Earlier this morning, I had come to a decision I really didn’t want to make. I had been building myself up for the last few weeks to collect my things, box, bag or bin them, and pull up stakes to m…
Earlier this morning, I had come to a decision I really didn’t want to make. I had been building myself up for the last few weeks to collect my things, box, bag or bin them, and pull up stakes to move to Rhode Island.
There was going to be a whole new life. It was going to be better, it was going to be less of a struggle, there was going to be pizza right around the corner.
Okay, so I have to walk down a few blocks to get the pizza, so what?
After spending this last weekend in the room I was supposed to take on, getting a feel for the immediate environment, and being given new, upsetting information AFTER I had stated that I would take the room, my brain had been going back-and-forth on what I needed to do.
Yes, there’s the be-afraid-but-do-it-anyway concept the late Carrie Fisher was a big fan of. There’s also an attribute that a lot of other people talk about, and that is what’s known as your “gut feeling”.
My gut feeling was that my being afraid was rational. My gut was telling me that if I had made this move to a place I had a lot of reservations about, that neither my gut, nor my brain, would be happy about it. That this would be history repeating itself, and I would have proven to myself that I hadn’t learned from past mistakes.
Desperation does not a good motivator make.
So for now, I’m staying put, and I’m going to keep up the good fight. Is it going to be a struggle, staying in New York City? Indubitably.
Am I going to be eating ramen noodles more often? Without a doubt.
But at the end of the day, I’m in the same “home” I’ve been in for the past four years, and I’m not ready to let go of that just yet. I thought I was, but I was wrong.
Anxiety is a part of who I am. Sometimes, it rides shotgun, and it’s a 50 lb weight spread-eagle on my head. Other times, it takes a nap, but snores. The bottom line is that I know what I’m capable of. I’m capable of surviving through struggles. I’ve been at it for a while. I also know that if I’m going to struggle, I want to have a support net nearby, and not just on Facebook.
This isn’t to say that I won’t be moving out of Brooklyn at some point this year.
It just won’t be in February.
Recently, I had to go through some 6,000+ emails I had largely been ignoring in my Yahoo account (of which I’ll be closing the account completely, due to current events).
How did it get to be that much? One word: Depression.
2016 was a brutal year to get through, and the big grey bastard, Depression, seemed to be resting right on me for a majority of that time. Those of you with this condition may understand the resistance to get out of bed, much less open up emails, only to have a majority of them be crap sales and spam pieces. The other side of it is giving in to these sales, and spending money you can’t afford to spend.
For the last few weeks, I was working an office gig that had me acting as the receptionist. I was planted in front of two screens and given carte blanche to the computer and the internet. I took this opportunity not just to get my blog going, but also to go through my Inbox like Tazz on crack.
It took a while. It took a few days.
Okay, it took over a week.
Why so long? There was a lot, and I mean A LOT of emails for blogs I had been following, sales on book t-shirts and other sorts of literary postings, and any number of sales pitches for new products. It gets overwhelming, and sometimes when you’re looking at everything you need to get through, you end up doing none of it and instead keep playing Words With Friends. (I still say “dane” is a word. If we can have Great Danes, we can have Danes who are great at being themselves!)
There are other emails where you want to handle them later, but “later” never seems to happen. So what do we do with those?
- Allot a certain amount of time — anywhere from half an hour to an hour — in the evening to get through those specific emails.
- Open them immediately and scan through, deliberate if this is an email that warrants the extra time.
- Open the emails, and provided that they aren’t spam, if there’s a link referring you to a page, send the link to yourself in a new email, collected with other links to check out.
- UNSUBSCRIBE!!! You know the stores you like. All the others are distractions. Speed-scroll to the bottom of those nuisance emails. There’s a 95% chance there’s an “Unsubscribe” option all the way down there. Click on it. You aren’t missing out on anything. Instead, you’re giving yourself less to have to choose from, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
This took me a while to accept these facts as such. You can chalk it up to being an over-consumer. Always wanting more new things is not really being “ahead of the crowd”. It’s more like you’re burying yourself in the clutter.
