. He informed me that there just wasn't enough room.

That evening I went home and decided that I didn't care if there wasn't enough room, I was sure someone would drop the course, so I sat down and wrote the Memory assignment. The memory assignment I thought would definitely make Dr. Crockett change his mind. I had the sob story– the story I had told everyone my whole life: whoa is I, my mom left me at her boyfriends house, I was bounced around and raised by my Dead Head Aunt, and that is just the beginning. (The Dead Head thing has always been able to get me in doors where people were otherwise un-phased. Plus– Dr. Crockett looked like he could've been around for the tail end of that era.)

I emailed him the piece and he responded politely that the course was still full. I was so frustrated. Didn't he understand? I had a story to tell. Hello? Whoa is I??? Did he not even read my paper? Irritated, I decided I would still return to the class the following week. Two days later I received an email from City College with a list of the classes that still had room. Doctor Crockett's English 35G was listed so I sent him a catty email with various words in quotations for dramatic effect. He responded with a polite email and a phone call allowing me to take the class. I was thrilled.

The topics we touched on in our first weeks were areas that I had never thought about in regards to writing my story. I just assumed it should all flow like a faucet without any help from the rational side of my brain. But if that were the case, why hadn't it happened yet? I had started many times, I am sure I could find a dozen beginnings, but I could never get to the middle or the end.

We began talking about our responsibility to the truth, our family members, and society; we examined being ready to write– not only figuring out when and where you write best (a personal system), but also allowing yourself the space to be spiritually and emotionally ready to write about certain experiences; and we discussed writing in present and past tense to further bring a character into the story, making it tangible. I realized that these were the very reasons I could never get the story out of me. I had never removed myself from the situation enough to think about this things: How do I discuss my sexual abuse, my disheveled family members, my addiction and my achievements? Do I approach it from the same tough-girl-whatever position I have my whole life? If not, where do I stand with it. What are the possible repercussions of bringing these stories to the light? How will my sister feel about it and am I really ready to talk about all of it? Should I change details so people don't get offended?

It is different to tell a tale than to write it. There is a permanency that comes with the typed or scribbled word. People forget the way in which the words left your mouth, which means as you grow and your perspective changes, the story can too. But when you put it on paper time stops. My opinions on my life, from the perspective of the 27 year old me, will be forever frozen for anyone and everyone to read. I began discussing this all with my sister and she told me to write the story as it happened and she would help me fill in whatever I couldn't remember. I felt as if I was given permission.

The stories that touched me the most this semester were the ones that didn't hold back, Infidel and The Pianist being my favorite. Perhaps because of all of the writers, the depths of suffering for these two people left them with stories that were far more tragic than mine. Yet, there was an air of familiarity to them– the factual telling of the story in all its horror, the chaos that makes up a vivid tale of struggle, survival and transformation, all made me want to write. The other stories, while interesting in their own rite (Girl Boy Girl, Beautiful Boy, a Romantic Education and Becoming a Man), did not pull me in in the same manner. The effect they had on me, even physically, was mild in comparison; no tears were shed. Where I read Romantic Education and found myself lost in the prose, I did not feel intrigued by the story at all. Where I was intrigued by the story of Girl Boy Girl, I found the writing bland. And where I enjoyed Becoming a Man, there was nothing I took from it that change my life or my perspective on my life.

Part of the incredible magic of autobiographies is the opportunity they give the reader to work through their own demons. In order for this to work, the writer needs to challenge themselves and bare there own demons for the sake of the audience. That is what I want to do. I want to crack open my ribcage and share my menagerie of delicate darkness and light. I want to get the story out of me; type the words, scribble it out and purge myself of the tale, if for no other reason than so I can stop telling it.

They say that whatever energy you put out into the world comes back to you. After taking this class I developed a system and strategy for writing. I broke my book into 4 edible sections and began typing. After 8400 words, which brought up to roughly 6 years old, I got an email from my half-brother who I hadn't seen since I was 3. His daughter set him up with a Facebook page and he decided to search my biological last name. On Black Friday, after 24 years, I spoke to my father and brother for the first time and discovered that I have 6 half-sisters. I found out that my father was one of eighteen children and my grandmother was part Native American. What astounds me about this is that, thanks to this class, I wrote down all that I remembered of these people (the reality I had held as truth for 27 years), 2 weeks prior to them finding me. I can't go back to that reality– as they tell me their truths it gets harder to separate what I know now, from what I knew then. What all of this reinforces for me is that it is time for the story to be told. All of the pieces of my beautiful tattered past are falling into place. Now comes the work.

Holiday Cheer

2009-12-15T07:48:00.000-08:00

I scored as far as autobiographies go. Really. I mean, yes of course, there are people who have stories similar to mine in various ways and there are people who have had a life 10,000 times more tragic than mine, but I must say I win in some areas.

On Black Friday I got an email from my half-brother, Kenny. His daughter (my niece) set him up with a Facebook page which, in turn, allowed his half-sister (on his mothers side) to find him after being out of contact for years and years. He decided to search mine and my sisters' name and subsequently found our Aunt. He searched through her friends list and found me. So, for the first time in 24 years, I was reconnected with my brother.

My sister and I conference called him (which is how we started the communicating with our mother when we found her 3 years prior) and as it turns out our father was at Kenny's house for Thanksgiving. In fact, so were some of our sisters. We also discovered that, along with our half-brother Kenny, we have 7 half-sisters. Our siblings are listed as such- Kenny 43; Cheryl 39; Amy 37; my sister Margarite 28 and myself 27; Reyna 22; Aurora 20; Aurumgale 18; and Tabitha 16.

While I am Soooooo excited about all this, I am also overwhelmed. I am looking forward to meeting everyone and there is this part of me that wanted to just take off for Christmas (to Kansas, Texas, South Carolina and Oklahoma, where they are all scattered), I could do a winter road trip I thought. But after 4 days of talking and catching up, it all felt like a movie. As if this was someone else's life and I was a spectator. When asked how I felt about it I would chit-chat off the details that would have left anyone stunned and yet I just felt numb, distant and really sleepy. So I slept.

The following Thursday made my way to therapy which was followed by a business coaching session, a meeting with my sponsor, and an autobiography class. Throw in a heartfelt convo with the cousin about our childhood and I was trashed. Snotty nose, bloodshot eyes, trashed. The floodgates opened and I haven't really been able to function at the same level I was before. The things that were normal don't seem normal, the activities that I was so excited about I now feel anxious about, and the easy things seem hard while the hard things seem easy. It all feels turned upside down.

It makes sense though. Imagine spending your whole life wondering. My brain would naturally float to some positive possible image of them, then I would fear disappointment and respond to that fantasy with one of the opposite extreme. This usually ended in them being homeless and covered in abscesses. I mean, anything above that is good, right?

So now I have the pieces. Well, most of them. I am still missing my half-brother Charlie and a possible (my sources are not reliable) full-blooded sister my mother says she gave up for adoption in Colorado Springs. But still, I have a lot of the pieces and I feel more lost than when they were all missing. I've decided to take a little space from it all and write. I just want to get everything out that I have known for the past 27 years on to paper before I begin flooding my brain with new information.

So what does that space look like? Well, today it looked like a sincere desire to skip Christmas. We don't really do gifts in my adopted family, it's mostly just eating with 15 of the most generous, wonderful people I know. Which sounds really nice and really uncomfortable. What sounds not uncomfortable is going somewhere quiet, to the beach I am thinking. I researched hotels and there is one that looks perfect, plus the beach will be probably close to empty. I also researched La Paz, Puerto Vallarta and Cancun. I may have also looked in to possible short term rentals in various cities across the US... okay, one in Canada too.

So the question is, am I running from something or to something? Is this wanderlust or a geographic? Perhaps both. I just feel like I need space. My past is cluttering my present. William Bridges wrote on Transitions- in order to go through a transition, we need to give ourselves enough space (dis-engage) and distance from our reality to see that perhaps our truths were not absolute; we need to dis-identify, realize that all the labels we have told ourselves over and over again, are not complete; and we need to go through a period of dis-enchantment, realization that the perfect partner, the loving parent, the fearless leader, are a cast of characters we have created– none of which are real.

So here we go. Feliz Navidad.

Bringing it all together.

2009-11-20T00:03:00.000-08:00

In the past I have had a tendency to compartmentalize my art and for that matter my life. I like to have control over what I show people. I've made boxes for myself to fit in and then I presented said boxes to specific viewers based on what I assume they want/need. It is pretty exhausting. The effect it has had on my life is that I feel spiritually hidden, truncated and chopped up in bits. Like my childhood except this time self imposed. (That sounded wrong. My childhood wasn't literally chopped up in bits like a serial killing or anything. It's a metaphor people.)

