Rambling thoughts spurred by the last post

Thank you, dear readers, for your responses to the last post. I appreciate them all. I want to respond to each one of you personally, for you all had something interesting and provocative to say. I know I'll be writing again about all the topics I touched on. Aging, self image, body image, control, insecurity, strength, acceptance. I could pick any of these topics and devote an entire blog to it. But since I contend that "everything is interesting" I won't be doing that. Speaking of single subject blogs, my second side blog is not being attended to. Again, I am keenly aware that I am in need of at least three lives. Perhaps they'll cure death before I die. Somehow, I doubt it.

When I re-read what I had written, I had to disagree with myself about one thing. I wrote that I had not gotten over some of my anorexic thinking, "not by a long shot." I still have remnants of anorexic thinking, to be sure, but I am over most of them. And I want to acknowledge that, not just for myself, and not just to set the record straight, but for anyone who is suffering from an eating disorder. Yes, one can get well.

What's left? I still am attracted to extremely thin people. I admit it. One part of me recoils in horror as another part of me is attracted. But at the same time, I have come to find all shapes and sizes attractive. Unfortunately, I do not extend that to myself, but most of the time I just do not notice. Another thing that is left is what is called "body dysmorphia." When I look in the mirror I see what I feel, not what is really there. These days, this is a positive thing. I like the person in that mirror. It's only when I have to try on some pants in a dressing room that I notice I'm not thin.

In the downscale stores, the dressing rooms are a horror. The designers of these torture chambers are idiotic. For one, turn the lighting down. The room should feel candlelit, slightly romantic and luxurious. I'm not the only person who feels drained and stressed out after leaving a dressing room. The last time I tried on some jeans, I left the dressing room with sweating palms, and much to my shame, a mess. I was shaking slightly. Victoria's Secret has great dressing rooms, but they don't sell minimizing bras, so I don't go there any more. Listen up, Kohl's, if you want your next quarter to be better, pimp out those dressing rooms.

Now that I've veered off course, I'll try to reign myself in. One commentor had mentioned that Annie Lennox looked like she had plastic surgery. I'm not so sure, but I'm no expert on this. Here's what she had to say to Reuter's:
"I still want to be an empowered performer, an empowered woman. I want women to see that and think, 'It's OK, she's got a few wrinkles and it's fine.' I don't have to lie about my age ... What's to be ashamed of? And what is so wrong about being older?"
Lennox is 54 years old. She's just put out an album. Personally, I'm not all that interested in hearing it, but it's great that she's still at it. Patti Smith is still at it, too. Now, I'm fairly certain that she hasn't had "work done."

I'm not posting these photos to be catty. These women have been role models to me, as I once was a performer trying to buck the beauty standard and just perform. Of course, sex appeal and charisma are a big part of being a popular musician, no matter how edgy one is. But, there are some women who have either not relied on their looks to carry them or who have had great fun playing with their adrogyny. Patti Smith and Annie Lennox are two of them. Others that I can think of (off the top of my head) are k.d.lang, Laurie Anderson, and Sinead O'Connor.

Patti Smith genuinely changed my life. I wasn't a fan of hers. She was too "pop" for my taste. But I had never seen her in person. I was a bit too young to have seen her at CBGB's, and saw her play at at fairly small venue just when her album "Horses" came out. There were balcony seats and I was in one of them, but not for long. I was mesmerized. There was a woman on stage who was not seducing the audience with her sex appeal. She was as intense as any performer I'd ever seen. She looked like an innocent waif girl and a young street boy at the same time. She howled. She stalked. She twirled. She was doing exactly what she wanted, at least in my eyes. It was a revelation. I wound up at the edge of the stage, barely breathing, transfixed.

That week I started playing guitar in a band. I didn't give a damn what I looked like and what others thought. Seeing Patti Smith gave me that strength. Me, a terribly shy kid, almost mute, who had absolutely no faith in herself, no self-esteem, almost complete self-hatred, somehow, miraculously, played my guts out on stage. I still don't understand it.

Tonight, I'm trying to cover too much ground. The last post brought up a lot for me. The comments, too, touched me. And so, I'll end it here, for now. To be continued. . .

Addendum: I wanted to mention that TMC posted "Strength, Part I", a mosaic of strong women. I'm looking forward to Part II (and more?)

The rich have always liked their little dogs

At least she's not carrying it in her purse.

Painting note:Lucas Cranach the Elder Portrait of Katharina von Mecklenburg, wife of Henry IV of Saxony (1514).

