I love it. My class. I do. I love the art on the walls, and the big red velvet chair, and the silver colored die on the table next to all the other dice, and most of all, I love the people I’m meeting there. All but one. Okay. I love all but a few, to be exact. I like most of the few that I don’t love; but there’s one fellow student whose work I dread hearing from week to week. I mean, like, if I saw her at a cocktail party, I’d drop a plate to avoid talking to her. Just because she’s that annoying. Sweet enough. But. . . well . . .

They all have this fucking blog address, too, my classmates. So it’s highly inappropriate and stupid to even be blogging this way. But, you know what? I’m a whore for words. I am. Not to mention the fact that, as liars go, I’ve got a penchant for tactlessly spewing the truth, or, if not the truth with a capital T, then at least my point-of-view at any given moment (subject to change, of course). Plus, NEWSFLASH, most people don’t read this blog.

Besides blogging inappropriately and stupidly, I’m breaking an important rule, too. One writing teacher proclaimed once, “Above all, write with a generous heart.” Oh, such good guidance. But I’ve always had a rule-breaking streak in my heart. No, not heart, scratch that, that’s cliche. My cunt? Gross. I’ve always had a rule breaking streak in my boots. My spleen. My molars. My taste buds. My right fist. Or, how about the balls of my feet? All of the above?

One point of clarification: IF this blog is read by the woman who actually used the word “cunt” in her piece in class tonight, she should know that she’s not the individual whose work and presence bothers me. I say this, because from the limited conversations I’ve had with her (the woman who used “cunt” in her opening line) she might wonder about that. And I would want her to know what I’ll probably tell her at some point, “You’re fabulous!” If one of us doesn’t die first. Because that happens.

It does.

In the meantime, though, before the conversations I hope to have, before one or all of us dies, before I say the c-word one more time, right now, there will be sleep. For me.

Grumpy & Tired Word Whore signing off.

——————————-

I’m studying with Jack Grapes again — my second term: Method Writing ~ Level 2. Each week, we’re assigned incredibly specific exercises that all build upon each other. I won’t fill you in on exactly what the instructions were for this piece; I’ll just say that I followed them.

We’re focusing on process over product. So consider this a draft of something that might continue developing. It’s melodramatic; I know, but don’t worry — I’m Mr. Miyagi’s pupil painting a fence here. I’m posting it in the spirit of keeping the blog from going dormant.

———————————–

Thank you, every dead cow in my mouth.
Thank you, every one of you, for tasting so (I’m sorry) good.
Thank you, every one whose udders gave the milk that was made into cheese.
The cheese that is melted on others’ tissue so (I’m sorry) we can behold the cheeseburger.

The cheeseburger, so (I’m sorry) good.
So (I’m sorry) delicious.
So (I’m sorry) very much more tasty than meat alone.

Oh and the gifts of cheese give us pizza.
And the gifts of cheese give us picnics.
And gifts of cheese
of Humboldt Fog,
of Cambozola,
of Havarti,
of Brie give us pleasures worth living for.

But are they gifts?
Is what is taken from someone born in and of captivity a gift?
Is what is taken from someone who has never seen light from the sun (or felt the wind) a gift?
Is what is taken from someone kept in a standing position her whole life a gift?
Is what is taken from someone impregnated by a machine once a year a gift?
Is what is taken from someone who can’t escape a gift?

What is taken? Shhh, they don’t want us to think about it, but I will tell you: the babies are taken from their mothers. Of course they are. What did you think happened?

Still.

At least once a week, I cave, I head to DiVito’s for their cheese calzone.
And their calzone becomes my calzone. I can’t blame the ricotta cheese.

At least once a month, I cave, I head to Bar Food for their happy hour burger.
And their burger becomes my burger. Oh, shredded cheddar, it’s not your fault.

At least once a quarter, I cave, I head to Houston’s for their french dip.
And that too becomes all mine. I can’t blame what’s red and rare.