Part of the reason I had done this is because the art I make and the words I write can be controversial. I have spent these past couple years on boxing myself in to this category of "advertising photographer", which inevitably means that I censor myself from the world. The fear is that I will turn off potential clients- but honestly- do I really want to work for people who can't take a joke or who can't appreciate the crazy. The majority of people I respect artistically are people who are candid with their lives. They show their insides and are proud of their scars and beauty. I like the hot mess that makes up the human condition, so why wouldn't others?

What came up in my recent travels (NYC- DC- ATX) is that art -the art world- is where I want to be. It is also where things seem to flow easily for me. It seems that when I am in alignment with the universe (see http://SwingKidVote.blogspot.com), things propel naturally at a fluid pace. That is not what has been happening in my life recently. So here is the beginning of the change.

This blog, Little Miss Addict, has been kept as a separate, private blog only available to those who I either told or who did some serious stalking or magical stumbling. Keeping up multiple blogs and a pen to paper journal is difficult and so I've decided to merge my life a little. Blending it all together, throwing in the funny stories of shower drain ass bruises and the nonsense of incest: a love story, all in one glorious place. All the photos, all the writing, all the videos, all the candid nakedness of self will be here. I will still keep up Frankie Shot Me for everything that is solely photo related though.

Who knows, maybe this will be good or maybe it will totally freak me out and in a month I will seperate it all again.

(hide the crazy, hide the crazy.)

For now, read on.

Addiction... it's not rocket science.

2009-11-19T23:09:00.003-08:00

I find addiction stories appealing yet nauseating. This rant has been inspired by Beautiful Boy, a father's story about his son's addiction. There is something that is always wrong about how people describe addiction, their addiction or their reaction to others' addiction. It is always so melodramatic- I'm a victim, you're a victim, we are all victims. Blablabla. I guess that is my cynicism speaking. But addiction is not cunning or baffling. It is completely logical. Something feels good, I want more. Easy equation. Period, end of story. People analyze addicts, they separate addictions into categories: a food addict, a workaholic, a sex and love addict, an alcoholic, a (gasp) drug addict. I have news for you people... an addict is an addict across the board, regardless of substance. Sure, we vary in degrees of sickness and unmanageability, but the motives and the solutions are all the same. It's not what we use, it is why we use that matters.

People like to call themselves a specific type of addict. "Hi my name is Jane, I am a sex and love addict, codependent, adult child of an alcoholic, addicted to shopping, under-earning, and crack." As if there is a hierarchy of addictions. I'm not as bad as that gambler (because I only drank myself into oblivion and massacred relationships with my family). I'm not as bad as the heroin addict (because I never shot drugs- I only smoked meth and stole from strangers). I'm not as bad as that prostitute (because I never sold my ass, although I lived with my drug dealer and gave him head once. Or twice).

All of these things separate us from one another. They make addiction a bad thing and reinforce societies belief that addiction is evil. (An evil that must be overcome, suffocated, kept in a box wrapped in cellophane and buried deep beneath the earths surface.) Oh, and we mustn't talk about it. Shhhh... it's Anonymous. But addiction is not bad. On the contrary- addiction is a life force, like any other life force, that propels forward in whichever direction it is aimed. Addiction has existed for as long as humans have existed. Some of the most brilliant writers, musicians, lawyers, artists, psychologists and politicians are addicts. (See Genius and Heroin: The Illustrated Catalogue of Creativity, Obsession, and Reckless Abandon Through the Ages). But we shouldn't talk about that, we don't want you to be attracted to addicts and addiction.

What happens when someone is attracted to that spiral? I remember walking down the street at 14 and seeing a punk rock junkie couple spare changing. My first thought wasn't 'man they need a shower', it was 'awe, they are in loooooooove'. Or when I was 12. I had been reading Seventeen magazine and there was an article on cutting. The vivid detail of the raw emotions, the decision, the ritual, the moment, the slice, the pour, the relief. It didn't come across as they may have hoped. When I got caught sneaking out, and was in a shit storm of trouble, I decided that I needed relief. Of course in Seventeen magazine, they didn't show you the paraphernalia; instead they showed you a sorrowful portrait of a chubby girl, and then a close up shot of her arms scored with healed scars. So, when I decided that I too needed this relief she spoke of, I was unaware that a razor blade was different from a razor. Determined, passionate, resentful and wearing my rebellious teenage sized victim cape, I grabbed the bic I used to shave my legs, and dragged it, hard, from wrist to elbow crease. This resulted in a orchard of tiny red burning dots, a rash and no relief.

I never became a cutter. Not to say that I might not pick it up as a hobby some day. That, I think is one of the most common misconceptions about addiction. This idea that if you are an alcoholic, you are not a drug addict; if you are a gambler, you are not a shopaholic; if you are a sex addict, you are not a love addict; if you are a food addict, you are not anorexic, so forth and so on. Addiction is a character trait that morphs with your life. If you are an addict, a true to God addict, you are just that. An addict. Not a "this" addict or a "that-aholic". Though yes, you may have a preference for one activity over another at different times in your life. But any addict in recovery will tell you that the substance was just a symptom. Addicts have a tendency to lean towards obsession, which leads to fantasy and results in action. It's not a rare condition like we pretend it is.

Society has this vision of an addict. They have sunken in eyes, they are depressed, they ache for an end to life, they have track marks, they desert their families, break in to cars and lie. Boy do they lie. That is why we are aghast when a politician gets caught with a prostitute, a scientist gets busted for cocaine use, or a priest is found embezzling from their parish. How could they? They aren't like that! This is also why, when a 12 year old decides, on their own, that they have a problem with marijuana, we pat them on the back and brush it off. Marijuana is not addictive... silly child. (not like heroin...)

Again, addiction has nothing -nothing- to do with the substance. Addiction gravitates and thrives around this idea that something outside of myself is going to make me feel better. You see it all the time- people get clean and sober, and immediately swap obsessions (usually to a person). A drug is defined as a mood or mind altering substance. And an addict can use anything as a mood or mind altering substance.

Lessons in love

2009-11-19T23:09:00.001-08:00

I measure the time-line of my life in two ways: the places I have lived and the people I have dated. This is not a conscious decision, this is just how my brain works. Being adopted was a clear defining line in my life. Everything prior to the adoption -before 13- is mentally imprinted, tracked, organized, and recorded by the city I was living in. However, post-adoption, everything is recorded by whomever I was making out with. Even before I was adopted, I was ‘boy crazy’ (as we called it in 1st grade). (In order to know if you are afflicted with the Boy Crazy: pluck a single strand of your hair; holding the root end of the strand- pinch the thread between your forefingers and thumbs; hold tightly as you pull the strand through the clamped digits of the other hand. If the fine string of hair curls, like the ribbon of a holiday package, the diagnosis is conclusive- you indeed have the Boy Crazy. This works best if the thumbnail is deeply sunken into the pad of the index finger as you pull.)

My first grade crush was a boy named Evan. His father was a local cop (perhaps an early attempt at disappointing my family with my choice of men); his hair- burnt carrot orange, flesh spattered with hundreds of latte colored speckles, his limbs long, lanky and awkward, and his teeth caged by metal braces. I was in love. My friends and I would sit on a wooden bench at the edge of the playground and write gushing, illicit love letters, as Evan played basketball across the schoolyard. Since I was the only person with a crush, everyone would pen a syrupy, romantic note addressed to Evan, and I would sign them all. One of my more daring friends would then run to the center of the basketball court, interrupt the game, and deliver my sweet love package. This scenario, more or less, epitomizes the first of the three archetypes of relationships I have had.

Archetype One- The Elitist: I like you, you don’t like me. Therapy has taught me that being attracted to unavailable people is one of the many gems I have received from having non-existent parental figures. Nigel Grant was the prototype of this model. He worked at Café Kaldi, a local hip-kid hotspot where you felt completely judged by the regulars (until you gave in, became a regular and began participating in the judging). Nigel added to the air of arrogance that poured from the café. He looked like a British pop star with a heroin habit that somehow got clean and was now pushing caffeine. Six foot three, brown teddy bear hair- shorn short, and tattoos strategically placed to cover up what used to be track marks. He wore designer jeans (you have to spend that heroin money somewhere), held tight to his hips with a black leather Gucci belt, buckled shut with a pronounced silver “G” clasp, drawing your eyes directly to his crotch. His shoes were black leather and his shirts were designer button downs. He couldn’t care less whether you bought coffee or didn’t, liked him or didn’t, existed or didn’t. He was completely impartial. I parallel my attraction for this kind of guy, to the relationship between a restaurateur and food critic: if a restaurant owner can serve a total snob with impecable taste a meal that they love, the restaurateur wins and thus must be better than their competition. Guys that treat everyone like shit- somehow in my mind- are a sign of the socially elite; if I can get them to not only like me but devote time and attention to me, I must be better than all of the other girls; if I am better than all of the other girls- they will cherish me and never leave. (Cliché abandonment issues, another gift from mi familia.) I know this type of thinking is not logical or healthy by any means, but knowing that doesn’t change a thing.

