On brain pickings, high art, and much much lower neurosis

Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining. - Anne Lamott

OMGYOUGUYS. Have you discovered Brain Pickings yet? If you have, don't judge me, I'm a little late to the game on this one. (And I owe it to Kyle that I came across it at all.) Don't think for a second of following that link unless you're prepared to lose the next hour(s) of your life, because each link leads to ten more interesting links, and those to ten more, and next thing you know, the sun's gone down, you're fumbling for your glasses, and you feel a strange urge to go to a poetry reading and hug people.

My latest foray into BP was when I followed a link to Anne Lamott on Grief, which then led me to an article on how we keep ourselves small by people-pleasing, and then WHAM, there's Jorge Luis on writing, F. Scott on love stories, and Dani Shapiro on the Creative Life. It's all just too much, youguys. Get in there. When you're done, you'll want to create something wonderful. Or messy. Or anything. Because as Neil Gaiman will tell you, it doesn't matter, just do it.

I really like this stuff because while I'm not a producer of art, I really love people who are. I find what they do impossibly impossible.

Speaking of Jorge and Vik, Argentina is fast approaching! FRIDAY, youguys. That's how fast. FRIDAY. That is, like, three days from now. I have about a book's worth of google maps and flight confirmations and driving instructions and STILL I have the sneaking sensation that I am forgetting something. I lie in bed at night, mentally packing my bag. Virtual sandals, check. Virtual passport, check. Virtual camera--CAMERA! Tripod! BATTERY CHARGER! Where is the last place I saw the battery charger?? The living room socket behind the speaker?? WHERE IS THAT THING! WRITEITDOWNSOMEWHEREBEFOREIFORGET! I lunge for Evernote in the dark hours, tip-tapping away at a thousand lists, syncing and re-syncing, determined to start packing, like, yesterday.  I'll be so exhausted by the time I arrive, I'll probably sleep through the entire holiday.

I CAN'T WAIT.

Big hugs and lots of love,
Essss

If Water is the Essence of Moisture, then Will is the Essence of Time

I mean, time for me, I can make it go slow or fast, however I please, and that’s how I know it doesn’t exist. - Willow Smith

Willow has totally got a point, youguys. Like right now, I'm going to post photos from an adventure that happened TWO WEEKS AGO, but I'm going to act like it was THIS week for the sake of relevancy, and that's how I know time doesn't exist. 

So, recently* a girlfriend and I were trying to make plans to catch up because we hadn't seen each other since her birthday many moons ago and a reunion was long overdue. We were debating the merits of visiting a haunted pub when she had the idea for bingo. BINGOYOUGUYS. BINGO. Obviously, I was immediately on board. Then she sent me the following information. JUST WHEN I THOUGHT IT COULDN'T GET BETTER:

"[It's] at the oh so multi-cultural and slightly edgy Elephant & Castle shopping centre. It will be full of African women sucking their teeth, Polish people eating cabbage and Colombians tapping their feet to salsa tunes. I went for a recce the other day and it is a fantastically parallel universe of London. Do you like the sound of it?"

'YES' WORDS FAIL ME HERE.

This is outside the shopping centre:

World's Most Literal Design Interpretation of Elephant & Castle. The artist they commissioned just nailed it.

This is where we ate the promised Polish food:

I know, right! You totally thought it was going to be full of plastic tables and florescent lighting. Instead it's full of HIPSTERS. It has been discovered. In the grimmest shopping centre that London has to offer, after-hours when everything is shuttered down and you think surely if you stick around, they'll find your body in one of those urns in the morning, there's this place, a beacon of light and hope and good smells. It was so so tasty. Sidebar: Polish food has got to be the most unphotogenic food ever. I tried taking a photo of the pancakes covered with gravy and I don't even want to talk about how it looked. Also, all the food is the colour of nothing, the colour of soviet-tenement-beige. And it doesn't even MATTER because HOLY PIEROGIES, BATMAN. GET IN ME. 

This is us before we went in to play, holding our new member forms so they would let us in. We are now** official members of the Palace Games Club! 

