October 5, 2008
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Writing — Ruby @ 3:39 pm
Top 10 reasons why I am a terrible blogger:
1) Because I write well and I’m wasting my talent by not practicing.
2) Because I have installed three versions of wordpress and yet have not consistently used any as a publishing platform in the last three years.
3) Because I love reading good writers and talking about good writers, but I won’t allow myself to become one.
4) I hate the word “blog”; it sounds like “blob.”
5) I have a box of business cards that names my profession as “Writer.” I have not given any of them to anyone except as an example of my stellar graphic design skills. The card is really pretty neat looking though. Really.
6) Every teacher I’ve had since the second grade has said that I should be a writer.
7) I spend an inordinate amount of time spicing up and copyediting Craigslist ads and dance forum posts, a true example of my misplaced energies.
8) I abhor poor writing. I can rant extensively and specifically on this topic. People like L. Ron Hubbard win a place in my “worst writers of all time” hall of fame because as an ex termed it, “He writes like the way he thinks smart people would write.”
9) I actually enjoy reading books about syntax, grammar and essay construction.
10) I can wield a pen or pencil with both hands.
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July 15, 2008
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Writing — Ruby @ 12:39 pm
I figure an entry on writing, or why I haven’t done much of it as of late is a good way to re-launch this blog. I’ve been publishing my writings (if you can call spontaneous post card meanderings, or a collection of letters to corporations like, Lego, for example, “writing”) online since the mid-90’s when I worked for the Hardware Order Desk at Wells Fargo and taught myself HTML between support calls.
In the last two years, I’ve had the good, but thwarted intentions to re-start my blog just about every day, or every other day. The latest design of my blog looms in my mind for a while. I imagine how I can populate it with interesting photos, and recipes of my favorite chocolate soufflé, my musings on the use of the term “elite” in the Presidential Race, as well as observations I have about adults who don’t know how to move their hips.
I also remember that in my mid-twenties I put the pen down for a while. I decided to give up on writing The Great American Novel at least till I turned 40, because as I reasoned, I hadn’t had enough life experience to really warrant anything worthy of publication. The only things I’ve written in the past 10 years or so have included:
1) numerous unpublished and half-finished rants on various topics
2) A few journal entries marking the beginnings and ends of several trips to the UK
3) A number of either comical or to the point craigslist ads
4) The occasional scathing letter to a corporation who tries to overbill me for services un-rendered
5) The first 25,000 words of an un-finished novel.
As for the self-reflection, the critical analysis, the philosophical musings… they spin unfettered in my brain. I can’t make much sense of them and I think of Didion who wrote, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking.” Of course Didion was also claiming in that same paragraph because, had she been blessed to even limited access to her own mind, she wouldn’t have to begun writing in the first place.
It’s not that I lack the access to my mind, or the talent to put the myriad of thoughts, feelings and furies to paper. It’s just that I lack either the motivation or the pressure.
Probably the last great writing I did was in my English Comp class in College. How I labored over those papers. Some of them may even be publication worthy, as I railed against the No Child Left Behind Act and the link between Faith Based Initiatives and the ‘doctrine’ of Intelligent Design as it was being debated in Kansas and Ohio.
But in that case I was writing for an attentive audience; an English Teacher whose job it was not only to grade me, but to give critical feedback on my essays.
Isn’t that the truth? The noun evokes the verb. In French you ‘essay’ when you must try. An essay then is the result of great effort, in the way that Kung Fu means “hard work.”
But more than the effort, writing is a lonely proposition. One must forcefully reject the inputs of society in order to achieve anything more than an ad selling a pair of skis or an evite to a fabulous hat party, or a letter of appeal to a body that has just fired you.
Incidentally, it was the response to this recent letter of appeal that caused me to do a mental double-take. The dance company director who was taking me off her roster due mainly to a difference in my abilities and her recent choreographic changes wrote in her final letter to me, “You are a really talented and gifted writer.” The message was clear. Quit dancing. Start writing.
Yet I have always wondered if this talent of mine is really worth it. Will it garner me the attention I crave? Will people discuss my ideas? Will I change someone’s mind? Stacking my ideas in lines of prose, printed on reams of paper, bound and tucked away on a shelf next to thousands of other similarly packaged trains of thought is a tough way to gain an audience. People always seem to spend more time talking about Rock Bands and Serial TV Shows.
And then there’s the other thing. Writing is not doing. When you are writing, you are not dancing, or acting, or running for office, or creating news. I fear being trapped in my brain, because to be honest, it’s not always that pleasant of a place to be.
But perhaps I can find my way to those things through writing, perhaps a little more access to what it is I’m thinking. I’m not 40 yet. I’ve got a few years to hone my skills before I embark on the Great American Novel. Better get crackin’
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April 28, 2008
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Music — Ruby @ 3:50 pm
It’s spring again… if you define Spring as a 44° degree day with cold rain soaking litter into the neighborhood and you have to heat the apartment with the oven because you turned off your heater two weeks ago on a chance 69° degree day.