After months of obsessively trying to nonchalantly flirt with Nigel, I finally got his attention. It was November, the fall weather in full effect. I was 19 years old and every Monday since June, a group of us would meet up at Café Kaldi and go on what we dubbed ‘gang rides’. (Side note: I have always been overly interested in gangs, clubs and teams. Perhaps the fascination stems from my absurd fear of being alone: not alone in terms of being by myself, but alone in terms of FOREVER and EVER alone.) Any given week there were between 4 and 8 ‘gang members’ traipsing around on single speed cruisers. Most of us were riding the fashion wave of rockabilly, which had hit our town a few years prior: girls with black hair and bangs in gingham dresses, red painted pursed lips, and boys with starched jeans –5” cusps-, pompadours and Converse shoes. We were awesome (or at least we thought so). This particular Monday, everyone dispersed after the ride and I was left at Kaldi while Nigel was closing up. My hands were freezing and I pouted to him something cute about having cold paws (probably while batting my bright blue eyes, perched on a stool at the counter, leaning in with my cleavage prominently displayed towards him). He smiled and poured me a bowl of warm water to dip my fingertips into- success! He asked if I wanted to go to a movie with him. “Sure,” I answered as casually as possible, as my stomach twisted into knots that made me feel like I had to poop, “When?” He told me that he could be done shortly and to see what was playing. We went to the theater about 30 minutes prior to the start of Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. There was an arcade to one side of the building where we decided to hang out. I am not much a video gamer- unless you count Tetris, Mario Brothers or Duck Hunt; however, they had a pinball machine. After he was done with whatever game he was playing, he walked up behind me (mind you, he was a full foot taller than I), matched my stance, moved in closer, till our bodies were barely touching, reached his arms down, and placed his hands on top of my hands as I got totally distracted and lost the game.

That first run of our love affair was short lived. I was consuming alcohol like the prohibition was coming, and he was passed the blackout, vomiting stage of his life. I couldn’t voice how very much I liked him (fear of rejection) and in the two months we dated, he never put a title on it. Although everyone knew we were sleeping together, without the title I felt compulsed to try to instill jealousy in him. (More distorted thinking- if I show you how many guys want to be with me, you will get all primal-caveman style and want to tie me down.) The last night we hung out, we went to the Ruby Room in Oakland with 3 of my friends and 4 of his. We sat at a booth in the corner; myself curled up into a ball Nigel’s lap. Every 10 minutes or so I would get up, bounce around the bar, saying hello to all of these people I didn’t really care about (see how everybody loves me?), and then crawl back into his lap. And repeat. This carried on for a couple hours, but the straw that really broke the camel's back was this guy Brett.

Brett was a dirty punk rock kid filled with self-loathing rage that flourished when he drank. I met him 3 months prior at a house party and we kissed. He quickly became obsessed with me (a quintessential Archetype Two) and went on and on about how I was better than ‘these people’ (being my friends). Brett was at the Ruby Room that night and I am pretty sure I gave body language to suggest we had previously locked lips. Brett asked for a ride back over the bridge, and I agreed. Nigel was not particularly thrilled about this but by the time we were leaving I was drenched thick in whisky sours (Nigel’s drink of choice), and I didn’t particularly care. I can’t remember who was driving, but I do know they were drunk as well. We pulled up to Nigel’s house and he wouldn’t kiss me. I sloppily asked if I could go inside to pee. He agreed. I made my way to the bathroom, shut the door and proceeded to vomit whisky sours and grenadine cherries into his toilet. (This was all accented beautifully by the audible gas I was letting out.) I flushed the toilet and walked out the door to find Nigel standing two feet away, arms crossed, like a disappointed parent. I tried to brush it off with my drunken cuteness but my charm had worn thin. I went to kiss him, vomit still on my breath, and he turned away. He walked me down the stairs, held me by my shoulders, looked square into my eyes and said, “Please don’t sleep with that guy.” Which I heard as: He loves me and doesn’t want me sleeping with other people! Which, in fact, was not what he meant.

I never slept with Brett and I didn’t sleep with Nigel again till many years later (when I was in a 12-step program making amends, which is a whole other fun story). But, I did pine after Nigel for the following 8 months. I would show up to the café with my journal in hand, sit down wherever I thought he could see me best, and write for hours; every now and then, staring off into the distance, trying to look deep in thought. However, I was back to receiving the blank, cold stares from him as I ordered my chai tea. Every week I would go to the Ruby Room with girlfriends and occasionally I could convince them that it was okay for us to drive by his house on the way back. I would get out of the car, sneak up to his house and throw pennies at his window. Did I mention he had gotten back together with his ex-girlfriend by this point? Charming, I am. One day, about 5 months after that puke-ridden fateful night, I decided that something was clearly wrong with my life. I decided that in order to get my life together, I needed to make amends to people --like my friend Lila, who was in Narcotics Anonymous-- after all, it was working for her. (And, by people, I meant exclusively ex-boyfriends.) This conclusion came to me on a Saturday afternoon, at a bar, while sipping my second Margarita. It was summer; the heat was pounding down as I made my way to Café Kaldi, and I wondered- “why is being drunk in public, illegal? This is amazing. Everything looks better.” I hopped up the 3 stairs to the café, walked up to the counter, leaned in, looked deep into Nigel’s eyes and gave him the most heartfelt apology I could muster. “Come back when you’re sober,” he retorted. Ouch.

Archeatype Two- The Needy: You like me, I don’t like you. Erick, aka Johnny Bolshevik, would be the extreme version of this brand of boy friend- they fall infatuated with me and drop everything to feed their obsession. Erick worked at a local brewery and would serve me pear cider as a 17-year-old girl. For years we carried on a casual flirtation. He had the build of a Russian bodyguard. His hair was amazing, thick silken threads, his lips were plump and delicious, and his eyes- a deep crystal blue, jeweled with long feathery eyelashes. He was brilliant, witty and charming, and he could convince anyone to do just about anything. He was a born hustler. But, no matter how much I was attracted to those features and character traits, the reality was- I wasn’t in love with him. I tried to force myself to be in love with him: I called him my boyfriend for a short time, and I could pull off the public displays of affection effortlessly; however, when the lights went down, I panicked. I chalked it up to “wanting to wait” and “having boundaries”. After all, he would really do just about anything for me. On my 21st birthday and his 27th (we had the same birthday- October 18th- which to him meant we were fated), I awoke to a huge bouquet of red chilli peppers and tickets, for him and I to go to Amsterdam for a month. My sister had come to town and he wined and dined us, knowing that her approval carried the weight of gold with me. We went to a bar, he bought all of my friends drinks, hired a homeless man to sing me happy birthday, and supplied everyone with drugs for the night. When I met Erick 5 years prior to dating him, he was in recovery. He had gotten into a load of trouble for drug related crimes with three other people- Nathan, Hannah and Serena- all of who were clean when I met them. However, eventually they all went back to using drugs and drinking- socially of course- which is when I began hanging out with them.

I had been told my whole life that my family had addiction issues and that I needed to be careful of how I used; as if I weren’t careful, I would somehow “catch” the disease of addiction, like a contagious cold. So I did exactly that- I was careful of how I used. But my policy was “everything in moderation”: alcohol in moderation (I prefer pinot noir or mojitos); pot in moderation (it makes me too paranoid); acid in moderation (I like the pretty colors); speed in moderation (just a little pick-me-up to deal with the harder things in life, i.e. laundry); heroin in moderation (a way to relax so I could breathe better); ecstasy in moderation (I love you guys). For years, a little of this and a little of that was enough; but when all was said and done, at 21 years old, nothing was enough. Something was wrong and no amount of drugs or boys or money would make the gaping, dark wound in the center of my heart go away. Lucky for Erick, he was my “boyfriend” when I came to this realization. Actually we weren’t really dating at this point. I had decided two weeks earlier that he was going to kill me. I can’t remember how I came to this conclusion exactly, but I was sure of it. I began parking my car blocks away, sneaking in and out of work through the backdoor, and peeking out through the curtains. Sure, some of this was drug induced psychosis, but years later Erick admitted to waiting outside of my work, and plotting to steal my car and fill it with rocks from the quarry. He also asked once, “What’s the worst way you thought of hurting me”. Creepy.