Like most New Year resolutions, it starts with the best of intentions.
I’m going to be a winner this year, I’m going to be a better me. Dammit, I’m going to be the best me I can be! I’m going to overrule me in the court of me, and my old me is just going to have to suck it!
Once all the sappy motivational-poster zingers run their course, it comes down to just one person and their one head, the argument between brain and body continuing in a perpetual loop. Like when you’re stuck in the car with your bickering parents.
“Stop signs are not suggestions.”
“Of course they are. I don’t pay attention to suggestions, either.”
“You’re going to get us killed.”
“Yes, but how soon?”
My primary goal this year has been to drink the recommended 64 ounces of water a day – 8 glasses of 8 ounces. My Nalgene bottles have been a huge help in meeting this goal, as quite a lot of their bottles have the markers on the outside of the bottle, showing you the progress you’re making.
Why, though, do I feel like I’m drowning my tongue in H20? I knew about the constant need to go to the bathroom, because, hey, a river runs through it! For the last week and a half, I’ve felt like I woke up without any semblance of a bladder.
The toxins are getting washed out. Completely washed out. It’s like a tsunami in my belly.
Drinking all this water actually segues into some of my other resolutions. I say “some”, because I inadvertently came up with a lot of winners this year. BECAUSE I’M A FUCKING BEAST!
“Curse less” did not make the list this year. Maybe next year. Maybe.
Borrowing the brilliant phrase of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s epic saga known as “Hamilton”, I am working on the gem of “Speak less, smile more.” When I have the nozzle of my Nalgene bottle jammed in my cry-hole, I’m definitely speaking less. If I smile more, and keep smiling, my unwavering stare while smiling tends to creep people out, so I don’t have to say anything. Win-win!
The concept of patience eludes me at times, so that’s a resolution that seems to be an exhausting exercise. There’s also another angle on the topic of patience which is “when do I wait for something to work itself out?” versus “when is the right time to strike and nip this thing in the bud?”
Drinking water doesn’t answer any questions on that last one, but hey, don’t let that getcha down.
Keep swimming, swimming, swimming!
As we get closer to the end of the month, closer to the time where I’ll be taking all my toys and heading to a new sandbox, I start taking harder looks at the sandlot I’m currently in, and doing so more frequently. With each scan, the nagging question nags louder than the last time;
How did I get all this stuff?
I don’t even remember when I got half this stuff.
I sound like a bad revamp of a George Carlin routine. Don’t get me wrong, I love Carlin. Rest in peace, guy. You’re still in our heads and hearts.
But holy shitballs, Batman! THIS IS A LOT OF STUFF!
I keep procrastinating going through all my stuff, because it’s so overwhelming. I have watched commercials and looked longingly at print ads of homes with a minimalist feel. It’s always two thoughts that run my brain at the same time when I see them.
A) God, how I would love to have so little.
Orange) Those lying bastards. There’s a room in that house that has all their real crap jammed along the perimeters, I just know it!
And then the train does that ringing sound, and I’m pulled back into reality. I have to leave the train and do the mad dash to the office. When I work in Manhattan, I’m often in the Chelsea district, or at least neighbouring the area in Midtown.
After work, it’s a 50/50 chance I’ll be heading to The Strand.
That big, beautiful, spectacular beast of Biblio-Camelot. If we could marry stores, I’d be in a lifetime commitment with the brick bastard. We’re already sharing my money, so why not?
Sometimes, I get to meet up with my friend, Danielle, and we’ll go in together, soaking up wisdom and fiction. This is our happy place. Strand is the vortex from which we gain new insights. And more books. Also, t-shirts, bags, socks, magnets, candy, calendars, notebooks. The Strand is basically Target for smart people. Ooooh! Ice cube trays with the forms of octopi! Well, shit! I HAVE to get THAT!
Wait, where was I? Oh yeah! Stuff.
Danielle and I have walked through a lot of midtown, many times with the question escaping my lips, “how am I going to be able to leave here?”