At least once a year, I cave, I head to Fogo de Chao for their filet mignon.
And those waiters, the fucking waiters, so handsome, they just keep coming back with knives and flesh and more.

What will it take to get me to stop?
What will it take to get me –
the daughter of a mink farmer
the daughter of a football captain
the daughter of a fisherman
the daughter of a navy chief
to let go of cheeseburgers and cheese and eggs?
Oh, eggs, you’re so (I’m sorry) good.
What will it take to get me to put compassion ahead of my own pleasure?

Pleasure, pleasure. Pleasure. Pleasure.
Happiness is my birthright.
Bliss is my prerogative.
Joy is my mandate.
I am first world white, donning first class rubies, flying first place blue ribbons over amber waves of grain.

Those who would dare interfere with my pleasure, my safety, my access to any of the Magic Kingdoms will be put into solitary confinement without trial.

With that business at hand, who can afford to worry about animals –
except that we have plenty to eat?

Who can afford to worry about cows when sons are sodomized?
Who can afford to worry about chickens when daughters must marry their rapists and mothers hide acid burned faces?
Who can afford to worry about salmon when fathers are imprisoned for smoking a joint
next to journalists imprisoned for telling the truth
beside teachers imprisoned for writing bad checks?
Who can afford to worry about pigs when more than one percent of adults in the United States are imprisoned?

Lock them up, throw away the key. Keep eating. Eat more. More mountains majesty: misdemeanor mumble munch. High Fructose Corn Syrup won’t save us from ourselves.

So, I take another bite. My stomach is full.
I take another bite. My teeth chew death.
I take another bite. My eyes don’t brim.
I take another bite.
I take another.
I take.

I eat.

————————–

Sculpture by David Lovejoy

Six hours, thirty-nine minutes, eighteen seconds: the duration of all the Beastie Boys songs on this hard drive. Andy’s collection, primarily, but the computer is mine — or — it was mine back when there was such a thing as His and Hers around here. Let’s just say I don’t hesitate to delete his Journey tracks when space gets tight.

The Beastie Boys, on the other hand, The Beasties share our home and hard drive with undisputed and consistent airplay. Just ask the neighbors.

FULL DISCLOSURE. I’m not posing as someone in mourning. In fact, here’s the embarrassing truth: in terms of face/name recognition, hearing about Adam Yauch’s death is a bit (just a tiny bit) like when I was ten and John Lennon died and I got The Beatles confused with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs on The Flinstones. That week, my brother wore out his cassettes of Abbey Road and Sgt. Pepper’s and I got educated. The difference now is that I’ve enjoyed the Beastie Boys’ music for years, it’s just their names and faces that have eluded me.

Did you see what I just did? I compared MCA to John Lennon. Justifiably. With my whole heart.

Except, consider the iTunes run-time designated for The Beatles on this hard drive: one hour, five minutes, eight seconds. No contest. Most of those tracks aren’t even played.

That doesn’t negate the fact that yesterday, when I got the news, I had to google to learn that there are two Adams and the one who just died went by MCA. I’ll further confess that last night, as Andy and I sat under the moon bobbing our heads and bouncing our toes, I worked hard to listen for and learn MCA’s voice. I still can’t pick him out.

I’ll add that if he were healthy and alive today, and he and Mike D and Ad-Rock took the table next to ours at El Chollo for a margarita, if everyone else in the restaurant remained calm in the presence of brilliance, I wouldn’t recognize them. I’d just think they were any three guys on their way to the beach.

But here I am posting about him today. Why?

I have limited time this weekend this morning this afternoon. I’m parceling out my commas my minutes my hours. I’ve got aphids to kill (or push along, I haven’t decided which yet). So, why?

Why am I posting about a man whose name I didn’t know — whose face I wouldn’t recognize?

It’s not because my idea of the best way to start a wedding is to have Groove Holmes and Sabrosa playing while guests mingle over cocktails. And that is my idea of the best way to start a wedding. But that’s not why I’m posting about MCA’s death today.

It’s not because I want to join the chorus of condolences to his family and friends. Even though I do.  But that’s not what moved me to the keyboard.