Of the less extreme version, but definitely in the same brand family, would be Ben. I met Ben around San Rafael. We had many mutual friends and more than a few things in common: he does cinematography, I do photography; he is in AA, I am in NA; he is Irish, I am Ish (Swedish, Irish, English); he has blue eyes, I have blue eyes (do you know all blue eyed people are related? It’s true, Google it). And true to his archetype, he is charming, witty, attractive and infactuated with me. So I thought… maybe it will be different this time. Maybe I can date a guy that likes me. (Of course, this thought came after giving in to a night of regretful hate-sex with a guy who is riddled with red flags- an active addict and traditional Archetype One.) So I responded to one of his many Facebook comments, which turned into a 3-hour banter of wits resulting in a breakfast date the next morning. It was great- he was funny and intelligent, maybe I can actually do this. We made a plan to hang out the next day, go to dinner and a movie. Texts appeared continuously throughout the day and into the wee hours. We met up and walked around town, falling too easily into the boyfriend/girlfriend roll. We went back to his house, he made dinner and we watched a movie. I agreed to spend the night, however, I didn’t want to have sex, (after all, “I have boundaries” and “I want to wait”). We pecked a few soft kisses, no passion, no sparks, and no fireworks. A dead fuse. So at that point, do you get up and say, “Hey, I know it’s 1 am, and I said I would spend the night, but I don’t really feel any sort of chemical attraction to you, like I had hoped I would, so I am going to go home, but you are a really good cook." No, no you do not. So I turned over and pretended to fall asleep, as he spooned me and rubbed my ass like a crystal ball for the next 4 hours. We woke up at 5 am and I took him to work at Peets coffee. In my lack of sleep delirium I thought- maybe I am being too hard on him; I don’t want to throw the baby out with the bath water. But as we said goodbye he says, “So maybe you can come over tonight and we can molest each other some more.” Really? That’s your choice of words? Come on now.

Archetype Three- The Suicide Bomber: you like me and I like you. Winston, Ethan and Ryan. I am convinced the only lasting love I will ever find will fall in to this category; although, as the title suggests, I don’t have much faith in it being incredibly healthy. Perhaps this is just my current view point. Winston was my first love. He was a dread-locked, white, privileged, teen hippie, and drug enthusiastic artist. I was 15 and he was 16 (although he had told me he was 17, but his ID said otherwise). We met in the summer of 1997. He was homeless in Marin County (probably the best place to be homeless), and running from the cops (for stealing a car with his ex-girlfriend). The first night we spent together was on the couch of a blind woman's house. The full moon projected through the lace curtains, imprinting intricate, delicate designs onto our bare, teenaged bodies. He had a fire in his eyes that made me weary of him and an ear-to-ear smile that made me trust him. He would laugh wickedly, pick me up, and spinning me in circles. We spent two epic years together writing vivid puppy love poetry, making art, selling sheets of acid. We were 'the' couple among our group of friends and the younger kids that idolized our friends. The stories of us are endless- the kind of tales that only come out of ones first real relationship; we fought passionately, we loved passionately and we were overflowing with ridiculous adore for one another. I really thought for a time that he was it: we were going to get married and... well, I never got past the getting married part in my head. The relationship ended in a blaze of glory (the second time we broke up). I was in Peru for 10 days and he slept with a younger girl-- Ashley Payne-- at a party. Every one of our friends knew but it took 2 months for anyone to tell me. I was humiliated. How, fucking, dare he. I was ruthless with my words: sharp and made to cut deep, malicious wounds; I screamed vulgarities on the street, just 20 ft. away from a bustling mom-and-pop ice-cream shop. But I didn’t care who heard my rant. I was hurt. And I was 17. And it didn’t matter.

Over the years, this dynamic morphed into a less dramatic version but was essentially the same. Every time, the love was more passionate than the last, the heartache more gut wrenching and awful. The reality is I push and I pull. I do the cliché, abandoned child- come closer/get away- act. It is subconscious and starts out small, but it grows and eventually they do leave. Then they come back again, and then they leave again. The good thing about dating crazy artist types is that they are magnetically pulled to the roller coaster. Most of them are like me: tattered pasts, issues of their own. Maybe that isn’t the good thing, but it means I probably will never run out of supply.

I met Ethan when I was 18. He was a friend of Lila's --my best friend-- who had been clean and sober for a year. Ethan was tall and skinny with curly black twisted locks, blue eyes, straight teeth, and an amazing smile garnished with two dimples. His girlfriend was Erica, she was nice in her own right, an interior designer, but didn't interest me much. We would bump in to eachother once a year at a cafe, bar or event. One time, when I was 20, we ran into each other at a photographers' art opening at a gallery on the edge of the Tenderloin. (A neighborhood in San Francisco known for it's large population of drug addicts and prostitutes: particularly beautiful Asian transgender prostitutes.) There was a strip club across the street from the gallery and a group of us decided to go check it out after the show. The featured performer that night was a porn star named something like Tara Twinkle; she was a field and cow kind of girl, most likely from a landlocked state. The room was large and open with about 50 leather chairs surrounding a circular stage-- a poll in the middle, and red velvet curtains against the wall. The lights were dimmed down to a dark red, and there were dozens of scantily clad women perched on 5" heels scattered throughout the building; vultures waiting to dine on their prey. When we arrived, the dancer on stage was a petite Filipino girl whose features were so soft she looked like a 12 year old. After she finished her two song set and left the stage, the loud familiar blare of our national anthem began playing. Over the horns the dj announced the feature performer Tara Tatas; out marched a blond, blue eyed all American girl, with a DD sized chest stuffed into a masculine pea green army uniform. She carried an American flag and a patriotic smile. We were two years into the Bush administration after he stole the 2000 election; for some reason I don't think San Franciscans were really her target audience when she developed this ensemble. After two painfully awkward minutes, she ripped off her army jacket and stepped out of the pants. She danced over to a plastic bucket near the red curtains, picked it up and danced back to the center of the stage. She then proceeded to dump sex toys all over the stage, announcing that for a $1 tip she would dance up on you, but for a $5 tip, you could use a sex toy on her. Ethan gave Erica and me each $5. I was still pretty concerned with looking cool and part of looking cool, as a young woman in San Francisco, is being perceived as being bisexual. Which, I had no problem playing off; I think I still viewed myself as bisexual at this time even though I predominantly dated men. So Erica and I sat up at the rack (as the call the front row), and leaned in like two wide-eyed schoolgirls. Tara Tramp leaned into us, breasts in faces, and told us to pick out a toy. We giggled at each other and began looking at our array of options- pink and big, purple and funny shaped, vibrating and small, etc.; Erica picked out a 5" vibrating white dildo- which I think is funny in retrospect- a man would've picked out the largest whatever he could have shoved into her; but no, we were ladies, so we chose something we thought she would enjoy. We both held the base of the dildo as Tara Trollup spread her legs open, her vagina prominently displayed towards us, as she arched her back and threw her head towards the ceiling in supposed pleasure. It was very clear to me that this was all a huge act to drive the guys wild so they would spend money. She the pulled our heads towards her crotch and Erica and I looked at each other with the awkward unspoken expression of 'Does she want us to eat her out? I don't want to eat this raunchy chicks pussy!' I whispered, "fake it", and we both leaned our heads into her thighs, hair hiding our faces as we savagely moved heads about as if we were feasting on her vagina. I thought it was hysterical.

Three years later, at 21 years old when I finally decided to get clean, I remembered that Ethan and Erica were also clean. One of the many suggestions you hear when you first start going to 12-step meetings is not to get into a relationship in your first year of recovery. The idea behind this, is that relationships are difficult: if you get into a relationship without learning how to live life, sans mood-and-mind altering substances, you are more likely to relapse. I did not listen to this suggestion. At about 5 days clean I went to a meeting in Berkeley, with the goal of stalking Ethan. Sure enough they were, and just like I hoped- they were no longer an item. He had 5 years clean and I informed him that he was my new boyfriend. He said that that was fine, just not to tell anyone. Another huge no-no in the recovery community is for someone with a significant amount of clean time, to dating or sleep with a newcomer-- someone who has under a year of clean time. This practice however is so common; it is dubbed "The 13th Step". I quickly found out why these suggestions are spouted so evangelically. When I was drinking: if I was bored- I drank; if I was happy- I drank; if I was sad- I drank. So now, I am clean: new to recovery with no tools to live life; when I was bored- I called Ethan; when I was happy- I called Ethan; when I was sad- I called Ethan. I essentially swapped drugs for the attention and validation from a guy: I made Ethan my drug.

