Cirque du Malaise

For an allegedly creative person, I can be wildly unimaginative at times. When I first arrived at art school, way back in the day, it was challenging for me to wrap my mind around some of the more vague assignments that did not always involve parameters. In my first photography studio class, the teacher assigned us to "bring something to critique in a month." Not necessarily a color photograph or even a photograph at all — just: something. It was a photography class, so naturally, I made photographs. Other kids with seemingly more expansive imaginations made sculptures, or did performance art, or set things on fire and took pictures of them. My mind was blown in that first critique. Apparently, to be a photographer did not mean you had to take pictures!

That was my first clue that to be an artist does not mean to identify yourself with a traditional medium, or any medium at all.

Now, I'm a writer. But sometimes, the things I do to feed my writing have nothing to do with writing or reading or even thinking in words. I take one workday every month and play "creative hooky."

This last Friday, I took my hooky day and went to some of my favorite creative haunts in San Francisco: the bulk spice aisle at Rainbow Grocery, Flora Grubb, The Village Market. I ended up at the Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park. This is San Francisco's  newest and most popular museum, so I had shied away from checking it out on a weekend. I'm glad I went during the week — although somehow the place was still full of sick children. I can't wait to someday have kids and bring them to museums when they are sick. What fun that is for everyone involved! Especially for the unwitting stranger who gets strategically seated next to your hacking, tubercular child in a locked, blackened planetarium show for a solid hour! Anyway, snotty attitude aside, the planetarium was the highlight of the museum, until, that is, I rounded a corner and discovered the jellyfishes.

I don't know about you guys, but jellyfish rock my world. They are one of the few things that make me lean away from Darwinism and toward Creationism. Not really, but still.... why did nature make jellyfishes so cool? When nature blows my mind like this, I find that I can get out of my head and let my imagination flourish. I was inspired to take this riveting 47-second movie and spend hours that night figuring out how to sync it to music with iMovie. I call this: Yellyfish — The Movie. I'm thinking of submitting it to Sundance.

(If the movie below is not loading for you, click here to watch it on YouTube.)

Okay, back to writing now.

I’ve written a lot about being a big fan of the Julia Cameron book The Artist’s Way. I’ve followed this 12-week program several times in my life, and it has really made a difference in the way I see myself and my potential for creativity. The last time I “did” The Artist’s Way project, I blogged about it every week. You can see the archive here.

One of my favorite things about The Artist’s Way project is that you make a creative date with yourself every week. This is a habit I have tried to carry over into my life as a permanent fixture. Not every week, necessarily, but regularly. This year, I decided to take one workday off every month and play creative hooky.

This is how my first creative hooky day of 2012 went:

First, I went to the Mill Valley Library and read magazines.

My intention was to find new magazines to submit my writing to. However, I will admit that O! Magazine sucked me in for a while. I hate it when I am an obedient example of the target market. But I did also (re) discover the McSweeneys publication The Believer, which you betcha I will be subscribing to from now on. I particularly liked this piece: Hatorade — about the phenomenon of hateful internet commentary. Been there.

While I was at the library, I checked out a free pass to the De Young Museum in San Francisco.

(Yet another reason the library system rocks the house.) If you haven’t been to the De Young in Golden Gate Park, definitely check it out. It’s my favorite museum in San Francisco. I particularly love that it doesn’t seem to have a theme. It’s not, like “modern art” or “heritage art” or “Asian art” or anything like that. It’s just a mishmash of cool stuff. The main exhibit right now is classic Venice masterpieces (oil paintings). The next one is going to be a Jean Paul Gaultier exhibit. My favorite things at the De Young this time:

The Art of the Anatolian Kilim (Ottoman empire rugs from like 400 years ago)

A very cool mobile sculpture with accompanying shadow art. (More on this.)

Stopped at The Village Market in San Francisco for a mocha.

And while I was there, bought some very expensive rice with bamboo powder in it. I don’t know; I’m a sucker for things that should be really cheap but are actually exorbitantly expensive. $7 for rice? Sign me up! But it was actually quite delicious.

And last but not least, went to pottery class.

The perfect way to top off a day of 100% creative activities. Ah, good for the soul.

