she moves she

When I stress I tend to not eat.  My emotional brain is in my stomach and it won’t tolerate being satiated with digestives.  Though it loves the wine, red or white.

I’ve had zero days off of work in the last nine days and I have to move tomorrow.  Change apartments.  I cannot eat and I keep saying things like “booyah” and “sucka!” and calling people “brotha.” Possibly losing my mind.  There is a restlessness like churning lava running laps in my veins.  And listening to The Rolling Stones while contained inside a little box, while Chicago produces another unseasonably cold day is torturous.  Where do the excessive vibrations go?

In the last ten minutes I’ve adopted a new philosophy on life.  I’m going to worry about nothing from here to eternity.  Encased inside this day of blah and impending-move dread this approach seems completely possible.  I’ve always heard that whole Worrying Doesn’t Help thing and I’ve adopted it perhaps half way.  But today I feel the “I don’t give a shits” through and through.  It’s all going to happen anyway.  Somehow, whether I worry about it or not, I will end up in a new apartment by Wednesday evening.  I therefore cannot be justified in sitting here at work putting energy into worrying about an Absolute.

This philosophy of course is appropriate only for certain circumstances.  I certainly cannot live out my days not giving a damn about the State of Things.  Giving a damn breeds Passion, Passion breeds Action and I am a Child of Fire and Snow.

Whatever’s right.  Right?

Where’ve I been?

Listening to a lot of rock and roll, hanging out on porches, drinking beer and things, swaying back and forth, smoking cigarettes, robbing banks, running from the cops, climbing mountains and riding a motorcycle through New Mexico.

I only wish that’s what I’d been up to. I really do have a penchant for the dangerous and self-destructive. When I daydream these days, I daydream of open roads and wind in my hair. I’ve lived most of my life defying my Red Neck Heritage. But my god, I can do it no more! I want to hop on a Harley, tie a Rebel Flag bandanna around my head and hit the road towards some Bonfire Party in Kentucky. My uncles…all five of them are the quintessential Southern Red Necks. Bar fights and Budweiser, Above Ground Pools and Sprinklers, Kools and Cars. My mother’s got the blood too. I grew up with Journey, Steppenwolf, The Doors, Kansas, The Rolling Stones, Led Zepplin, Humble Pie, Jimi Hendrix blasting from our colossal stereo system on weekends in Alabama. Guitar solos mean Saturday afternoons, jumping through the sprinkler in my front yard, drinking kool-aid on the back porch, digging around for worms under trees. Jim Morrison’s voice is a direct connection to sunlight streaming in through the living room windows on Sundays. The best way to experience music is still lying on my back, flat on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and listening for hours.

I’ve got the blood too. In our family, the phrase “Lippeatt Blood” means wild, quick-tempered, charming, emotional, manic depressive, fun-loving, charismatic, rebellious, opinionated, stubborn AS HELL! My mom’s side, the McCarty’s, are known for being intellectual, practical, rebellious, kind hearted, tough-as-nails, dangerously adventurous, risk-taking. When we talk about it, as we often do because someone in the family has always done something deserving of Furrowed Brows and Dropped Jaws, we attribute it not to the person’s sensibility but to the fact that they’ve been cursed with “that crazy blood.” How many times have I heard my grandmother say (and come to think of it, how many times have I said?) “It’s that Lippeatt temper.”

Being the black sheep of my family I’ve felt disconnected from these traits, as if I’m exempt from it all.

Let me tell you. I’m not. I’m a hybrid of Red Neck and Class and lately I feel like buying a ‘78 mustang, gettin’ greasy replacing the engine and speeding off into the sunset with “Born to be Wild” blowing out the speakers.

Yeah…something’s gotta give soon.

It is beautiful here today. A calm 56 degrees with winds that punch you in the gut and send you face forward into brick buildings. Oh these classic Chicago days, when your hair stands on end and strolling down Wabash is like standing in the wake of a jet engine. Spring is a tick away….

