Cirque du Malaise

I spent this fine summer weekend in Pt. Reyes and Bodega Bay.
Here are some things I noticed.

Antiquated fridge.

Backlit nostalgia.

Rusty.

The pier behind Nick's Cove at sunset.

And at breakfast.

Wind.Gretel.

Mt. Wittenberg, Pt. Ryes
[ verdant fields of opulent torture ]

Tennessee Valley might be my favorite place in the world.  I love it in all its incarnations: bucolic sunny splendor, refuge for delicate wildlife (and introverts), happliy trafficked weekend days, moonlit nights with owls hooting. But perhaps my favorite Tennessee Valley mood is lonely, stormy spring evening. Last night I walked to the beach alone, listening to an ominous Radiolab podcast about a necrophiliac serial killer (perhaps not the best choice for a solo hike at dusk), but I didn't feel lonely. I don't get lonely when I'm alone. In fact, strangely, the only time feel lonely is when I'm surrounded by people. Perhaps all introverts are this way.

I spent a lot of time by myself growing up. When I think about the things I used to do for fun when I was 8, they haven’t really changed all that much: reading, making up stories, hanging out at the library, adventuring around in the woods by myself.

Because I live in a very ¡fun! Place (the Bay Area), and I have a lot of ¡fun! friends who go to Burning Man and costume parties and other ¡fun!  stuff, I am constantly getting invited to social goings-on. I almost always say no. Often. When I say “no thanks” to a party, I’ll generally get the cajoling, “come on, it'll be fun” beg from the friend in question. It’s almost as if they think, if they could just get me to go to a party/festival/block party/rock concert just this once, I would realize that I really do in fact like huge group gatherings; I’ve been wrong this whole time; I am a whole different person than I think I am.

Occasionally I acquiesce and go to a party. 97% of the time, I regret it. Parties are not my thing. I usually end up huddled in a corner with the person I came with, desperately avoiding eye contact and taking frequent trips to the bathroom, where I can get brief moments of respite in a stall by myself.

That's not to say that I'm not social. I go for hikes with my friends; I go to yoga (not really) with my friends; I go to movies with my friends; I make dinner with my friends. Sometimes I do those things with my friends, and sometimes I do them by myself. I like both.

I’m glad I’m not a person who needs constant company to keep me grounded. I’m glad I need lots and lots of alone time. In my prior life as a Romantic With Hope, I always dated outgoing, sociable guys who liked parties and Halloween and Bay to Breakers and all those things that make me highly anxious. More and more, now that I am committed to remaining single and solitary, I am a shut-in. I’m not planning to try to be different any time soon. The nice thing about being 40 and single? I can be exactly who I want to be.

Want to be a better person? Read novels.

And put that self help book down.

I wrote a little something for Elephant Journal on why I don't read self help books and how science backs me up.

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.

Life is short, and I have a long list of books I want to read. I want to read The Invention of Hugo Cabret by Brian Selznick, because I really loved the movie Hugo and I’m curious about the creative mind behind it. I want to read The $64 Tomato, which my brother Elia recommended, because I find the Slow Food movement so  compelling and noble. Just because I find the titles intriguing, I want to read Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism by Chogyam Trungpa and The Lexicographer’s Dilemma by Jack W. Lynch. And then there's every single book on last year’s New York Times 1OO Notable Books List.

Sometimes I feel overwhelmed about the limited time I have to do all this reading. And don’t get me started on the books I want to read again.

I understand why it would seem like I’m a natural fit to join your book club. I’m a writer; I read a lot; I’m passionate about books; I have opinions. But there is one crucial reason I’ll never join your book club:

Because I don’t want to read the same books you want to read.

And I’m not willing to compromise at all. Reading, you see, is one area of my life that is totally mine.  I do it alone, on my own time, when I want, where I want, how I want. I often read out loud. I read in bed. I read when I am procrastinating work. I read when I’m lazing about in my red down sleeping bag on a rainy Sunday. I read on beaches in Koh Samui and in yurts in Big Sur. What I don’t do is read for the sake of socializing.

I’m an introvert, and if I have my way, I spend as little time as possible having actual human conversation. I interact with the world largely through reading and writing. I don’t even like to talk on the phone! Don’t get me wrong; I have friends. And I like to see them in person… sometimes.

But that reminds me, I do have my own idea for a book club, and it goes like this:

1. You read whatever you want. It doesn’t even have to be a book. It can be a National Geographic article or the back of a cereal box.
2. We have a potluck dinner. You bring the lasagna. I’ll pick up some Coco Bliss at the Whole.
3. We each take turns talking about the book we’re reading. Everyone gets to stand up and synopsize their story for 3 minutes. No one is allowed to be boring.
4. Discuss!