Oh also, you guys, because I talk about The Artist’s Way so goddamned much, someone from their publishing team recently gifted me a free trial of their brand new web site service and iPhone app, My Artist’s Way Toolkit. The intersection of creativity and technology is something I’m really passionate about, so I was very excited to try this out.

It’s pretty cool. Whether you are interested in making a commitment to the 12-week Artist’s Way program, or just want a place where you can jot down ideas, receive Artist’s Way journaling prompts and “Artist Date” ideas,  and feel like you are really doing something for your inner artist and still being a cool, hip, technical sort, check it out. And they gave me a code you can use to try it for free for one month. Go here and type in: AWTOOLKIT

Make me proud!

I recently read this article: 9 productivity tips for working at home. I work at home, writing, all day. It’s not easy, and I’m always interested in how other people manage to pull it off. Some of these so-called tips were like, dur. But the whole time I was reading the blog post, I was shaking my head “no.” Maybe I'm weird (I am), but what works for other people doesn’t seem to work for me.

For me, every day consists of a lot of pacing, peeing, stalling, cleaning, spacing out and waiting anxiously for the mailman. To be fair, I’m equally if not drastically more unproductive in an office environment. But over the years that I’ve been a freelance writer, I’ve started to learn what really works for me. So if you are looking for my advice (trust me, you’re not), here are my tips, amended:

They say: Track your time by hand.

My actual calendar

I say: If “by hand” you mean the genius, multilayered, complex Excel spreadsheet and iCal calendar (with 7 different embedded calendar subjects) that I spend my time obsessing over instead of doing actual work, yup, check.

They say: Pair up with an accountability partner.

I say: Does my split personality count?

They say: Work with someone else in your home.

I say: Oh hahahahahahahaha that’s funny. Right Michael? Remember the last time we tried that? I’m pretty sure we watched all 3 seasons of Arrested Development in a week.

They say: Leave [the house].

I say: You sound like my therapist.

They say: Dress for work.

I say: I do this! Well, what I mean is, I take the time every morning to put a bra on (under my sweats that I already was wearing) and to put my hair in a ponytail. If it’s good enough for the mailman, it’s good enough.

They say: Reduce web clutter

I say: Twitter actually helps me concentrate, and if you don’t believe me, watch this:

They say: Psychologically reinforce self-discipline. Instead of getting up in the middle of a project, reward yourself with a snack once you’ve gotten it done.

I say: I can’t concentrate when I’m hungwee so that doesn’t really work for me. I’m more into fanatically monitoring my blood sugar all day. This is also why I can’t work from the library. I have to be within 30 seconds of food at all times.

They say: Answer phone calls and emails in batches.

I say: I wholeheartedly agree with this direct quote from the article: “There are few things more distracting than answering your phone in the middle of the project. After hanging up, your concentration is shot and you have to start all over again.”

And that’s why I don’t answer the phone. Pretty much, ever. The telephone is the scourge of humanity, in my opinion. I have a lot to say about how evil the phone is. But I don’t find email distracting at all. In fact, as a writer, it helps me stay in the flow of writing, sometimes.

They say: Reduce physical clutter.

I say: I throw shit out.

One of the downsides of being a writer with a naturally curious personality and a wee bit of an obsessive compulsive issue is that I know a real lot about some extremely useless things.

For instance, ask me anything in the world about percale sheets. I’m pretty much the world’s leading expert on threadcount versus weave, after spending the last three weeks shopping around for new linens. I can tell you, for instance, that percale gets thicker with time as the threads tighten up and bind together. And that a high threadcount does not necessarily make for nicer sheets. And that the best cotton, as far as sheets are concerned, comes from Egypt. And that the best flannel comes from Italy. And that everyone that works in the Macy’s sheet department at the Northgate Mall cares more about crystal meth than they do about sheets. And that, incidentally, the Northgate Mall is a good place to go if you want a glimpse at what hell is going to be like. (HINT: It smells like Drakkar Noir.)

Another thing I know a lot about: tea.

