The Garden, by Louise Gluck

I couldn't do it again,
I can hardly bear to look at it -

in the garden, in light rain
the young couple planting
a row of peas, as though
no one has ever done this before,
the great difficulties have never as yet
been faced and solved -

They cannot see themselves,
in fresh dirt, starting up
without perspective,
the hills behind them pale green, clouded with flowers-

She wants to stop;
he wants to get to the end,
to stay with the thing -

Look at her, touching his cheek
to make a truce, her fingers
cool with spring rain;
in thin grass, bursts of purple crocus-

even here, even at the beginning of love,
her hand leaving his face makes
an image of departure

and they think
they are free to overlook
this sadness.

Hills and Boulders

I feel like Sisyphus. It's deeply wearying to constantly go uphill.

Subversive Thinking

My blog has been terribly neglected of late.

Mostly because I have been spread almost intolerably thin. But the irony is that blogging actually does recharge me in some way, if only I had the reserves to blog in the first place.

I picked up a couple consulting projects - one of them is for a test prep company. I am managing the company's internet marketing efforts, but since I am a former test prep instructor (back in grad school), I agreed to take on a class teaching the math section of the PSAT to a group of 20 inner city kids.

They are obnoxious and brassy; they have bad attitudes and even worse mouths, and I adore them. And, with absolutely no modesty, they adore me. I learned long ago during my first teaching stint that the way to high school students' hearts is to curse abundantly and fluently, and yell "SEX!" should their attention drift. Actually, I suppose this works with older children as well. In particular, with men of all ages.

So 4 days a week, in the mornings, I play the role of the foul mouthed math teacher who curses her way through long division, factoring, geometry, and probability.

The afternoons and early evenings are devoted to internet marketing - for my client companies and my own.

Evenings of late have been devoted to rehearsal. SK and I have our next show coming up this week. (Does completing 2 cabaret shows qualify me for the title of "lounge singer"?)

But with my time so utterly accounted for, I have been thinking about obligation and selfishness and the balance between the two. KK was in town for a brief visit last week, and we had an evening to catch up. I told her what my life has looked like for the past month and she interrupted me to ask, "Have you spent ANY time alone, completely alone, in the last few weeks?" The answer of course, was "no."

She was appalled. While she is not an only child, many of her closest friends are, and she understands us well. We discussed ways in which I might be able to carve out blocks of time for myself to recharge.

But while that's necessary for me, I have been thinking that perhaps my bifurcation of "obligation" and "selfishness", especially when it relates to social gatherings in my free time, might require some re-definition.

Even when I was married, I was hyper vigilant about what was MINE versus HIS. MY books were kept on MY bookcase. HIS were kept on HIS. And I spent the required time re-shifting books that somehow strayed. I was worse when it came to time. My time was my own. I was fierce in protecting it. My time to myself, my time with my friends, my time working... all MINE, and not for sharing.

It has occurred to me that perhaps some of the difficulty I currently have in balancing obligation with selfishness could be alleviated by allowing for a simple concept that I have never fully embraced to date: OURS.

Ours. What a subversive concept. The cat in me would rather chase her own tail.

And yet, not unattractive, for all its foreignness.

Farewell

Yesterday was shocking - both Farrah Fawcett AND Michael Jackson?

Death makes us look back. So here's something from 1985...



I'd write more, but MomVee already did it, and better than I could.


Exit stage left, moon walking.

Creation

Such a fragile, brave thing is the act of creating.

Far easier and safer to tear something down.

Ergo and I were at a party recently, and when she was asked to perform one of her own songs, she did so with verve and charm and her usual brilliance, to wild applause. But there were a couple discordant voices that insisted that they had heard the song before, and they wouldn't let it go. (And note that while I love Ergo, and am naturally predisposed to love everything she does, I am VERY confident that my appreciation of her music is rooted in highly educated objectivity).

I was reminded of the discussion groups at college. We were taught to critique. And we were judged on our ability to adroitly level criticism at an idea. And that's all well and good; it's important to be able to turn an idea around in your hands and recognize the inconsistencies and the flaws. But FAR harder, so much so that most of us never actually do it, is to create a theory, a building, a song, a performance, a poem, a story.

