31 - Memoir in 365 Acts

So long, 31

2009-11-20T11:11:00.000-08:00

It was a good year.

Dispatches from the desk of a ne'er-do-well student-housing manager and struggling artist

2009-08-11T06:22:00.000-07:00

It’s moving in time for new students and roughly my one year and six month anniversary of managing a house residing on a dingy block in the sketchy neighborhood that surrounds a well-known private college in Los Angeles. This oppor-doom-ity came as a necessity for survival and remains so. With drastically reduced rent I can scrape by each month paying comparatively piddily increments on my nearly 100,000.00 dollar art school student loan debt, keep the cupboard stocked with black beans and rice, and splurge on discount wine.

To describe the property as fit and modern is to flip the calendar back to the turn of the 20th century. What was then cutting edge, well designed and detailed in craftsmanship, has been pulled down a few notches by age and neglect. Then there were those incidents of more neglect. And then, well, mutilation. Prompted by a changing and expanding city, the rich and white and rich moved out. Firstly and most notably a famously uber-democratic governor and twice presidential candidate who was born here and therefore made this humble home the target of the Cultural Heritage Board who have thusly declared it a “historic-cultural monument”.

Most recently the economic principal of supply and demand pointed its finger at this neglected house, demanding its conversion into 12 separate units of tetras shaped floor plans with mini stoves and chronic roach problems to support the growing student population.

The street and adjoining blocks bare the evidence of a time where detailed, solid craftsmanship and great visions of suburban living were in full swing. Alas time and pressure have left their mark. The hood has had its ups and downs since 1900, and the last half-century has been one of its downs.

So here I am. Exempting myself, lucky13 tenants in all. All students, or former students, of the aforementioned well-known private college, except for me. I just work there and skulk around the food court at noon. There is that struggling artist part of it too. I’ll elaborate on that one soon. For now know that I am a drawer. No, not a drawer, as in, “I just banged by goddamned knee into that drawer you left open!” But a draw-er, as in, “Draw your characture miss for a brass farthing? You see that I can because I’m a Drawer.”

Here, some proof:
-Shan

DMV Drawings

2009-07-17T07:34:00.001-07:00

Newly completed drawings

2009-07-04T11:00:00.000-07:00

Evidence, 20" x 20"

Oh Dear Diary, 20" x 20"

Trip 5: LA to Vegas and back again

2009-06-10T16:18:00.000-07:00

Red Rock Canyon.

"A cool place to get lost when you're on you way to a wedding and you're stuck on a 15-mile long one-way road, during which you go completely nut balls, but as you re-enter the main freeway you happen to spot a woman in a white dress, who is the bride, even though you never saw her before you know that this is a bride because you're out in the middle of no-where-ville and what are the chances of another wedding party, so you go up to her limo to ask where the reception will be, and she says it's at 'Flemings'. Beer and wine open bar." --Shannon Durbin

"Diner-Saur Park" in the back of "Peggy Sue's Diner" in the fine city of Yermo, CA.

Well, Ladies?

A local custom of leaving your sneaker mark on all the available
white surfaces of the illustrious Sahara Hotel and Casino.

View from Sahara Hotel and Casino... Or is it downtown Marrakesh?

Trip 4: AZ near Superstition Mountain, SE of Pheonix

2009-06-10T15:57:00.000-07:00

Arizona Mid May:

Sometimes we fight in the desert, but we have been friends for so long that we make up quick.

(Pictured: 1) Horney Toad!! 2) Shannon and Naomi battling for the "Queen of the Desert" title as Emily looks on and snaps photos. 3) Emily, Shannon and Naomi when we were all made up and sharing graces again.)

Tune for June Gloom

2009-06-10T10:29:00.000-07:00

Click song title for song: Tune for June Gloom

Assorted Pictures

2009-03-22T11:48:00.001-07:00

John with Spoon

John with Tractor

Women seen from the inside.

Current and ancient dangers. Arrangements.

"Helmut" glowing in the light of my drawing board lamp. Helmut was given to me so I would not forget my dreams.

How ZITS happen

Parking Lot Quote

Vitals Jan 17 - March 19

2009-03-22T11:27:00.000-07:00

Overdue and a little unwieldy, but here are The Vitals for the last few months:

Confidential Note to John

2009-02-16T18:42:00.000-08:00

A kiss is a rosy dot over the "i" of loving.
- Cyrano De Bergerac

The gods of small things

2009-02-03T08:18:00.000-08:00

"BANG!" Said the new sprout unfurling to take its place among the initiated.

The oldest, and now yellowing leaf, looked down and away. Down at the crinkle of brown which had begun as a fleck or freckle. But in the last few weeks had grown. Now its nose was completely brown and brittle. And worse the brown had spread up along its delicate edges. Old Yellowie could only assume it was going to get worse.