Once, I got in what I’ll politely classify a “discourse” with a barista in San Francisco because he erroneously told me that the mint tea was “decaf.” I felt like it was my moral responsibility to explain to him that, technically, mint tea is not “decaffeinated” because it never contained caffeine in the first place. In fact, mint tea is not tea at all but, rather what’s called a tisane. To actually be tea, it has to come from the camellia sinensis plant, and naturally contains caffeine, whether it is black, green, puehr, or oolong. (And I swear to Christ I did not even have to look this up on Wikipedia.) Otherwise, it’s a tisane, which is what all herbal teas are.

He wasn’t really all that pleased to be schooled on his job and I’m pretty sure he wanted to shoot me in the eye with his espresso spigot. In case you are thinking, I can see where he was coming from, don’t worry, I hate me too. Know-it-alls are real annoying. I try to tone it down.

I really do love tea, though. I’m very, shall we say, particular about tea. I once stormed out of a Whole Foods in L.A. because they only had Twinings tea available at the coffee bar. Not okay, Whole Foods. Twinings is diner tea. At least pony up the Mighty Leaf.

In an alternate life I would own a tea company. Instead, I own an imaginary spice company, SimpleBasic: www.simplebasic-sf.com Sometimes I concoct actual things and give them to my friends. Recently, I made two gigantic batches of two different kinds of tea:

They’re pretty delicious. I was feeling self-congratulatory.

But then I got turned on to this new company Tea Sparrow, and I was humbled. Tea Sparrow is a tea club. Every month, they send you a variety box of loose leaf teas in these sweet little reclose-able bags. I got my hands on the first box, and dove in to the Red Rocks, which is an herbal rooibus vanilla blend. I’m not usually a big rooibus fan, mainly because it reminds me of a certain South African tea “friend” I used to have who kind of ruined my life a little bit, but this rooibus may have actually turned my life back around. It was that good. The rest of the teas were equally star quality.

Signing up for this monthly tea delivery might have to be my splurge of the year. Unless you count the Italian percale sheets I just bought.  But, you know, those were more of a necessity than a splurge.

Anyway, I really want this new company to succeed because they are doing good things with tea and it’s a fun idea, so if you’re into tea, please check it out:

www.teasparrow.com

I had a small piece published by The New York Times Room For Debate column about yoga and narcissism.  I was really excited about it at first, but then I started to worry that this is going to be the pinnacle of my writing career. So, I decided it’s time to get serious about writing a book. First step, of course, is a name. That’s as far as I’ve gotten. And I can’t seem to narrow it down. Can you guys help me?

1

Thank You For Confirming Our Delusions

(Thanks to erstwhile graphic designer Matthew Teague Miller)

. . . . .

2

The Truth About My Lunch

(Inspired by a particularly bad customer service experience at hippie hangout Cafe del Sol in Mill Valley)

. . . . .

3

That’s What the Incense is For

(Inspired by Six Feet Under and some dead peonies I just couldn't throw away)

. . . . .

4

Does Not Play Well With Others

(Inspired by my personality)

. . . . .

5

Languish & Flounder

(An unfortunately apt summary of my life)

. . . . .

6

I Like The Dirty Stuff

(A memoir about pottery)

. . . . .

7

See How You Are?

(My all time favorite memoir title was already taken — Why I’m Like This — so this is my runner-up choice in the category of blaming other people for my problems)

. . . . .

8

The Attention Seekers

(A dissy memoir about my time in the yoga world)

. . . . .

9

Histrionical

(This one is self-explanatory I think, and my current favorite)

. . . . .

In the meantime, I decided to start a page on my blog to Virgoneurotically keep track of the books I read this year. Check it.

I sometimes write about food and even occasionally post recipes, because eating locally, organically and sustainably is something I find really compelling and wholesome. (Although, just to be clear, I don’t care what or how you eat. Promise!) So I am pretty excited to officially announce that I will be co-leading a retreat at White Lotus (in Santa Barbara) next May with Christy Brown:

Christy Brown is an old friend of mine who I occasionally collaborate with to lead retreats where she teaches what she is amazing at: yoga, mindfulness and just how to be a generally decent and lovely person, and I lead reflective journaling sessions and try not to act terribly surly toward people.

Helge Hellberg is basically a rock star in organic/local/sustainable farming circles, working hard to bring us back to the days when farmers got respect and we ate according to what was natural for the season and the climate in which we live. What this means, in a nutshell: don’t eat watermelon in January if you live in New England.