“I don’t know, Carrie.”
About ten minutes have passed, and we’re likely in East Village. I ask the question again, and really I think I don’t even address it to her, but to the sky and/or myself. As if somehow clouds will form mouths, and I’ll suddenly hear the Voice of Reason. It would sound remarkably like Samuel L. Jackson.
“Shit, bitch, figure it out! You don’t have the wallet for New York. Find someplace the fuck else and regroup!”
I guess it doesn’t need to be mentioned the Voice of Reason is oftentimes cranky and impatient.
Still, on the fence I sit, and on the fence I fester. Until very recently where an opportunity presented itself, and a new city broke into my head like the Kool-Aid guy, but with less fanfare.
Providence, Rhode Island! Population — 178,042.
I think I see that many people just getting off the F train and heading into Penn Plaza. How can a city not even reach the 200,000 mark? That’s incredible.
I’m reassured by many friends that I’ll like it there a lot. The fact that there’s a library within a 10 minute range of the house is HUGE. Because priorities. The second most important thing was the guarantee of Dunkin’ Donuts.
You can see what truly matters in life where I’m concerned.
The biggest aspect to consider is that this is all brand new to me. For the longest time, my mentality was that there were two places in the world; New York City and Not New York City. I had no interest in the latter, but I was convinced I was going to live out my days in the former.
When I moved to Brooklyn 4+ years ago, I didn’t bother to get a NY driver’s licence. I decided on the state ID because I figured I’d never have to drive a car ever again.
Never say never.
Now, I have to shed about 90% of my belongings (not counting for the hardback autographed, 10th Anniversary edition of Neil Gaiman’s American Gods — be real). I have to say buh-bye to the city I love, the city I will always love, unequivocally, but can’t afford.
I have to go through all my papers and deliberate on what to keep vs what to toss. I’d like to toss all of it, but I know that isn’t feasible.
Hey Siri, how do I schedule a home burglary?
When I come in to any temporary gig in the mornings, much like everyone else, I head to my desk and unload the coat, the scarf, the handbag (holy shitballs, Batman! What is IN there? Books!), and I flop into my seat. Computer turned on? Check. Headset ready? Dinky little thing is sitting there, staring at me, begging for love. I oblige because hey, I’m a lover not a fighter.
However, unlike most of the women in the office, I’m shuffling to the coffee machine instead of the rest room. While they check that their hair and make-up is in place, I’m checking that the mug is completely clean, devoid of any remaining sugar on the rim from yesterday’s caffeine-fest.
I can hear them walking up the hallway, talking about the new eyeliner, the new blush (“It’s a cream, Annie! It’s magical!” Sweetheart, it’s not unicorn blood, okay? Take it down a few notches.), and I feel relieved not to be in their “circle”. I’m a low maintenance type of woman. I put on the bare necessities in the morning, because I don’t want people thinking I’m a zombie. I’ve seen enough “Walking Dead” episodes to know that would not end well.
Foundation, eyeliner, and a dab of light crimson on the cheeks. I’m good.
(I once went to the mall, and a woman was doing free makeovers. She told me I was a “Fall”. I responded with, “yeah I do fall a lot, but these feet are new. I’m just working out the gears.” She stopped the makeover early. I think she sensed I wasn’t going to buy anything.)
As far as hair, I have a blissfully short haircut. Lately the worst I have to deal with is looking like Christopher Walken with an Alfalfa cowlick in the back. Why won’t it stay down? STAY DOWN!
I’m sure my simplistic appearance would be rated a 4 by the likes of Drumpf. Not only am I fine with that, I’m relieved.
I stopped reading the magazines that constantly told me what was wrong with me. These “tips” mind you, came up AFTER I bought the crap the same magazines had shilled exactly one issue ago. The articles on how to get fit and build muscle, and then they would complain/judge/mock women who had too much muscle. They’ll inform you of the best ways to “get skinny”, and then put someone on blast for being too skinny.
The best way to get out of this circus is to leave the tent.
