words

Flight

arugularakete — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 19:16:15 GMT

2009 will mark a decade of my living full time in the Bay Area. It was May 1999 when I left behind a charming apartment overlooking a church square in a hip Berlin neighborhood (Prenzlauerberg/Mitte), solid work, and my mother --whose only child I am, to come to California and move in with my now ex-husband. About a year ago I started thinking about leaving. Why? I know this place: I’ve lived on 3 sides of the Bay: San Rafael, in Marin County; the Berkeley hood; and now the City- the Castro. The most beautiful spots, especially along the coast, the forests, and the nicest restaurants—I associate with my ex. It’s too expensive to sustain oneself as an artist. Solid candidates for romantic partnership seem to elude me. And there’s such a lot of world to see. The funny thing is, I don’t have a particular destination. I’m intrigued by popular political movements in Latin America… I have a relatively easy entrée to Berlin, and thus a portal to the EU… Toronto is tempting… I know. More than one friend has said: It should not be a moving away from, it should be a decisive moving toward. I keep waiting for a sign. The uncertainty is leaching some lifeforce. It takes constant reminders to be present, and still I drift. Anxiety, loneliness… In my senior year of college I knew I was leaving for Europe after graduating. My parents had moved to Germany during my sophomore year and shortly thereafter we figured out that my dad had alzheimer’s. I wanted to go to Europe; I also felt I had no choice but to go and support my mother, help take care of my father. About midway through senior year, all my relationships started disintegrating. My unbelievably hot and brilliant creative polymath of a boyfriend, Robb, couldn’t imagine moving abroad. The dissolvings (with friends too) seemed mutual. But here I am, 15 years later, with more self-awareness. I look back on that time and wonder if it was almost entirely me who was dis-engaging. To protect myself, to make the leaving more bearable. These days, I sometimes choose to be alone on a given night even when I have a social invite. I tell myself I can’t go to another party and not meet someone I’m interested in; but instead be surrounded by nuzzly couples…but instead be breathed on by a moth drawn to my light --with whom I got no spark. Alone, I flip through my mental rolodex and decide I don’t really feel like talking to any of my friends. I often tell myself it’s because none of them can offer the specific type of interaction I increasingly crave: the breathtaking I-can’t-get-enough-of-you romantic exchange. The distancing phenomenon’s been compounded by the evolution of my professional life. Thrillingly, I’m a writer now. Yet it’s eaten my life for the past six months, as I’ve busted my ass to get a serious nonfiction project finished in an unheard of timeline. I put off almost every friend between December 2007 and May 2008, and now at the end of that spell I have found myself adrift. At the Hoop Path retreat last weekend (it already seems forever ago, far more than a week), I was only half-connecting, mostly, except maybe with Beth or Satise. Unfortunate. What to do except put myself back out (t)here. Share this. Wait for a sign. Invite intimacies. Only connect.

my boys get hitched

arugularakete — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 06:40:29 GMT

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=5956&l=35978&id=1067405003

ok, she's back.

arugularakete — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 01:49:25 GMT

that sweet nutty Arugula

this whole rebranding thing: o Arugula

arugularakete — Thu, 29 May 2008 06:20:59 GMT

-It's a little over the top, there are really much better, more divine hoopers out there. I was talking to my boss, van. A pretty savvy guy. But van insisted my superheroname should be hoopgoddess, and promptly reserved a relevant URL for me. So my hooplog became hoopgoddess.wordpress.com... And on a whim I changed it here on tribe. Looks weird. I kinda miss Arugula, the Rocket.

pick my outfit

arugularakete — Fri, 23 May 2008 04:59:32 GMT

http://hoopgoddess.wordpress.com/2008/05/23/outfit-input/

mesa logs, II

arugularakete — Wed, 07 May 2008 04:45:53 GMT

4/22 Tonight I opted to be social, feeling very pleased with myself after having churned out another 12 pages of the policy chapter (tho I’m nowhere near the end of it). Had rambly and unaccountable conversations with Erik, whom I’m beginning to get, and really treasure. Also connected briefly with Jeremy on sci-fi. Did the sauna with Erik to close the evening- a long sit until it got hot enough that we were actually sweating, more drifts of conversation, with an ease that makes me feel as though we’ve been friends for a long time. Hardly hooped today. The sky was surly and the weather welcomed rain all day, although it didn’t receive it until dusk. 4-23 I stand on my widow’s walk looking out over the restoring wetlands, the irregular edges of the marshes lit platinum with the sun’s last light --which has gone from rose to violet to blue to now just the last bits of grey in the blueblackness of night. How fortunate I am. Who knows whether this kind of remote seaside escape will exist in a harsher future—with most of us concentrated by necessity in urban villages, with the water levels rising and obliterating most coastal communities like this one… Even today already most of the world’s people are already living in polluted, lifeless, hopeless settings, and here I am, blissed out on my contemplative green perch. Adding my name to the wall of writers who’ve stayed and worked here is an exquisitely deafening moment—the whole world reduced to my shaky hand around the sharpie and the yellow wall with these names, many of them familiar and more not (yet?) familiar. I sign in a dash. Then, studying the other names again, realize that many have printed theirs, and here’s my contribution, utterly unintelligible. After a moment, I draw a little arrow to my last name, then write it again in print: CONRAD. Maybe someday I or someone else will laugh at that, the insecurity in me it points to. Earlier I spent an hour studying a photoessay book depicting writers’ desks, with statements from each of them about writing, or how where they write plays into it, or not. I’m like—me? Yes, it’s me they’re reaching out to, saying welcome. 4/25 Friday. How do you get to be a bird in Point Reyes? Every bird must want, upon flying over or stopping over whilst on migratory route, to stay here. Mustn’t it? It’s prime real estate. Are the bird inhabitants I see born here? Do they defend their territory by force? Does the country hawk sometimes envy the city hawk, or never? 4/28 Monday. Van took off last night after consuming my weekend like a blizzard, coating everything heavy and spectacular. Afterwards I feel the need to replenish, rest, rebel. I walk into town and eat orange cinnamon French toast with stewed bananas and then, while waiting for the bookstore to open, go to Toby’s Feed Barn for a chai. The locals all greet one another—dogs and humans. Gods I LOVE this place. 4/30. Wednesday. The last day. Something about Van’s energy and the weight of the remainder of the book knocked me off kilter. I’ve done some paltry work since he left but nothing of the magnitude that I accomplished in the week leading up to his arrival. And I decided I should just go with it. Soon enough I will be back in the Castro, with the noises of the city—and worse, the grumbles and nastinesses of the housemates. When I woke this morning I noticed the Silence, except for the birds, a host of different bird noises I wish to hell I could identify —especially after polishing off Barbara Kingsolver’s Prodigal Summer yesterday, an utter indulgence that felt SO GOOD… so close to her Appalachian cast of characters that I miss them now with a pang. When I have sat outside or mosied in the garden, I’ve been hyper aware of the scent of it. Overwhelmingly, a gentle green smell from all the things growing in this marvelous garden; and then the brinyness of ocean in sudden soft blasts…. When I walked into town—or when I biked in—the smell of cow dung and rich soil, bringing me back to summers visiting Oma and Opa in Brechten, wandering through the fields with Bettina and her friends, snagging the odd cob of corn and munching it. The farmers never missed it. A prominent theme that emerged during my stay was: CHILDREN. Hearing the stories of Erik’s amazing Max, so earnestly taking on the world and taking it apart—in his brain—to understand it all, perhaps to fix it later… And Jeremy’s Liko… and meeting June & Johnny with their little Clementine… And just being out here, and getting some perspective on my life, and nursing the great Want inside me for a Partner, a Nest. I have been so very patient. And will continue to be. In the meantime, I have birthed a book.