The beautiful thing about shopping at farmer’s markets is that you are automatically eating local and seasonal food. And the even cooler thing is that you just might discover some pretty fabulous stuff that you never even knew grew near you.  I recently signed up for a bi-weekly organic produce delivery from Farm Fresh To You. Every other Tuesday, I get a box of delicious surprises on my doorstep. And, thank Christ, there are often no mushrooms in it.

If this subject matter interests you, I highly recommend the memoir Animal Vegetable Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. Or anything by Michael Pollan, of course, but most notably Omnivore’s Dilemma.

Anyhoodle, if you would like to sign up for this retreat (please come! I was just kidding about being surly!) visit my web site and click on ye’ol’ Paypal link. Full details there. And beautiful photos of White Lotus below.

Santa Barbara is warm and sunny and will be epic in May.

We'll stay in these adorable yurts. I deign to call them magical.

This is the community table where we will share our local, organic, fucking delicious meals.

This is a place you can steal off and read.

This is a peaceful-looking Buddhist thingie.

I don't know what this is, but I think it's pretty.

Le ocean. Speaks for itself.

I think New Year’s resolutions should be achievable. In that spirit, here are ten things I definitely will not do in 2012:

1. Read one single more self-help book.
2. Consult any more healers.
3. “Get out more.”
4. Get up earlier.
5. Get better about talking on the phone.
6. Engage with passionate yogis in earnest conversations about the difference between “compassion” and “simply not having a sense of humor.”
7. Swear I’m gonna learn to walk in heels for the third year in a row.
8. Continue trying to popularize "pajama chic" on my daily jaunts to The Hole.
9. Explain to one single more vegan why I eat meat.
10. Prepare for a zombie invasion (sorry, Maynard).

And, a bonus list! Thanks to The Hairpin for this idea. This is my “reverse bucket list,” or, ten things I definitely do NOT want to do before I die:

1. Go to Burning Man.
2. Complete a triathlon.
3. Sojourn through India on a spiritual quest.
4. Get a boob job.
5. Get elected to office.
6. Shoot a gun.
7. Finally learn to sew.
8. Spend a little time in prison, just for the experience.
9. Be the life of a party.
10. Have a 3-way.

This is by no means a comprehensive list.

Oh, here’s one thing I will be doing, at least in January:

The River of Stones 30-Day Writing Challenge. Join me?

Although I am a freelance copywriter, occasionally I will help clients with other content needs, and this includes orienting some of them to the concept of social media. I’m pretty comfortable using social media as a form of personal PR. But more and more I am realizing how nearly impossible it is to impart the nuances of these platforms to tech-phobic clients. It has to happen in person, and it takes a real beginner’s mind on both of our parts.

Often, I find myself spiraling down the rabbit hole of existential conversations like this one:

CLIENT: Why is Facebook asking me if I want to allow check-ins?

ME: So that your friends can tag you places.

HER: What does that mean, “tag”?

ME: That means that your friend might say, like, Jennifer and I are at such-and-such restaurant together.

HER: Why?

ME: Just cuz.

HER: Why would I want anyone to know where I am?

ME: I don’t know.

Or regarding Twitter:

ME: You can customize your bio.

HER: Why?

ME: Just so people know a little bit about you.

HER: Why would I want people to know about me?

ME: Good question. Never mind.

It’s kind of like talking to a 2-year-old (with all the “why”s) and it’s also kind of like talking to a really brilliant thinker-outside-the-box. I often find that when I try to answer these questions, I can’t. When I look at social media through their eyes, I do get how inane and trivial it probably seems. “A waste of time.”

But actually, I don’t think that social media is a waste of time. Like most people, I was resistant to it at first, but now I have fully integrated it into my life not just as a way to fuck off at work and procrastinate wildly every day (not just that way), but also as a creative tool. Yes, that’s right: A CREATIVE TOOL. To me, nothing creative is ever a waste of time.

All of the various social media outlets have their own parameters, which make them fun for self-expressing in different ways, depending on the mood and the message.