An excerpt from Anton Ego (the food critic) in the movie Ratatouille, about a rat turned chef:

In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face is that, in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is more meaningful than our criticism designating it so.

"Sophistication" can most easily be expressed (or feigned) by pointing out the flaws of a thing. And that can become habit. (Of course, when it becomes habit, "sophistication" is stripped of its core elements: discernment and experience).

I don't think the people who "criticized" Ergo's song meant to criticize. It was mostly thoughtlessness on their parts. (Someone else at this same party, after I played the piano a bit, came up to "thank" me afterwards for my "doodling" around on the keyboard. This from someone who's played the guitar for a whole 7 months now. Perhaps I'll just add his name to Ergo's list of people she should punch in the mouth. And it re-affirms my rabid dislike of playing for people without hours and hours of focused practice beforehand.)

There was no maliciousness. But there was also no courage. And even worse, no awareness of its lack. Yes, that's dramatic, but it made me angry on Ergo's behalf. Because I know the courage and risk that went into writing the song and then performing it.

MAKE something. Just TRY to write a blues song that doesn't leverage standard blues chord progressions.

And play an instrument, any instrument, for 5 hours a day, everyday, for over 10 years before you patronizingly compliment my "doodling," mother fucker.

Nouveau Cabaret

The Last Cigarette (me, SK and the fabulous FM) will perform again at Veloce Club on Thursday, July 9th. Sorry folks, it's already sold out.

But why Deep Purple's "Smoke On The Water", you ask?

Simple. FT, who owns Veloce Club, has requested it. Mostly I think for the sheer hilarity of watching us try to sing it.

Now try to imagine a breathy sex kitten version of it. OR, to compound the ridiculousness, a cappella? I know. Who WOULDN'T want to see that?!?

Press

Our first "press" mention - in Makeup Loves Me. Obviously, I think she is brilliant and insightful.

If you haven't bought a Luxe Now gift card for someone in NYC (such as ME, for example), hurry up and do so.

Genius

Filters

The PG asked me last night, over dinner with me and SK, if it were ok to forward my blog to some of his friends, so that they might get to know me.

That threw me. And brought forth all sorts of seemingly unrelated memories and emotions.

SK, who also has a blog, said that she would not feel comfortable with that, herself. She is perfectly comfortable knowing that her blog is read by either complete strangers or by her loved ones. But should it be read by that category of people who might know her a little, or by people she might one day meet, then that would change everything for her - it would affect her ability to write freely. And really, what's the point of having a blog if your self-censoring is that extreme?

However, SK did point out that I might not feel the same way. Essentially, that I might not give a shit and continue throwing my thoughts into cyberspace, unhindered.

(One note: Our blogs ARE self-censored anyway. But there are certain degrees of that censoring that we adhere to. Both SK and I have "secret" blogs which are FAR less censored than our "public" ones).

But back on topic:

The Glamorous, Sexy GC in Beijing is one of the warmest, kindest, more generous women I have ever had the privilege to meet and befriend. But many people, especially women, never see what her friends see. Her outward presentation is highly sexualized and I have seen many women take an instant dislike to her. But I see it as self-selection. Those who are intidimated by her are those she would not WANT as friends in the first place. And she lets others make that choice. The insecure and the emotionally stingy self-select out of her circle. Those of us who are attracted to her beauty and heat are the ones who actually spend enough time with her to see that she is much, much more than first impressions might suggest. This "filter" of hers works for her.

While I have mellowed significantly with age, I present a filter of sorts as well. There are some people I meet and INSTANTLY, I recognize some sort of kindred spirit. But there are many many more where only time and exposure might provide that kind of assessment. And this might sound harsh, but I already have too many loved ones that I spend inadequate time with, to expend that kind of energy in determining if a new acquaintance might be worth a further dilution of my focus. It's much less time consuming to let someone self-select out.