mesa logs

arugularakete — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 02:17:40 GMT

Mesa, 4/19. It’s noon. I arrived 23 hours ago. I’d had a spirited conversation about race and race relations with Rafiq, my cab driver, in our hour plus together. At the end he gave me his number, the gold of his grills flashing. I smiled back, blushing. I had envisioned the Mesa Refuge extended over more land—oceanfront—and more rustic and minimal. Instead there are cut crystal glasses and a decanter full of sherry in the vast library/ living room, and up the stairs—painted a pumpkin color and checkered with modern square windows—is my “tower room”. A beautiful geometry of exposed unfinished beams crown me; more of these perfectly square windows that, awning-like, are hinged at the top and open at the bottom, so the rain can veer off them; and faded soft Turkish carpets underfoot on the honey wood floors. A decadent queen bed with perfect pillows, a glamorous cobalt blue bathroom with mood lighting and a luxurious tub, a mission-style writing desk, and my own balcony overlooking the wetlands, entirely enclosed by climbing roses that are just popping into flower: light pink. It’s a lovely green respite, formerly the home of artist Sam Francis. Yesterday was glorious weather: brightly sunny, hot and still enough to hoop shirtless in and then hunker down on my balcony with The Botany of Desire and then nap in a spot of sun. One of my co-inhabitants arrived in the late afternoon: Erik, an effete anthropologist and professor from Michigan who’s writing about plants exported from the border of China and Tibet in the first 30-odd years of the 20th century. He’d been driven up by his friend Dave, of Oakland. The three of us exchanged sly eyebrows while Mesa groundsmanager Pam went on with onerous details about the house. Then after she left, shared dinner, which revealed that all three of us are divorced (or about to be, in Erik’s pained case). Talked about self-efffacement, losing and finding oneself, dating again… And then this handsome Dave asked me out before he left. I said yes: there are lots of likeable things about him. The winds kicked up last night, buffeting the tower. It sounds like I’m at sea in a storm. I can well imagine this windswept bluff devoid of any vegetation, as it was before white people starting settling and planting it. Now pines slap the house walls and the rose bushes blow like waves, undaunted. I have lots of pieces to add into the book and find it difficult to start. The Botany of Desire rocked my world. I hope our nonfiction prose can be such poetry. An email comes in from Mitch and I savor it. He is 27, involved with a Russian woman with a kid already, and probably not a long-term prospect. But I can’t stop the memories of our pyrotechnic magnetism last Monday night after the Goldmans, the way we came inexorably together, blazing eyes locked. There are so many men popping at present it’s a little ridiculous. And still I haven’t had any sex since the one time with Jason in January. And before that with the Admiral in October. Me and my 6-month celibacy stints. And my familiarity and comfort with solitude. Who knew I would get so good at being with myself? 4/20. Happy 4-20! It’s 8:15 and all three of us have risen. Jeremy, who arrived yesterday, seems to have already been going at it down in the Great Room for some time when I pad down to make coffee. We’re a fun threesome. Jeremy says in his past 2 stays he did nothing of the sort of convivial post-dinner sherry-drinking, storytelling, and hooping/hoop lessons around the fire that we did last night. The gale force winds fled sometime in the early evening, so now this morning it’s so still that not a rosebud twitches. Better to concentrate by. Today I have high aims. In a moment, still warming up, I’ll write a response to Mitch, and then get going. No wonder Brian A adored it here. How could you not. You would have to be a pretty big fat spoiled brat not to. I polished off another couple books—one (Leadership and the New Science, by Margaret Wheatley) on “new science”/ chaos theory and quantum physics as applied to organizations and leadership (interesting. The org vision should be held as a _field_ that characterizes all activities, not as a destination!). Musing on quantum theory and relationships as the most basic of processes, I wrote a few pages, possibly for a first chapter, about Van’s role as a bridge builder, and the courage and persistence it takes to introduce a new world order, a new paradigm. Tomorrow: the first draft of policy, and listening to Van’s rambles from that day at the Grotto. And now, at 9:30, a private celebration of 4-20. 4-21 Wobbly, I hooped my butt off after I left off here last night. The glass doors to my balcony and adjoining floor-to ceiling window made a perfect wall of mirrors for the PSI-hoop, which I am considering sending back to Patrick to have him replace two of the reds with orange, and two with rainbow riders so it has less of a candy cane effect. Slept in longer, waking vaguely aroused and not willing to take the time to deal with it. As I finished making breakfast I glimpsed Erik pacing the lawn with documents in hand, reading. Gods I love this place. I could stay here forever.