Twenty-one days later, on Thanksgiving, Ethan informed me that he was going to bring Erica to his family dinner. "That's great!" I said through clenched teeth and a fake smile. I attended my families' gathering and proceeded to 'taste' the wine- all 8 bottles of the wine. Later that night, at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, I heard a woman say "if I take cocaine, and put it on my gums, is that a relapse?" I thought, 'Fuck yeah, that's a relapse!' Ten minutes later it hit me: I had indeed relapsed. This devastated me. Twenty-one days seemed like forever and I thought, that since I lost my clean-time, I should go out and really use; after all, I had never shot heroin, and I didn't want to miss out on an opportunity like that! (I don't think 'normal people' -like my Grandparents- are sitting at home thinking 'damn... I forgot to shoot heroin'. But, I am a drug addict, so I think these sorts of things.)

I didn't end up shooting heroin or using any other drugs that night. Not for my lack of trying, no one was picking up their telephone. (Perhaps, because three weeks prior I made a huge, gallant effort to let everyone know I was getting clean; I didn't do drugs anymore; I was going to Twelve Step meetings.) Instead, I found myself in a room of recovering drug addicts who stayed up with me till I was absolutely exhausted and I started my clean-time over. That was November 28th 2003. I continued to date Ethan on-and-off for the next 9 months. It was excruciating. He said he didn't want to be in a monogamous relationship but also didn't want me sleeping with other people. Which basically meant that anytime he wanted to sleep with me, we got back together, and any time he wanted to sleep with another girl, we broke up. This all would have been a lot less dramatic if it weren't for the Digital Age and websites like Myspace. Every time we broke up, I would scour his Myspace page for hours: reading every comment, on every photo, and every journal entry; then I would go to the page of whichever girls had commented on his page and cruelly judge myself against these girls- their photos, their art, their writing style, their body, and their friends. I would hunt for any comments from him and pick them apart, obsessing on the possible 'tone' he typed them in. Mind you I was 21 and 'vice' free. I was driving myself insane. By no means did I feel like I was 'clean', if anything, I felt worse off than when I got to NA.

I would go to meetings and share about my gut-wrenching heartache. A friend eventually came up to me and gave me a woman's phone number, "she has worked on those areas of her life and if you want help, give her a call." Her name was Amber and as it turned out, this friend was dating her. Amber was a petite, recovering sex and love addict, with huge, wide, hazel eyes, a large forehead, high-cheekbones, with long, raven-black, hair down her back and perfect fake breasts. She was a psychology major, a licensed esthetician, a writer, an ex-stripper and an athlete; a modern day Renaissance woman. Amber was strict, but loving. She directed me to -one day at a time- not contact Ethan: no calls, no Myspace stalking, no emails, no text messages, and no going to meetings where I thought he would be. I agreed; but first, i told her, I had to meet up with him and let him know I wouldn't be contacting him and for him to please not contact me. (And, sleep with him.) The first week of this was painful- until I met another guy, Marc (archetype two). Amber then set another rule for me: one day at a time- no sex with any guy. I agreed, so instead, I would just sleep next to them- but no sex. She then set another rule: no sleeping next to guys. I agreed, so instead, I would just make-out with them. Another rule appeared: one day at a time- no making out with guys. So then I would just flirt with guys, any guy. I began to realize what I was doing. I had this dark, aching, bruised hole in the center of my chest, and when I flirted with a guy- even for a minute and even if I didn't like him- I got relief, a sense of validation, for a moment, that made me feel okay in my own skin.

After working with Amanda for 9 months, 5 of which I was completely, 100% abstinent (even from hugging guys), I ran into Ryan. I had met Ryan when I was 17, he was living in San Rafael and dating Hannah, who at the time was an acquaintance of mine. They were both in recovery and met in a meeting, but later relapsed together. Where Hannah kept her using to social drinking and drugging, Ryan took his drug career to the extreme- living in the Tenderloin, shooting drugs with homeless people, and stealing dvd's from Tower Records to feed his habit. As Hannah continued to drink and party more regularly, she and I became close friends. The last year of my using, Hannah was there- the vomiting-gassy night with Nigel; my 21st birthday with Evan; and the night I hit rock bottom. I was throwing a party at the apartment I was getting evicted out of and I went into a black out; I have flashes of memories: me hitting my friends, biting my friends, spitting on my friends, being punched in the nose (for spitting on my friend), taking photos with blood dripping down my face (cause I'm an artiste), sleeping with someone I hadn't intended on sleeping with, and apparently driving my car- which I found the next day in my neighbors driveway. The next afternoon I woke up with the feeling of incomprehensible demoralization. My apartment smelled like shit, I was naked next to a boy who I knew didn't like me, and I was frantically trying to remember the night before through my pounding hangover. The sun was streaming in the window sending what looked like a 'God Ray' into my kitchen. I said "God help me". I did not mean 'dude in the sky', it was merely what you say when you are in a desperate position. When all of my friends assembled from the various make shift sleeping arrangements they had manifested, we made our way to a local breakfast spot. I confided in Hannah that I thought I needed to get clean. She responded, "Don't jump to NA as your first conclusion of what you need to do with your life, we will just smoke pot." Needless to say when I did commit to giving a 12-step program a shot, Hannah and I began to hang out less. Eventually, our friendship morphed into a casual phone call every month or so.

When Ryan and I ran into each other I was working as a photo assistant for a photographer I had never worked for before. I was sent out to get lunch in downtown San Francisco and as I was waiting on the corner, Ryan crossed the street. My eyes lit up. Ryan was a tall man, 28 years old with light reddish-brown hair, a prominent, strong nose, deep-set, blue eyes and an under-bite that did nothing to detract from his attractiveness, (though he thought so). He made eye contact and was direct, unreserved in his speech. Overall, a fascinating character (or maybe I was delusional). At that point, the last I had heard of him was that he was a skeleton of himself with filthy, sunburned skin living on Polk St. We began talking, and it turned out that now he was living in Sacramento with his parents, had 14 months sober in AA, and was in town making amends to an old employer and roommate. I was thrilled. It turned out that we had gotten clean within 2 weeks of each other. I invited him to go to a young people's meeting with me that night where some of his old friends would be. Months later he called me and I told him that I would be in Sacramento the following month for a recovery convention. We met up at his work, Ace Hardware, went out to dinner at the Tower Cafe, and walked along the Sacramento River. I was oblivious to this being a romantic encounter until we were standing on the riverbank, looking at the stars; he leaned down and kissed my neck sending sparks through my body.

This was the first relationship I had ever entered into with boundaries. After the kiss on the neck, but prior to becoming boyfriend and girlfriend, we decided to 'negotiate a dating relationship'. (Amber's suggestion.) This meant taking a week to think and write down what each of us desired in a partnership; come back together, in a non-sexually conducive environment, and discuss our individual wants and needs. If we decided that we indeed did want to move forward, we were together to come up with ground rules. Addicts and alcoholics are notorious for not having boundaries- with themselves or anyone else. This was a monumental experience in my life. I laid out my priorities in my life: recovery, family, friends and pursuing my art. I communicated my career goals and we discussed, in a logical manner, whether or not his life and my life aligned in a way that would aide us both in growing (spiritually, physically, mentally and emotionally). We decided to move forward; it felt almost like a business transaction, but more romantic. The next step was to get tested for sexually transmitted diseases, prior to having sex. We had to wait for a week for our results, and we were doing so good, until we were on our way to the clinic-- at which point, we broke down and had sex in a Subway (the sandwich shop...) bathroom. We both agreed that this was an earnest attempt at investing in one another regardless of the outcome of the tests. Our results came back STD free and we celebrated by renting a cheap motel in West Sacramento. I had my camera with me and we took photos of the motel, of each other and nude portraits together using the self-timer.