Musical note: The pavane was a slow processional dance common during the 16th century. The author of this piece is unknown.

Thursday's offering

What do you imagine she was thinking about?
And some music:

Read about Guilliame Dufay here.
Jan van Eyk's portrait of his wife, Margarete van Eyck (1439)

Oceanic offering

Today's musical offering is from 2002! It's from Isis's Oceanic:

Image note: "Oceanic" You can purchase this image, created by using bleach and velvet, here.

Today's offering

Another one of my favorite portraits - Giovanni Bellini's Portrait of Doge Leonardo Loredan (1501).

And some music to accompany this:

Josquin: De Profundis Clamavi - Hilliard Ensemble
Find out more about Josquin here.

Love in the 14th century

I found this portrait at this wonderful website. It is always a surprise to me when I discover a portrait that I haven't encountered before, as this is the genre that I have always found the most compelling. When I was young, I spent many hours at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, looking at portraits, wondering just who these people were. I've also spent many an hour copying old portraits, trying to get into the mindset of the old masters, a tried and true learning technique that is probably scoffed at in art schools today.

In this painting, Agnolo Bronzino's "Laura Battiferri" (1555-60), Laura, herself a poet, holds open a page of Petrarch's Sonnets. From 1342-1347, Petrarch wrote 366 verses of the Canzioniere, dedicated to yet another Laura, Laura DeNoyes.

You who hear the sound, in scattered rhymes,
of those sighs on which I fed my heart,
in my first vagrant youthfulness,
when I was partly other than I am,

I hope to find pity, and forgiveness,
for all the modes in which I talk and weep,
between vain hope and vain sadness,
in those who understand love through its trials.

Yet I see clearly now I have become
an old tale amongst all these people, so that
it often makes me ashamed of myself;

and shame is the fruit of my vanities,
and remorse, and the clearest knowledge
of how the world's delight is a brief dream.

You can read and listen to all 366 sonnets here. I suspect they are infinitely more beautiful in Italian.

Luca Marenzio: Cruda amarilli (madrigal)

Luca Marenzio set poem #322 from the Canzioniere to music. To listen, go here.

Sunday school

Making a case against homosexuality by using the bible is ridiculous. I'm sorry, but if you're going to use the bible for justifying any opinions or behavior, please be consistent and follow all the laws. Who gave you the ability to cherry-pick God's word, anyway?

I presume you've forgotten the entirety of Leviticus, so here's a half dozen laws and punishments that you better get cracking on:

You shall not interpret omens or tell fortunes. (Lev.19:27)

A man or a woman who is a medium or a necromancer shall surely be put to death. They shall be stoned with stones. (Lev.20:27)

The land shall not be sold in perpetuity, for the land is mine. For you are strangers and sojourners with me. (Lev.25:23)

If a man lies sexually with a woman who is a slave, assigned to another man and not yet ransomed or given her freedom, a distinction shall be made. They shall not be put to death, because she was not free. (Lev.19:20)

You shall not sow your field with two kinds of seed, nor shall you wear a garment of cloth made of two kinds of material.(Lev.19:19)

And you shall not take a woman as a rival wife to her sister, uncovering her nakedness while her sister is still alive.(Lev.18:18)

Painting note:Rembrandt "The Angel Prevents the Sacrifice of Isaac" 1635
“Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains of which I shall tell you.” (Genesis 21:2)

Abraham and Isaac - a whole 'nother kettle of fish. What would you have done?

Bob Dylan's brilliant version of this Biblical story:

"Never had my nails done. . ."

I'm coming late to this game. Lady Sovereign's "Love Me Or Hate Me" came out in 2006.

Not brilliant, no, but I gotta love this:

"I'm fat, I need a diet.
No, in fact I'm just too light
And I ain't got the biggest breast-s-s, but I write all the best disses.
I got hairy armpits, but I don't walk around like this.
I wear a big baggy t-shirt that hides that nasty shit.
Ugh!
Never had my nails done.
Bite them down until they're numb.
I'm the one with the non-existent bum,
Now I don't really give a....Ugh!
I'm missing my shepherd's pie
Like a high maintenance chick missin' her diamonds.
I'm missin' my clippers lighters.
Now bow down to your royal highness.
No I don't own a corgi,
Had a hamster, it died cause I ignored it.
Go on then, go on report me,
I'm English, try and deport me!"

Thanks, TMC, for the Lady Sovereign tip. Check out this week's Sing-Along Thursday with "A Little Bit of Shh" over at Return to Rural.