Facebook

I like the witty banter aspect of Facebook. Witty banter is one of my favorite types of creative expression. A lot of people love to hate on Facebook. Long ago I gave up on trying to convince the haters that it’s a benign and useful tool. It’s not for everyone. But I dig it. Of course, I’m not an especially private person (obvs), so that helps. What I don’t like about Facebook? Political rants, repetitive platitudes, viral videos that came out a year ago and have been reposted a tetrazillion times by my 700+ Facebook friends. For these people, there is a handy thing called “making them invisible.” I utilize this often. Sorry, but you're boring.

Me on Facebook

Twitter

Twitter is actually my favorite of the “being creative with social media” tools. The brilliance is in the 140-character constraint. Twitter is for being clever. For writing haikus. And for stalking celebrities. My favorite celebrities to stalk include: Alec Baldwin (my dream sugardaddy), Ryan Adams (my soulmate), and Chelsea Peretti (one of the funniest women alive). It’s also amusing to make fun of your friends on Twitter. They love it. Swear.

Me on Twitter

Tumblr

I like Tumblr because it’s primarily picture-driven. Expressing yourself in pictures with captions is great when you’re feeling mildly illiterate. I recently documented my entire trip to Thailand on Tumblr. And back at home, I use Tumblr to post spontaneous things that come up in my life. Like when I was feeling particularly morose one day and just happened to walk over a sidewalk square emblazoned with “Sylvia Plath.”

Me on Tumblr

Oh, how do I have time for all this? Well, I’m a freelance writer, which means my days have a lot of built-in procrastination time, and I’m already in front of my computer all the time. Also, iPhone apps and grocery store lines are an amazing combination. Try it; you won't be disappointed! Well, maybe you will. It's hard to say.

I just got back from a writing retreat at Esalen that I attended with Vanessa Fiola. She and I spent 3 days in close proximity to 118 other writers and aspiring writers, most of whom were organic sheep farmers and medical marijuana advocates. The median age was about 67, which made me feel young, for once.  The very first thing we had to do was stand up in front of everyone with a mic and read our 30-word bio. Panic! Then, we went to three workshops of our choice, with three excellent writers from Sun Magazine (who hosted the workshop).

Here’s a haiku I wrote during one of the workshops. It was based on a fill-in-the-blank icebreaker prompt:

Today my name is dead fly on the windowsill.

I know nothing at all. There never was a time this was not so.

I know; I won’t quit my day job yet.

If you’ve never been to Esalen, you should go sometime. It’s a magical place. I don’t mean that in the “fairies alight” way — although a lot of the people who frequent the place definitely, definitely do mean it that way. I mean that I have never been there without strolling through a flower garden at sunset while the sweet smell of sea air wafted up the craggy moors and Monarch butterflies flitted by in the dazzling Indian summer light.

Behold:

Esalen is known for its natural sulfur hot springs, and they are pretty spectacular. They’re tucked into a discreet bathhouse nestled into the side of a cliff, so that while soaking in the various tubs you can stare out over the Pacific and occasionally (this has actually happened to me) see a whale. And I’m not talking about the naked dude conspicuously sharing the hot tub. Note: before visiting Esalen, it’s a good idea to perfect your unfocused middle distance stare.

Honestly, if I could live on retreat I would. I love everything about it. (Everything except the other people, of course.) I prefer silent retreats, naturally, but I appreciate that you can bask in anonymity at virtually any retreat if you’ve mastered the art of being cold and aloof, like I have.

Also, a remnant of my bohemian childhood in the wilderness of Western Massachusetts is that I feel most at home in weird hippie enclaves like Esalen. I like to be in places that have dedicated “Art Barns” and serve stewed prunes for breakfast. When I round a corner and come upon a couple of dreadlocked 20-somethings spread out in an intense batiking project, my heart swells. (Which might lead you to believe that I’m into Burning Man. But nope.)

I’m so happy to have finally made the shift from yoga retreats to writing retreats. This is where I belonged all along.

For now, anyway.

I was recently dismayed to find out that I weigh 20 pounds more than I did 2 years ago and 30 more than my ideal, target weight (which is: the weight I have to be at for my awesome collection of size 6 hand-me-down jeans to actually fit). I had a mild nervous breakdown for a few days. Okay, not mild.