Ryan was raised in a completely different world than me, which I think created conflict. His parents were still together and still lived in the same house he was raised in. They were stable and of sound mind and still madly in love. His father was a news broadcaster turned actor and his mother- an elementary school teacher for children with emotional problems. Ryan's sister lived in LA and produced television shows; his brother owned a scone company in Sacramento, and lived with wife and child a few miles away from the grandparents. I fell in love with his family as much him. Ryan's mom practically adopted me. She collected gems and stones (Ryan's father had turned the spare bedroom into an office for her and had hung glass shelves, varied heights apart on every wall. He ran track lighting from underneath so the stones would light up, showing every sparkle and facet). She and I would take walks in their neighborhood and go star watching at night. Under the stars, I told her my childhood story- being bounced around from family member to family member, being adopted at 13, my adopted parents divorcing and me landing in the house of my adopted Grandparents. She told me that all of that moving around was so that I could meet my Grandparents- that they were who I was supposed to be with all along. This was a family. On the Fourth of July we all got together and went to the local school to watch the fireworks and on my birthday his parents gave me gas cards so I could afford to drive up there. At Christmas, their house filled with gifts. I had never seen a Christmas like this before- the tree was massive and there were easily 70+ gifts piled beneath it. (My biological family couldn't afford a Christmas like this and my adopted family was much too socially conscious to spend money frivolously on what was considered a consumer holiday; they all pitched in to donate cows and goats to Third World Countries through the Keefer Foundation.) I found the whole event amusing and though I couldn't afford an excess of gifts, I did give everyone something. While I was wrapping the gifts I had purchased in Ryan's room, I thought it would be humorous to wrap his favorite sweater in a box- as if it was something new and exciting, and place it under the tree alongside all of the other gifts. I told his mother and sister that I did this and they thought it was hysterical, however Ryan thought I had lost my mind. He thought that somehow, this whole Christmas thing had triggered some past trauma and I was somehow compensating by re-gifting him his possessions. His mother and sister thought that was more comical.

As our lives filled up with all of the activities and goals we had dreamed of when we first got together, we began to have less time for the relationship. He was working full time and he was attending the community college, taking courses in cinematography. My weeks were busy as well working at a photo studio 10 hours a day, 4 or 5 days a week. On Friday nights I would fight traffic up to Sacramento from San Francisco, and Monday mornings I would wake up at 5:30 am to drive back and be at work by 8 am. I began keeping track subconsciously of how many trips I was making vs. him, and my resentment grew. One day he came down to visit and I wasn't off work yet. He refused to go down and make small talk with my Grandparents, instead opting to sit in the car waiting for me. I am not sure why this bothered me so much. I just felt like it was blatant disinterest in my family, where I had thoroughly integrated myself into his family. In essence I felt abandoned, as if he suddenly had one foot out the door. So I began looking for excuses and looking for the door. A couple of months later I suggested that we take a week of no contact in order to re-access our priorities and get re-focused on our goals. I know now that I was pushing him away hoping he would come closer. At the end of the week I had come to the conclusion that I needed more of an effort from him. He let me know that he loved me but didn't have more to give. I told myself he was unwilling to give more- he had a choice and he chose work over me. My heart was broken but it was a logical, rational decision- I couldn't just give to someone who wasn't willing to do the same. We both had to take care of ourselves.

Three years later, I can see how everything falls into place. A couple of years and relationships later, I realized that I could not have orchestrated my life better. I think everything happens for a reason- even if the only reason is so that you can share that pain with another human and help them move through it. I think for so long, especially in my early 20's/early recovery, I was looking for someone or something, to take care of me and take control of my life. I see my peers getting knocked up and I think it's all in a similar vein. This idea that, well, if I get knocked up, I will know what to do next- I won't be as aimless. I am still aimless, and for the most part grateful for that. What if we knew the outcome, who we are going to marry and make babies with. I bet that every person I met until 'the one', I would probably brush off (think of all the amazing nights of laughter and lessons I would've missed), and you can also bet that I would have placed unreasonable expectations on 'the one' from the start. There is art in the mystery and mistakes.

Regardless of all of those lessons in love, while informative, don’t always mean much in the way I act around relationships. Reprogramming old thought patterns and belief systems is difficult (however, they say the first step is admitting you have a problem). The goals are: don’t pursue someone for the sake of self-centered validation, don’t jump through hoops to try and get noticed and most of all, don’t jump ship when the love is there.

One day at a time, solo por hoy.

Shamanism 3

2009-11-19T23:08:00.003-08:00

Journeying 3

I walked outside where I last journeyed and decided instead to go to Tennessee Valley Beach. I went down the hole by the creek and dropped through. I stuck the feather I picked up last time I was there into the ground to mark my spot. I asked for my poweranimal and the black and white porcupine or hedgehog or whatever it is appeared. We got into the wooden boat and started going across the lake and down the river which had huge mountains on either side. I noticed the grain of the seat on the boat.

I looked around cause I didn’t know where to go. We kept going down river towards the sunshine. I asked for a teacher and immediately a bald eagle flew down and landed on the bow of the boat. She was pretty. I wanted to know about my career and Craig. She took off flying and we benched the boat on the left hand side of the shore. The ground was sharp and rocky with medium sized dark gray rocks. I held the hedgehog in my eblowpit and we started climbing up the hillside. There was the eagle in a nest with baby eagles. It was pretty and there was this pulsating goldish aura around them. I got mesmerized by the pulse. I climbed up onto the tree where the nest was and just watched them for a while. I was totally mesmerized. I was lost in day dream and what I realized is that what is really important to me is that whole thing. That building a family thing. And then I realized that I was on this journey, completely daydreaming about making babies and building a life and I was totally not present for the journey- which is what I do in real life sometimes- get lost in the fantasy of the future.

I climbed down and picked up the hedgehog and we got back in the boat. It felt good. Like I was reclaiming my focus. I asked about my career and the boat went further down river and we benched on the right side of the river. The shore was smaller rocks, softer on the feat. There was this large fruit tree overflowing with all different types of colorful fruit. There were oranges, lemons, red apples, fist sized strawberries and blueberries and plums. I picked up a piece of fruit off the ground and bit into it. I totally bit into a worm. Eeew. I spit it out and looked up at the tree. I realized that I couldn’t take just what had dropped, but I needed to reach up and pick what from the overflowing tree. I picked the orange that was closest to me and split it open. There was little black rice looking egg things in the bottom center. I put it down and looked up into the tree to find what I really wanted. I reached up and grabbed an oversized plum bit into it and it was delicious. I them picked up an oversized strawberry and then a blueberry. All very good. I started to drift in my mind about the symbolism of this all. I decided somewhere that it meant I had to ask for the work I actually wanted. I thought about local authors for some reason and also the ad agency in Sausalito. I sat down on the beach and said that I felt like I got my answer about career, however still felt lost about what to do with the Craig scenario. I lied back on the beach and the hedgehog began to morph into a brown either rat or squirrel. I put my hand on it and petted it. I began to think about how my poweranimal is constantly morphing and how I don’t really have a super clear idea of what it is. And then I thought about the interconnectedness of all of the guys I have dated and also the train of names from my first journey. How it is all the same over and over, all connected.

Anyhow, I thought it was time to leave so I thanked everyone and got back into the boat with the hedgehog. We went back up river to the shore. We got out of the boat and the hedgehog morphed again into the porcupine. I walked over to the cork tree and swung for a bit, then got off the tree and began looking for answers. I touched the root of the tree and began to uncover it from the sand. The word IRRIGATION was scratched into the root. I sat down on the shore. I began talking to the sky about how I felt still lost around the Craig stuff. I lied back on the black sand. It felt cold. I cracked open my rib cage and a pewter metal hawk came down from the sky and picked up my red pulsing heart with its claws and flew off with it to a nest on the top of some trees. I just lied there and I felt relieved. It hit me that I was powerless. This animal had already taken my heart, so there was nothing I could do about that. I could build the structure, the rib cage, the foundation, but regardless my heart was in a tree with the hawk. I could see the hawk from an aerial view. The heart was just sitting there. He looked crow like from up there and wasn’t metal anymore. For some reason it was important for me to remember how he looked when he came down and took my heart cause I knew he wasn’t really a black crow, but a brown specked hawk and I didn’t want to get confused about that. He pecked something off the heart, but the heart wasn’t bleeding. It reminded me of the ceasar salad dressing from the restaurant he and I ate at- self-contained little dollops. I then focused in and watched his claws puncture a hole in my heart. It started to bleed and I felt such relief. I felt like I could breathe. Then this hollow pewter metal heart came down from the sky and went into my chest. I felt grateful. I cracked my ribcage back closed and stitched the skin flap shut. Originally when I opened the rib cage it was ripped open from the chest, jagged and raw… when I stitched the skin flap shut, it looked like a rectangular door. I stitched a loose stitch across the bottom, up the right side and across the top.