It used to be that in San Francisco I complained because the weather never really ventured outside the limited scale of 50-68°. Now these temperatures seem tropical to me.
My boyfriend made a resolution a few weeks back that he would never ever discuss the weather again, because to him it’s an easy conversational cop-out. Weather gets discussed out here a lot more than in California… BECAUSE IT’S SO FREAKING INSANE! What is this? There are tulips outside and prospects of an overnight low of 32°. Woe to the person who planted something that might be killed by a frost.
But yes… here I am… discussing the weather with you. For me the weather dictates my internal state… or perhaps it’s more like a catalyst, it stirs certain chemicals in my internal state that result in (sometimes) new states of being.
For the last few weeks I’ve had these strange cravings for the southwest and my imaginings of the wild wild west. Then I remembered, that for several years, spring time was when I took off for a few weeks to drive through the southwest.
Yesterday, in my craving for hot dry twang, sun-bleached wood, parched air and a blistering silence punctuated only by the skitter of rattlesnakes, I searched on emusic for some music that would satisfy just a little bit of that craving.
I came across two delights.
Brokeback: Running Scared [2:18m]:
Play Now |
Play in Popup
Valley of the Giants: Waiting to Catch a Bullet [10:01m]:
Play Now |
Play in Popup
One: Brokeback. I discovered a later album, “Looks at the Bird” sometime last year and decided to go back for more… this time for a three track album that is thoughtful and innocuous. I mean this in the very best sense of the word. I sometimes need noise that does not draw me out of my thoughts, but provides just a colorful enough background to my current activities. It’s like mood-lighting. There are any number of noise distractions in my neighborhood that bear a necessity to be drowned out, but black-metal isn’t always the answer. Brokeback has a very thoughtful bass, probably something that resembles a guitar run through some effects and some other sounds that might be created by stringed instruments, such as a pedal-steel guitar, but I can’t be sure. There is definitely a satisfying amount of empty space interspersed by the faint rumble of a drum that simulates a far away approaching storm.
Two: Valley of the Giants
This is indeed a self-aggrandizing name to give to a supergroup… the members of whom also apparently belong to a bunch of other important Indie Rock bands. Since I have the pleasure of ignorance, I can only judge them on their current sound.
Anyone who uses an image of of Cathedral valley as their cover art is risking extreme scrutiny in my book. It’s almost hubris. It would be like a politician using Jesus as a mascot. To me, such landscape is holy land, meant to be preserved, appreciated and regarded with the awe it truly deserves.
The title of the album: “Morse Code In The Modern Age: Across The Americas” could easily be truncated to simply, “Across the Americas” because that’s the documentary that could accompany this blissful soundtrack.
I’ve only played the whole album through one or two times, but a few tracks are a meandering journey through an abandoned mining town, which is enough to satisfy me. There are other themes, other landscapes that seem to be evoked, making this indeed an interesting journey across America, and not just an abandoned roadtrip that expires in Death Valley through the fault of poor planning.
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Personal — Ruby @ 11:47 am
Warning: this post contains language that some would deem obscene or graphic. If you don’t like that kind of stuff, close your browser immediately.
This morning, as my sweet love and I sat side by side at the breakfast table (that’s how we sit because a) I only have one bench and one chair and b) even if there were six chairs, we want to squish up against each other while we moan over our delicious breakfast creations), I looked into the dark cavern of his ear canal while he munched on a chocolate popover and said, “Darling. Before you leave today, be sure to get a q-tip and clean out your ear. You have wax in it.”
We have an agreement that if there’s something about us that might potentially make one of us less attractive to the other, we are free to mention it with impunity because we’d rather know about the lettuce-leaf in the teeth or earwax that might inhibit a potential ear-nibble. I have also been the subject of similar criticisms, but most of them go like this, “How did you get chocolate on your arm/forehead/ear/knee?”
Anyway… he responded by asking me to get the tweezers (I had just marveled over a budding hair on the outside of his ear) and a q-tip and fix him up while he ate, as he had to rush out the door to get some work done as soon as he was done eating.
Now, ordinarily, I would simply jump at the offer to groom my sweet one. That’s part of being in a relationship, having someone get at the parts that you can’t reach or see very well to take care of errant hairs or nits (depending on if your species is more man or monkey). But… I have a real concern about potential eardrum damage and so I refused.
“I am not going to reach into your ear with a q-tip and risk puncturing your ear-drum. I poked my own ear-drum once while using my own arm and it was awful, and it’s important that you be able to hear well.” (He’s a musician, among other things.)
He protested vehemently. “What is the problem? Mothers clean their babies’ ears all the time with q-tips.”