Then, because at this point in my life I’ve learned the hard way that no secret angel is ever going to come fix all my problems for me, it became sadly obvious that I only had one choice: DIET.

I have never been a dieter, ever, although I have tried every smart and wholesome eating system this side of the Sierras. I’ve done all manner of juice/wheatgrass/colonic cleanses/protocols, and they have never worked for me. All they ever do is whack out my blood sugar and send my entire system into the sort of distress that inevitably leads to horrific rebound binge eating and emotional trauma. (And if you are thinking of recommending that ONE AMAZING CLEANSE I have never tried, save your breath.)

I’ve also gone the route of more gentle and holistic eating protocols, such as the 3-month elimination plan that my acupuncturist Caylie See put me on last winter. That actually made me feel fantastic and helped me with a lot of things, but, unfortunately, it did not make me lose weight, even though I stopped drinking, eating sugar, eating dairy, gluten, stopped enjoying everything, basically, for three months. (And I have to note here that the goal of the program was NOT to lose weight, so it’s no fault of Caylie’s. She’s truly incredible at what she does.)

Here’s the thing — the women in my family get fat.

I’m from a long lineage of matronly women. The Westcott/Bangs/Hamilton women, they start out reeeaaaallly skinny and then swing to the opposite side of the pendulum over a long lifetime of having babies and being enduring, stoic New England sorts. I thought I might evade this pattern, since I am woefully childless and moved to California, but it turns out that it doesn’t matter. It’s hardwired.

As a kid, I was emaciated and actually anorexic for a while, and my mom and grandmother were also wispy little waifs when they were young. It’s when we get older that things predictably slide. Now, my mom is in pretty fine form these days, mostly because she owns a restaurant and so (ironically) doesn’t eat because she’s too busy running around being mad at her employees all the time. She also doesn't have blood sugar issues. She’s one of those annoying people who “forgets” to eat food and maybe eats one meal a day, maybe. And she is a jogger. Me, not so much. I wake up starving and get hungrier, crankier, and fainter from there. If I go too long without eating, I become palpably murderous. And as for jogging, no.

I know that technically it’s unhealthy to starve yourself, but here’s a dirty little secret that all women know and most holistic consultants don’t want you to find out: it’s the only real way to lose weight.

So I have come up with my own eating plan that is my shining salvation and only hope. Fingers crossed.

The Small Bowl Diet^TM is basically an artistic expression-meets-portion control eating plan.

Here’s how it works. First, you make a really cute, small bowl in pottery class. This is your one and only Small Bowl^TM. Now, you can eat whatever you want (except evil sugar, of course) as long as it fits in Small Bowl^TM. When you eat out of the bowl, you always take a moment first to admire how good you are at pottery. This is essentially a distraction from the fact that you are eating a concentration camp amount of food.

You wait until the point that you are absolutely starving, and then you wait just a little longer, for good measure, and then you eat ONE Small Bowl^TM of food. You eat it slowly, as if torturing and punishing yourself for being fat, and when that’s gone, that’s it. You should still be hungry when you’re done with the one Small Bowl^TM. If you’re not, you overfilled it or you need a smaller Small Bowl^TM. The key is to always be at least slightly hungry.

Then, you once again wait until you are out of your mind, chew-your-own-arm-off starving, and you wait the requisite little-bit-longer, and then you maybe accidentally murder someone, and then you eat another Small Bowl^TM.  Don’t go overboard.

Again. The key is to be basically starving all the time.

Oh — and a fucklot of exercise. You can’t forget that part. Basically, if you want to lose weight, you have to get on board with your genetic legacy and mimic the amount of physical activity your forbearers used to get. So in my case, the same amount of exercise as if I was chopping firewood and lugging water uphill from the river on black ice, 15 hours a day. That’s how much exercise my aging metabolism demands for me to stay at my “peak weight,” and even then, it’s a losing battle, since my genes think that a faux pregnant belly is a good thing — gets us through the long, cold, sedentary New England pilgrim winters, after all.

Unfortunately, my genes and my jeans are at odds, and if me and Small Bowl^TM have anything to do with it, the jeans are gonna win.