I found myself happier when these “resources” weren’t swarmed around me. When I didn’t have these little bees buzzing in my ear, when I had finally swatted them away for good, I was able to get on with my day with my coffee in one hand, book in the other, music in my ears. My “Fuck Off” Wall was up successfully, with no unwanted visitors allowed in. It didn’t cost Mexico a penny!
I have no plastic surgery, because I don’t need it. Plus, self-esteem is a lot cheaper. I’m not getting my eyes lifted, my nose done, my lips fattened, my neck pulled back, none of that bullshit. I’m not exactly auditioning for Miss February, but that’s awesome. Fucking flash on those cameras causes me migraines, anyway.
When I look in the mirror, I see — immediately — my grandparents. I’m told often that the resemblance I bear to my grandmother is remarkable. I always found her to be beautiful and full of laughter. So when people tell me that I look just like her, I take it as the highest of compliments. I mean, seriously? I already got this?!? I’M GOLDEN! Why would I alter that?
There’s going to be days where I’m not going to feel so sparkly. I already know this. I’ve been on this roller-coaster so many times, I know to expect the drops. I’ve had days where I didn’t want to look in the mirror ever. I was ready to toss everything that gave even the remotest of reflections. But I always got past it.
The point is this; if you would give the finger to a random stranger who told you “you’re not good enough”, why wouldn’t you do that to these “beauty experts”? Toss the magazines, pick up a book, laugh at life hard enough so you get those crinkles by the eyes. That shit is awesome!
The biggest gift we can give ourselves is ourselves. The rest will be handled by the rest.
“Youth and beauty are not accomplishments.” — Carrie Fisher
It’s January 10th. I woke up this morning much the way I did exactly a year ago, unaware of what the day holds. Only, this time round, I didn’t collapse in tears.
I couldn’t tell you what I did a week ago, or even two days ago. But I remember – painfully – exactly what happened a year ago, where I was, what I was wearing, where I was headed for the day, all of it. And much like one year ago, the eyes blur from salt water and my skin shrinks against me, as though my body is trying to hug itself out of mourning.
Today deserves no cake, no fanfare, no smile. Today is a day the music doesn’t die, but rises like a phoenix given life by all it’s followers.
Today we mourn the loss of David Robert Jones. The Thin White Duke, Ziggy Stardust, Aladdin Sane, Jareth.
True to heart, it does feel like we lost more than one person. It feels like we lost a leader, a world of colour and flash, flame and ice, heart and soul.
David had left a thumbprint not just on myself, but practically every friend and lover I have ever known. He left an everlasting impact on the music, literature, fashion and style, opening minds and hearts alike.
I have often said he knew who I was before I did. And he had already accepted me, encouraged my voice to come out, loud and proud. He embodied beauty in his movements. When he sang, it was a solace – a sanctuary – from the rest of the world that wasn’t so welcoming.
I’ve met him many times, but always only in my dreams. The conversations we’ve had! We discussed literature, poetry, the music that’s out now, the decline of humanity as reflected in the upcoming president-elect, whether these shoes go with this skirt. (“No. No, darling, you’ve missed the mark. Go back and put on the Doc Martens. Be true to yourself.”)
I have an incredibly talented friend named Raquel Cion, who has paid a myriad of tributes to David both before and after he passed. I didn’t think it was possible, but she hurts for this more than I do. Ours is a relationship that started at work, but grew because of our mutual love for Mr. Jones. We have been friends since late 2012, and she was not the one who told me of his passing, but she was the first one I reached out to, to check in on after the blow.
I had found out that morning, and it felt like my body imploded. It melted into itself from the brain down. It was my first day on an assignment working in the Empire State Building, and my supervisor noticed immediately the shift in personality.
A soul may be weightless, but boy does the body feel heavy when it’s gone.
This article has also been posted on Medium.
We see it everywhere we are, even if it isn’t boldly presented as “art”. You’re going to work? You’re bound to see art on billboards, walls, statues, newspapers, magazines, train decor, neighbouring cars… it’s everywhere.