"And BOOM, too!" The new sprout pipped up again, but not out of meanness. The sprout simply wasn't paying attention being so full of youthful exuberance and arrogance. Newness revels in itself with abandon and even Old Yellowie could appreciate that, if only for a moment, within a moment, when forgetting itself and its plight.

Suddenly a new voice. A voice like the lowest note played on a stand-up bass. Everybody listened, because there was no option not to.

"In this pot we have only four leaves. It has always been thus. One must grow. One must go."

It was the voice of the god that hovers over the potted plant on my desk. So cruel these gods. All varieties seem to be such sticklers for the rules they probably just made up on the fly. This one couldn't be bothered to care for five sprouts. Four was this god's arbitrary limit. And so the world must say my goodbye's to Old Yellowie.

I can offer him water for his throat. A pathetic attempt to stop the unstoppable. Photosynthesis has probably shut down. He is on his last stem. Maybe I can offer a little sugar, maybe hit up the store for plant booster? Oh, but what's the use?

He never needed sugar and plant boost before. He thrived from water and air. Hung on when he and a sibling were dug up from another planter in Seattle, wrapped in moist paper towel and saran wrap, packed in my south-bound car and relocated to one of the most coveted locations on earth: Southern California. Once we had arrived he spent several months floating in a coffee mug filled with tap water growing roots. When I could afford it I bought him and his sibling a pot and some good soil. Planted him and watered him and he grew more siblings. But the magic number of 4 established itself right away. So it was from the start and has always has been, once a new sprout came, one old guy had to go.

"It is well." Says the god that hovers here just inches from my keyboard, watching his sprouts, young and old, in various stages spanning arrogance to wisdom.

"Is not!" I counter. But gods, eh, they do what they want.

"Garbage Brand" cookies flying through the air

2009-02-01T17:56:00.000-08:00

Confidential Note to John (the one and only)

2009-01-29T09:01:00.001-08:00

Vitals Jan 01 - Jan 16 09

2009-01-27T18:03:00.001-08:00

Week or so in Pictures

2009-01-11T15:25:00.000-08:00

Business' name: "Seguros de Auto"
Translation: Auto Insurance

Above "Touch of Romance: Sex Equipment Supply", a quaint jazz club

Highly illegal cellphone shots of the majesty of air travel

My Bogart

A secret note

Transcribed:

"Hi John,

I am on the plane right now and I was thinking that you might really like it after all. It's really beautiful up here.

Shannon

Rainy Days and Mondays: The Northwest through a car windshield

Vitals Dec 15 - Jan 02

2009-01-04T16:15:00.000-08:00

Wandering the cultural mecca of Los Angeles

2009-01-02T17:03:00.000-08:00

Carmel & Big Sur - First real, real trip of the proposed 12

2009-01-01T10:55:00.000-08:00

John being a hooligan on the egg-filled streets of Carmel, CA.

Vitals Dec 1st -Dec 16th

2008-12-22T08:13:00.000-08:00

Month or so in pictures in random order

2008-12-19T15:19:00.000-08:00

Precursor to the creation of a Five-Year Plan (Trying to avoid going nuts)

2008-12-16T08:04:00.000-08:00

Project ideas:

Hedi says a 6-panel drawn piece
I say writing
Probably both
A collaborative piece with John?
Too soon
Everything needs to be kicked up a notch
I need a beautiful floor rug and beanbag chairs
I need a warm room and quiet upstairs neighbors
I need less dirt, more focus, less wine, more time spent well
Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’…

Goals for today:

Think about drawing piece in terms of everyday stuff
That is where it comes from
Big bang moments
Mixed up with everyday
Draw in your journal
Think about your history of sex
Read another story in Animal Shelter
Make a calendar for the next few weeks
Grab hold of that thread of time and tie it to your wrist like a balloon

First Public Performance

2008-12-06T09:30:00.000-08:00

Typical Southern Californian winter evening at a brisk 68 degrees. The USC campus is pretty sleepy, except for the students protecting the Tommy Trojan statue from any Bruin invaders. At the Faculty Club in the outdoor plaza, as Economics Professors and Ph.D. students amble in and munch up all the delicious hor' d'oeuvres, this nervous performer sips her wine a wee bit too fast.

It was all Brijesh's idea. A week before the annual Economics Holiday Party he asks, would it be possible to get a piano rolled over? And perhaps, maybe, he could play and I could sing something?

