Inside/Outside

Inside, 195x

Outside, 2010

I'm sorry

Dear Black from Tula tomato plant,

I'm sorry I put you in a pot that's far too small to accommodate your majesty. I'm sure that's why you produced exactly one tomato. One tomato that's been growing and greening for a month now. One tomato that was just about to start turning red, and then black.

And I'm sorry that a deer ate the one fruit you worked so hard to create.

I'm going to put you out of your misery because, frankly, you depress me.

Baya

Today is my grandma Baya's 93rd birthday. I say that like I have other grandmas left, but like most adults my age, I do not. I'm extremely fortunate she's still around and that she can tell a dirty joke, and that up until just a few months ago, she's been sharp as a tack.

I talk to Baya every single day, if only just for a few minutes. We've been doing this for more than a decade; though we were always close, our relationship intensified when my grandfather passed away. In a hospital room, surrounded by his children and grandchildren and after a medium-length illness. When he took his last breath and it became clear he wasn't going to take another one, ever, my grandmother let out a wail the likes of which I hope to never hear again and fell into my arms.

They met when she was 16 years old. She'd recently lost her mother, and though she had plenty of siblings, it didn't seem like she had a friend in the world. He was on a date with a woman named Dirty-Necked Bertha and spied her at a party. Just like that. They were married for almost 60 years.

So, yes, I talk to my grandma every day. She's seen me through some tough times and I like to think I've helped her do the same. But now, when I talk to her, she's half there. She's confused. I think she knows who I am, but I'm not positive, and I don't test her. Sometimes she tells me she's been out shopping (she can't leave the house). Sometimes she asks where my grandfather is (she forgets he's gone). She still calls me Dolly. It's heartbreaking for me. I feel like I've lost my best friend, but she's still here, breathing.

For her, I hope it's not heartbreaking. I hope she continues to think she's going shopping, and going out to restaurants and affairs, and playing poker, and waiting for my Papa to get home from golfing so she can start dinner.

Happy birthday, Grandma. I love you. So much.

Lucky Me

Want

A few years ago, Esalen had a slackline set up on the lawn outside the lodge. It was only a few feet off the ground, and the people who were walking it made it look easy and fun. So I gave it a try:

More humbling than it looks.

Hey! Looks like I'm doing pretty good here! I'm not clutching my cohorts' hands! I'm not off-center! I'm on one foot!

For about a second and a half.

The nylon line really quickly started to vibrate and swing back and forth. I pitched off, propelled and twangy and grassy.

My man just now sent me a link to Phillippe Petit's new classes in NY. Considering the slackline I tried was pretty much two-dimensional and still as hard as hell to stay upright on, I just can't imagine walking a metal rope that vibrates and twists. But damn, do I want to learn.

Just as easy as it looks.

And counting...

One of my favorite things about having my bff here is that we can have conversations that go like this:

"That's like that one dress you had, remember?"
"Totally."
"Is True Blood on yet?"
"Sookie!"

Well, that's kind of a combo convo, but the point is that it's really great to have someone around who remembers that one dress I had 20 years ago that looks kinda like this one awesome dress I have now that just needs a couple of alterations to become perfect.

And now I'm kind of lonely.

What?

Is it the raspberry yogurt color? Is it the dropseat? The calf collars? Whatever it is, I'm not buying it.

Insufficient Lather

I've been pretty sick for almost 10 days now. But in between doctor visits and passing out, I decided to make some bay rum soap for my man, since he ran out of the soap I picked up in Big Sur in June.

I gathered supplies and advice from the super duper Rebecca's Herbal Apothecary in Boulder and followed the instructions. But alas, I have come to discover that my soap has insufficient lather.

Real cold-process soap takes 4-6 weeks to cure, and I didn't think I had that kind of patience, but maybe I do. In the meantime, everyone please enjoy the Old Spice Guy.

Dear A,

Happy birthday!

It's a hell of ride, huh?

Remember back in high school when we got locked out of my mom's house and had to break in through the window, destroying the screen, and left her a note telling her to write it off to the exuberance of youth? Remember how that worked, and she wasn't mad?

