Sunday, July 9, 2017

Work, and the Safety of the Heart

July 9thFull Buck Moon12:07 am

Here it comes, the full Capricorn moon. Capricorn is a (cough) energy (cough! cough!) that is consciously in the center of my life. 

(I feel like such a fruit bat using this language, but there are worse things I could be, and this is the language that's grown up around these things. I wish I could be like Iris and talk about things that have been described in new-age Secret-speak without falling prey to all those linguistic conventions. It's a process, I guess.)

Literally, in the center of my life, because I come from a matrilineal Capricorn family (grandmother and mother). I have a very conscious relationship to the qualities and tendencies of Capricorn women. I also have a Capricorn moon in my chart; yep, my feels are filtered through the fractured Capricorn granite.

This morning's Deep Thought is about Work and the Capricorn full moon that calls our attention to it.

Work is what our mind turns to. "You are what you think about doing all day long," says the fortune-cookie wisdom taped to my computer. Work is what we are called, inexorably, to do; work is the Capricorn wheelhouse, work is a weird and perverted concept in late-stage capitalism.

I understand that my friends are exceptionally creative, exceptionally intelligent, and often exceptionally driven. Not everyone has the little demon in the brain with the neon signs saying "not enough," "not good enough," and "you're a hack"...but i think that my friends (and probably most people) do.

And most of my friends will know in their feels what I'm talking about, both in terms of their "job," and also in terms of the work that they take on as their True Work--their art, or their activism, or whatever they feel called to pursue. Some of us are lucky enough to have those two things be the same, or at least similar: that is, we find some way to have our job serve or encompass our True Work in what we do under capitalism in order to be a part of society--which mandates a minimum level of consumption to be considered a "normal" life.

To say that Capricorns are ruled by Work, and vice versa, is to short-sell the complicated way that Capricorns show up in the world. Capricorn has a deep need for structure, like Virgo on a macroscopic scale, and a desire to embody and align with capital-A Authority. This is a very hard moment in human time to have that relationship to Authority. 

Systems of Justice, systems of Education, systems of Governance are all crumbling. It reads like hyperbole; but really, anyone involved with any of these systems can allow for these to be true facts. How are we supposed to support and believe in systems that have passed beyond disfunctionality into surrealism?

Well, glad you asked, because we're not. We are supposed to do the work of creating new structures, new systems, with a different relationship to Authority. This is truly a Capricorn meta-moment; one where Capricorn has to confront its own fear that it's all a humbug--that nobody is accountable, that nothing is worth being accountable to.

Many of us--to return to the little brain-demon--have had to work hard with our own internal Authority. That guy is a total dick! As above, so below, right? If our external Authorities are dysfunctional and collapsing, why would our own internal versions of that larger system be any more effective or kind?

But we know (from bitter experience) that the asshole in our head has to be taught to be less shrill, less mean, and less unreasonable, in order to be more effective. There is a diminishing return on self-cruelty. There is a difference between pushing oneself to grow as a person and as a worker, a maker...and pushing oneself as a reflexive, habitual expression of eternal less-than; an eternal doomed struggle to find self-worth. This is not the fuel we need to move the world, or move with the world, into a better expression of shared humanity.

But Capricorn eats fear and shits victory--to a point. At some point, you are what you eat. A lot of Capricorn's impressive roster of accomplishments in the world is fueled by that fear: the fear of being unworthy; the fear of being a dilettante, a person of no substance; the fear of poverty, of failing to achieve that "normal" level of consumption, and the corresponding "success" of going above and beyond the baseline.

Another idea that is useful to consider is that "the great is the enemy of the good"--what, exactly, is success? Making it to the baseline is sometimes the best we can possibly do with the resources and energy we have at hand. Sometimes when we look too far ahead, the journey seems so long, we fuck ourselves out of even starting. Capricorn's sense of pride demands that starting makes finishing mandatory. We have to know and feel that finishing might well be impossible, with much of our work; and that The Work can eat our happiness if we let it. How to undertake one's life's work with a light heart? How we answer that question is a life's process, and we may greatly aid one another as we search for strategies that make us more flexible, crafty, and kind in the ways that we answer.

There is a feeling of loss, of the quiet dance of deep space with Saturn, whose rings are said to represent human limitation. Capricorn buries the nut. Capricorn scans the shore and laments its lost babies. Capricorn holds, keeps, and uses. Capricorn is the world of the real, the material, the literal. Capricorn would have no time for such fruit-bat meditations.