synopsis

arugularakete — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 00:53:29 GMT

3 weeks ago: got over the final Futureflu, which had kept me down for about a MONTH, with the help of a stellar acupuncturist and naturopath and lots of herbs and rest and love from friends. Thanks especially to Christabel, Michael, and Craig for the caretaking: I hated to ask, but I needed the help. 2 weeks ago-ish: spring had arrived, and the flu had departed, and I was compelled to dig out something that's been like a corpse under the bed, moldering: a mess and a mass of divorce-related paperwork that I could hardly bear to touch as it came into the mailbox from my lawyer, one traumatic envelope after the next. Finally, I sorted through it. 1 week ago: I departed for my four-day stint in Memphis. Our Dream Reborn gathering, on the 40th anniversary of Dr King's death, was off the hook. I am so blessed to be part of such important work. More about that on my wordpress blog. 1 day ago: I signed the contracts. It's official. I've sold my first book.

Outfitted

arugularakete — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 06:07:09 GMT

Recently I’ve been going through a spate of consumerist indulgence. Or indulgent consumerism. It’s all relative, so allow me to describe the baseline, as illustrated by my shoe collection. I’ve got 22 pairs of shoes in my closet, two of which were acquired in college (around 1995); 9 of which I got between 2002 and 2004; two of which are second-hand; and roughly a quarter of which I bought last year, the most recent in August 2007. Five of them are athletic-ish. Five of them have any heel to speak of, including an all-purpose black suede pump—one of the 1990s acquisitions. My mother’s frugality rubbed off on me, and I am holding onto several pairs that are entirely out of fashion, but well-made and in good condition, in certainty, or the delusion, that they’ll come back into style. Anyway. Often this seems to me to be an obscene number—22! I think of women who manage with two. Or fewer. My life’s work is about spreading shoes—and other possessions, rights and opportunities—around with more equity. How much can I really justify owning? But recently, I was contemplating the adjective “sophisticated” as a descriptor for the Manlove I’d like in my life. Sophistication is a quality that has been mostly lacking in the Mission hipsters, earnest leftists, and Burners whom I’ve been mostly dating on and off. And then I realized I haven’t exactly been exuding sophistication myself. On a recent dinner date to a semi-posh sort of place, I paired said black suede pumps with a cute teal satin dress, which I could just get away with, but then ran into a little snag with the evening bag (I didn’t have one). So I stuffed my keys, lip balm and wallet in my coat (from 2004!) pockets. Less than sophisticated, that. I decided I needed to outfit myself a bit. In the past 2 weeks, I have shopped: Lingerie, a purse (metallic: works for posh evening occasions!), sunglasses. And an InStyle and a Lucky, news of which my stylish Best Girl Antonella responded to with a gasp and a “you’re unwell!” Very funny, Antonella. So now I’m beginning to feel equipped. I’m not certain For What, exactly, but it feels like it’s going to be a hell of a ride.

joy is me

arugularakete — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 18:57:23 GMT

I was just notified that I've been accepted to the Mesa Refuge program for a spring residency. What an honor! All the energy from all the amazing writers who have spent time there (Michael Pollan of the Omnivore's Dilemma was one of last year's residents). Striding on into the dream...

wdydwyd?

arugularakete — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 15:55:29 GMT

My friend Tony runs a supercool project collecting portraits of folks answering the question Why Do You Do What You Do? This week he's got my portrait up there, to be followed in the coming weeks by other campmates of ours from BM07. You can also post your own portrait with your answer to the question. Check it out: www.wdydwyd.com

The Last of It

arugularakete — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 08:25:03 GMT

I have taken a certain amount of pride in being tatless. Nearly one in four U.S. adults between 18 and 50 has one or more tattoos, according to the American Academy of Dermatology. Among my age group I’m certain it’s distinctly over half, since we were in our impressionable late teens and 20s during the tattoo boom of the 90s. Nowadays it’s tattoo removal that’s hot, a procedure that’s costlier and more involved—although apparently recent developments have improved its effectiveness. Infamously, there's Johnny Depp’s “Wino Forever,” which—before its retooling— commemorated his romance with the Petaluma-born Ms. Ryder, of shoplifting fame. (Vanessa Paradis and France: well done.) I took pride in being tatless not because I dislike tattoos—many people I love wear beautiful ones… I think of M’s Escherlike wreath of cranes, birdclan member B’s saturated wings, the red star on S’s wrist, and the blacklight-reflective cuttlefish wrapped around B’s thigh and torso… And of course tats are no pet rocks—for thousands of years before the 1990s people have been adorning or marking their bodies with ink. But I felt proud just cuz I hadn’t ever felt compelled to get one to get one, and was here, distinctly past the halfway mark of this first decade in the new millennium, as a 30-something with a trampstampless and butterflyfree body. And then somebody did something nasty to me, which left a small scar about the size of a nickel. After regaining my balance in the wake of that experience, I decided I wanted a tattoo to cover the scar. Something that would remind me of my beautiful transformation. I was drawn to science and mathematics, to symbols, then to sacred geometry. An intricate geometric figure with mystical meanings spoke to me. I changed the wallpaper on my laptop to the figure so I could stare at it every day for months and imagine it on me. I had made up my mind. I started asking folks where they got work done. And then out of the blue my tatless friend Caroline told me she was getting a tattoo to honor a heroic rescue operation her brother had been part of. She had a solid recommendation for an artist. Both of us went in for a consultation with the dude—Scott at Black Heart Tattoo http://www.blackhearttattoosf.com/. When he saw my drawing, and the area where it was headed, Scott shook his head and sent me to Mike. To the drawing, Mike said no problem. When he heard I was a virgin and saw where I wanted it, though, he raised his eyebrows. We set a date anyway. About five hours ago I was lying under a bright light and his steady gloved hands, getting zapped with ink over an area about the size of a hockey puck. I couldn’t really see him working. I had to Just Trust that he would get the fiddly pattern right. Caroline sat by my side. Just one spot was especially sensitive, and hurt more. Caroline squeezed my hand and said “that was the scar.” I think she also said “that was the last of it,” but I can’t be certain, since I was under the influence of a little something I’d had for the pain, and amped from the endorphins that my besieged body was releasing. Mike did a brilliant job. I’m thrilled. Mine, this body. I’ve marked it as such.