I think that even though now we're both past the 40-year mark, we can still do that. We can still write everything off to the exuberance of youth. The trick is to still do stuff that requires writing off. So it's a good thing you're coming to visit, because we need to figure out what that stuff is now that our moms don't really care what kind of trouble we get into.

I know I gave you the life-gets-better-after-40 talk the other night. And it's not bullshit. I mean, some of the wheels fall off, but I think you come to realize that you don't need those wheels to get around anyway. You can turn on the jet propulsion instead and go much faster.

So here's to the wind in your hair. I love you. So much.

xo
Hollie

Two years

It's been two years, almost exactly, since I wrote my last blog post. The truth is, I kind of forgot about this blog. I got wrapped up in starting a company. In dancing even more. Generally living the good, un-bloggy, un-agency-employed life. And then, of course, my marriage went to hell in a great big ball of fire.

Which wound up being really, really for the best. For many reasons, not the least important of which is that I found this guy.

(Don't be alarmed at the rubber glove. It was a sardine can injury. And he really does have hot dogs, almost all the time.)

Anyway, I decided to start writing again for the same reason I began in the first place: considering how much time and effort I spend writing for other people, in tightly circumscribed ways, it's good for my brain and my spirit to venture outside those bounds verbally. Otherwise, I might find myself approaching retirement having forgotten what an adverb is. So there you go. Welcome back me.

Hey Frank! Eat This!

Frank Shorter is a Boulder icon. He has been cast in bronze and plunked at the entrance to Folsom field at the university. A painting of him graces the side of a wall on the corner of Broadway and Pine streets downtown. He's an Olympic champion, blah blah blah. Ooooh, Frank Shorter.

I was at the gym last week, doing my elliptical cardio, kinda watching CNN and kinda watching the women's Olympic track qualifiers, when I hear this loud voice boom, "Thank GOD they look like women again!"

What the fuck? My mouth dropped open. Really, my jaw hit the floor and I looked up in time to see a poor kid arranging the magazines on the rack. He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders to his ears and turned red like a beet. He walked up and said, "Do you think he knows he was so loud?" I said yes, I did, and what an asshole.

I'd seen this loudmouth before but couldn't put my finger on where. Then it hit me: it had to be Frank. I googled him, and sure enough, it is. Frank Shorter, venerated Olympian, king of all runners. Who is glad that women athletes look like women again. Because really, appearance is so much more important than how strong, fast, and healthy they are.

To you, Frank, as we head into the summer Olympics, I say only this: please shut the fuck up.

La Vie en...en....en...

As many of you know, I was supposed to have spent my 40th birthday (in April) in Paris, sipping cafe creme in an outdoor bistro, wandering aimlessly along the quays, getting hopelessly lost on the Metro, maybe cooking a chicken or two in the apartment I rented.

Alas, this was not to be. For reasons I won't describe here.

Instead, my dear friends threw me a fete to end all fetes, even though this fete ended at 11 and not even really that drunk. The theme was Paris, of course, and below is the speech my lovely friend Mark made. Read it in the very worst French accent you can possibly muster. I love you too, Mark.

***************

Tu Speak le Franglaise?
Je Speake le Franglaise.
What est Franglaise, tu demander?
Il est le lingua of l'amour et le lingua of le brain simultaneoslement. Englaise et Francaise! Oui?

So...because our dear Hollie representment le perfect combinacion of amour et wit, il est seems tres fitting ce soir to honneur our tres beautifulment ami, Hollie, in le lingua Franglais.

Let je starte avec le storie about how je have knowledge about dear Hollie. Je met Hollie en le summer of two thousand quatre. Hollie requirement assistance avec le move. Alas, je could not assist, mais we met por le drink l'alcholique (Some vin, perhapsment some bourbon ou gin) et Le Bar du Corner. After zat drink l'alcholique, we shared beacoup more drinks and beacoup bien times.
Since then, Je have had beaucoup opportunitie to witness Hollie en elle vie and avec elle amis. Je think le monde of Hollie and J'aim sure zat each of tu, do alsoment. Naturellement, beaucoup things have changed in Hollie's life en le past quatre anyos, as most of you know. Quatre Anyos ago, Hollie was a writer du freelance. And today, onlement quatre years later, Hollie il est....oh...Je suppose that not everything has changed.