Music soothes the savage something or other

Bach's Christmas Oratorio is not considered one of Bach's better works. I love it. It never fails to make me feel happy. Bittergrace Notes gave me the gift of music today, and now I return the favor. Sorry, video embedding of John Eliot Gardiner and the Monteverdi choir is not allowed. But you can listen:

Painting note: Domenico Ghirlandaio
Madonna and Child Enthroned between Angels and Saints 1496

I'm bad at doing ______ (fill in the blank)

Earlier this evening, our power was out. I sat at the kitchen table and ate my ramen noodles with tofu and egg by candlelight. When I was done, I thought, what shall I do? I only had these little tea lights and they aren't good for reading, no matter how many one uses. So, I used my chopsticks as drumsticks and sang a bunch of songs. I'm not very good at either of these things, but I was having fun.

I used to be self-conscious about my lousy singing. Nowadays, I seem to care little about the things I'm not all that good at. If I enjoy them, I do them. Maybe that's why the nanowrimo is coming fairly easily to me. I'm not judging it. If I wasn't having fun, I'd quit, and I'd say "oh well."

When I told a writing professor I know that I'd been writing 2-4000 words a day, he was impressed. I said, "I didn't say they were good words." And they probably aren't.

But here's the thing: even though I use words like "good" and "bad", it is not a judgment. At least it's not a judgment in the sense of feeling bad about it (there's that word again). I've gotten to this point lately where I feel pretty comfortable with mediocrity or even downright lousiness. When we're kids and we're learning to do new things, we not "good at" the things we do. It's acceptable (to some people). We're kids and we are learning. You don't go from not knowing how to read on day one and being able to read Tolstoy on day two. That is reserved for some very unusual geniuses.

Unfortunately, when I was a child, I was given the message that if one wasn't very good at something, you shouldn't do it. I've written about this before.

I was fortunate to have gone to an Elementary School where, when we were in the fourth grade, we were all asked if we wanted to learn an instrument. It was optional, but in my memory everyone did, though it seemed quite a number of kids picked the triangle. The school gave us an instrument, for free, and also provided free group lessons. Some kids did have lessons at home, which would have to be paid for, but the lessons at school were quite good.

I wanted to learn to play the bass, but I was steered away from that because I was so short, and so I picked the cello. I loved to play. Noone ever had to tell me "Julie, it's time to practice." If it was up to me, I would have played until bedtime and beyond, but my parents didn't want me to play at night.

I loved Bach and struggled hard to try to learn some of his Cello Suites. But I just loved to practice. If it was scales, fine. It didn't matter. The sound of a bowed instrument, a deep one, thrilled me. I was transported. I would completely merge with that cello and its sound. Years after I stopped playing, my childhood friend told me that one time my mother let her in our house and she saw me in my room, playing the cello, and that it scared her. She said I didn't look like a child while I was playing. I was lost in what I was doing and my face was so serious that she left my house without saying a word.

If you were reading carefully, you'd have noticed I said that I stopped playing. There were a few reasons and they aren't happy ones. For one thing, my parents didn't seem to like that I played. I never once heard a thing about my playing from them (except to quit playing at night). Neither of them ever said, "You've improved" or "that sounded good" or anything.

In the orchestra, one was seated according to how good you were. There was 1st, 2nd and 3d cello and all the rest. Well, only three kids played the cello, so I was 3rd. I didn't care. Celloist #1 was a child prodigy who spent half her day out of school studying with someone we heard was famous. She didn't look very happy. And besides, her sister was Violinist #1 and was already playing concerts, so everyone rather thought she was in a tough spot. The second celloist was a gifted young boy, and besides, he was a friend of mine, who seemed to enjoying playing with me at home, even if I wasn't as good as he was. So, I was quite content.

Now, I have to admit I have no memory of my parents saying any particular words, but I knew they thought I was wasting my time. If I couldn't be the best, I shouldn't be doing it. Besides, I had a talent for drawing and I ought to have been doing that. This was the one thing that they were proud of, but they could understand it, because they were both visual artists. Maybe I'd grow up to be more successful then they had been. That's the message I got.

But drawing never gave me the pleasure that playing music did. I loved to draw, but it didn't transport me beyond myself. Sometimes I felt like a peforming monkey because I was talented, and I hated it. When I played music, there were no thoughts of good or bad or talented or not. I was just playing music.