It’s not because I’d even planned to write a blog post today; I’ve got other, more pressing, assignments.

I suppose it’s because I’ve learned something about the importance of paying homage in recent months.

It started with having to face the fragility — not of every life — but of lives I held incredibly dear.

Perhaps it’s become a slight obsession of mine, this awareness that every living thing is headed in one direction: towards death. Every person waiting at the cross walk of Bundy and Santa Monica right now will die. I will die. Even if I don’t kill them today, those aphids on the rose bush outside will die.

So, the urgency I feel when I’ve had too much coffee is genuine.

And at the risk of sounding melodramatic, the fact is, I want to participate in the story of humanity; I want to make a contribution to life (thank you, J5). I want to surround myself with people doing just that also.

The Beastie Boys did it. Look at that body of work.

I can’t write intelligently about why Get it Together is a fucking masterpiece, but one-two-oh-my-god!-it is. Put on any song of theirs and you’ll find some greatness.

What an amazing contribution to life. To my life. Thank you, MCA — MCA — Adam Yauch, thank you.

Rest in peace.

———————————

As many days as possible, I list six distinct things for which I’m grateful. The list is archived monthly.

Here’s April 2012 . . .

—————————

My blue mug. Ruby’s fur. Ellie’s demeanor. Our patio. The work I’m late for as I type. Minty toothpaste.

Laurel. Antara. Megan. Erin. Stacey. Rachelle.

Hearing the woman say to the man, “How did you learn how to use that?”  Hearing the man order 41 large pizzas from the woman: 10 cheese, 7 pepperoni, 7 pepperoni and sausage, 7 with every meat she had available, 5 Hawaiian, 4 veggie, and 1 with veggies and NO cheese. Buying 15 lbs of Matzo at my neighborhood Ralph’s for our friends whose grocery stores lack. The nice people who helped me find it. This Ted talk I’m about to watch. The sunlight on Ruby’s face right now.

The number 3 next to the elevator door. The chipping paint on the three. All the numbers next to all elevator doors. All the numbers next to buttons inside elevators. The people who thought to put the numbers in those places. The people who actually put the numbers in those places.

The seder with friends. Spending time with dear S and her 8-year-old, five-year-old and two-year-old boys. Boys. Story time. Having enough. Book talk.

Creating a blog post even though I nearly gave up several times. A cheerful walk to the market. My private thoughts.  My back pack that holds lots of groceries. Garlic. Dinner with Andy.

That the woman with the mental disorder didn’t hunt me down after I changed tables at lunch yesterday. The waiter who helped me change tables. The opportunity to ask the question: how do we practice compassion when we feel unsafe? Time to read more of Clash of Kings in an attempt to stay ahead of HBO. A four mile walk. Gardens.

Evolving software that makes my work more fun. Mutually beneficial goals. Encouragement. That gorgeous black dog standing halfway out the truck window with the wind blowing in his fur. TJ’s organic craisin nut mix. Comfortable clothing.

The overdue hug from my soul mate. Her tears. My tears. The friends we gathered with. That warm bread. Patio heaters.

Thunder. Rain jacket. Hood. Vitamin water. Lisa. Kung Pao Tofu.

A private place to enjoy the sun. Our mandevilla came back. The rose bush came back. The ache that human bodies aren’t perennial like my plants. Constant remembering. That we can be grateful for even the ache.

Time to write a poem. Time to take a walk in super pleasant weather. Allowing myself to choose not to put CPR on this list even though it just saved the life of a pretty wonderful person. That person’s life. The life that wasn’t saved. Allowing myself to feel what I feel.

No traffic on the 405. Safe freeway driving. Murals on buildings. Meeting more nice clients. The Last Bookstore. Dinner with a wonderful friend.

A day of rest with Andy.

Strawberry pancakes. Lunch under a big tree on the patio at Moretin Fig. The Festival of Books. Neuroscience. Sun dresses. Amplification.