Though you might not hear it, you most definitely are seeing a voice. You’re seeing a stranger’s point of view of the world they inhabit. Much like DNA, each voice — each piece of art — is distinct and individual. They make us aware that there is something bigger out there than we are. It’s expansive. It’s all-encompassing. It’s a hug for the eyes and a kiss to the soul.
This month, I interviewed friend and artist, Jessica Lentz. We have been friends through Facebook, and she sold me an excellent portrait of Salvador Dali. When it comes to her artwork, I am — in no uncertain terms — smitten like a kitten!
It only made sense that I try and poke past the surface, and try to delve in to the talent that IS Jessica! When you’re done reading the interview, hop over to her site! You won’t be sorry!
CC — How old were you when you first got into producing your own art?
JL — I’ve been creative since I was very little. I remember my mother teaching me how to blend 2 play dough colors together to make an entirely new color. I must have been about 3. I started selling my own work while still in college.
CC — What is your favourite medium?
JL — I love trying everything — recently I’ve dabbled in quilling (paper art), wool felting, and doll repainting. I always seem to return to acrylic paint, though. I just have no patience to wait for oils to dry.
CC — What inspires you to create something new?
JL — I’m inspired by so many things — news items, something mentioned by a friend, a color scheme — even boredom.
CC — How do you know when you’ve finished a piece?
JL — My high school art teacher used to say, “You never really finish; you just decide when to stop.”
CC — What area(s) would you like to further explore?
JL — I’ve just started looking into transferring some of my original paintings onto vintage plates. We’ll see how that turns out. I do love trying new mediums, though. Keeps up my skill level.
CC — What areas, if any, do you consider “out of the comfort zone”?
JL — I’d prefer to think of something as not yet attempted. I enjoy a challenge.
CC — What kind of music do you listen to when you create new work?
JL — I love 80s alternative, 90s grunge and Prince!
CC — What books have inspired you?
JL — My favorite series of fiction is “Outlander”, but for years now I tend to read mostly biographies. I think life stories are inspiring, ordinary people who make a positive impact on the world around them.
CC — Who is your favourite artist? Why?
JL — Right now I love Pre-Raphaelite works; I can get lost in paintings by Edmund Blair Leighton and John William Waterhouse.
CC — If you weren’t an artist, what would you be doing?
JL — I’d love to own an old haunted Victorian home and turn it into a bed and breakfast, perhaps with a little antique shop on the side. And in the back yard would be a huge animal sanctuary.
If you find Jessica Lentz as intriguing as I do, feel free to check out her website, as well as her Etsy page. It’s a wonderful way to spend time, getting lured in by her art.
You can find her here for pieces that are all Jessica Lentz, all day!
So there are a few things you should know about me if you don’t already know me.
- I have a wicked, untreated case of ADD/ADHD/OCD/PMS/OPP (yeah, you know me). Which essentially means that I can clean house like a demon, partially, while listening to music, and bitching about how much crap I have until Mr. Douchecanoe downstairs starts to out-decibel me in the volume department. He always loses, I don’t know why he even tries.
- I’m not married. I think this really is best for everyone. We have enough victims in the world, no? Can you imagine waking up to a woman who looks uncomfortably like Christopher Walken, requesting more cowbell? Methinks not. Stop asking me when it’s going to happen. It won’t.
- I have no kids. See above for the reason. (Plus, really, I am my own kid. I often give in to my own needs, just to get me to shut up. You know that rack of candy by the register? Yeah. Yeah.)
- I came into the world much later than the due date given, and I think it’s translated into every appointment, interview and check-in time ever since. I was born 3 weeks late, my biological mother was in labour for 22 hours, AND they had to use the salad spoons. AND IT STILL TOOK EFFORT! I’m basically the elusive piece of lettuce that keeps sliding through the prongs. If ever there was a child who did not want to be born – HI! – it was me. (She probably still has claw marks along her inner walls.) (You’re welcome.) As a result of the over-cooked bun in the oven, some of the “stuffing” – as it were – is a little stale, a little rock hard. Whatever. Snoopy is still my favourite cartoon.