So how does this all relate to my blog?

Bloggers put out their thoughts in cyberspace; in a real sense, we all want an audience. So expanding a "readership" should not be a problem - isn't that exactly what we WANT?

But I don't blog because I want an audience, per se.

I write because the act of writing helps me clarify my thoughts, to and for myself. And blogging for a potential audience adds a further element - I find that sometimes my thoughts go to entirely different places than even I had initially anticipated simply because I know that someone, somewhere might read my words.

So it's not so much that I write for an audience (although many times, I do), it's that I use the potential of an audience to affect how my thoughts spin out, and how I attempt to articulate them.

If that's the case, it shouldn't matter who bothers to read my silly little blog. Or what their intent is, in reading it.

And yet, it does seem to matter.

And I think it matters because while my blog is just another "filter," it's not the filter that I am accustomed to using at my discretion when meeting a new person. Reading my blog, anybody's blog, gives the reader a presumption of intimacy and knowledge that has not been EARNED - no matter how superficial that "knowledge" might be. And I'm a big believer in intimacy and knowledge being earned. (Of course this is only applies to people who might actually meet me one day. Like SK, I have no problem with strangers).

But I recognize that this is the entire point of The PG's request... although his was a simple request and not nearly as complicated as I've made it.

I do enjoy a good "over-complication" from time to time. But I suppose even as complicated as I've made this, my answer is, "yes, I'm OK with it." Because while his friends may not yet have earned the presumption of intimacy directly from me, in person, they have earned that from HIM. And that's enough.

Mirrors

There has been discussion buzzing around the girl-talk circles.

We all value certain things about ourselves. Sometimes those things are not even necessarily "positive." And we all want to be valued for those things.

"A" values her independence, her force of will, her biting wit, and her formidable strength.

"B" values her "evil brain," her ridiculousness, and her inability to conform even when she is trying really hard to.

"C" values her beauty and sophistication, her unwavering ambition, and her commitment to following through.

"D" values her discipline and talent, demonstrated in the various things she has worked hard to do well.

So what happens when they perceive that they are valued by others for entirely different things... or for things that only represent the tiniest bit of what they are? Or for illusions? Or for traits that almost ANY other woman can embody?

There's a question I can't stand when asked in the context of relationships: "WHY do you love me?" I wholeheartedly dislike being asked that. And I rarely ask it. Seems to me that's the sort of thing that is best volunteered, not solicited.

But sometimes you want to know if you are SEEN. And doubt, while it can dissipate over time, can also grow until it blocks all else. The Girls have all been recounting various relationships that have ended because this particular doubt couldn't be tamed. The sociopathic alcoholic stalker - well, that may not be the best example because he is a sociopathic alcoholic - claimed to love me. But what he "loved" was my appearance and my attention. Everything else was actually a flaw or value neutral in his perspective. All that I am (all that we ALL are), and what he valued was that he thought I was "pretty"? The Fabulous SL has doubts because her man's ex is someone for whom she has no respect. I know what you are thinking, why worry about his ex, for god's sake, get over it. Give him a break, haven't we all slummed at one point or another? But I understand how she feels, I get it. If he once valued this woman, what does that say about what he values, in general, and specifically, what does that say about what he sees and values in SL?

But then...

Sometimes it can't be articulated. Sometimes it's more about timing and "readiness" than about the specific personalities involved. And that's ok, isn't it? At the end of the day, love, like all emotion, is not always rational.

And I suppose that's one reason why we all need multiple people in our lives - whether ourselves, our friends, colleagues, family, lovers. Every person is a mirror of sorts and reflects back different things.

Maybe that's enough - that in the aggregate of the mirrors in your life, your reflection is complete.

Mental Masturbation

Earlier this year I was obsessed with opening lines of a novel. And since obsession, like misery, loves company, I dragged others into the abyss with the following email chain:

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

From: C-Belle
Subject: Favorite Opening Lines Of A Novel

Because this topic has been on my mind lately, I brought up the
subject at every meeting I had today. Who knew that salon owners were
so well-read?