I felt grateful and began rubbing my face into the sand like a cat does when they like something. It felt smooth, and then I nuzzled my head to the hedgehog. I thanked everyone again- the porcupine, the eagle, the fruit tree, the worms, the hawk/crow, picked up the feather and came back to Tennessee Valley Beach.

Shamanism 2.5

2009-11-19T23:08:00.001-08:00

I tried to journey to the upper world last night, but I lay down on the couch and though I kept having flashes, I didn’t feel like I went anywhere. I started back to the beach and climbed up the hillside. On top there was a grassy area and then a ladder. I climbed up the latter into the clouds and just sat there. I kept having visions of things, but I felt like they were media influenced. Specifically Dexter influenced. I do remember seeing a bee however, a buzzing large bee. Not a bumblebee, a yellow jacket of sorts. No black, just all yellow.
Bigger than normal, and buzzing but not moving.
I fell asleep and slept 12-13 hours missed two appointments and awoke in self-loathing goodness.

Tonight I started again. I sat in the white chairs and decided to go to the underworld since I didn’t have much luck in the upper world. I went down there and it all felt so contrived. I could hear myself typing up my journey in order to share it with other people. It felt ridiculous. It was lighter down there than before. There was a large green mountain and a river and I saw a badger on the beach. It went into this hole in the ground and I followed it. The hole went under water and came up in the river. I got all upset saying that I didn’t want to be wet. There was a boat in the water, larger than before with two rows of seats. I pulled myself up into it dripping wet. No oars this time. The porcupine was in there with me. We started going into the sunset and I just felt so frustrated, like I was making all up in my head. Holland sent me a facebook message which distracted me. I came out of my journey all frustrated. I didn’t originally know what animal the badger was so I took this opportunity to google porcupines- turns out they look different in real life than they do in my head, and then I googled skunk. There was a picture of a skunk and a badger, so then I knew that guy was a badger.

Anyhow, I decided to journey again. This time I imagined myself standing outside my studio near the oak tree, and I was looking for a space to go back down. I found a hole in the dirt. A spider crawled on me I shook it off, ants crawled out of the hole all over and I began to climb up the tree. I wrapped my legs and arms around the tree and began to scale it. I got to the top and the clouds came lower to get me. I found myself in the same spot I was yesterday. There was a very traditional gold and brass gate in front of me. I could’ve walked around it I am sure, but it seemed more respectful to go through it. I walked up to it and there was a numerical lock. I spun the numbers to 777 then tried 666. I thought that would be funny. For some reason I knew that I didn’t need to look at the numbers, but rather feel them and stop wherever I felt was right. I stopped and it was 333. I pulled the gate open. It was heavy. I shut the gate behind me and relocked it.

I walked forward and there was a stairway up made of clouds. It was a traditional stairway you would see in an apartment. I walked maybe 5 steps up and there was a line of people so I dropped through. There was a swing attached to the underside of the stairs, so I started swinging on it. It would swing up through the cloud steps. I got off the swing and looked at my arm. There was a ladybug. It then began raining ladybugs. They all landed like little polka dots on the clouds. I noticed they weren’t flying, and then they began to fly. There were maybe 300 of them.

I walked over to this tree, which I realized was probably the medicine tree. It looked like an enlarged Japanese bonsai. It leaned to one side. I leaned on the trunk and asked for a guide. Rich appeared. I told him I didn’t know what I was doing and that I thought I needed a soul retrieval. I started to cry (in real life too) he gave me a hug and told me it was going to be okay. He said “let me set you up over here in this comfortable spot, and I will get someone that will help you.” I sat at a white Victorian tea table. He gave me a pillow to make it more comfortable. I looked off and could see all of the ladybugs still swarming around. Then my grandma appeared. I started talking to her, telling her that I needed a soul retrieval for all of the things mary did and jerilyn and nancy. Then I started to tell her about nancy and I realized she already knew even though she had passed away.

Rich came back. They said hi. I asked how they knew each other, she said that he comes there often. I sat down again and rich sat down at the empty chair. It was then that I realized that I didn’t think rich was rich. I think rich was my grandpa. I looked at him more closely and could begin to distinguish his features. Then rich appeared behind me with a bird. So at the table is sitting my grandma, my grandpa and rich. The bird is a funny looking bird, it is black with short legs and a long neck. It’s eyes were wide and yellow and it had a long beak. Rich said to sit here and hold hands. The bird would go around and grab the parts of my soul that were ready to come back. So we sat there holding hands. I could observe the bird and us sitting there from above. I could see us sitting at the table and the bird going to these mirages of San Diego, to the house where we were left, to the place where we got evicted, to Denver and the house where I had nightmares and where Anita hit margarite and I. The bird was picking up these fleshy pink cubes, tilting his head back and swallowing them.

It then went back to san diego, then to the house we lived with auntie, then to las vegas and the night we got picked up from there, then up to sequim and Oregon and willy. The bird got agitated with willy and plucked an eye out of his as well and swallowed it. Then it came down here to nancy’s at the brown house, then to nancy’s property now and then belvedere briefly. Then it went to so cal to r and r's house and it couldn’t get that part to come. I imagined him breaking a twig over and over again, but my grandpa said I had to ask for closure and I had to make an effort.

The bird came back and we were still holding hands. My grandma and grandpa were closer together, so their elbows were bent. My arms were straight, so from above it looked like a heart. The bird landed on the tale and took a huge dump. There were these little marble sized brown droppings. I knew I had to eat them and only for a millisecond did that gross me out. I guess cause I realized that it was all just parts of me. At first I was delicate, taking one at a time between my fingers. Then I picked up a handful and ate them. They didn’t taste like chocolate or raisins. It was satisfying to eat a handful, so I brought my head to the table and began eating them with my mouth. I ate them all up and there were remnants on the table. I licked the table.

My grandpa said lets take a walk. He was on my left and she was on my right. We were holding hands walking off towards nothing really. I stopped and said “This feels so good. This just feels so good.” and then I started to cry (real life too). “I wish you guys could be down there with me”. He stopped me and hugged me. He told me it was going to be okay. I felt myself getting frustrated. “I don’t know what I am doing down there!” Grandma said “No one does. You just do the best you can”. He kept hugging me. I said “what about the book” They said don’t worry about the book. I said what about they guy. Grandpa said be careful of the guy. They mentioned Barcelona regarding that. I asked what about money? They said dance. I asked grandma about that and reminded her of Christina and she looked at him. He said, don’t’ worry, we will help you with money. They said that my job was to create. To manifest. I asked about my house and the cats, they said good to both. Grandpa said my first order of business was to get the part of my soul back from ryan. I need to have closure.

That felt accurate and good. I asked if I had to do it tonight and what about what he thought of me. They said yes and it doesn’t matter what he thinks about me. I asked about nancy and they said let it go. It was time to go back and I hugged them. It felt too short. Grandma didn’t look completely like herself. Neither did he really. I hugged them both and ran back, past the stairwell to the gate. The code to get out of the gate was 000. It was still heavy to open. I pulled it open just enough to get through and then shut it again. I looked for leaves and sat down. I came to the tree and crawled down the trunk.

What I feel now. I feel sad. I feel ashamed like I asked them for money and am relying on them. I know that is nonsense. I feel reluctant now that I am back on this plane to ask for closure. I know I need to though.

Shamanism and Elloa

2009-11-19T23:07:00.000-08:00

My friend Elloa from London was visiting the States for the last 3 months. I knew I would hear from her at some point on her travels, but didn't know exactly when. She emailed me at the absolutely perfect time when I felt irritable, depressed and severely anxious. The thought of having a house guest at first seemed a little meh... "she is visiting San Francisco and I live outside of San Francisco and I am sure she will want to go sight seeing..." and on and on my thoughts rambled in a whiny voice.

She flew into Oakland and I agreed to meet her at my favorite coffee shop in the Mission. It was pouring rain. She took the underground over with all of her luggage and walked 6 blocks to the meeting place I had suggested. Meanwhile I am sitting in my car feeling emotional writing a ridiculous facebook email to my ex basically telling him how much pain I was in and how much I missed him. God I wish I didn't write that. God I wish I didn't send it immediately! Hahahaha... Hinde sight is 20/20.

Anyhow, we met at the cafe and promptly went to a convergence of the ex-addicted. I felt hugely relieved after that and she and I went back to the Mission, ate burritos and walked around. She began sharing stories of her adventures. The majority of her trip was spent at the Esalen Institute in Big Sur which founded in the 1960's and is devoted to the exploration of 'human potential'. Her first month she studied Shamanism which greatly intrigued me.