Ashes to Ashes, Bust to Bust

arugularakete — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 02:00:46 GMT

(I just found this today & thought I'd share. I wrote it for, although ultimately it was not published in, LiP magazine’s obituary column in the Autumn 2006 issue, shortly after Brooks passed. Enjoy.) Robert Howell Brooks, head of the Hooters chain of restaurants, died of natural causes at the age of 69. Brooks, who spent much of his impoverished childhood working in his family’s tobacco fields in South Carolina, was a member of Future Farmers of America, a public agricultural education program for boys (until 1969, when girls were admitted), before studying dairy science at Clemson University. He made his first fortune in Naturally Fresh Foods, Inc., with fast-food milkshake formula and non-dairy creamer for airlines. Despite his proven familiarity with udder-based products, Brooks claimed to be ignorant of the mammary connotations of the Hooters brand when he took over in 1988. The official Hooters website says of its famous brandmark: “Hooters does have an owl inside its logo and uses an owl theme sufficiently to allow debate to occur over the meaning's intent. The chain enjoys and benefits from this debate. In the end, we hope Hooters means a great place to eat.” In deference to his wife Tami, who engages in weekly Bible study with daughter Belle, Brooks did remove Playboy spreads of former Hooters Girls from all the restaurants after taking the helm, which Tami apparently found more objectionable than signs like “Hooters Waitresses are Flattery Operated,” which prevail. Invariably young and buxom, overwhelmingly white, and minted from a single “All-American Cheerleader” mold, the “Girls” are officially described as “bubbly,” “vivacious,” and “wholesome yet sexy.” At their hiring they sign a policy that asks them to acknowledge that “the Hooters concept is based on female sex appeal and that the work environment is one in which joking and innuendo based on female sex appeal is commonplace” and furthermore that they “do not find [their] job duties, uniform requirements or work environment to be offensive, intimidating, hostile or unwelcome.” “Hooters Girls are to be camera-ready at all times,” explains the extensive employee handbook. Over the years, several cases of sexual harassment by Hooters managers surfaced (sexual harassment by guests being a condition of employment). One “Girl” sued her Panama City Beach, FL employer for being tricked into thinking a contest would win her a Toyota, when what she got was a toy Yoda. [see picture] But under the steady hand of Brooks, Hooters not only survived these and other challenges (such as the federal Equal Employment Opportunity Commission’s investigation regarding discrimination against males in 1995)--indeed, Hooters came out on top. Part of the community appeal sprang from a PR idea of Brooks’: philanthropy. Hooters Community Endowment Fund has donated over $8 million to charities, including to Red Cross in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. Yet, while the company website asserts that “the women’s rights movement is important, because it guarantees women have the right to choose their own careers, be it a Supreme Court Justice or Hooters Girl,” women’s rights groups do not figure prominently among the beneficiaries of HOOCEF. By all accounts, multimillionaire Bob Brooks worked tirelessly for the wealth he accrued. The small chain grew into a multinational with over 430 locations in 20 countries. Brooks’ related business endeavors include Hooters Magazine; Hooters Casino; and the ill-fated Hooters Air airline. Promoting, commodifying, and normalizing the sexual-objectification of women: <It’s hard work.>

6 more days

arugularakete — Sun, 27 Jan 2008 04:54:06 GMT

I’ve been struggling a little of late. I’ve been fighting a flu since last Monday, the third flu I’ve had in the same number of months, each of which has hung on for a full week—to two, in the case of the first and worst. It’s been bloody cold in SF for about that same period of time, and stormy, often. Hello climate change, hello stronger more virulent strains of the Nasties, and hello, more hellish aspects of the Future. On top of that, my housemates—a couple who’s been together 7+ years—had some serious scraps at the end of December. After they begrudgingly made up with each other, they started sniping at me: baiting me with racist comments about undocumented workers, berating the presidential candidate I’ve decided to back (Obama-- can I persuade you to follow suit?), grumbling about my turning the heat on or about my cat shedding, raising their four collective eyebrows when I asked to use their landline to call my mother in Berlin (since the one thing that Credo—see my earlier post-- cannot provide is international coverage). It’s been real tiresome, especially since I’m pretty much everything you fraggin’ want in a housemate. Then last night one of them came home and announced he had a(nother) staph infection—his job takes him to a lot of dirty buildings, and tends to leave a lot of abrasions, especially on his hands, arms, and legs… And he works out at a predominantly gay gym in the Castro, which is one of the higher risk places for the current epidemic of antibiotic-resistant staph. (It’s a hot topic in the gay community—there’s a lot of anger at the hype that claims this is a specifically gay problem. It’s not.) In case you don’t know about staph, suffice it to say it’s enough to make anyone a Purell freak. I am emphatically NOT a hypochondriac, but it’s highly communicable, so if my roommate had fiddled with his “spiderbite” (which is what it’s likened to when it starts: a small, sore, red spot) and then touched a doorknob, the fridge door, the dishtowel, the coffeepot handle, etc., I could pick it up any of those places, and if I then happened to touch any abrasion on myself, I could easily—easily—transmit it. And to top it all off, because I transitioned to a new job in December and because they didn’t get me on payroll until January, I’m currently uninsured, joining the millions of people who need to go the emergency room for their every medical need, in one of the stupider manifestations of our profit-oriented, as opposed to people-oriented, US culture. I take hope from the fact that-- quite literally-- the things that don't kill you do make you stronger, make your immunse system smarter and more able to deal with future attacks from these assailants. And I've broken into the plastic bin from Burn 07 that had the pocket-sized Purells and decided I'm going fanatic with the hand-washing from here on out (which is every doctor's top recommendation as to how to steer clear of the Nasties.) I’m determined to get healthy, so I’m laying low for a while. In my sloth, I decided to listen to the recording of the astrology reading I had back in late December. I’d forgotten, but lo and behold, my astrologer actually predicted that through January 31 I would have trouble on the homefront and with my health because Mars is in retrograde. 6 days left! Love letters, healing thoughts and giggle-inducers most welcome.