Remember to balance your ruthless devotion to making meaning with and of your life...with a care and tenderness for everyone, even yourself; even that brain-demon who flashes those neon lights. Have the demon make a neon sign that says "Good Job!"--because our Capricorn side needs that one most of all; and may eventually come to believe it.



Sunday, January 17, 2016

All The Madmen: After Bowie

I am a pirate, a scoundrel. A sinner
I stole fire from the gods.

They tracked me down by my nighttime flame,
Shot me up on the darkling plain.

I shot myself down

You can’t live like that. It is not allowed.

So the ground rushed to meet me when my fall was over
I fell softly but firmly into white walls, hushed voices
And the occasional piercing shriek. It was obligatory
That one of us loosed it, from time to time. That
Is what the situation called for.

It gets old. So old
And, of course, so do we;
We learn (or don’t, depending on our propensity for fakery)
To pretend the gods hold nothing for us that we desire
Or don’t desire. We pretend that heaven is a place you go
For being good. It is not. Heaven is
In your neuroreceptors, in the eyes
Of the beautiful stranger, in our devotion
To strange practices and elaborate rituals that
Germinate in the dusty, empty halls of our short lives
And blossom us into magic: lush and intricate stories
Of detailed character and epic feats.

Heaven is make-believe,
And without it life is unbearable.
Having left this earth, David Bowie is not in heaven;
But he has left great heaven here.



David Bowie, back here on earth,
stolen fires everywhere
burn in your memory





Monday, January 11, 2016

Heroes

If there was anyone that somehow spoke into the heart of every openly or secretly fabulous creature on earth, someone who knew without thinking how to grab the hot pulse of zeitgeist before it even thought to name itself...someone who pulled songs out of our very dreams to spangle our dark-ringed, druggy, brilliant eyes...Oh, man. Bowie. It was Bowie. And he died yesterday.

I did not see this coming. Of all the random sorrows to jump up like the boogie and hijack me, this particular one hit so hard.

Attributed to Simon Pegg (but actually tweeted by Dean Podesta): "If you're sad today, just remember the earth is over 4 billion years old and you somehow managed to exist at the same time as David Bowie."

Ah, but.

The world I woke up in yesterday contained David Bowie. The world I woke up in today did not. Goddamn it! God. Damn. It.

I said that to myself as I drove home. Mug Shots, the coffee shop where I tank up to go make a douche of myself at the gym, featured a heartfelt, crudely drawn (yet undeniably "artistic") Ziggy hair/eyes/lightning bolts on their daily-specials blackboard. And I felt the sadness just wash over me again, like dirty runoff from Oroville's trashiest, most neglected street.

That's the thing, see. Bowie dealt in the feels. So it really is a huge loss, because we don't have so many epic artist/feeler/poets anymore; or maybe it's just not a marketable quantity without some kind of public shaming, or postmodern judgment, or hipster cynicism that accompanies it.

And too, there was something magical about David Bowie that only a few huge Rock Stars still alive can boast on: THEY'RE STILL ALIVE. He did All Of The Bad Choice Things. And lived to tell the tale; not only that, kept acting; kept making music; kept being David Bowie.

IT'S A WALKOFF!

For me, David Bowie was always drug music. Let me qualify that term: Music to do drugs by, made by people on drugs, with many thinly veiled references to drugs. But as we got older, Bowie and I, and moved out of that sturm und drang that drug-takers bring unto themselves, the songs remain as a testament to the intensity and craziness that humans can create and experience. The drugs are incidental. You don't have to have the glasses to get the special effects.

Even throughout the paranoid coke-fiend transmogrification of Ziggy Stardust into the Thin White Duke, the drugs were only a part of the brilliance of the whole. There was the Story, and the Show; and the depths and lengths that he was willing to go to in pursuit of those two things (which by all accounts became one, in the heat of the 70's, before the 70's became glacier-cool) --made his own human life the central jewel in the machinery of both.

Bowie dealt in the feels. Somehow, as Top of the Pops and a phenomenally successful recording artist, he managed to write the songs that we, the weird, the dispossessed, the artfags and secret geniuses, the ones who tried to front like we had tough, thick skins like everyone else even though we were walking around with our exposed nerves smashing into every coffee table--he wrote the best songs for us. 