The first time I ever heard of Shamanism was from a very influential therapist I had who in the midst of our time working together, went journeying, and decided to change her name to Maria Rosa. She was an excellent therapist if for no other reason, she took a 13 year old angst out girl and introduced her to guided meditation, hypnotism for relief of bad habits and Shamanism.

Anyhow, Elloa shared her experience of how to journey, the drumming that is necessary and information about why we journey. She described the upper and lower worlds, power animals, medicine trees and teachers. I asked if the upper and lower worlds were similar to the Christian version of Heaven and Hell. She said that the lower world is visually darker, and the upper visually lighter, however they are not morally negative or positive. Though the lower world did seem to have more bugs and spiders she noted.

One of my main concerns, which I had learned in meditation, was that you don't leave yourself open because it is possible for negative spirits to come in. Elloa explained that while yes, on this plane there are questionable spirits; in the upper and lower worlds there are not. They are all teachers and are not malicious.

This is what I wrote this evening immediately after my first journey.

------------------------------

I just went on my first Shamanic Journey.

I started out by smudging the house and the kittens. I then looked up an mp3 of the shamanic drumming. I found a great one that started off which a few bells. I sat down in the white chairs in the house.

I imagined myself at Tenessee Valley Beach. I could see the waves splashing, the rocks, the sand. I walked over to the little creek there and put my bare feet into it. I began to sink down into the lower world. I held my breath as I plunged through the water and landed on what looked like a black sands beach.

The first think I noticed was the sky. It looked like a very starry night. Almost immediately when I got down there I saw Eloa’s tarantula. I said hi, and was kind of scared. He came up to me and I imagined him biting me, but he didn't. I looked around. It was pretty empty, just a black sand beach that ran into a very similar starry sky.

I couldn't look around 365º for some reason. I just let it go and looked where I could see. I kept seeing this white furry thing in my peripheral vision. I looked up and realized that the starry night was actually the light coming through the sand from above. I put the teal rock I took from the beach the other day (which I was actually holding while I journeyed) on the ground so I could find my way back up.

I looked around and walked about 10 feet forward. It was pretty dark. There wasn’t much going on, so I turned around. There was a large dark lake to my right that I could tell was cold. I saw a tree ahead of me, about 15 steps from the blue rock I put down. On my way walking to the tree I dipped the tip of my toes just briefly into the water and a crab came up and pinched the big toe on my right foot. I asked him if he was my power animal and he didn’t really respond.

I continued walking to the tree which had a light colored bark. I went up to it and recognized the spongy trunk for being Cork. I walked back towards the blue rock, keeping in the center of my mind that I wanted to find my power animal. I didn’t know what to do with myself cause nothing was really happening.

I looked back to the tree and saw a swing hanging from it. I decided to swing for a bit. That was really nice and it gave me something to do with myself down there. A snake came down from above and wrapped itself around my left arm… but it felt like my right arm (?). I thought briefly of Adam and Eve and looked for an apple. Didn’t see one. The snake un-wrapped itself from my arm and went back into the tree.

I got off the swing and a small light wood boat appeared. Got into the boat and kept seeing that white thing in the corner of my eye… was it Elloa’s bunny? I picked it up and kinda shook it lightly. It was Lola. (Who was sitting on my legs during the whole journey). She was in the boat with me. I pushed off with the ore (I only had one) and we began boating towards this tan colored building across the lake. Lola sat very upright towards the bow of the boat. She was very interested and focused on where we were going.

At one point I became aware that I was afraid to look over the edge of the boat What was I afraid to see? My own reflection. I began to lean over to look at myself and the paddle part of the oar disintegrated into the dark bluish black cold water.

At first I was worried about how I was going to get to the other beach with the tan building, then I thought “it’s okay, just float around in the boat on the lake and relax, see what happens." Then the boat started floating towards what looked like a drain in the lake. I thought that would be fun, we could go deeper. I wonder how deep the under world is? Then I realizedthat we wouldn’t have enough time to get back. I came to the realization that I could control where this boat goes with my intentions. So I directed the bow towards the shore and there we went.

We got off the boat and walked up to the house, at first I thought it was made of mirrors, but at closer look it looked like a Mexican or Spanish style sand cast house. There were no doors. My brain made reference to mirrors being made of glass and glass being made from sand. There was Mexican blanket on top of a buddhist silk pillow. I didn’t really go far into the house, just down the first hall to where the pillow was.

I sat on the pillow and Lola wondered around. I called for my power animal and a porcupine appeared. Lola came running up to check it out. She licked it’s forehead affectionately like she would if she was cleaning Prince or Ninja. I picked the porcupine up and got pricked. A quill came out and I thought about how the black and cream color totally matched the color tone of this under world. The porcupine then relaxed it's quills and let me pet it.

I put her down and she rolled around. Soooo cute. She wasn’t necessarily feminine or masculine. Just very cute. She lied on her back and stretched like the cats do. Then she started rolling around again. I didn’t know what to do here. They said to play with your poweranimal. I don't really know how to play with a porcupine. I asked her “what am I supposed to learn?” She rolled down to the shore and began drinking from the water.

I knew it meant that I was supposed to look at myself. I leaned over and looked at my reflection. I couldn’t clearly see myself. I saw past my reflection though into the water and saw worms, lots of them. There were also colored small rocks in the sand with them- red, yellow and teal blue.

I kept looking to see what I was meant to see. I felt very much in a trance looking and looking. My body began to fall forward into the water and I landed stomach up. I turned into the floating device and immediately the porcupine and Lola hopped onto my stomach. I opened my chest and took deep breaths. The water was cold and I floated us back to the other side of the shore where I started, just breathing and using my intentions.

As soon as I got out of the water the porcupine morphed into a skunk! I imagined her spraying me but I don’t think she actually did. I got really frustrated cause I was almost completely sure that my poweranimal was the porcupine, but now there was a skunk and she was petite and cute… but not a porcupine. I asked her where the porcupine was and she directed me towards this thing. I picked it up and it was the porcupine curled up like a rollie pollie… then it turned into a medium brown carcass of a really large rollie-pollie- like the size of a small water melon but much lighter in weight cause it was just the shell of a beetle.

I felt a little disappointed about my porcupine. I was going to put the beetle carcass into the water and it latched onto my wrist with its body. I intuitively put my wrist in the water and it released. When I pulled out my hand, there was blood coming out all around my right wrist, but it started to morph and heal. I wasn’t concerned about it.

At this point in the journey I felt very frustrated and demanding. I felt like all the animals were playing tricks on me. I began loudly demanding that I wanted to find my poweranimal. I said this a couple times and could feel myself get tight in the chest.

I looked away from the lake (which is where in the beginning of the journey I couln't see) and saw a really big brown and white horse in a over grown grassy area. I questioned if that was my animal and felt no.

I sat down on the black sand still disappointed about not finding my poweranimal. The skunk curled up in my lap and Lola joined him. It was sweet. I began writing things I needed to turn over into the sand and this little black bird that’s feathers looked rich and oily sat on my left shoulder. I asked her if she was my power animal and it seemed like yes. She sat on my shoulder and began picking little things out of my hair and off the back of my neck.. like grooming.

I felt happy.

As I began to write words into the sand this bright warm sunshine like light began shining really really bright. It was off beyond the lake and to the right of where the sand house was.

I wrote into the sand with my fingertip Love God RyaNaTiMargaritEvaNancYrevoceRelationships I think. I was very pleased thalast letter of each persons name led into the first letter of the next. Recovery came out backwards from the Y of Nancy’s name. I also added Jesse, photography, work, money and faith.

At that moment I felt really abundant and grateful. I began to thank all of the animals trying to remember who I saw first- the tarantula, the crab, the snake, lola, the porcupine, the worms, the skunk the rollie-pollie, the horse, and the black bird.

A vine came down from where I had entered. I stood up, reached up my arms and came through the creek and was back on the beach. The blackbird came out after me and at about a foot into the air she turned into a hummingbird. I felt a slight bit of laughter, I felt tricked again, but this time it felt very playful. She flew up about maybe 4 feet, then dived back into the hole in the sand.
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After thoughts:

I have to look at Elloa’s facebook to see when I started that adventure! Right now it is 11:44pm. Okay, Elloa’s page said 9:56pm. I remember now too that right before I started my journey, I got a text from Caleb. Let me check the time on that. 10:10. Okay so more or less 10:15-11:45 with writing. Wow. Amazing experience.