2 Action Items

arugularakete — Thu, 10 Jan 2008 22:00:36 GMT

Yep, in this post I’m giving you something to do, for a change. For a change. NUMBER 1: Last night a friend passed along a special offer from a cell phone provider called CREDO (http://www.credomobile.com/?event=showSpecialOfferHome&pageID=126 ). They’re currently offering to buy out your existing cellphone contract, and send you a new phone and solar charger free. Why do it? AT&T and Verizon collaborate(d) with the Bush administration to spy on people. They also give a lot of their money (the money we pay them for their services) to the GOP (AT&T) and to lobbying for Evil (Verizon). And censorship: Verizon blocked pro-choice text messages, while AT&T censored Pearl Jam for criticizing Bush during a concert webcast. Yuck! Meanwhile, CREDO donates 1% of the money they take from us for their services to organizations protecting our freedoms, like the ACLU and Democracy Now! And they offered me absolutely competitive rates for the same services I was getting with AT&T. Call 1-877-762-7336 to make the switch yourself! I’ll post after I’ve got the new phone and plan to let you know how it’s working out for me. NUMBER 2: Heard of Blackle.com? If, like me, you haven’t before now, read on: Here’s the deal: Apparently brighter web pages take distinctly more energy to display on CRT monitors, and a little more energy to display on LCD monitors. So some smarty pants out there created a black-screen version of google, using the same search technology (albeit not every function available on google). Apparently, since google gets about 200 million queries a day, the shift to a black background saves about 750 Megawatt-hours a year. (Calculations and more info here: http://ecoiron.blogspot.com/2007/08/history-in-january-2007-mark-ontkush.html .) Another even farther-reaching thing you can do is actually go into your browser settings and change the appearance. I just made my background a lovely shade of blood. Baby steps, people, baby steps.

I look at the world, I see a lot of wow, I see a lot of ouch.

arugularakete — Thu, 27 Dec 2007 05:56:19 GMT

I wrote that in response to a question from a new online suitor about how I learned to be skeptical. A *nice * question, deserving of a revelation on my part neither too shallow nor too intimate. There was more to what I shared, but in a re-reading, that one line struck me as particularly apt. It’s been especially true given the research I’ve been doing lately for Van Jones, champion of the poor within discussions of climate change. I’ve been reading about beautiful things, like organic inner city gardens and green roofs and zero waste plans, and about horrifying things, like the ongoing plight of the Gulf South, and the scientific consensus around the severity of changing weather and conditions, and the endless procession of urban brown boys into lockdown. Van-style, I'm gonna say it again: I look at the world, I see a lot of wow, I see a lot of ouch.

Conjunction junction, what's your function?

arugularakete — Sun, 23 Dec 2007 16:18:20 GMT

Apparently a striking planetary/galactic configuration unfurls in the heavens today and tomorrow: an almost perfect convergence of all the planets near or along the galactic center, which is the rotational center of the Milky Way galaxy. Jupiter, Mars, Earth, Mercury, the Sun and the Galactic Center will all be lined up! This phenomenon is made even more remarkable in that it will be accompanied by the Full Moon at about 2 a.m. on December 24. In positional astronomy and astrology a conjunction means that celestial bodies appear near one another or in alignment. From our vantage point on earth they appear conjoined but in reality there are many millions of miles between them. Without the observer there would be no conjunction at all. The conjunction exists only in being observed. There’s lots of theories floating around in the ether about the significance of this event: references to the Illuminati, the Mayan calendar, the Book of Revelations. Some say that the planets will form a cross with the sun in the middle, and further, that the Sun will die on the galactic cross and be reborn again after 3 days… I like what Will Parfitt, a Psychosynthesist, had to say about it: “Remember it will only be happening because you are observing and experiencing it, so rather than looking at it from the perspective of others, or in books and charts, observe it closely, and deeply, from your own position. Sure, make any astrological calculations you may wish, but also be there at the time of the conjunction, sense it in your body, feel it in your heart, watch carefully the effects it has on your being and your nature.”

Feeding Time

arugularakete — Thu, 20 Dec 2007 20:11:25 GMT

Shirodhara. It was a birthday gift from Antonella, an Ayurvedic treatment in which liquid is poured gently onto one’s forehead. She called it the bliss treatment. I knew nothing more about it, had no idea what to expect as I arranged myself on the massage table. Closed my eyes. My ayurvedic practitioner was using oil. Warm oil. In the first moments I had to suppress a snicker (this is it?! Oil dripping on my head, you call this a massage?) by focusing on my breath. Then I could * hear* my thoughts registering an awareness: <Hello Third Eye.> And: <I am Third Eye.> And: <It has opened.> The rigidity of the table underneath me, the even slowness of my breath—they ceased to register as my entire being became focused on the one spot in my forehead. It felt like a cavern, a vortex, a magnetic mouth. My Third Eye positively ached. It felt like…like the whole of me in the moment I arch towards a lover whispering “please.” Bliss indeed. I got so relaxed I fell into sleep, twice. Both times I woke not with a jerk from shallow sleep, but at a puff of air blown through my mouth, as though I was an ocean mammal emerging from the depths to exhale. To release. When it was over, she practically needed a spatula to lift me up to a seated position, so heavy was my head, my body so remote. Underneath the end of the table where my head had been sat a copper bowl, filled with the near-gallon of oil that had poured over my forehead. Any skepticism about the power of the treatment vanished. Not only do I now believe I have a Third Eye, I feel its neglect and its need for nourishment. What can I say—I have a horny forehead.