I associate Spring with a Black Labrador named Ted. I was seven and barely four feet tall and Ted was seven feet standing on his hind legs. A hell of a dog who demonstrated his affection with slobbery kisses and pawing paws. Valerie Rowell and I would take the bus home from Mount Olive Elementary. It dropped us off at the head of our subdivision (Country Manor) and we’d walk the half miles to our cul-de-sac houses. That Spring Ted showed up–a vagrant dog, starving–on our front porch. Dad fed him hot dogs while I looked on half-fascinated, half-terrified by this beast. Ted immediately singled me out as his favorite kid in the neighborhood. He’d put his front paws on my skinny shoulders and attack my face with doggy kisses, while his never-trimmed nails were digging bloody holes into my shoulders and his kisses gave way to tiny bites on my face with his over eagerness.

It got so bad that I was scared to go outside. And when the bus dropped Valerie and me off, we’d stand on top of the brick wall to our little gated community and sing songs to each other to pass the time until some good hearted neighbor would drive by, see the huge black dog waiting for us to descend our sanctuaries and extend the pity of a ride home. Everyone learned to hate Ted. Neighbors threatened to call the pound if they ever saw him stalking a kid again. (Confused by this, my mother informed me that “Calling the Pound” meant “Putting to Sleep” and that “Putting to Sleep” meant “Never Waking Up.”) Even my father, the one that adopted him, abandoned him. Leaving the starving, lovesick soul to wander around the neighborhood looking for food and affection.

Because my father stopped caring and the neighborhood wanted him put down, it was up to someone new to take care of him and I took that duty upon myself. I’d make it home from school after getting a ride home and hop up atop the patio table in our backyard. By then Ted, would be somewhere causing a ruckus with some other canine vagrants. But whenever I yelled his name in my seven-year old bellow “Teeeeeeddddddddddd!!!!” he’d come running, bolting, sprinting out of no where, straight towards me with his gleeful, ferocious gait. He’d get to the food bowl I’d put in front of the table and bury his face in his dinner, distracting him long enough for me to make it back into the house unscathed.

One day in April, he wasn’t at the bus stop. I walked home bravely, scared he was going to jump out at any moment and plough me over. I got all the way home without seeing him. I knew something was wrong. I got his food from the garage, I stood up on the patio table and “Teeeeeeddddddddd!!!” Nothing. “Teeeeeedddddddddddddddddddd!!!!” Still Nothing. Three more agonizing Ted’s, and a couple cheeks full of tears before I realized and accepted that he was never going to come running out of nowhere towards me again.

It took about fifteen years before I was comfortable with any type of dog jumping on me. Big or Small. But those two minutes when I stood yelling his name, waiting for him to come around the corner….nearly twenty years later and I’m still replaying it.

Kristen Schaal (Mel from Flight of the Conchords) is Trixie Tangway, Miss Hobo USA.

Sometimes I’m so overwhelmed by the explosions of life–those unexpected things, those crinkles in our plans, those truths in our guts–that I can do nothing but stay still and listen. I wrote once that you can only know the true beauty of a moment after it has passed. There is much to be said for being present but my god…the layers of complexity unearthed while staying still, listening and remembering is too great a monument to breathe out in a single sigh of applause.

I wanted this year to not be boring. And so far # of complaints: zero. Metaphorical howling at the moon that Bacchus would be proud of. Freedom and that great L word, finding anger and fire inside myself. It’s fun to take leaps of faith. In fact, leaps are what make the world glitter and make an expanse of possibilities possible.

I’m not one for clarity these days. I’m enjoying speaking in mysteries.  You’ll have to forgive me.

Sorry for the interruption of services. We’re now back and much taller.

It is now officially spring break. That term does not have the same meaning as it used to. Now it means absent student workers and a lull on the job. I was never a Take Your Shirt Off and Swing It Girl.

Chicago is finally warming up slightly. There were clouds between buildings this morning and even on the street. Everything is misty and hazy and smells like Almost Spring. It’s an interesting time of year. The sun shines longer, sweaters a bit too warm to wear, boots are on their way out, swim suits are in store windows and the memories of eighty degree weather surface in the well of your mind. This time of year is like those few seconds before you take your first sip of wine or gin or whiskey at the end of a long, cold day. The few seconds as you raise your glass to your lips and nearly feel the liquid already in your mouth. Or the feel of walking into a theatre or an orchestra hall right before a show. It’s the violins warming up, the bass getting in tune, the trumpets practicing those few fast notes, the flutes fluttering cautiously. It’s the “Almost” of the year.