Just kidding...Je kid! Je kid!

Mais seriouslement, beaucoup things have changed and beaucoup things have stayed ze same. Ze good things, le passion por la dancer, por Nia et Soul Motion, por amis et bon vin, por elle famille, elle mob mol grand-mère espcialiment, have stayed ze same. Le Travallier-le work- has changed, from freelancer, to titan of l'agency, back to freelancer. Quatre anyos ago, Hollie had no dog with no legs. Now Hollie has un dog avec troi legs. Le home, at least after ze move in 2000 and quatre, has stayed ze same. Mais les roomates have changed. Primere, l est David. Now il est Jeff. Les sleeping arrangements have changed, presumableax. Plus, Je ne think pas David ever painted les walls naked, wearing perhaps onlimentun cravatte. Hollie's love for Esalan on les cliffs, its clothing optional chaud springs, and its les grand plus salad de Kale ne change pas. Nor has Hollie's amour pour elle amis, those plus fortunate of which are here avec Hollie to célébrer quarante anyos.

Je must say un thing about un plus thing, and this is a thing which ne changer pas and which has changed. And zis thing et amour. Il ne changer pas, because, when true il cannot changer. Il has changer, in Hollie's case, because les truest, most plus unchangerment amour has developed a neaveau object since Je met her. Zees object et Jeff. Before Jeff, there il ne Prince Albert pas, il ne painting nudes pas, il ne union pas, ne commitment to a life spent loving a partner pas. Zis change. Zees changes are tres bien. No? Tres Tres bien.

And so, as a witness to zere ceremony le matrimonial, as a witness to quatre anyos of friendship, joi, plus hard work, and hard dancer, as a witness to le celebration du Quarante anyos on le monde, je propose le toast to Hollie- a Franglais Toast, ne French Toast pas. Please raise your glass de la vin. To Hollie. A beacoup friend. A tres beatifulment presence in me life, in all of our lives. Happy Birsday and Many Happy Returns. Voila.

The Six Word-Memoirs

Smith magazine published a book of six-word memoirs a la Ernest Hemingway ("For sale: baby shoes, never worn.")

Here's mine: Sometimes she took the long way.

What that leaves out is this: that sometimes she took the long way on purpose, simply to put off whatever was next. The fact that this is in the third person is not lost on me, and I promise to discuss it with whatever therapist I eventually hire.

The economy of language in six-word memoirs comes easy to me because I've been writing economically for years now. In fact, I've been in a prose straitjacket on account of my job, which is to write marketing stuff for technology companies, and to help others do the same. This stuff that I (and they) write must be very specific. The words we use are very specific, and the order in which they are arranged next to each other must also be very specific. And of course, the sentences that form must be nestled together without any chinks so that no light can get through.

The end result of all of this is, of course, a life-threatening lack of circulation. Interestingly (or not; I really don't know), my massage therapist pointed out yesterday that my hands and feet also have a serious lack of circulation.

Now that I sit at my table to write fiction, I'm finding that I do not know what to do with all the extra space that possibility affords me. I stretch for elusive adjectives; I delete helping verbs; I write sentence fragments on purpose just because I can. More often than not I stare dumbly at the screen wondering, "What do I want to say?" rather than "How do I say what Client X wants me to say?"

I think about the immigrant who, when faced with the vast choices in an American supermarket, passes out and then leaves with nothing.

That comparison may be a bit over on the dramatic side. But still I can't seem to reach what's up on the top shelves here.

Soon this space will be too small.

Sometimes the lessons I receive at Esalen wallop me over the head while I'm there, staring at the ocean from a cliffside hot spring. Sometimes they sneak up when I shuffle along a path or stop on the wooden bridge to listen to the river. Sometimes they gently nudge me after I've arrived back home.

Used to be that time would slow down at Esalen. That everything, including my digestion, would take a long, peaceful, relaxed journey into a state where hours and minutes barely existed as measures of how many breaths I've taken or dances I've melted into. Maybe it's because my experience there is so incredibly precious to me that it seems to slip through my fingers.