Stuff I Want

arugularakete — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 23:40:36 GMT

Since this is the season when people ask me this question, particularly family members and close friends, and since there are actually very few things I want or need that can be wrapped*, I have assembled a list. Secondhand and hand-me-downs especially welcome. Um, except for the soap. 1.) An accordion. My life is already full, it’s true, and it’s not without considerable gestation that I resolved to take up a new instrument. I’ve wanted to learn for a long, long time. It’s an instrument that brings my heritage alive more than any other: illuminating memories of my Uncle Paul playing at family occasions; conjuring warm Parisian brasseries with rain-striated windows and red velvet curtains around the front door to keep the cold at bay; and invoking the gypsies (no offense intended with the term) who, according to my mother, stole her real child from the hospital and replaced her with me, this restless and wild-eyed tsigane child. 2.) A digital camera. My days of borrowing my former employer’s are officially over, since I gave notice and all. What?! It’s entirely appropriate for the Director of Communications to commandeer the camera. I think it was in my job description. 3.) Soap. Because I’m a dirty girl. No, (well… yes) but I really do need bar soap, preferably of the ineffably lovely variety. Luca Turin continues to obsess and influence me (see http://rocketkraft.wordpress.com/2007/12/14/read-my-love/ ) and so I can’t help but quote him on the subject of soap: “Like other modestly priced pleasures such as fat paperbacks and short taxi rides, soaps can make one feel irrationally happy. Soap is the very stuff of progress, responsible for more saved lives than penicillin. It is also a wonder of early nanotechnology: no visible moving parts, just teeming billions of clever molecules that broker a peace between the dirt on your hands and the rust-coloured water that comes out of the tap….My favorite was Guerlain's Mitsouko…When experienced in a faraway place, it would touch you like a Brahms concert heard on BBC shortwave.” 4.) An ergonomic chair or stool for my desk. I’m spending all my workdays here in front of the confuser at home now, and aesthetically pleasing as my well-loved leather and blond wood $10 yardsale find is, my back and arms are screaming at me. I also need an ergonomic keyboard (got the ergo mouse and the laptop stand already…) 5.) Tiger balm and Skin Food by Weleda. Perpetually needed wonderment ointments to make my body sing. 6.) See previous entry “Post Date Analysis,” for a thorough description of the romantic companionship I desire. I’ve been thinking a cute green chemist who has no idea how sexy he is would be nice. What’s that? You say you he’s difficult to wrap? And I thought you were creative. *That brings me to the things I want that can’t be wrapped. I’ve said it before in various ways: a moratorium on carbon emissions, zero waste, end to ridiculous wealth disparities, controls on corporate power, global solutions to hunger & disease & resource allocation…

Datescapades, I

arugularakete — Thu, 13 Dec 2007 02:02:17 GMT

I am single. Just a few weeks before my end-of-November travels, in what seems to be a seasonal surge in my desire for a romantic companion, I hoisted the flag of my availability on an online dating profile. Because other than someone mostly-well-suited but constitutionally incapable of commitment (September-early October) and someone who lives a continent and an ocean away from me, I haven’t met anyone single* who’s been a contender for my heartspace since 2007 began. For my dating profile I posted a couple of the photos that Ilaniowear shot of me in October-- wearing blue and pink wigs—which I figured would grant me a certain amount of anonymity on the street. In retrospect, I suppose there’s a fair amount of skin showing around the outskirts of the camo undies I’m modeling in those shots, and perhaps that didn’t serve me so well in terms of the quality of respondents. In any case I received a slew of applications for the position, through which I sifted, resulting in two truly nice-sounding guys. And then I disabled my profile again. My first thought about Date Number One (DNO) was par for the online dating course: how, exactly, did he get his face to look so handsome in those photos? He was sitting at the bar of a lounge filled with cozy cafe tables with a half-full glass of beer in front of him. “Have you been waiting long?” I asked, knowing I was within 5 minutes of being perfectly punctual. Nope, not long. I considered proposing a move to one of the aforementioned tables, to my mind a better spot for the conversation of a first date, but then thought better of it, deciding I wasn’t sure I wanted to be cozier with this character anyway. The bartender asked what I wanted so I shrugged and asked for a beer as well. With my beer’s arrival she requested $4.50, and I had to grope around to find the pocket with my wallet inside the coat that I had draped over my barstool. Honestly, I wasn’t stalling. But, being a perhaps surprising mix of old-fashioned and egalitarian-liberated on the whole who’s treating question, I was taken aback at how DNO just sat there watching me, silent. If I am elegantly and easily treated to the first round, I will generally press to treat for the second, unless it’s clear this offends the chivalrous sensibilities of my date. In this case, it was fast becoming apparent there would be no second round, so it was all for the best, especially given his extensive monologue on the financial challenges of his chosen career path. Poor dear. Our stilted lines of conversation petered quickly, repeatedly (I will not recount them because they were boring, and further, might reveal poor DNO’s identity) until I stood up and announced I was taking off and I wished him the best of luck in his quest. DNO’s face showed panic. He asked me to just say before leaving what it was about him. Oh man. Seriously? I told him I’ve gotten very good at hearing my gut on whether it’s a fit or not (it’s true, I have, a new skill of which I’m superproud), and my instinct in this case was clear as vodka. An hour or so later, DNO wrote me a long email (oh dear, dear) about how he thought it could work out, writing (is it cruel, to copy here just a wee bit of what was intended for my eyes only?): “I appreciate that you were willing to try to let me down gently, but I have to tell you how galling and almost epically tragic it feels (operatic words, I recognize, but if you knew me you'd know they were not hyperbole)…” Epically tragic operatic hyperbole indeed. *this is not to say I consider coupling with people who are coupled, but I have met at least one partnered person whose effervescence and doubt in his partnership were both strong enough to give me pause, before moving resolutely onward.