This is what I got:

"Dr. Weiss, at forty, knew that her life had been ruined by
literature." (Anita Brookner)

"All children, except one, grow up." (Peter Pan, J.M. Barrie)

"All this happened, more or less." (The salon owner couldn't remember
the book, but I googled it right then and there - LOVE my new
blackberry: Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut)

My personal favorite:

"Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-
ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate
to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta." (Lolita, Nabokov)

Yours?

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

From: SK
Subject: Favorite Opening Lines Of A Novel

"Scarlett O'Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were." (Gone with the Wind - Margaret Mitchell)

"The beet is the most intense of vegetables." (Jitterbug Perfume - Tom Robbins)

"The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel." (Neuromancer - William Gibson)

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

From: MM
Subject: Favorite Opening Lines Of A Novel

"I had a farm in Africa." (Out of Africa, Karen Blixen, aka Isaac Dinesen)

But I liked Lolita a lot, too.

Also "When you wet the bed, first it is warm, then it cold..." (Ulysses, James Joyce)

"I married for the first time at 37." (Sex and the Single Girl, Helen Gurley Brown)

It's a pain in the ass waiting around for someone to kill you." (Roger Zelazny, Sign of the Unicorn)

Not the most brilliant or literary sci-fi fantasy ever, but a great opening line.
Anyone for "Arma virumque cano...." ??????

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

From: Gorgeous Hunk O'Man (JF)
Subject: RE: Favorite Opening Lines Of A Novel

"The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed." (Stephen King, The Gunslinger).

Though typically not a fan of the writer of our nation's fast food version of horror, I find this book spare, compelling, and rather disturbing. Interestingly enough, he wrote it in his early days at the peak of his alcohol abuse, which may be another reason I like it so.


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

From: JR
Subject: RE: Favorite Opening Lines Of A Novel

"Call me Ishmael."

Given my company .... could it be another?

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

The email exchange then drifted to favorite closing lines, and novels with a "novel within a novel structure," etc. And since my every contribution involved Nabokov's Lolita in some way, MM finally asked me what my obsession with that book was.

I blame The Police and Mr. M, my 6th grade English teacher.

After crushing on Sting, and listening obsessively to "Don't Stand So Close To Me", I went up to Mr. M after class one day and asked him:

"that Police song has the lyric: 'just like that, old man in, that book by Nabokov.' What book?"

And Mr. M whipped out a copy of Lolita (he just happened to have one handy) and pressed it into my hands in a way that would have made me intensely uncomfortable had I already read it.

But it all makes sense now. No wonder I believe love affairs should be difficult, socially unacceptable, and result in someone dying.

Commercial Message

So I've been quiet on the blogging front of late. There are a number of reasons for that.

Primarily, there's The PG who is commandeering time once spent on blogging with activities such as plays and dinners and live music. So this is what it feels like to have an offline life...

But also, IC and I have *finally* launched Luxe Now. Check it out to see what we have been toiling over the last many months. Also, if you are so inclined, go HERE, to our facebook page and become a fan! Do it for me. NOW. Oops, I meant, PLEASE. Rats, I always confuse those two words.

Occasional Ray of Perversity

Ergo and I were discussing our blogs this morning - a topic that we revisit on a fairly regular basis: do our blogs reveal the kind of people we are? Since we know each other both on and offline, we seemed to be the best people to answer this question for each other.

me: "Your REAL quirkiness comes out a bit, here and there..."

Ergo: with yours, "an occasional ray of perversity shines through. but you are very subtle. it's your spy geisha thing"

I suppose the big takeaway is that I see Ergo as quirky, and she sees me as perverse.

True enough.

Tests

I spoke to a friend tonight, one whom I haven't talked to in a very long time. But we were friends when we were young and absolutely fearless.

And my heart is breaking for her.

I can't write what happened.

What do you do when something happens to break you so thoroughly that you feel you can't even move, can't even breathe? That you don't even recognize yourself anymore?

She doesn't know how to put the pieces back together.