I’ve been wanting to do this, but because I’m an introvert, I’m not great at planning parties. Anyone else want to take this on? Please invite me!

I have never been a morning person and getting up early has always been a struggle for me. In fact, getting up, period, has always been a struggle for me. I like to clock about 9 hours of sleep a night and if I don’t, I generally feel like murder all day. Except between 9pm and midnight, when I always feel completely alert and pretty much fantastic, no matter what.

It’s not uncommon for me to stay up until 1 or 2 in the morning reading or writing or watching mindless sitcoms, but luckily for me I work for myself and don’t have to set an alarm. Not setting an alarm is a way of life I am quite devoted to, in fact. You might say it’s a personal philosophy. I think the world would be a better place and we would all be better people if we were abiding by our own natural sleep rhythms. For me, that means I don’t generally wake up before 9 in the morning, and sometimes later, depending on the time of year and how enthralling the book is that I am currently reading until the wee hours. (Which, right now, is the new Steve Jobs bio and yeah, it’s a good one.)

Occasionally I will make the mistake of having a soda at the movies — like I did when I saw the incredible Steampunk (thanks, Maynard) masterpiece Hugo the other night — and then I’ll have an even harder time getting up because of the sugar hangover.

This is not just laziness or petulance on my part. It’s my genetic legacy. The other day I called my dad at 9:30pm East Coast time and asked him what he was up to. He sounded groggy and out of it. I thought I might have woken him up. And I had. “I’m napping,” he said grumpily. That’s right, napping. When pressed, he elaborated that he generally naps in the late evening and then gets up and starts painting. “Jos,” he said, “You know I get my best painting done between midnight and 3am."

My dad is retired and recently managed to finally shake his horrible evil coldhearted wife of the last 25 years, so he can afford not to set an alarm or bother to care what society at large thinks about what time it is appropriate to get up in the morning. In this way, he is my hero.

Roughly 15-17 times a week, someone tries to convince me that I should really get up earlier so that I can better accommodate their schedule. My exception-less refusal is just one of the many reasons I'm starting to suspect that I will always be alone. But as long as I can sleep in, I'm fine with that. Oh, and before you start to suspect that I'm a nihilist, here's my Christmas tree:

Every once in a while — okay let’s just call it once a month — I resign myself to take a mental health day. A mental health day is when, despite the mountains of work and exercise obligations and “should’s” and “must’s” and “have to’s,” one instead collapses on the couch in a state of general malaise, maybe sobs a little bit, and then watches 8 straight hours of mindless television while eating cookies and soup for dinner (in that order).

Mental health days are absolutely essential for maintaining spiritual equilibrium, especially around the holiday season. And to be really worthwhile, they have to happen when it’s least convenient and there is the most amount of pressing things to get done STAT.

I had a mental health day yesterday. Mondays are good days for mental health days because they are a) high pressure days to begin with and b) a great way to set you up for a week of saying “fuck it.” On this particular Monday, I had just gotten back from spending the weekend with good friends up in Mendocino. I had already taken a half day to drive home, and was planning to buckle down the moment I arrived at my office in order to power through several hours of work before going to yoga at 6:30pm like a good Godfearin’ yogi.

But it was not to be.

It was too cold in my house to think (cursed damp 55 degree November day) and things were out of sorts. Because I was gone all weekend and have been busy lately, there was an ominous pile of laundry calling me. There were tumbleweeds on the floor and a sink full of dishes and, try as I might, I could not ignore them. But I couldn’t get myself to do them, either, because that would just be admitting defeat over my concentration issues. So instead, I did the logical thing: I flung myself on the couch, had a tantrum for just a sec, and then commenced to watched back-to-back episodes of Six Feet Under until midnight.

I didn’t go to yoga. You know how they say, “You never regret going to yoga”? You know how they say that? You know how they tell you that going to yoga will fix whatever ails you? That if you have a cold coming on, you should “sweat it out”? If you just got really bad news, you can “find gratitude” on your mat? If you are experiencing general malaise, you should “get out of your head”?

Sometimes they are right. I’ve had these yoga-saving experiences; I have. But I’ll tell you what. Nothing brings you back to a state of equanimity and peace like a good old fashioned mental health sesh on the couch.