Unfortunately, when grade school was done, the free instruments and lessons ended. That's when the anvil dropped. I was told that I had to choose between renting an instrument and taking lessons. Now, that's not a choice. You can't take lessons if you don't have an instrument, and you can't teach yourself the cello without an instructor (not unless you're a genius, which I plainly was not). So, that was that.

I was given a cheap guitar at the end of the year to make up for things, but classical guitar just didn't cut it for me. It sounded plunky and even when I listened to a master play, it still sounded plunky. So, I wound up being a punk rock guitarist who thought she sucked. Well, that's making a long story short there (which is unusual for me, I know), but you get the idea.

So, these days I'm reveling in doing things badly and enjoying them. There are others who say I shouldn't say I do these things "badly" because I'm putting myself down. I don't agree. I'm being honest. I'm not a novelist and I'm not some genius in the rough. I thought I'd give writing a novel a try and it's good fun. Will I ever get published and get on the best seller list?

I doubt it highly.

I know people have trouble reading my long blog posts. But I'm having a good time and that's what counts. I'm learning a lot, expressing myself freely and even, at times, reveling in doing something I'm not all that good at. So, please, let me say I'm bad at stuff. It feels really good. It feels freeing. There are no expectations when you aren't good.

But I wouldn't mind a little pat on the back once in a while. I wished I had gotten it from my parents when I played the cello. I wouldn't have minded one bit if I grew up to be the very last celloist in some small city somewhere. But no, if I couldn't make it to Carnegie Hall, it was no go. Well, that's a sure fire way to create an underachiever, if you ask me.

Image note: Apocalyptica. Four cellists cover Metallica songs. Once, I was listening to this in my tat shop, when a guy I knew came in. He said, "Turn that classical crap off!" Then he stopped dead, "Is that Enter Sandman?!", he said. The first time I heard it, I couldn't stop laughing. That sounds like a bad review, but it was the cognitive dissonance that got me. Check it out for yourself:



I found the album cover on a sweet little web site made by a young kid (I think). Take a look.

Addendum: Just in case you think I'm a whiner who's still all upset about what my parents did to me (oh, the pain!) I'm not. One remedy for childhood hurts like this is to do them over and be your own parent. Some years ago, I rented a cello and took a lesson. It was fantastic. At the end of the first lesson, I played the first four measures of one of the Bach Suites. And here comes that word: I played it badly. Of course I did! I didn't care a whit. I was in heaven. Unfortunately, my hands were pretty shot from tattooing and I had to leave it at that one lesson. But that was enough. I had parented myself, gave myself permission to try it once again before I dropped dead, and any resentments I still harbored were gone. Well, maybe there's a wee bit. . .

I do feel the need to say this: If you are a parent, if your child is lousy at something and loves it, be happy for them and encourage them with everything you've got.

Knitting class update, with some music on the side

I feel badly, but I've cancelled tomorrow's knitting classes because so few people signed up. I hope if you are one of the two people who did, you will sign up for the one that will be after the holidays.

I am also mulling over teaching a lace knitting class at Treetop Zen Center. Knitting complex lace is basically meditation with yarn. Mindfulness and concentration are essential.

Knitting is so rich with meaning. Come to think of it, is there anything that isn't? How could I be so foolish as to think that?

A friend asked me last night if I thought that "spiritually evolved" people might have different taste in music. I am not exactly big on the idea of "spiritually evolved people", but we'll leave that matter aside.

As for music, like what you like! Sure, some people think they are more evolved because they listen to John Adams instead everything that Justin Broadrick's done, but I think they're deluded. So there.

But I sure can't knit lace and listen to anything by Broadrick. Well, perhaps I could listen to Jesu and knit.

I had thought I'd failed miserably in trying to find an embed, but here it is, thanks to stumbling onto a new blog today (not that the writer of said blog likes Jesu or anything. He just had a lot of music embeds). Be forewarned - this is not the happiest music:



Image note: The cover of Jesu's Silver (linked above), which looks just about like what I see out my window today.

Billy the Kid day

First, I offer you Ry Cooder, singing "Billy the Kid" live:
And now I offer you the trailer for the movie, "Billy the Kid", about a 15-old-boy in Maine. This is a real kid, not fiction. There is a scene in the movie that is so funny that Dick and I watched it three times. I wish I could find a clip of that scene, but I couldn't. Though some reviewers say that scene was staged, one reason that we laughed so hard is that it was so Maine (and not the one the tourists see). Enough from me, here's Billy:

Two bit has been starts to tell all

No, I'm not the tall, dripping with dirty sex blonde bombshell. If you don't know who that is, it's Poison Ivy Rorschach. This is the Cramps, performing at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium in August of 1980. I am the other guitarist, the short and rather boring one.