When I was living in Beijing, I was home one night, watching TV. I can't remember the name of the show...

One of the characters was a woman whose husband had left her. She was raging with anger and grief, and wondering why, with her heart broken, she was still alive. Don't you need a whole, functioning heart to live? And despite the betrayal and hate, she still wanted him. But not with her heart, which was broken. Not even with her mind, because she knew that there was no going back. She still wanted him with her legs, her arms, her breasts, her hips, her groin, her hands, her lips. As if her body parts were mindless animals which only knew need and desire and were completely outside her control.

And the worst part of it is, that only describes one part of what my friend is feeling. The other part is... worse.

She needed me to talk about certain things. She needed me to remember and to be back in that place, with her, now.

And so I did.

We all think we are strong. But we never really know, not unless we're tested.

I'm think I'm failing this test. Because while I did what she needed, I desperately wish that I had never answered my phone.

How Much Hellraiser Can I Watch?

My favorite gory moment in Hellraiser II, is when the doctor kills someone on a bloody mattress and that freshly spilled blood opens up a doorway for the evil female villain from Hellraiser I to "escape" from hell back into this world.

I'm just sayin' is all.

Scent Obsession

A few days ago, MM, who works with perfume, sent me an ad for a newish fragrance (released Autumn 2008) that she thought was "conceptually and olfactorily right up (my) alley."



MM has a great nose - she can identify most perfumes instantly (and understands both their composition and dry-down), she has great taste, and she is an insightful and generous reader of personality.

So I am happy to take her advice, scent unsmelled, and perhaps I'll finally get around to placing an order for the stuff one day soon. It doesn't hurt that a few months ago, when I wasn't obsessing about Chanel 19, I was obsessing about amber and vetiver and leather.

But, obsessions change. Especially perfume obsessions, especially according to the weather.

While it seems like Persephone is still with Hades, I am fairly confident that warm weather will eventually arrive. And with the prospect of summer, quite predictably, I turn back to Shiseido's White Rose. I don't particularly care for rose, as a scent. Or even as a flower. But I smelled it the last time I was in Tokyo, loved it, and in a fit of insanity, decided NOT to buy it.

To add insult to injury, it's pretty much impossible to find in the US. It will have to wait until I am back in Asia.

So until the day I find myself in the Ginza district of Tokyo, it's Chanel 19. Or, possibly, Chanel Allure. Apparently I find that scent completely, ridiculously, even frighteningly, irresistible.

WARNING: Music Geekiness Ahead

Have been singing "Night And Day" - not just singing it, but really trying to figure it out. So I've been listening to it far more carefully that I normally would.

It's unusual for a song of that era. It's longer, for one. Instead of the typical four 8-bar sections, if is divided into 6 sections of 8 bars - with an ABABCB structure (instead of the more typical AABA).

This song has an unusual chord progression as well. And all sorts of lovely crunchy chords such as major sevenths built on the flattened sixth of the key, resolving to dominant sevenths. My favorite part starts with a chord built on the augmented fourth of the key, and descends by semitones before hitting the supertonic minor seventh. Gorgeous.

The only reason I can somewhat do justice to this song is that the vocal melody is a bit unusual - the melody is incredibly simple, with all the notes hovering around the SAME note for the most part, with all the lovely chords meandering about underneath.

After an early dinner with BM (during which we had the first celebrity sighting of 2009 - Dan Ackroyd), I came home and went directly to my piano. It was a lovely evening.

Of course, the most noteworthy part of it was that BM and I both choose to detox and NOT drink tonight.

While I am rather proud of that, I will admit that as I type this, I am sipping a bone dry white, and still humming.

A Bad Influence

I did yoga this morning after a long yoga-drought.

My mat seemed to mock me. Poses that were once effortless were grueling and there was a moment when I thought I would rest in child's pose. But I kept pushing through, and finally my head left the game. And when that happened, muscle memory kicked in... and something else. For the first time ever, with no expectations of success, and in possibly the worst shape of my life, I hit and held "crow" for a full 3 breaths.