The slow decline into winter’s dark days is a time when my bio-clock says “Slow down! Hibernate! Store up fat for winter!” and accordingly, my energy level plummets and I desire warm, high-calorie foods and less activity. This is the season when I am most inclined to blow things of a social or active nature off and geek out on the Internet instead.

I used to fight it. I used to self-judge. But I’ll tell you, I’ve really learned to abide by my need for a periodic mental health day. I’ve been taking them my entire life. They really do work. Better than yoga.

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.

Like so many people in my circles, I am plagued with first world problems that threaten to derail my fragile psyche on a semi-daily basis. Right now I am spinning my wheels about a really tough one: whether or not to buy an iPad for my upcoming trip to Thailand in September. I can't really afford it, and I thought I had talked myself out of this extravagance, until I had a nice sit-down with my good friend Michelle last night. She is one of the savviest travelers I know — one of those fine modern ladies who has traversed the entire planet with a backback and a pair of sandals on and can hang with equal aplomb in a high-end resort on the shores of Bali or in a seedy hostel in Amsterdam. Furthermore, Michelle knows me really well and she knows how attached my half-assed Buddhist ass is to my gadgetry and my ability to stay in touch via the cloud. She did not recommend that I go cold turkey off my Mac fixation.

My packing list, so far

I don't want to bring my laptop, because I don't want to be tempted to work, and also because I don't want to worry about it getting stolen or waterlogged while I'm frittering away my days on white sand beaches without a care in the world. My laptop is pretty much my most prized possession. I value its wellbeing more than I care about the welfare of my own body. If I get rufied in Thailand, I'll deal with it, but I can't risk getting a scratch on my Macbook Pro.

Michelle advised me to get the iPad. Not only will it allow me to write (what's a pen?) but it will preclude me from lugging armloads of books with me on my trip. Also, movies for the plane. Very important to be distracted on airplanes at all times. I'm sure you've all seen Bridesmaids by now. I didn't even laugh during the scene where Kristen Wiig loses her marbles on the plane for a sec. I've actually fainted on airplanes. Serial.

Because I am a 6, making minor decisions is really challenging for me. I will end a relationship and move cross-country into a brand new apartment in the blink of an eye — and have done so many, many, oh too many times in my life — but ask me what kind of pizza toppings I want and I'm likely to develop adult-onset epilepsy. So this particular decision is really weighing on me.

Can you guys be a lamb and decide for me?

I know my East Coast friends are riolling their eyes at this pathetic displayof "snow," but trust me, it was exciting around here.

The Blair Witch Snowman. Seriously, I found this snowman looking all shady and evil in the middle of a big empty meadow with no one else around.

If this tree were gay he would be a bear. Get it? Cuz of the fur coat? I’m hilarious. .

Last week I wrote an article for Elephant Journal about the question of how spirituality and technology overlap and enhance each other. I’ve been thinking a lot about ways that these two things are NOT mutually exclusive.

Today, I went up on Mt Tamalpais to check out the fluke snowfall we had gotten over the weekend. I had an epic time hiking around in the snow by myself.

I love my mountain. If my mountain was a folk singer with a ponytail playing love ballads on an acoustic guitar, I’d be the most devoted fan in all the coffee shops in Portland. If my mountain was a spider monkey, I’d smuggle it back from The Orient and walk it around on a leash. If my mountain was a girl, I’d be a lesbian.

And today my mountain looked so damned cute with snow on it! I had the best day, by myself, trudging around in the slush, dodging melting snow falling from trees, breaking frozen mud puddles with my pottery boots, asking random strangers for a glance at their maps, taking pictures. I had a whole afternoon of solitude and didn’t for one second feel alone.

I’m sure no one will argue that getting out on a mountain by yourself just after a snowstorm is one of the most spiritual everyday experiences a person can have. To me, spirituality and creativity often go hand-in-hand.

Whenever I hike by myself I always have a lot of creative ideas, and before I had an iPhone, my brain would fill up with them to the point that I couldn’t relax and hike anymore because I’d be too anxious about getting to a piece of paper to write them down. Now, I can whip out my iPhone, turn on Voice Memo, download the idea bubble, get it out of my brain, and create space for something else.

Oh also, here’s a link to a Patty Griffin song called “Up On the Mountain.” This song was inspired by a Martin Luther King speech (as you’ll hear on the recording) and it’s just lovely. Once I was up at the top of the Marin Headlands — having just huffed all the way to the height of the cliff over Tennessee Valley and along a snaking, precarious trail — when my iPod shuffle burst into a round of this song. It was pretty much a spiritual moment for me. Thanks to my iPod.