Billable hours. Nice people to work with. Ocean view drives. Feeling loved. Therapists. Walks.

Driving alongside the Pacific coast. The sun, low over the ocean. Clients who offer a beer two hours before quitting time. Ruby’s strange meow when she’s playing fetch. Dry cleaners. Telephones.

Elizabeth & our coffee date. Alyson & her tweets. Ronda & her FB updates. Cafes. Twitter. Facebook.

Living in a safe place. All that Andy does for me. That another gallery has recognized David’s wonderful paintings. David’s paintings. Talking to Dad on the phone. The generous gift that’s allowing us to plan to use our passports at last.

———————————

This is the first day I have ever read any part of Rilke’s elegies.

Rushing online to share a quote, I opened my web browser and, without thinking, clicked on the Bank of America icon. Wrong turn. It’s too early to do banking, to bank, to broker and barter. Soon I’ll be in the car going to back-to-back meetings with my shrink and a client. But right now I’m here, and I’ve just read this:

Yes, the Springs had need of you. Many a star
was waiting for you to espy it. Many a wave
would rise on the past towards you; or, else, perhaps,
as you went by an open window, a violin
would be giving itself to someone. All this was a trust.
But were you equal it it?*

Evidently not. But look, here’s another translation of the same passage:

Yes, the springtimes needed you. Stars now and then
craved your attention. A wave rose
in the remembered past; or as you came by the open window
a violin was singing its soul out. All this
was a given task. But were you capacious
enough to receive it?*

And another:

Yes–the springtimes needed you. Often a star was waiting for you to notice it.
A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past,
or as you walked under an open window, a violin yielded itself to your hearing.
All this was mission. But could you accomplish it?*

Can I accomplish it? Is learning German going to help? Because now I’m really itching to get closer to Rilke’s words. And on top of that, I’ve got this task, this mission; I want to be equal to it. First, I’ll have to clear my schedule.

—–Imaginary Message—–

From: Ruth <ruth@intention.com>
To: Shrink@earthlink.net and Client@clientdujour.com
Subject: Rescheduling

Hi Shrink & Client,

Please pardon the mass email; I’m short on time, undergoing a poetry-induced-transformation. Apparently, killer waves are headed this way. I’ve been charged with digging my toes into the sand so I can stand firm in welcoming every drop rushing towards me: drop of water, drop of starshine, drop of springtime. Mary Oliver said the world offers itself to my imagination, but Rilke makes it sound a bit more like a mandate. Plus, after reading some of these stanzas, I may have to spend the rest of my days barefoot clutching a damp handkerchief. So perhaps we can try again next Tuesday.

Warmest Regards,

Ruth

Unfortunately, my bank account can’t withstand the double hit of a cancellation fee and lost income. But, you know what? My client’s office is a couple blocks from the beach.

——————-

*Excerpt from The First Elegy of The Duino Elegies by Rainer Maria Rilke

———————————

Faith has nothing to do with it. These are facts.

One is to hack into the branches of a perfectly good looking plant.

Cut. Sever. Divide suddenly and forcibly. Put an end to break off. Punctuate. Puncture. Punk. Drunk. Drown. Smother. Bury.

The roots of a plant are buried. I,

not knowing, imagine that that is where the life is. Where the water seeps in. Where the unseen — no, insects see: see roots, see each other, see what is buried. What is buried is not necessarily unseen. What is buried? What is. What?

Ordinary polluted water from the Fill In Your Location sky rains down and is enough.

Sometimes I hate plants even as their lushness surprises and gifts me. Theirs is not resilience. It’s natural that they survive blows and lops and droughts and floods. (That’s your thesis put it at the top.) No.

I get to choose the order of my words.

Whatever resurrects rose bushes and leaves lovers and cats dead, whatever the fuck that is, it allows us limited choices (until it doesn’t). It allows those of us who can speak and type to choose the order of our words. It allows us to believe there is order. Order. Order in the world.

Order is feigned by the rhythm of spring following winter, by the budding red growth where last week there was none, by the unclogged veins running through the center of every leaf.