Radiohead's very popular song "Creep" owes a conceptual debt to a central theme in Bowie's work: I am misplaced. I want acceptance, but I don't belong here. 

Maybe the enormous popularity of both Bowie's outcast songs and "Creep" is an indication that this outsider feeling is much more prevalent than the feeling of being "in with the In Crowd." NOW THAT'S A SHOCKER, HUH!

I think the real importance of a world that contained Bowie was this: that he believed in his own symbols; that he believed in himself, because the story told itself through him. And he believed in us, because the story needed us to be alive and true. As weird and distant as he felt, he brought us the songs and stories, because they wanted to be brought. And his absolute faith that he could be a conduit for that magic, that language, that movement (in every sense)...is such a powerful and visceral legacy; kind of a challenge, even. Can we trust ourselves in this same way?

"We can be heroes, just for one day

We can be us, just for one day..."


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jBuwC4VJi50
(copy and paste the link; i cant seem to embed it--but I warn you, "Heroes" will probably make you cry.)

  Goddamn it.

Thursday, December 24, 2015

"Will Scrabble For Self-Esteem"

We live in a competitive society. I know this because I am terrified of competition; humans struggling against one another, solo or (even worse) on teams to determine who is BETTER. Who is the WINNER, and who goes home to SUCK IT and eat sad ice cream in abject loser misery. I will lose on purpose right out the gate rather than attempt to win and let fate or talent determine who gets to feel all right about themselves that day, and who will feel like a pile of loose turd. It's less stressful.

I have largely set my life up to avoid competition. Education, for all of its other shortcomings--and they are myriad, and I'll tell you about them sometime if you don't know them already from your own undoubtedly awesome experience with compulsory schooling--is, in theory, a sanctuary where competition (among staff) is a non-issue. At least not on the surface…

Recently I went to visit a friend in Fresno. Before you judge: it was wonderful; seeing my friend and our other friend who met us there from San Diego was super fun. It even rained, and that was the icing on that vacation-cake. We made a list of a million things to do together and managed to do most of them. One of the items on the list was playing Scrabble.

Here's the thing, and I talked about it with my San Diego friend the next time I saw her: I spend most of my waking life and self-talk feeling ambivalent at  best about what I'm doing and how good I am at doing it. The one thing, my money shot, is words: language, conversation, vocabulary, grammar. This is the island of self-worth that I consciously or unconsciously go to when shit gets
bad--this idea that my intelligence in this area is enough to make me a worthwhile person. That I'm not a complete wash because I have a modicum of goodness and smartness, and this is where it lies.

So when the three of us sat down to play Scrabble--and, jesus, writing it and hearing the sound of the word in my head, it's like what rats do in walls, what a claustrophobic and terrible grasping word, why couldn't it be a beautiful word like "Excelsior"??--when we began the game, I felt the old rotten sorrow of competition seep into my soul. And I lamented; but there were words to make, as best I could.

As we played, I realized that winning made me feel terrific. When I was ahead--why, what a wonderful game Scrabble was! How clever! And how clever was I, winning? Wow! Fantastic! Holy shit! And I realized that it wasn't that I am not a competitive person--I am a bitterly competitive person, and when I fell behind and ultimately lost the game, I realized that it is a surplus of competitiveness, not its absence, that makes me so reluctant to compete. And by god, when I sit down at the Scrabble board, I expect to win. Because I'm about this shit! This is my wheelhouse! I will crush you!

Only I didn't. And now I've taken to playing Scrabble online with my top-ranked co-worker. We just finished our first game. He won, of course; but I feel like we both played a pretty top-notch game; mid 200's, respectable.

Even though we both played a pretty genius game, now I've dropped in the rankings. Because it's not how many points you earn or that you were able to bust out the word "phlegmy," it's who wins. One simple metric. My ranking dropped, my heart dropped, a single tear dropped on the keyboard.
(Not really; it sounds good, though.)

Is this story about "how I overcame my low self-esteem to enjoy the simple friendly game of Scrabble?" Nope. I don't think so. I enjoy it, but it's a terrible kind of enjoyment; I wake up in the middle of the night and plex on the board in my mind's eye. And, joy, with Facebook Scrabble you can ask the "teacher" what the ABSOLUTE BEST WORD would have been. I think that is the part that is the worst for me, like ripping off a just-formed scab. "Oh, look at that. If I'd been smart enough to throw "VIANDE" with the V and D on triple letter scores I would have gotten another 10 points. GREAT."