There is something to be understood about Brijesh, he has a way of asking for things that makes you feel like the wheels of fate are already in motion. I have always been a big sucker for fate and submit nearly every time. I found myself a few days later poking around the faculty club looking for the coordinator. Sure, of course, piano's no problem, she said. Just a simple matter of money, which is not a problem, still, at USC.

Thursday, the day before the event, Brijesh informs me that he has reserved a practice space for us at 5 o'clock. Can I dig up some holiday songs, send the titles to him, and he'll give them a listen, fiddle around and see what he can come up with? I send an urgent email out to all the people who's opinions are nuanced and vaguely aligned with my sensibilities. Girlfriends push heavy for Wham's "Last Christmas" and the standard "Baby, it's Cold Outside". Mom gets spiritual. John is quite thorough and spans the genre, even throwing in a few sure to displease suggestions.

For the last few years Brijesh has been playing piano at the Catholic church across the street from campus every Sunday evening. This, he says, serves two purposes. It keeps his hand in and it allows his parents to be a tad more at ease with his lapsed Catholic status. It is not quite accurate to say that Brijesh is an accomplished piano player; he is quite extraordinary, learning many songs by ear and being able to improvise, which comes in handy when you are working with someone like me who drops her notes and is always coming in too early on a song. The device we worked out to mitigate my singing foibles is something I imagine you could employ with any moderately sentient creature. When it was time for me to belt out the first line he simply began singing low and I quickly barreled over his tenor notes in a mad dash to catch up with the song.

Day of the party I am all nerves, but also very aware of how alive the day is. I feel myself moving through space. Everything is purposeful. Singing, and I'd say most creative acts, require a precious mix of emotion, facility, and sixth sense. Essentially one must be able to shut their damnable brain off. Logic and reason trip up the creative process, weighing it down with expectations, frightful visions, and banal prescriptions.

When the time came, and the party had ballooned with the majority of our mild mannered Economists, Brijesh found me. He sat down on the bench, suggested we start with a standard to warm up the crowd. I nodded, pulled my glass of wine close, leaned against the piano, took the mic and a deep breath... A few bars, then his restrained tenor voice prompted me to sing, "Have yourself a merry little Christmas, Let your heart be light..."

Vitals Nov 14th - Dec 2nd

2008-12-04T09:40:00.000-08:00

Confidential Note to John (formerly known as "John T", "John O" and soon to be refered to as "Johnny", just like Glenn Ford was in "Gilda")

2008-12-02T08:54:00.001-08:00

Things to consider:

Homemade turkey soup with vegetables and butterfly crackers

A really bad holiday party full of economists with an open bar

Billy Wilder movies

Pedro Almodóvar movies (Particularly "Woman on the Verge..." and "Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!")

Finding that zen place. Ocean waves, parsley sprig askew, Bonaventure elevators...

Week In Pictures

2008-11-30T09:29:00.000-08:00

Vitals Oct 31st - Nov 15th

2008-11-22T10:31:00.000-08:00

Confidential Note to Nadine

2008-11-22T10:24:00.001-08:00

Apology

2008-11-21T16:15:00.000-08:00

Shannon would like to apologize for the post directly below this one because it doesn't make any sense. But I'm going to keep it up anyway. You've been warned.

Random Selections From the Dictionary Series

2008-11-21T08:03:00.000-08:00

AVERSE

To use the word averse in a sentence, "I feel averse to accept the reality of my living situation at this moment."

I do not like waking up to news copters hovering above my house. And the number of people who honk right outside my window at all hours has led to the belief that there is sign somewhere saying something to the effect of, “Honk. I dare you assholes!” There is a line around the block of garbage-bagged folk waiting to go through my neighbor’s garbage can like it’s full of chilly dogs and ice cold Coca-Cola, and not just beer bottle caps and condom wrappers. However, back to the point, I am also reminded that “averse” is the combination of the words “a” and “verse”.

Little known fact, back with in the ancient world, when the Greeks were still running around naked all the time, there was a Global Cooling crisis, which forced them to learn how to put on their clothes for the first time. To make this new task more fun they would sing a melody. A Verse, if you will.

“Tra la la”, Apalpogenous the brown-eyed beauty chirped. “Gee, I hate this putting-on-clothes business” she mumbled.” But slipped her bed sheets on one cautious wrap after another with the brave stoicism we have learned of her people. She warbled again, “Tra la la laaa. Tra la lie…”

As if she had been wrapping herself in bed sheets for years--and she kind of had been, just not vertically--with one delicate movement she slipped the end of the sheet into the nook of her armpit and she was clothed.

“I may be um, against... No. Upset? No. No, I may be AVERSE to this getting dressed thing,” she proclaimed, “but a verse sung during the interim distracts me from this deplorable act.”

Henceforth we have the word, averse.