“No!” I parried. “That’s a chance I’m simply not going to take, whether or not mothers do it. It’s like fucking someone with a dildo… you can’t feel the end of that thing. You need to do it yourself, because you can feel how far in the q-tip is.”
“But you’ve fucked someone with a dildo.”
“But there wasn’t a risk that I was going to deafen them. Besides the dildo wasn’t small enough to fit into an ear.”
“But one day when my arms no longer work, you’re going to have to clean my ears with a q-tip, so you might as well practice now.”
“That’s an interesting emotional chord that you attempted to strike with that argument, but it is still not going to convince me to risk injuring you when you can just do it yourself. Besides, I’m not interested in discussing the possibility of you not having functional arms.”
“There’s still a lot of other things I’ll be able to do even if my arms don’t work.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to talk about it!”
“Like eat your pussy. I can eat your pussy without arms.”
“Yes. Yes you can. Now, here’s that q-tip.”
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October 18, 2007
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Chicago — Ruby @ 3:56 pm
My new crush’s name is Malice. Unfortunately, nearly immediately after realizing that I was crushed out, I spotted her wife sporting a shirt at the last game that said plainly and clearly, “Mrs. Malice.” I wanted to walk right up to Malice and say, “You know… if I were your girlfriend, I’d tattoo your name right on my chest instead of just my shirt.”
Her full name, if you must know, is Malice with Chains. It’s a little unusual to have a preposition for a middle name, but if you’re a Roller Derby girl, it can really help.
Malice stands taller than most of the other girls, even without the extra four inches that her skates give her, and sans the five inch mohawk. Up close, she towers a head or two above me, but mostly I admire her from afar when she’s in her blood-spattered uniform straight out One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I fantasize that I’m on her team, and my name is Ruby Ratchett. She’s the jammer and I’m the pivot… I keep the opposing team’s jammer right behind me, not letting her through. Just as Malice is struggling to get past CoCo Bang Bang, a tall willowy straw-haired blonde, I bodycheck her and she goes down. Malice deftly leaps over CoCo’s legs and speeds ahead of the pack scoring point after point.
What I like about Malice is that she’s a little butcher than the other girls on the team. She’s got broad boy shoulders and her gait is masculine and self assured. She still wears her fishnets with aplomb and she’s got eye makeup on, but it just makes her look more sinister… no sexualizing rouge for the lips. But it doesn’t restrain me from wanting to throw her down and… well. Ahem.
I went to the Liar’s Club after last week’s game because I was hoping to rub elbows with a few Roller Girls. Malice was there of course. My friend pinched by arm when she walked by us. Be cool, be cool, I muttered under my breath. I may be all fluttery and palm-sweaty for Malice, but I’m not going to let her see it. I’m cuter than Mrs. Malice and soon she’ll notice me.
Several of the Roller girls talked to me about the team… or rather I started asking them when tryouts are. But what would possess me? I can’t risk ruining my hands or my feet. And, I hate getting beat up! I get so mad. I start biting and scratching and cussing. But I’m so competitive at the same time. At the game I nearly lost my voice screaming for the competitors. Until now, I’ve never understood the appeal of spectator sports. But now I can sort of see why the highest incidence of domestic abuse takes place after football games. I think if someone would have had the kindness to jump me in an alley after the game, I would have really enjoyed tearing their face off.
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June 23, 2006
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Dance — Ruby @ 1:14 am
It’s funny- there are advertisements pasted all over America; silhouettes of skinny people attatched to iPods, captured in an instant of rawking out… it’s Apple’s depiction of someone really digging their product. Most people I see who have them walk through crowds, oblivous of what’s around them, or lose themselves in their music on the train, sometimes multi-tasking with a book for the paper. Their personal space aura is clearly demarcated by the white earbuds and the subtle bobbing of head.
But when you actually bust out and dance to the music playing on your iPod in the train station, people get really distracted. I was commented at by no less than eight people while shuffling around to some Saint Germain and Count Basie tonight. One dude even tried to sort of dance near me. I asked if he danced and he said, “no… not really.” But he kept on anyways.
I was hanging out in a corner of the station that didn’t have too many people waiting, not really into putting on a performance. But I had twenty minutes to wait for the train and just sitting there seemed really boring, especially when I had just come from a pretty good two hour practice session with my dance buddies. So if people walked by and saw me, I wasn’t gonna stop and act like I wasn’t dancing, because what is wrong with dancing after all? So I just kept it up, feeling kinda goofy, but prefering to wiggle around than to just stand there looking all affected and cool.
I felt a little bit like one of those train station musicians… people walked by and smiled, the way I always do when a guitarist or saxophone player adds a little bit to the ambiance of a public space. Maybe next time I’ll put a hat out. Haw haw. THAT would be funny.
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