I finally admit to it. Yep, that's me.

Oddly enough, when I joined them on tour, I was not a fan of theirs. They must have been desperate for a guitarist 'cause I plainly said that I hadn't even listened to their song "Human Fly", which was huge in New York at the time. I wasn't into rockabilly, shockabilly or any other kind of 'billy, 'cause I was too urban and too young.

Now I get it, but I'm old. Just as I thought they were at the time. Gasp! Lux Interior was thirty six years old in 1980 (and I wonder if he'd dispute that, but I saw his papers at the Canadian border). Who knew that by the turn of the century 60 year old rockers would still be going strong?

Video note: This is an out take from the movie "Urgh: A Music War". Why it was called that I have no idea.

The sound (or not) of music

My lastfm playlist is a bit misleading about my musical tastes. I tried adding some more to it, but I think I need to go put in some new code. Once again, I am lazy (and wonder, at this point, if I should put the word lazy in my list of tags?)

My playlist was formed mostly on the days I was writing about Passage D'enfer perfume, which made me want to listen to religious choral music. I love Baroque and earlier music. But I also love other music. When I say my taste runs the gamut it is an understatement of huge proportions, and even though this sounds hyperbolic in the extreme, it is not.

In the last two days I have listened to: Marilyn Manson, Isis, Jesu, the White Stripes, Deva Premal, the Sex Pistols, the Melvins, Guns and Roses and the Dead Boys. All of this is on my iPod, along with quite a bit of what's called "sludgecore", mostly English rap/industrial music, and podcasts of "This American Life", "Will Shortz's Puzzler" and "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me". I also have a weakness for Bobby Short, a singer of mostly show tunes, who used to play at the Carlyle Hotel in New York. I like Count Basie from when Joe Williams sang with him. . .and I realize I forgot to say I am a hardcore Rolling Stones fan. Bob Dylan, too. There really isn't a genre that I don't like. This includes country music. I'm crazy about Dwight Yoakum (and not because he has a cute ass but because he can sing beautifully, yodel without sounding like a fool and writes perfect country songs). I adore the wild singing of Diamanda Galas and the simple beauty of Gillian Welch. And I still love NIN's "Closer", which I think is one of the sexiest songs ever (which might say something terrible about me). I seem to have a penchant for songs about drugs; Lou Reed's "Heroin", Alice in Chains' "Rooster", the Stones' "Sister Morphine", Marilyn Manson's "The Drug Show", the Dead Boy's "Ain't It Fun" (and Guns & Roses' perhaps even better cover version). . .

When I'm in my car I usually listen to NPR or BBC news, if it's on, or talk radio. When I need to stay awake, or I'm either in a very good mood or a very bad mood, I listen to music on my iPod. In a fair to middling mood, when NPR is airing jazz or classical music, or I can't take another second of the hate radio jocks, I listen to my Podcasts. It really is this simple, as far as my mood goes, and I've never thought about it before.

Yesterday, I discovered I really like the Melvins and was surprised that I hadn't really paid much attention to them before.

I am not supplying any links to these bands. If you're interested, it's for you to google, or perhaps you know what they sound like, and think either: a.) I can't believe this woman listens to this stuff or b.) Wow, this woman listens to this stuff. Wait. There's a third alternative: c.) Who cares?

C seems most likely, in fact.

I am very affected by music. Most of the time I don't listen to any. I like my silence. I like being able to hear the birds outside or even just the hum of the refrigerator, the sound of cars going by (but hardly ever the trucks). I like the sound of my cat running up or down the stairs. Occasionally I hear the sound of a mouse scratching inside the walls of my house. Right now I can hear the sound of wood burning in the woodstove. It's a subtle sound, and if I had music on, I would miss it. I hear the sound of my feet rubbing together and the tap tap tap of the keyboard as my fingers run across the keys.

I love these sounds. Music is wonderful. I can't imagine a life without it. But I hate music as background. I listen to music when I want to listen to music, not as a backdrop to life. I think some people would lose their minds if they turned off the music. When I had a business, people were uncomfortable if there wasn't music on, so I played it all day long. My iTunes playlist is HUGE and wildly diverse, but at present, it is a rare day when I DO listen to music. So, when I do, I really enjoy it.

Photo:Bob Gruen (Memories of my youth)