Voice Lesson 5 (the un-lesson)

2008-11-11T18:06:00.000-08:00

As in all critical moments in my life I find myself in a public restroom pondering my future, the past and the uneasy present. I've been putting off lessons for three weeks now. I've tried to be optimistic and courteous. I will practice, I tell myself, and then I don't, so I email my teacher and request we reschedule.

Last week she sent me this message in response to me postponing our lesson for another week, Of course, lovely red-headed goddess!

Tonight I have told myself that I must go, no more putting it off. I must confess that I am the same person who for three months didn't practice the guitar in high school but attended the lessons with a guilty conscience and the acid of guilt in her tummy.

God, I hate re-runs. I look at my phone, 5:24. Six minutes. Be honest with her, Shannon. Don't chicken out.

A couple weeks back Brijesh, a Ph.D. student in my department who I have found on more than several occasions singing Gershwin tunes to himself in the hallway, gave me a hint. "You can enroll in a music class and not go. That's what I did."

Brijesh has a very beautifully modulated voice carrying both the Indian and British accent. "I'm enrolled in beginning piano or some such nonsense, that way I am a student and can rent the practice rooms for my own sake."

He hinted too that no one used those rooms before 9 am, so I might be able to sneak in before work.

"Really!" My voice broke. "How great would that be?!"

I imagined the satisfaction of getting up with the roosters and singing my guts out as the sun rose on a new day. What I liked about the idea was its clandestine nature and it's organic parameters. I was to sneak into one of the soundproof rooms to perform ancient melodies to an imagined crowd for simple joy of experiencing a sublime sensation before beginning my straight job as a department schmo. It was just so moderately dangerous, goofy and romantic. The kind of thing you want to be discovered for doing. But I never did it.

I pushed the snooze button from 5:25 to 7am and did not regret it much.

Tonight I wait for my teacher to call me. 5:31, she does, and she knows. "Hey... You there?" Meaning, am I at the practice space.

I'm here. I've strayed from the restroom and now I'm in mid-pace in the halls planning my confession.

I've just not practiced. Simple. I love these lessons, but I don't know what to do with them. Maybe I'm not a soloist, but a choir girl. I don't know.

Like everything else I'm doing, it seems I'm looking desperately at all these other things to stand in for something else. Something much grander then singing, dancing... maybe more to do with that part about my heart opening up. Something like that. To be moved and to share that moment. Really, that's where the satisfaction is.

"I need to confess..."

"You haven't practiced..." She asks without accusing.

"I haven't. And I've failed to articulate what it is I want from this."

The word "articulate" was chosen early on as a good word for a confession.

It's not that my teacher was not impressed with my verbiage, it's just that it's not the words that matter. She just knows the signs of someone loosing steam when they've been fueled solely of their own kooky visions.

"You can call me when you have a song..." She says. "It's not about pressure. I'm here when you're ready."

Imagine if it were not my teacher but someone else saying something like this...

This is what I'm imagining.

Dance Moves to "It's Good to Be King"

2008-11-09T16:28:00.000-08:00

Words and Phrases to consider:
Karate
Channeling
Possession
David Bowie Haircut
Protestant Upbringing
Laundry

Vitals Oct 16th - Oct 31st

2008-11-09T12:52:00.000-08:00

Porn for Plumbers

2008-11-08T07:44:00.000-08:00

Even though you could imagine The Plumber and his preferences. His facility for intricate adjustments matched with raw strength for heavy lifting. His intimate affection for tiny parts and their proper location. The knowledge of piping, the in's and out's, and the management of fluids on the brink of overflow... Well, I'm just saying he might be a hard one to please, but as it turns out my plumber's taste in porn is pretty boring.

When I returned home to my apartment the other day I was surprised to find unique items on my computer desktop.

Pop-up windows go with porn like bread goes with butter, lubricants with dildos, so when I flipped open the screen returning from a long day of making double-sided copies and crafting the illusion of a naturally perky demeanor at my day job, I was surprised to see 3x5 windows offering me love and affections from nice blond-headed ladies.

Hmm, I thought, that's odd. Figuring the cosmos was giving me a sign. Likely, get laid girl. But a confusing sign because I don't really have a thing for blonds of either gender.

Cosmos, double check your notes!, I admonished, and closed the half-dozen pop-up windows without a further thought about it.

Seems the stars and their alignment had little to do with it. It has more to do with the plumber and his ring of keys granting him access to each unit in the building I manage.

Last week a leaky shower head in the upstairs bathroom had made it's way through the floorboards and out the ceiling of Unit 3. So this week our plumber and his buddy have been patching leaks and replacing ceiling tiles.