It's just some observations about competitiveness and low self-esteem, the sanctuary of intellect (" ") and how much I like the feeling of winning at Scrabble. Which, if I keep playing Joe Crispin, I'll never feel again. But maybe that's OK, cause I have to figure out what winning means to me--a hidden, personal metric that nobody else will see; or, if seen, would understand.






Sunday, July 10, 2011

Life Is Excellent

I cross Little Chico Creek on Park Ave. about every day across from the Sicilian Cafe (eat there; they're fantastic). I make a point of checking in with this little fifteen-foot reach of the creek as a sort of informal pulse-taking. Not only does it seem like there's more water later in the summer than there has been for a while; but when I stopped to check out the wee fishes that I'd noticed earlier in the week (what are they? Trout? Like I should know)...I also espied two fat pollywogs who looked to be in the last push of their transmogrification. Fat bullets of future froghood with burly eel-tails, they did their little future frog thing, grubbing and shimmying and generally being OK with high visibility--if I could see them from the bridge, they were Out and Proud.

And then I saw something wonderful: in the creekmuck and vegetal  dinge that flourished in this uncharacteristically warm and wet summer, I saw flicks of movement. One, two, twenty wriggling pollywogs burrowing into this sheltering furze like birds in a stand of blackberries. In that ripe moment it seemed like the creek bed was totally moving and alive with creatures engaged in the business of transformation, just under the skin of what I could see from the bridge.

I think this is unusual on a short timeline; certainly pollywogs in the creeks are a historical certitude, but what with the constant suck of water out of our hydrologic region it may be (becoming) something of a crap shoot. I also read on Big Chico Creek Watershed Alliance's home page http://www.bigchicocreek.org/that Chinook salmon were spotted in BCC near one of the campus bridges. Awesome, awesome, awesome!!

Life--it's excellent.http://www.reverbnation.com/artist/song_details/5538676

Saturday, July 2, 2011

Random Dudgeon

Live and learn, and save often. Sorry, this one got eaten cause I'm too impatient to wait for the post to publish, and my long-winded tale got et.

short version: Pedophile's delight bus ad located ideally between Chico Jr. and the courthouse. Bad PSA design. Sexualizing children is not OK. I complained to Stott (ad agency). Am I crazy, or is this legit? Go look at the ad.

That's the cliff notes. Sorry, I'm never going to work directly in the blog interface again. Live and learn.

Re: learning, here's that link from yesterday, clickable. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8rYGdOC2r5w&feature=player_embedded

Friday, July 1, 2011

I'll Blog Your Face Off. Really.

OK, so the Synthesis finally gave me the bum's rush; not that I didn't expect it, but that in no way diminished the sting of being told to peddle my kippers elsewhere. Who knows what a blog may bring? Even if it's only for the reading pleasure of my three Synthesis readers (Hi Mom!)...

It's just that, god, how many houses can you visit and chitchat at here in Cyberia? We've got errands to do, dishes, floors to vacuum, jobs to go underachieve at. Spouses that pop up in our field of vision from time to time, demanding sex and attention. Children that need to be nagged so they'll have something to complain to their friends about.

In that vein, i'm going to share some Rev. Billy with you. This is powerful stuff.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8rYGdOC2r5w&feature=player_embedded

Go to there. Pretty simple, really.

If I had the patience and time, I'd throw some more of my old Syn pieces up here; but honestly, I'm loath to re-read all of them, cause I hate that. I know that some of them might have been good. It's the ones I phoned in that I don't want to acknowledge. But all of that stuff belongs to yesterday anyway.

I'm going to try writing for the CN&R again, under Christine's excellent guidance. I will doubtless crow about that here (those of you that know me in the reals know that I have zero poker face and am powerless to play that kind of stuff off). But just in terms of continuity with what I began, thanks to Ryan Laine and Jake Sprecher...I think that the weekly deadline has been a huge incentive in my writing; just the idea that you're obligated to produce something every week, regardless of what doo it is, has been almost-equal-parts irritating and inspiring. I should make a commitment to a weekly blog, but self-discipline is not my strong suit.

 And thanks to all of you that keep me from succumbing to alcoholism and cynicism...I'll try to return the fave.