———————————

|~What's for dinner?~|

I wonder if vegans today are like the early abolitionists who maintained dedication even though they knew they’d likely never see a cultural shift in their lifetimes. I like to fantasize that, in the future, people will look back and think us barbarians for treating animals the way we do.

Do you think it could ever happen?

Not with reckless appetites like mine around: I love cheese. I love cheeseburgers. I love cheesecake. I love cheese omelets, and french toast, and have an idea to fry up a grilled cheese made out of french toast one of these days. Gouda or Havarti? Neither: camembert, of course.

But dairy’s not all. I love shrimp and salmon, too. I don’t love chicken, but I love chicken pot pie turned golden brown from butter. I like turkey on Thanksgiving, and I love gravy on my turkey. But I’d give up both of those if it meant hours around the table with can after can of cold lager, endless conversation, and a pile of spicy blue crabs.

Cows. Hens. Shrimp. Salmon. Chickens. Turkeys. Crabs. These are the beings whose flavor makes my transformation to an empathic diet seem difficult. Why do they have to taste so good? Alternatives to animal products are limited for me. I have a seriously wicked aversion to vegetables. My gag reflex has never been suppressed.

Other people can see broccoli, catch a whiff of its aroma, put a bit of it into their mouths, chew it, swallow it and go on to say, “I just don’t care for broccoli.” Not me. Broccoli does not enter my mouth. It never has. “But it’s good for you,” people say. I have to remind myself that they’re making dinner party small talk; they mean no harm.

Regardless of my adoration of cheese and my abhorrence of greens, my intention to eat with more compassion continues to grow. Thus, my new and developing practice of “Vegan Mondays”. I figure, if I can think about food from the right angle, I’ll be able to more frequently abstain from animal products. Here’s the mental game I’m using this week:

When I eye a wedge of Humboldt Fog in the market or ponder heading to Lares for a quesadilla, I ask myself in a really loving tone, “Would you be willing to forgo this pleasure if you knew that doing so would relieve the suffering of another being?” And then I answer, “Yes.”

And I pretend, having answered yes, that it matters. I say, “pretend,” because how can one person eating less cheese really relieve the suffering of other beings? How? It doesn’t matter how.

The idea that my actions are inconsequential because I am only one person . . . because it’s only one wedge of so-incredibly-tasty-good cheese . . . because I can’t imagine how anything will stop the billion dollar industries that produce food people crave. . . . Those ideas don’t work any more.

I’m ready to be more responsible about the fact that as a consumer, I am anything but powerless.

So maybe there is hope. The growing number of my friends who are vegetarian and vegan gives me hope. The Meatless Monday movement gives me hope. Maybe most of all, the flavor of the Tofurky Italian Sausage that I’m about to heat up for dinner gives me hope.

What gives you hope?

———————————

Update 4/12/2012: This week Nicholas Kristof published an Op-Ed in the NYTimes called “Is an Egg for Breakfast Worth This?”. It’s absolutely  moving and I find my egg cravings have magically vanished. He mentions (far more intelligently than I have) the “arc of empathy” — yet another reason to hope (suspect?) that a cultural shift is occurring. Thank you, Mr. Kristof.

———————————

———————————

I won’t call the day “unwritten”, that’s been said before. I won’t focus on won’ts and shouldn’ts and can’ts and am nots and too lates — too late. “What you think about expands,” and “Our bodies manifest the pictures our minds send to them.” Sometimes, but what about the people who drop dead? Or the perpetually aroused who remain alone, untouched?

Stop arguing with the gurus, Ruth.

What do you want to say yes to?

My breath. Lungs filling slowly.

I poured black coffee into the mug I haven’t used since college.

I did this before my meditation.

I did this before I picked up the copy of The Iowa Review from 2000 with the glue coming undone and the pages popping out.

I did this before I got the urge to write.

And when I had the urge to write, it was to set entirely different words to paper, not this, not here.

Set words to paper? Write shit down.