They did have reason to enter my apartment. I had asked them to put out bait for nasty little red roaches that, though infrequently appear in my kitchen, DO appear in my kitchen and therefore tempt my mind with their presents and require a wholesale stamping out.

However that was several days ago that they set the bait. Last night when I came home the pop-ups were back, so were a couple of downloaded pictures of international women in halter tops and cut offs leaning awkwardly on ocean-worn logs. And if that were not incriminating enough an internet browser was left open with the login name of my plumber.

I neglected to catch the name of the site, but did read the list of promises it made to it's users:

How do you know when she's ready to be kissed?

How to pick up ladies without using "pick up lines"?

Why do women want to destroy the fun in relationships? Find out how to make her enjoy the fun with you.

10 great "date night" ideas for zero dollars!

I offer my humble advise to my plumber; a husband, and father of 3 if I recall correctly. When taking advantage of an empty apartment with internet access away from the prying eyes of your wife and children be sure to destroy the evidence. Think of it like plumbing. You want all the labor to be unseen and hidden away. Just like a sewer line flowing deep beneath the surface of the earth. Because when it bubbles up for others to find, well, it's just gross.

Week In Pictures

2008-10-31T11:56:00.000-07:00

Confidential Note to John O

2008-10-28T00:59:00.000-07:00

I called you John "T" before by accident. This was not meant to further protect your identity. It was simply a mistake, like many of the others I have come make and others have come to expect.

No offense meant.

Sincerely,
Shannon

Shipwreck Installation Proposal

2008-10-27T23:53:00.000-07:00

A proposed proposal for S_______.R__ Gallery
Life-sized shipwreck/fort proposed to be installed in project space.

Voice Lesson 4

2008-10-22T02:37:00.000-07:00

The trouble I’m finding with studying voice is two fold. First I’m as lazy and unimaginative as the next guy, so when the novelty of something begins to fade I default to the least of efforts.

Somehow I have had the wherewithal to get myself a voice teacher and to set up sessions, I think, so now I simply need to show up once every one or two weeks to become a phenomenal singer of Rachmaninoff and Giuseppe Giordani…

The second problem, and the actual truth is, I’m twice as lazy and unimaginative as the next guy. I’m also extremely self-conscious, which any armchair psychiatrist will tell you, to be self-conscious is to be indulgently self-critical. In my case usually to the point of constantly “shorting out” like a piece of electronics someone spilt their beer on.

At moments of intensity and challenge I find myself tripping all over myself, forgetting everything, with thoughts much like an animal with a disposition for flight over fight, but ultimately too dumb to do either. A possum freezes under the oncoming lights of a family automobile, and so do I under the daunting threat of things unknown. I freeze from stem to stern. Shoulders bunched around my ears, my hands twist up, breathing short and unsteady.

My teacher, apparently aware of this possum-like posture, has a few tricks to untame the whimpy beast. Tonight after my vaguely rigamortus run through an Italian aria something needed to be done.

“Ok, vibrate your lips through this first verse, like this.” She then produced a sound like the putt-putt of a motorboat, cutting through the light and lovely waves of “Caro mio ben”.

She played the first note and I mimicked her putt-putt, rolling my head back and forth as spittle rained across the black lacquer piano. As I reached the end of the first verse she said, “Now sing it. Don’t think.”

And so I did, very naturally employing the imagery she had outlined these past weeks. The umbrella in the back of my throat that creates open, full notes. The pockets of resonance in the sinuses, which suddenly rung and traveled along my jaw and cheekbones till I felt the sound coming out my ears. My posture erect and stomach taught, hands still twisted but twisted with arms encircling a barrel of imagined air and infinite resource. Even if my chin was still lifted just a bit too high, my brain, so hell-bent on getting in the way, was numbed by a body suddenly ringing like a tuning fork.

Week in Pictures

2008-10-19T14:21:00.000-07:00

Vitals Oct 1 - 16th

2008-10-19T10:34:00.000-07:00

Confidential Note to Jessica S and Nadine S

2008-10-19T08:01:00.001-07:00

Confidential Note to John T

2008-10-15T11:25:00.000-07:00

Hey John,

I replied to your email last week, but it wouldn't go through to the Juno account. I sent it to your USC one...

Thanks!
Shannon

Voice Lessons 3

2008-10-14T20:08:00.000-07:00

My voice teacher asked if I had been practicing and I said, “Yes”. Of course, right? I mean there’s the walk to work where I sing with Bowie and Prince and Elvis (Costello) on my iPod. There are the meanderings around the house and the drives in the car with show tunes and Beach Boys and Modest Mouse. If equipped with a better shower I would have sung there too. Mine is so dingy and claustrophobic. I’m not inspired to do anything but utilitarian tasks and sometimes I even skip over those in my haste to rejoin the world of light and air.