The five days I spent in Big Sur were gone in the blink of an eye, in the time it takes for a sea otter to deep dive into the kelp. I feel like I arrived, got my room key and massage and then got burped up onto Highway One northbound, unable to stop the forward velocity until I was sitting at Filorio in San Francisco, sharing the bone-in ribeye for two and a bottle of wine with Jennifer. And then some Frenet. And bourbon. My friend JJ, who lives at Esalen, told me this week that "vegan" is Indian for "bad hunter."

Anyway, my teacher took me by the hands somewhere in the vicinity of Wednesday and looked me in the eyes and said, over the microphone so really to everyone there, "Look into the eyes of who you perceive to be doing you wrong. Remember that we share the same condition." Or something like that. I may have the words wrong, but I believe I got the meaning right.

It kind of sounds trite when I type those words here, but for me it was a profound, "Lordy shit, I've been doing it all wrong." Yeah. And now that I spent a few hours pondering the human-ness of my comrades that I perceive to be doing me wrong, they are suddenly doing me right, acting with integrity and kindness instead of fear and anger. Like my grandma says, go know.

Soon This Space Will Be Too Small is the title of a song. I don't know who sings it. But the title was pointed out to me by my teacher while the song was playing and I can tell you this: this place, this body will one day be too small to contain my spirit. So will yours be. And the other temporary housing we erect for ourselves -- our jobs, our homes, our relationships -- well, sometimes they get too small too. And we turn in on ourselves when we choose to have no where else to go, when we're trapped in a glass bottle without an opening. It's the outward turning we need to follow.

Look Hard at What You Are Not

The principal dancer probably won't look back when she's 40 and say, "Damn, I wish I would have been in advertising." She's only 17 or so now, so fate may take her by the hand anyway and force her there, but after watching her carelessly swing her ankle in the vicinity of her ear, I think, probably not.

But here I am, the clock ticking toward 40, and I'm thinking: I wish I would have been a professional dancer. Being backstage with dozens of other amateur dancers is one thing. Being backstage with dozens of other amateur dancers and two Real Dancers is quite another.

Real Dancers get their own dressing room. Their postmodern tutus are carefully arranged on the pipe that serves as a hanger. The light bulbs surrounding their mirror are all in operational order. Their makeup boxes are exactly where they left them. Real Dancers warm up in costume in the common area with the rest of us. But Real Dancers aren't about to throw up because they're so nervous. They look, instead, like they've been meditating for a few hours. And they wear Real Ballet Shoes, which they have to periodically and loudly grind into a box of chalk while the rest of us are trying to simply keep breakfast down.

For your reference, here is a photo of a Real Dancer and Robert Sher-Macherndl, who is the choreographer for the Lemon Sponge Cake Contemporary Ballet:






During dress rehearsal last week, I was standing in the very small wing, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with the other folks in this performance, when someone came up behind me. She was tall, thin, with an amazing haircut, full stage makeup, and the most fierce pair of Chanel boots I have ever seen, both in print and in real life. These are the shoes dreams are made of. Knee high, black patent leather, side zip, with interlocking C's on the toes. I have searched in vain on the Internet to find photos of these shoes, but looking at Chanel couture for three hours just depressed me. And then I was late on a deadline.

Anyway, what struck me most about Ms. Fierce Boots Dancer is that I AM NOT HER. Yeah, I know, I am who I am, and that's great, and I'm amazing, and look what I'm doing with my life, and I got up on stage, and I stand up for what I believe in. Et cetera.

But for one moment let's just all admit that there are people whose lives we wish we had. Or could at least try out. Here is my list:

• Dancer (who gets paid for it, and not with dollar bills)
• NYT columnist
• Archaeologist
• MD
• Rock star
• Fashion icon

I watched Fierce Boots perform today, and she's incredible. She took the choreography given to us dilettantes and turned it into madcrazy art. Punk rock ballet. Breathtaking. Turns out she's being filmed for MTV's Made. Turns out she's a principal dancer with the ABT.

I have come to a conclusion: the only reason I can't find photos of those boots is that they are imposters, for sale at your neighborhood nail salon. I'll see you there.