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.

Time to turn the raisin back into a grape.

Twice a year, I go here:









To do this:

With this guy:










Who also happened to perform my wedding ceremony, in which I married this guy:








Which is wonderful.

But I'm ready to go to the coast. I've had one day off since the beginning of July, if you don't count sick days, which I don't. I've been writing and reviewing marketing content for more than 50 hours a week, every single g-ddamn week. I've become so intimate with the nooks and crannies of the conference rooms at the office that there is nothing new for me to discover there.

So off I go to Esalen.

Organic food, endless processing (Esalen is very gestalt-y), a soft down comforter on chilly ocean mornings. No phone. No computer. Hardly any booze. Ornamental chickens. And humidity. I will plump right up. The crow's feet will disappear. My hair will get curly. I'll spend hours naked in hot springs with people whose names I do not -- and will not ever -- know. And we'll weep when we part at the end of the week.

Send me now.

Mr. Clean Magic Erasers

I'm sick with a mysterious "flu-like illness" that changes twice a day. Two days ago, it was a fever, then chills, then muscle aches, then no fever, add throwing up. Yesterday, it was fatigue, skin sensitivity, headache. This morning, a head cold and chest-rattling cough.

I feel like crap, my husband is in Huntsville or Henderson or Something, Texas, interviewing an 85 year-old grasshopper expert, my dog keeps looking at me accusingly, and I have to work tomorrow, which is Sunday. So to cheer myself up, I went to the grocery store this morning and bought four kinds of cold medicine and Mr. Clean Magic Erasers.

Have you used these? I swear they'll change your life. I have been cleaning my kitchen for the last five hours, with breaks for coughing up my twenties, and I think that I will go all night. My 1954 wood panel cabinets are gleaming, and I am no longer afraid to replace the light bulb inside my refrigerator. Now I want to call in sick to work all next week so that I can clean every inch of my house. But sadly, I can't even call in sick to work because I'm sick.

Wish me luck.

It's official: Technology and marketing make me sick

Not for nothing, but I have the flu. Achy, queasy, my skin hurts, I have a fever, and I am extremely emotionally oversensitive. Simply looking at my dog makes me want to cry, and she's pretty cute.

Would I be this sick if I didn't work for some of the two biggest pressure-cooker industries around? No. I don't think so.

A few years ago, when I was aimless in terms of career and most other stuff, I was perfectly healthy. I was staying out all night partying, participating in some questionable activities, making practically no money, and I NEVER GOT SICK. I never slept, either. And my skin looked great.

Now, I sleep 9 hours a night, which means no more being out after dark. I make pretty good money. I don't do anything questionable (see first sentence, above), and my skin looks like crap, and I have the flu.

It seems tragically unfair to me.

Kicking and Screaming...

I've been at a technology conference for the past two days. More specifically, I've been in a hotel ballroom with 150 technologists who are trying to figure out how the hell they'll be able to sell their social networking tools to enterprises. Or to Yahoo. Or Microsoft. Or Google.

Google, who just announced OpenSocial, sent a Googlite at the last minute to answer questions from the increasingly vocal and skeptical crowd. That turned into a warm and fuzzy love session with Google, Yahoo, and Microsoft folks talking about how much they respect and admire each other. How nice for them.

Maybe it's just me, but I see social networking as inherently a bit masturbatory and cowardly. When I look at social networking technology, I don't see new and exciting ways to connect with interesting, smart people. I see new and exciting ways of broadcasting my activities to the world without taking the risk that comes with having real relationships.

Don't get me wrong. I love Facebook. I love that I can reconnect with folks I knew 20 years ago. I like that I can goof off with my pals at work. But any technology that removes human beings from connecting with each other face-to-face, or even email-to-email, leaves me feeling empty and sad. Kind of like another solo activity sometimes does.

And you shouldn't think that I -- especially if I barely know you -- care what you were doing 45 seconds ago on the Internet. I'm sorry, I don't. I care about what you're feeling; I care about what makes you get up in the morning. I do not care which Web site you were just looking at, or which little bit of information you just read. But that doesn't mean I don't love you.