My voice teacher asked if I had been practicing and I just said yes, and it felt like a lie especially when she asked me how I’d been practicing and how often. I trailed off into some mumble about, “Well, you know, that song we did… I’ve sung it a little.”

I sung it two weeks ago walking home from our last voice lesson. I sang it talking to my friend on the phone when I was so totally psyched about singing in this new way. Not much since. Maybe a line hummed when I came across the sheet music in my apartment.

The problem is this: The level of passion (lack of passion) I am bringing to all life endeavors. This holding back I employ in the moment, and then this loss of momentum, this forgetfulness for the true depth (and potential depth) of those things I am passionate about.

My ex-boyfriend would chime in here and say, “Uh-huh,” Sneer in that way I used to think was so hot (inspiring). “Do you know where it is?” The “it” referring to my nether regions.

My voice teacher during our first lesson was trying to describe where I needed to sing from. “You have to sing from your female parts,” she’d said. I remember that she was looking at me intently, trying to see if I really got what she was saying. “You know,” she continued, “sing from your cooter.”

Sing from your cooter. It’s a provocative line worth repeating. In fact it should be repeated all the time. A mantra to adopt. Sing from your cooter. Write from your cooter. Make art, dance, love (you know?), and in all things important do it with your cooter. Do all things from this passionate and essential place. A place recognized as underdeveloped, infrequently explored, even avoided and ignored. In fact you could say this essential challenge of cooter recognition and implementation inspired this corny, broadly (ill) -defined project. The project just lacked a slogan or a vow, so how about this: I swear to lead life with my cooter and let the rest fall in line after that.

Describe your street:

2008-10-04T12:01:00.001-07:00

Noisy. Packed to the gills with people. It’s feels anomalous, perhaps like most urban residential blocks feel. The mix of people and the intentions of these people.

My house is a landmark. Built in the last few years of the 1800’s. A senator was born here. He was progressive, even for our times. Now it is divided up into crumbling units always bursting or breaking, occupied by graduate students, most visiting from the other side of the world. All of them lonely and sweet. Too brilliant to be imagined.

Each night, sometimes several times, I see a mother and son walk down our street. They are inseparable. Dressed averagely. Clothes clean. They discuss things secretively and sometimes go through the trashcans. When the son doesn’t have a cigarette, he asks if I’ll give him one. I don’t like them. At first I said hello. But they are scavengers. Who knows how they became this way, but their passive interest in free garbage somehow puts me off. If you need garbage, then you need garbage. They are their own cult. They have their own rules.

The lady next door hates us. She owns the house on the other side of us and rents it to the most despicable undergraduates. They break bottles and shoot fake guns. She has her man over there everyday cleaning up their mess. Most of the kids drive black or white luxury SUV’s. On game day they pull out a rickety table, set it up on the lawn. They fill red plastic cups with beer to play beer pong. The guys take off their shirts and scream. The girls simulate sex. “You should come over.” They say when I come out on the stoop. “Maybe some other time.” I usually say.

Vitals Sept. 15 - 30th

2008-10-04T10:21:00.001-07:00

If there are patterns developing (hundreds) it is that with a moderate amount of confidence I get "wordy". Also rainy days and Mondays always get me down.

Voice Lessons 2

2008-09-30T20:57:00.001-07:00

I’ve been trying on songs over the last two weeks. At my first lesson I had brought “If You Really Love Me”, by Stevie Wonder and Elvis Costello’s, “Everyday I Write the Book”.

They are two of my favorite songs ever and I love to sing them. The lyrics speak to me and when I sing them I imagine the crowd before me. As I perform I employ subtle and meaningful choreography while riding happily over the notes, words and melodies. This vision is complete with back-up singers, deferent band members, several violinists, and the ubiquitous bass player.

Now I realize that the ease with which I conger a grandiose vision does not translate organically into a song I am meant to sing. When the time came to belt out a little Stevie in our private music suite I was all nerves and could only hear Stevie’s voice, not mine, in my head.

Tonight my instructor had me lean into her piano, tensing my stomach muscles, while singing the show tune, “I’ll Know”, from Guys and Dolls. It is a beautiful song, with peeks and valleys and sentimental verse. It is a song that would bring a snarky ironic curl to the lip of the most post-modern people I know (and incidentally, it would bring the hugest smile to my mother).

We ran through the song a half-a-dozen times before my teacher had me leaning against the piano. Suddenly a voice I had never heard was emanating from my throat. I didn’t recognize the tone, the resonance, and the ease of sound so full and so confident. Within these dusty pop-singing vocal chords something much more nuanced and strong was laying in wait. No one could be more shocked than me. My teacher said, “Yes. YES!”, as I poured forth.