Datescapades, II

arugularakete — Thu, 13 Dec 2007 02:01:17 GMT

Date Number Two (DNT) was late, by about fifteen minutes, so this time it was me with the glass (untouched, however, in my case), sitting at the bar (there were no café tables at this place, and the booths were, sadly, unavailable.) DNT was unapologetic about the lateness but nicely dressed, and I granted him immediate reprieve under the fashionably late law. After a bit of small talk and acclimating to each other’s pace (his, Midwestern, slower), he confessed to having shaved seven years of his age for his profile. “I think I look younger,” he explained unblinkingly, “that was my only lie.” I took that in. Took him all in. He seemed to think much of himself, which can be okay but is often a total turn-off, and there was some distance in him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. My gut was undecided, so I gamely agreed when he asked if we could grab a bite (tacqueria down the block) and a further drink. Along the way, despite my efforts to avoid politics, he managed to draw out my unyielding stance against unsustainable, unfair free-market capitalism and the governance that endorses it. "Huh," he said. "I like capitalism," he said. "What alternative would you propose," he challenged. I talked about the commons, how effectively natural resources are managed when it’s understood that everyone loses if resources are depleted for the gain of the few, how an ecological model of commerce understands that every waste product must be able to be translated into food for another part of the system. “You’re talking about medieval times?” he asked, revealing a not-unexpected white- and western-centric view of the world that forgets about longstanding, ongoing indigenous traditions of resource management and commerce. Things were beginning to falter, and still I hung in there, with a dogged mix of compassion, hope, and denial. DNT was, it must be said, hot, playing some havoc with my gut’s reception. Over the second drink, he mentioned having just had a discussion of the same topic we were having with someone else. Spidey sense triggered, I asked whether this someone was another online date. It was. “And you’re still seeing this person?” “Yes,” he said, “I haven’t decided what to do about her yet.” “Are there more?” Yes. I’ve been told it’s quite noticeable when the shields come down over my eyes, and sure enough, he asked: "do you not agree with (whatever we were discussing)?" "Oh no, I agree," I said, "I’m just reacting to the news that you’re in the midst of dating a number of women you’re not quite sure about." He asked me how else he should go about finding the right person. Now, I do understand his position. But having painstakingly honed the ability to perceive my sense of fit between myself and another, I have no patience with anyone who’s less than certain they want to try to be with me. As soon as either one of us is less than 100% certain that we’re a potential fit (which can take anywhere from 2 minutes to 2 dates or more, but not as long as 2 weeks, in my experience), all bets are off. That was pretty much it with DNT. He offered to drive me home, which I accepted, since we were in a slightly seedy if hip neighborhood. Wanting to make sure he understood said ride wouldn’t take him far out of his way, I said that I didn’t live far away. Perhaps he misunderstood and thought I meant since my home wasn’t far I’d get myself there, because when we reached his shiny new BMW, he said “this is me,” stooped to kiss me on my cheek and got into his car. Flabbergasted, I was walking by a few cracked out street denizens when I saw his car drive past me, leaving me to the sidewalks. And that was that.

Post Date Analysis

arugularakete — Thu, 13 Dec 2007 02:00:16 GMT

I believe that the ease of online connection cheapens Connection. Most clearly I felt this with DNT; he had found so many of us “impressively smart and pretty” women that he got confused; he hardly seemed motivated to impress wonderful li’l me. Online-made dates, and the emails that precede them, often feel more like job interviews. None of the four men I have met online (the two above, and two in 2006, who worked out better, both now platonic friends of mine, which perhaps confirms my error of judgment in the choice of photos) offered to meet for dinner either, and this seems the cultural norm for the first date from an online connection, because to commit more time and money to someone whom you’ve never met in person seems unwise. It makes sense, and yet at the same time it sets expectations so fantastically low that exactly those are often fulfilled. That said, I do know there are people, good friends of mine included, who have lasting relationships out of online connections. The friends who did are, however, forever sad to not have a better “how we met story.” Focused on narratives as I am, the story seems important to me. I want a good story. And in addition to a good story, What I also Want, romantically speaking… With a man who is brilliant, beautiful, wise, tender and gentle, I want a partnership overflowing with enthusiasm and pride in each other's pursuits, and with mutual chemistry, respect, devotion and nurturing; a partnership with plenty of room for independence and self-determination; which makes both of us stronger. I want to be with someone who enjoys the Good Life/multiple-star hotels and restaurants on occasion, yet in balance with that understands that we are extremely privileged, one of a tiny tiny percentage of humans to enjoy such luxuries, and who actively works to share the privilege and power, who works to make the world more beautiful and/or more fair. And on top of all that, I'd like to find someone who is open to the strong possibility of re-locating at least temporarily to somewhere else in the world, and probably Europe, because I'm pretty sure I want and need to leave the Bay in 2009, which will be the 10-year anniversary of my settling here. I don't think that's too much to ask.

truthscapades

arugularakete — Sun, 09 Dec 2007 02:14:12 GMT

After dinner on my first night at my mom’s place in Berlin, I told her about the ongoing investigations of 9-11 and their irrefutable conclusions that the US government was complicit. Just the simple undeniable facts, like: -How the air defense system utterly failed to follow well-rehearsed standard procedures for responding to diverted passenger flights. -How physicists and architects agree that the World Trade Center towers and building 7 fell too fast and dissolved into too fine a dust for anything but a controlled demolition; how historians and firefighters know that no steel-frame building has ever—ever-- before collapsed after being weakened by fire; how jet fuel only burns to 1500 degreesF, while the steel of the buildings cannot melt below 2750 degreesF. -How Marvin Bush, brother of George, was a director and major shareholder of Securacom, the company that provided security for United and American Airlines, and also for the World Trade Center complex. (While a cousin, Wer Walker III, was another principal of Securacom, which has since been renamed Stratasec.) -How there was an unprecedented increase of purchases of put-options- essentially, bets that a company’s value will decrease- in the two airlines, WTC tenants, and WTC insurance companies from unknown investors right before the attacks. How Silverman, new owner of the WTC since May 2001, made millions off the insurance of the complex, which had not been profitable to previous owners. -How evidence (surveillance video footage from businesses in sightline of the Pentagon incident, airplane black boxes found at Ground Zero, tapes of air traffic controllers, the steel remains of the WTC) was consistently confiscated, suppressed and/or destroyed. Etcetera, etcetera. Even with her no love lost for the US, my mother’s face showed shock, revulsion, and disbelief. But the government would never sacrifice its own people, would it? Answer one: how else does the US wage war after war. We’re talking about less than 3,000 people on 9-11. Answer two: at the early hour and on an election day, the buildings had far lower occupancy than normal, and the staggered attacks allowed much evacuation. If it was an inside job, there must have been so many people involved—how could they all have been silenced? I dunno exactly, but there’s been whistleblowers silenced, anthrax-threats, etc. And why—surely not just for oil? There are plenty of historical precedents for fabricated enemies and “synthetic terror.” The 9-11 attacks granted the government the power to increase: -electoral clout, -repression of civil liberties, -war-, insurance- and reconstruction-related financial gains, and -imperial warfare, for resource extraction among other gains. (See the Project for a New American Century.) And then I said to her: picture the footage of the President’s face & body language in the moment he was informed, in that elementary school, from Michael Moore’s film. No shock, confusion, or anguish. He knew. And my mom nodded. Thoughtfully. Yes, that is true. (Thank you, Mr. Moore, for popularizing that image.) And the more she thought about it, even coming from a daughter whose politics don’t always mesh with her own, the more she agreed there were too many holes in the official story to hold water. I gallivanted off for a stint in Amsterdam to visit friends, and when I retuned to Berlin for a few last days with my mother before returning stateside, she told me she’d raised the topic of 9-11 as an inside job at one of the schmancy dinner parties she’d attended in my absence. Really, I said. Yes, she had. Among the guests was the former mayor of Berlin, Eberhard Diepgen and some famous international journalist whose name she couldn’t recall. Really. What did they say? With just two exceptions (including an esteemed university professor), everyone in the room grew very upset, and then flatly denied it as talk of conspiracists and loonies. Apparently the journalist, provoked by related debate on the Iraq invasion, pronounced that the war makes perfect sense, because *we * can do nothing without that oil. Uh-huh. I got two words: go mom.