I am feeling. I am feeling more. I am feeling more like a human. I am feeling more like a human with a soul. No longer content with staying put. No longer content with making do.

Om Namah Shivaya and Shanti Shanti Shanti.

Honolulu.  How exactly did I end up on Waikiki Beach?  Let’s just say…the stars aligned and all of my dormant impulsiveness and spontaneity woke up with a jazzy jolt.  The next thing I know, I’m on a plane…then I’m  dodging coral reef, swimming with eels and sea turtles, eating the best Ahi Tuna of my life, shooting pistols and magnums, drinking Mai Tais on tropical balconies, chasing roosters, drinking copious amounts of wine, hanging out with a Japanese family, speeding down a highway in a bus with drunk New Yorkers and eating pounds of pineapples and grapefruit and scrambled eggs.

Then.  Back to the “mainland.”  Oahu to Atlanta.  Atlanta to Chicago.  And home to a letter from Berkeley Fiction Review.  My immediate thought: Lovely. Another rejection letter.  But not this time!

“Dear Lauren,  Congratulations! Our editorial staff has reviewed your submission and is happy to tell you, your short story “Contents of a Dead Man’s Pockets” has been accepted for publication in the 28th volume of the Berkeley Fiction Review.”

Are those angels singing?

Thanks to a very fortunate set of events I am currently in Los Angeles awaiting a plane that will whisk me away on the final leg of my fifteen-hour long journey to Honolulu. All of my thoughts about tropical locals to ease the sting of Winter Winds must have been heard by the Whatever Out There.

I’ve never been West of the Mississippi River…well wait…do Minneapolis and St. Louis count? No.

I stopped briefly in Phoenix and was astounded by the Mountains. Mountains! Real ones. I’ve never seen any (excluding those Applachian phonies that cannot rightly be called Mountains. Real Mountains have snow topped peaks). Flying from Phoenix to LA made me giddy. Looking down at the weird collection of Desert, Plain and Mountain Range I kept thinking about people in wagons, ridin horses, shootin up cowboys, indians (pronounced ingins) runnin wild and hollerin for Buffalo. (yeah I might be drunk right now). And then I thought…”Where’s Billy the Kid? I can’t believe they have cars in Phoenix.” I suppose the Wild Wild West was so impressed upon my Childhood Mind with movies and tv shows that I subconsciously expected to see saloons and spit buckets. I was a little disappointed. Where’s Emilo Esteves and Keifer Sutherland and Lou Diamond Phillips?

I won’t lie. I got a little “Proud to be an American” on myself. Ammmmerica!!!!

Though it wasn’t funny. It was the best I’ve ever felt.

The world is full of lifetimes. And whatever we go through there is always something else, something new, something about ourselves that we haven’t yet discovered.

Aloha.

1. In advance of departing one’s house for the day, move limbs in a rhythmic and vigorous fashion while donning only undergarments (socks/hosiery acceptable–if not necessary) and listening to sounds of The Rolling Stones, LCD Soundsystem, Sam Cooke, Flight of the Conchords, et all. Thus increasing blood flow to the heart and heating the body for the Frigid Trek of Hell to train, bus or car. If said movement is conducted in front of a reflective surface, one’s humors tend to lift creating a Light Hearted effect or in the best case scenarios, Laughter.

2. In desperate moments, such as standing in direct flow of Out-To-Murder winds or navigating Ass-Attracting sheets of ice, focus on recalling the sound of the ocean, the feel of sun on your face, ice cream melting down your hand on a warm day, hot, passionate, sweaty sex or the like.

3. Surround yourself with art and beautiful things. Art museums. Movies. Plays. Concerts. Keep yourself booked. Focus your attention on aesthetically pleasing things that don’t remind you of the desolation of Sunless Februaries.

4. Engage in something illegal to pass the time. Always wanted to rob a bank? Now’s the time! When else can you get away with wearing a ski-mask in public without suspicion of thievery or terrorism? Winter is the perfect time for all of those crimes you’ve been meaning to get around to.