This was an experience outside of intellect—in fact my mind has been identified as a liability, something to leave outside the glass door of the private music suite at each lesson. Singing is something made of basic physical mechanics, parlor tricks, and a brain distracted by intensely focused bodily distress.

I think this might be one of the most perfect pastimes I’ve ever come across.

Trip 1 (1 of12) Sunland, Kagel Canyon, and "Zeppelin"

2008-09-28T19:34:00.000-07:00

Driving around ended up being my first of twelve trips. I thought I'd maybe go find a lake or a mountain, but those things, according to my AAA guide and google maps were hours and hours away. In my trip the north-east of my home I came across a biker funeral, a secret biker bar, a horse show featuring cop-mounted-horse drills, and then back to Eagle Rock on a failed attempt to find sheet music at an otherwise great guitar shop.

Going Forward with Arbitrary Markers of Progress

2008-09-28T17:26:00.000-07:00

By...

September 25 - October 25

Singing
Voice Lessons: Select 2 songs (written by someone else) and have them down for singing
Possibles: Hard Headed Woman, Mirrorball, Sugar in My Bowl, Crazy on You...

Band Practice: Written lyrics and have started putting music together for song

Dancing
... go to a venue, take an intro lesson is something (Swing, Salsa, Ballroom...) then dance with a stranger

Writing
Get a second draft of "Bodies of Water"
Free write a short subject

Plan & Prep
Where are your 12 places to go?

First Month Wrap Up

2008-09-28T16:27:00.000-07:00

A couple of days ago I noticed the date, September 25th, and realized it had been a month since I had begun my 31st year. So noted I thought this a good moment to reflect on the events of the last 30-or-so days.

Let me just say here that I realize that dates and years are arbitrary things. Barring increasing aches and pains, and the fact that the sun has risen everyday of my life, I recognize time's meaning is only endowed with what we provide for it. Still, knowing this, I admit that I am affected by these arbitrary markers. If only to make introspection and revelation more common events. And time, dates, and this year are kind of the lynch pin for this endeavor. Moving right along...

First Month Wrap Up:

Vitals and Journal Entry

Done each morning

Vitals will be posted in 15 day allotments
Journal entries to be posted over my dead body
Both have easily been adopted into my morning routine. They have grown longer and more direct in addressing subject matter. And the information covered has been more thoughtful, but not necessarily more thought provoking

Singing

One Voice Lesson so far. See entry
2 band practices with friends and no music created, though there's been a lot of music listening

Enrolled in a university graduate-level writing course, MPW 920: Personal Essay

Have begun my first long essay piece in 2 years

Dance... all of the below have not been followed up on

Talked to a Hawaiian about hula
Talked with a ballet dancer about contact improv
Talked with an energetic girl about swing lessons (they are every single night and scattered around the city, she said)
Poo-pooed the 10-week dance classes at the university
Noticed that I make shadows of dance moves when walking to work listening to my Ipod

Something to follow up with in experimental video? Could I piece together a choreographed dance?

Conclusions? How much more has my heart opened in the last 30-or-so days? Perhaps my Vitals tell the progress most clearly. I do feel more engaged. More on. However my heart mimics the nameless purple-leaved houseplant next to the futon. It flops open and it gathers up tight depending on the amount of stimuli. The more I am out in the world the more my heart and mind work together. The more I feel obliged to go a step further, feel my confidence growing, feel of this world instead of just in it.

The things I'm going for:

2008-09-20T10:56:00.001-07:00

Career

Money-maker

Necessary for a roof
Necessary to remain “in touch”

Conduit from space to space
A particular experience which satisfies and disrupts

Should “Money” and “Art” be switched? Should they be combined?

Love

Love of friends—to love them faithfully and for them to love you back with the same intensity
Lover, partner, mate

Someone you willingly support in their efforts and vise versa
Not blind to your faults

With criticism, a slap on the face and kiss on the cheek

To Love oneself

Be sensible
Kind
And strict like a parent is toward the child they love so dearly

Stability

Would Career and Love satisfy that? What about Spirit? Can Spirit be satisfied by “I., b.”? I'm doubtful.

Engagement a.k.a. Daily Adventure

See things
Do things
Ask for help
Give help
Listen
Respond
Go out of your way
Play with time
Reach out
Find pleasure when something reaches back

Voice Lessons

2008-09-19T09:35:00.001-07:00

My first lesson was last Tuesday. My teacher, a Mezzo Soprano completing her Ph.D. in Musical Arts, secured a small private room on campus with a black piano and a distorted mirror.