See my photograph? I like the darkness inside the mug.

If I were a poet, would I call it “true black”? Would I call it “an abyss”? Would I find a way to mention “sharp bones” and “broken teeth” like real poets do? All the things I know and don’t know are right there, contained, inside the true black, inside that abyss, inside my sharp bones and teeth (please don’t let them break).

I like the light at the base of my thumb.

If I were a poet, would I call it “illumination”? Would I call it “lit from beyond”? Would I find a way to to bottle it like the thousands of fireflies being held captive by poets the planet over? How many jars would that take? Where would I put them all? In the back of the pantry, in the cupboards under every sink, in the smallest part of the space under the stairs?

But it’s just one spot of light, small as a solitary flame, you can see it there in the photo.

Shhhh, I think it might be enough to fill all the dark places for a very long time.

——————————————-

——————————————-

As many days as possible, I list six distinct things for which I’m grateful. The list is archived monthly.

Here’s March 2012 . . . 

Broken Dish. The friends who gave it to me. A conversation. Andy’s safety. A new day. Emails from New Jersey.

Beyond Baroque. Poetry. The laughter of the boy sitting in front of me. His curly hair. Assonance. The helpful clerk at the copy store. Printing machines. Paper. Fresh made tortillas.

A place to go today. Google. Learning about people. Relinquishing rigidity. Balance Bars. Balance Beams. Balance.

Being gifted with a class to learn some excel shortcuts. The woman who gave it to me. An amazing and colorful staircase. Tika Masala. Fog. Poets.

The experience of doing 6 loads of laundry to help me realize, again, how lucky I am that Andy usually does that chore. Washing machine. Clothes dryers. Stair cases. Fur balls. Laxatone.

Ellie’s new symptom prompting us to schedule her surgery. That nice tech on the phone at the vet’s office. Dr. Yuan. Being able to provide a forever home for her despite the challenges. Feeling committed to a sweet animal. Ruby’s hilarious personality. The laser pointer.

New Pillows. Clean sheets. Cat toys. Zombie stories. Gas stations. Work calls.

Professors who publish their work online for free so those of us too poor to study full time can learn from them. Professors. The internet. Links. Ink. Books.

Lots of hours getting to know good friends. A home cooked meal. Pesto. Oranges. Bathtubs. Moisturizer.

Two parking spaces on Roxbury. Another successful day of work. Dressing up. Junk food indulgence. Bringing kimchi to Andy. Century City.

Walking in the rain. My big water proof jacket. Earbuds. Music. Memories. Rosemary bread.

A crisp windy day. Good weather for the marathoners. Big warm coat. Red hat. A great G pic. Longing.

Gorgeous sky. Cool air. Playing with Ruby. Peaceful hours. Safety. Creative agenda.

A nice dinner with Andy. The time to continue reading Clash of Kings. George R. R. Martin. Quickbooks. Finishing a lingering task. Lifting weights.

My Dad’s eye surgeon. The technology to repair cataracts. Nerve block. Twilight anesthesia. My mom. Telephones.

Making time for walks. Time to do laundry. Dr. Y’s patience on the phone. The white door next to pink and red bricks. Quarters. Detergent. Laundry Machines.

Ellie’s surgery is over. The second 48 hours of recovery are almost over. She’s doing fine. Ruby has stopped hissing (Ruby hissing?). Sleep. Coffee.

The sound the wind makes blowing between the window panes. Rain. Crisp air. Waterproof jacket. Persisting with writing a story. Eyes.

Positive outcomes in the 4 chess games I thought I was losing (won three of them). Seeing my neighbor. Keeping vegan yesterday. Vegan Chocolate Chip Cookies. Choosing a birthday gift for a wonderful little girl. Tulips.

Shower sobs. Meditation tears. Completing two short-short stories in one week. The post office box on Sepulveda. Stamps. Postal service.

Old highrises. Independent filmmakers. Time to take a couple photos downtown. Yet another awesome meeting. Garlic sweet potato fries. A growing feeling of comfort driving downtown.