5. Do drugs. Develop a crack, heroin or crystal meth addiction. Under the influence of psychotropic substances, Spring’ll be here in No Time!

6. Bum rides from as many friends as possible. Guilt them into driving out of their way by describing the intense burning sensation of -18 degree windchills as they fly up your skirt at 45 miles per hour. If that doesn’t work slip them some liquid heroin in the coffee you buy them “Just to say Thanks.” Before you know it they’ll be begging to drive you around town!

7. Don’t get fat. Ignore that voice in your head that says all your Seasonal Depression woes will be cured with that extra pizza or batch of cupcakes at the end of a long, cold day. Getting fat only makes it harder to move your limbs in a rhythmic and vigorous fashion, which is in direct violation of Rule #1.

8. Reverse your Gravity. Everyone should spend anywhere from 1-5 minutes upside down each and every day of their lives. Not only does this empty your organs of stagnant blood and increase levels of circulation but it also refreshes the lymphatic system, heightens sexual prowess, invigorates the senses, enhances mental clarity, inspires random acts of genius, imposes god-like qualities and causes your shirt to flip over your head.

9. Do yoga. Intensify your strength, flexibility and mental focus by adding a bit of yoga to your daily routine. A couple sun salutes in the morning, a few arm balances to spice up the day or a slew of asanas in the early evening can quiet a busy mind and bring focus back to your spirit or heart center, increasing the knowledge that the outside world does not so much affect our perception as much as our perception affects the outside world. And that’s fuckin’ hot!

10. Visit the Sexual Self-Improvement section at your local bookstore. Mix up the day by upgrading your Kama Sutra Knowledge. Learn all about positions like: The Side Saddle Cowgirl, The Lazy Doggie, The Reverse Spoon, The Crab and so much more! This will definitely put some fire in your pants, defying the Winter Blues with an Ali Upper Cut and making the rest of your day a heck of a lot brighter.

Well. It’s Valentine’s Day. And I’m so sad. I didn’t get a pajamagram! This is tragic. My entire year is ruined. Doesn’t anyone love me? Does my life have any meaning and significance?

But really…what is this Valentine’s Day thing? My sources reveal:

“One legend contends that Valentine was a priest who served during the third century in Rome. When Emperor Claudius II decided that single men made better soldiers than those with wives and families, he outlawed marriage for young men — his crop of potential soldiers. Valentine, realizing the injustice of the decree, defied Claudius and continued to perform marriages for young lovers in secret. When Valentine’s actions were discovered, Claudius ordered that he be put to death.

“According to one legend, Valentine actually sent the first ‘valentine’ greeting himself. While in prison, it is believed that Valentine fell in love with a young girl — who may have been his jailor’s daughter — who visited him during his confinement. Before his death, it is alleged that he wrote her a letter, which he signed ‘From your Valentine.’ Although the truth behind the Valentine legends is murky, the stories certainly emphasize his appeal as a sympathetic, heroic, and, most importantly, romantic figure. It’s no surprise that by the Middle Ages, Valentine was one of the most popular saints in England and France.”

In Rome there was actually a festival surrounding the celebration of St. Valentine that involved slapping women with strips of goat hides.

“To begin the festival, members of the Luperci, an order of Roman priests, would gather at the sacred cave where the infants Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome, were believed to have been cared for by a she-wolf or lupa. The priests would then sacrifice a goat, for fertility, and a dog, for purification.

“The boys then sliced the goat’s hide into strips, dipped them in the sacrificial blood and took to the streets, gently slapping both women and fields of crops with the goat hide strips. Far from being fearful, Roman women welcomed being touched with the hides because it was believed the strips would make them more fertile in the coming year. Later in the day, according to legend, all the young women in the city would place their names in a big urn. The city’s bachelors would then each choose a name out of the urn and become paired for the year with his chosen woman.”

I’m imagining what it would be like to walk outside right now and see men chasing and slapping women with bloody strips of raw goat hide on the streets of Chicago…and the women actually being happy about it. It is a mad, mad world.

Happy Goat Hide Day.