"I want to watch you breath", she said, directing me to stand in front of the piano. "See if you can sing these back. Sing them 'la, la, la'."

She played three chords. My memory is swiss cheese, has always been swiss cheese. The notes slipping in one ear and floating out the other.

"Can you play them again?"

I acknowledge that I need to practicing listening. It's an art form I've let slide. There was a time it was a thing I was known for. I listened, and so people talked with me all the time. I was always sitting somewhere with someone nodding my head, making encouraging, non-committal remarks to their confessions. For this I was told more than once that I was "real" or "really real". I liked that.

She played the cords again and I told myself to listen. "La, la, laaa?" I offered.

"Thank god." She said. "You're not tone-deaf."

Updates - Vitals Posts

2008-09-16T12:11:00.000-07:00

The idea is to create a daily discipline. Though I've not been here (blog) everyday, I've been at the table everyday taking my vitals. Here's a wrap up of Sept. 1 -14th:

Daily Scope

2008-08-31T09:24:00.000-07:00

Sunday, Aug 31st, 2008 -- This is a great day to plant the seeds of your intentions, for yesterday's New Moon rendered your imagination into fertile ground for singing and talking about new ideas. But don't worry if your friends think you are crazy, for you don't feel constrained by the same rules as everyone else. Give yourself permission to dance to the beat of a different drummer.

----

As I try to kickstart my life, I am encouraged by signs everywhere. Today I meet with friends to make some music.

Confessions

2008-08-29T19:52:00.000-07:00

The apartment is stuffy, full of weather, full of dust and stacks of paper and unmentionables.

The house is full of lonely people and I manage this house. I am the captain of a lonely house.

It's a funny occupation. All of it.

Fawn

2008-08-28T21:01:00.000-07:00

On the first day.

Girls are the bomb

2008-08-27T21:25:00.000-07:00

Sentiment and a Grocery Bag of Books

2008-08-26T21:21:00.000-07:00

Among the gifts I received this year--cards, earrings, homemade carrot cake and a 2008 Olympics mascot doo-dad--was a Trader Joe's bag full of second-hand books left in front of my apartment door. The note was to me, but did not say whom they were from, though I had my suspicions.

Where I grew up there was high value for the do-it-yourself, do-it-cheap, fast and fun. Mixed tapes, zines, covert postering, skinny dips and thrift store shopping were the things we made and did. A crush giving me a cheap plastic bracelet from a vending machine on an otherwise insignificant day was more meaningful then a red rose on Valentines. It's a sensibility you'd think you might grow out of, but I haven't yet. How else could I explain all the scraps of paper filling shoes boxes, along with rocks from beach walks, anchor buttons and broken charms?

This brooding Ph.D. student has brought me books before. Usually at my desk at work where I am a Secretary. He's brought foreign magazines with pictures of punk rock couples, paperbacks of Barthes, print outs of Gothic texts from subscription sites. He's lent me Scott Walker and Mogwi CD's and the heart breaking movie soundtracks by German composers. I've always appreciated the gesture, which to me seems highly curated, first from his particular taste in culture, secondly from what he gleans of me and perhaps his belief in my openness. He might be wrong on that score.

Piecing together the elements I can imagine how I might appear to him. Though the pieces likely better describe him. They are sad and dark and hunting for melancholy beauty.

It surprises me what people might see in me. I am reinvented by everyone I meet, despite my effort to appear one way or another.

"Vitals" Legend

2008-08-25T07:24:00.000-07:00

One aspect of the project is checking my vitals. I thought of four aspects that would give a comprehensive status check.

Heart - The love and feeling you have towards others

Head - Clarity, Comprehension, Spark, Frenetic Wrangling, etc.

Spirit - The way I'm feeling about myself

Engagement - Simply how much I have reached out to someone and said yes

Introduction and Ground Rules

2008-08-24T12:40:00.000-07:00

Thirty-one is not one of those ages. It’s not 16, 21 or even 30. Because 31 lacks the endowment of certain expectations I am allowed a kind of freedom. The freedom to embrace 365 days with all options on the table.

A few ground rules are necessary to give some shape to this venture. These are the few essentials that are not subject to revision. All else is allowed to occur organically, to be ridden like waves, but with the intention that engagement with people and with life is the ultimate goal.

Learn to sing.

Learn to dance.

The bare minimum of Evidence: A written piece each day. And a photograph.

Visit 12 places I've never been to before.

A statement on approach: I must seek and ask for help whenever possible--the idea is to collaborate, to engage. Make creative acts public when possible. And those privately created projects must make their way to the public or be tossed out.

I’ve got a year to do it. A year to see what a year can bring.

31 - Memoir in 365 Acts

2008-08-21T18:07:00.000-07:00