hoopevangelic

arugularakete — Wed, 05 Dec 2007 17:16:50 GMT

Just back from a trip to Berlin, where I reached out to the local hooping comunity, the most visible members of which are the HOOPLA folks Rachel und Balazs. I got an excited email back from them right away, inviting me to join them for a practice session up in the hipster neighborhood Prenzlauer Berg where they teach classes at a yoga studio. Based on anecdotes of the difference between Australian hooping and USAmerican style (Australians, apparently, focus on multiple hoop play and rarely limit themselves to just one)(if you are Australian and reading this, please feel free to weigh in by posting a comment), I was intrigued to find out if there were differences in hoopstyles between the Bay Area and Northern Europe as well. Where, for example, have Rachel and Balazs picked up their moves, their tools of the trade? Can you get hoopmaking ingredients in the hardware and home improvement stores just like you can stateside? How many folks are taking their classes? Do they have free and freestlye hoopgroup meet-ups the way we do over here, and if so how well-attended are they? Stay tuned for the answers to these questions, because as it happened, with my visit to their vibrant city (which was also my home for three years in the reconstruction era, 1995-1998) so short and chaotic, we couldn't make it happen. But we had such a sweet connection that I'm sure it will happen in the future, and I plan to stay in touch and get all my curiosities satiated. At a dinner party that my friend Uta threw in my honor, meanwhile, hooping was one of the hot topics. She insisted on showing my hooping videos to her girlfriends, and I had to answer a slew of questions about my practice and hoopmaking and so on. Shortly thereafter I got an email from HooplaBerlin informing me that one of those women had already signed herself up for a class. That brings my total number of converts to-- let's see, there's Catherine the magazine editor; Laura the foundation director; Jyll the nonprofit consultant; Kent the class action attorney; Christopher the international finance consultant; Naz, Elliott, and Susan if not others at the Tin House Writer's Conference; Marcia the cuddle party maven; Helena the novelist and at least half of her cronies at the Writer's Grotto; and now at least one member of the cultural studies department at the Freie Universitaet in Berlin, Elizabeth. Visualize me pervaded by a sense of inordinate satisfaction.

It's Summer in the Underworld

arugularakete — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 20:48:36 GMT

As an adult I’ve liked the queerness of Halloween, the flamboyance and the facepaints, but there’s always been a shallowness to the occasion. It wasn’t that different than just about any weekend night in the Castro. But this year I was invited to perform in a ritual for the pagan holiday Samhain, which takes place at this time, midway between the autumn equinox and the winter solstice, at the end of the harvest season. Many people consider it the Celtic New Year; it launches the dark half of the year, which ends with the feast of Beltane on May 1. The ancient Celts—and today’s pagans—believe(d) that beginnings happen in darkness, just as we’re carried in the darkness of the womb before being born. All things have their origins in the dark, fertile and irrational underworld; seeds lie buried underground in what seems to be death but is in fact a precursor to springing to life and ultimately bearing fruit. On Samhain, the veil between this chaotic primordial Underworld and the world of the living is at its thinnest, so we can reach out and connect with the spirits. Renewing social ties with the dead ensures a safe, fruitful future. The structures of the old year/life are ritually dissolved—just as death dissolves our identity in this world—through bonfires and acts of social disorder, especially related to social rank or gender-appropriate behavior. Cross-dressing was traditionally one of the most widespread and popular ways of expressing the snubbing of social categories. In the Bay Area some pagans celebrate the occasion with a huge ritual called the Spiral Dance. Despite my utter unfamiliarity with it, they invited me to take a small role—to invoke South, the direction of fire and eros, with a solo hoopdance performance. I happened to have just finished a red and orange costume, layers of glittery material, ornate brocades and silks, and bootcovers of red fur. If you believe in coincidence or destiny or Intendedness, it was that; as far as I’m concerned, the hours I spent pinning and sewing brought the dance upon me. These days I avidly believe in my powers to manifest opportunities for myself. It was only afterwards that I realized I’ve never really done a solo performance before, under spotlights and the riveted gaze of half a thousand people, with no other hoopers to share the attention. The cheering, whistling crowd reached out their arms to me as I whirled and leapt with Christabel’s small psi hoop (no real flames were allowed in the venue). I _was_ fire, people told me after my dance. Towards the end of the ritual, after the long guided meditation that led us all to the Otherworld to commune with those who are no longer in the human world (I dedicated the night to my father) and then back again, everyone in the hall linked hands and danced together as one entity. The long long line of us spiraled and curved back on itself, chanting one verse over and over and over again, our intention to renew the earth: Let it begin with each step with take And let it begin with each change we make And let it begin with each chain we break And let it begin every time we awake. Dropping into the glowing eyes of hundreds of dancers who swirled past me and spoke these words, I felt hope coursing through us, me. Maybe we can transform the earth yet.