Of course once I realized what I was doing, I started THINKING again, and immediately pitched forward and landed on the top of my head.

But that doesn't diminish the feeling of success.

I blame calvados spiked fruit salad.

Game Theory

Talking about relationships lately... triggered by the most common trigger for such conversations - the dissolution of one.

But amongst my group, the angle of that conversation that has been most consistent across the last many years is not "why didn't he love ME," but rather, "why didn't I love him? Am I too selfish or unrealistic or cold?"

During the most recent conversation on this topic, I expounded on my take on it - which revolves around relative power distribution.

But first, more background. This particular variation of the relationship discussion involves throwing away men who are decent and kind and trustworthy - GOOD men without commitment issues or heavy emotional baggage or other "major" flaws.

Of course, the answer might be as simple as "we didn't love them." But what lies beneath that rather facile explanation?

Since I only remember 40% of what people (including myself) say, it comes as no surprise that I need my friends to recount certain conversations to me. SK and IC have both independently reminded me that they once asked me if I loved my ex-husband. Apparently, I answered, "No, but I trust him."

Putting aside the possible explanation that we are a cold-hearted bunch incapable of loving, why did we not appreciate what we had or could have? Optimistically, I choose to believe that we just haven't yet met the "right" men. But specifically, men whose opinions we care about, men for whom we will make the continued effort to make happy, men we respect. (At the end of the day, what we choose to respect, TRULY respect, is highly personal and sometimes inexplicable. )

But to drill deeper, it comes down to power, specifically in the inequality of it. With most of my past relationships, there was no equality vis-a-vis power. I held all of it. And that never held my interest for long. According to SK, witnessing my marriage was like "watching a mountain lion trying to date a stuffed animal."

So if a balance of power is important, desirable, even... that opens up another can of worms.

To quote SK again: "that's when relationships get scary."

Titles

Co-CEO
VP Sales and Marketing
Managing Director
Director
Head of Sales

... are some of the titles I've held in recent years. And sometimes, the title was important to me, so much so that I would negotiate specifically for it. Other times, I couldn't care less, as long as the title was senior enough to lend credibility to my role. And yet other times, I have had different sets of business cards with misleadingly junior titles printed on them, because there are situations where it is helpful to NOT be identified as a decision maker.

But that's professionally.

What happens personally? A rose, by any other name...

And yet, as with names, "titles" do seem to have significance. Ambiguity is all well and good and can provide great flexibility, and I DO firmly believe that sometimes categorization is unnecessary, but then... other times, no matter how seemingly silly and unnecessary, the unambiguous title is... well... NICE, in a completely terrifying way, of course.

Out of facetiousness the other day, I had written as my facebook status update: "C-Belle now fully subscribes to: "if it's not documented on facebook, it didn't happen."

I can't really finish this post because I'm now overwhelmed with the desire to watch Hellraiser for the 182nd time.

Scientific Advancements

I had a revelation of sorts last night. But then, 3AM is the hour of revelatory moments.

The problem with revelations is that MANY are necessary before they "stick."

But I've had this particular revelation for years now. There's a time for velcro and a time for teflon.

Open Wide

me: "And then he made a fruit salad and splashed TWO kinds of booze in it."

WC: "Well, that is the only way to get you to eat fruit."

Lost at Whole Foods

Exactly a year ago, giving into the traditions of the date, I wrote Breaking The Fast. Which was quickly followed by Gotcha! when people called, IM'd, and emailed me to express their opinions.

Apparently, the joke's on me, 'cause I found myself lost and confused at Whole Foods just the other day, saved only by WC who coached me over the phone on 1. how to identify a mango and 2. how to pick a ripe one.

Q & A

I was asked a question I didn't know how to answer today.

So I just laughed it off and ran away as soon as possible.

But it occurs to me that there is truth in that old adage: "actions speak louder than words."

Because according to my actions, the answer to that question, is "yes."

And...

well...

I...

...think I'll just watch Hellraiser and try to not to think of it. Because hands down, immersing myself in gore and horror is FAR preferable to being scared.