- I also have the rock wall called bipolar depression. The plus of all this is the ADD only lets me be sad for a little while, and then there’s YouTube clips, Pinterest ideas, and everything on Facebook. (I happily discovered that I’m not the only one who calls George Takei “Uncle George”. I have this whole huge family I didn’t even know about!) And on top of all of those goodies, there’s the magical world of Amazon, where you can literally get ANYTHING!
Okay, so let me explain why I’m writing this blog in the first place.
I’m very likely moving to Rhode Island in the beginning of February. By bus. No shit, I’m literally planning on getting two huge suitcases of the crap I want/have to keep, and leaving everything else by the wayside. I’ve been selling a lot of my stuff, like the CDs and DVDs I haven’t listened to or watched in years, because, hey, DIGITAL! The method I’ve used to sell said items is an app called Decluttr, and they pay literally pennies on the dollar spent for such winners as Pussycat Dolls, Grammy Winners, Norah Jones, Moby, and Alice in Chains. (The word is “eclectic” folks. Eclectic. Don’t judge me, you little Jethro Tull stalker!) Don’t give me grief about The Pussycat Dolls, either. I was in my 20’s, and they were strange and confusing times.
In order to get these gems mailed out, Decluttr emails me a “kit”, which is basically the list of items I’ve scanned to send to them using my phone. They also send the mailing label so that I don’t have to pay shipping, which is really what sold me on selling them, and not just tossing these plastic bastards in the rubbish. So, I do the scanny-scan thing, hit “Save”, tap the screen a few more times, and they email me their “kit”.
The next step is to open my email. I was terrible about opening my email last year. I would literally go weeks before getting through the myriad of emails, thankyouverynothing, Depression. But I vowed to be better this year about it, so here goes. And this is where you have to pay attention because this is where ADD is the feature player.
I opened a new window, get into my email, and discover my absolute FAVOURITE blogger, Jenny Lawson, The Bloggess, has uploaded a new blog. She has hilarious posts that almost always put me in a good mood. (Don’t read too much into the “almost”…’16 was a rough year.) So now, my brain’s all “We were supposed to do something? Huh?” I skip right past the very important, much needed, this-will-get-you-train-fare-for-a-day-and-a-half email, and go right into Happy Land, reading her blog.
We’re not done here. Quit wriggling, get comfy, there’s more.
Along the left side of the screen is an ad for socks. Perhaps one of a few highlights of 2016, was my self-discovery of a funky sock-addiction I apparently have. I don’t know where it came from, I don’t know what broke inside me that suddenly I had to own everything that had more personality than me (this explains why I’m always scrounging for moolah) and this new ad for socks is EVERYTHING!
So I found these Asshole socks pictured at the top, but when I tried to save the picture from the Amazon site, they weren’t having it. So I had to open ANOTHER WINDOW, do a search through Bing with the descriptor of “asshole socks” and I did not – I repeat DID NOT – see exactly what I was looking for. I did, however, discover how flexible naked women really are with their bodies. And some of them were wearing socks. So Bing doesn’t get an F for the day, more a C-. I think I’m being generous, really. Not as generous as Gigi with her rainbow stockings and the, uhhh, lollipop. I don’t ever want to be that generous. Also, lollipops are officially off the list of Candies I Can Have. Looks like it’s just you and me, Swedish Fish.
My brain is currently fighting itself for whether I really need another pair of socks.
I don’t. But I want them. But I don’t need them. But I kind of do. Carrie, nobody cares about your socks, they aren’t looking at your feet. But I care, motherfucker. Don’t call me a motherfucker, that’s physically impossible, and you know it. Whatever, I want these socks. You can get them later, they don’t go away if you just wait. If I wait, I’ll forget about them. That just proves you don’t need them, you’re just being impulsive. Am not. Quit sulking.
Fine, I won’t get them… yet.
Ooooh, The Strand is having a sale!