Don't be jealous of our coolness. I know it's intimidating.

Now to get down to the meat of things: THE BINGO. First off, can I tell you how difficult it was to take any pictures? They do NOT want that, people. Anytime I'd even REMOTELY hold my phone up, I'd instantly get tackled by a host of staff members: 'what was that?' 'what'd you do?' 'did you take a photo?' 'let me see the photo you took,' 'delete the photo you took,' 'oh, you didn't take a photo? okay.' Absolute denial (even while clearly holding a camera) generally satisfied them, at which point they'd smooth down each other's ruffled feathers and get back to wandering listlessly around. 

This was so worth the battle.

EVERYwhere you'd see these little slips crammed into the machines. TO SAVE THEM. 

I pulled one out (right before getting tackled again) and IT'S A REAL SAVE SLIP. It's not a bunch of old ladies cramming wads of tissue in there. 

Needless to say, I got no photos of the actual bingo room (the vultures!) but I DID manage to sneak a recording of the guy doing the number call. Can you believe that VOICE? So hypnotic. So very, very unbelievably hypnotic.***

I want to go to bed every night listening to this guy read numbers.

Needless to say, we'll totally be returning. Especially now that we're *cough* members. It's only a matter of time until we win big now that we've got all these slips.

I leave you with this original Bingo Haiku, created with real British Bingo Lingo:

Lucky musty hive
And Grandma's getting fisty
Oh Dirty Gertie

The first person to tell me in the comments the numbers I've just called is totally getting a prize.****

Big hugs and lots of love,

Essss

*A month ago, three weeks ago, yesterday - who can say? So is the nature of time.

**Or not now. Again, time. Also, the guy who took our cards said his 'machine was down' - I'm sure he meant computer and wasn't making this up at all - therefore he couldn't process our membership forms at that moment, but he would TOTALLY get to it. I'm sure my card will arrive in the mail any day now.

***This is the sound of time disappearing.

****I'm not saying it's a good prize. 

I'll show you mood diary.

I'm currently stalling on a load of homework for my drawing class, which is both labor-intensive and slightly too abstract for my puny, literal brain to interpret. We're to do strange, impenetrable things like 'observe' and 'respond' to things, but using our sketchpads. Like THAT makes sense. I'm more likely to tell you how I feel about something using interpretative dance than I am with a colored pencil. So I sit here with a giant blank pad in front of me, and the instructions to 'respond to a daily news story' and create a 'mood diary,' and I have NO idea what any of this means.

Some (small, fleeting) part of me recognizes that these sorts of assignments are intended to inspire creativity--you know, the less specific the instruction, the more freedom you have--but I worry that what I'm producing is all wrong, that I've totally missed the point. I'm not looking to create the Mona Lisa here, but I would at least like to know that smearing black paint all over this page in an angst-filled response to the news of 'tube strike' gets me a few points. I can't get a bad grade in this class; bad grades aren't what I do. I graduated top of my class in high school and college; I cannot fail a class in which we are instructed to make shoes out of cardboard.

And the strangest thing is that while I'm struggling here, the slackers in my class--the ones who won't do ANYthing until the tutor is standing directly over their shoulder demanding it--under supervision produce works of brilliance. Their sketchbooks blossom under their sullen hands, their one sketch outshining my forty in five short seconds. I'll see something that they've begrudgingly produced and be like, 'Oh, THAT'S what we were meant to be doing this whole time!' as I slide my arm over my drawing of a stick man beating a bus with a bat. A bat that looks like a penis, which isn't as much symbolic as accidental.

Now if you'll excuse me, I should get to work on this 'mood diary.' Capture THIS using nothing but color:

on bridges, babies, and balla-balla recipes

Let's start with a few of my favorite things, shall we?

The fog over the Golden Gate Bridge

Mon amie's new baby, Elena, so precious and tiny and gorgeous and perfect and delectable

 

Watching the World Cup at City Hall

The Palace of Fine Arts

I'm constantly writing stuff down. All the time, on napkins and notebooks and nonsense, and then later I find all these scraps and scrawls and I have no idea what any of it means. Was this a book, a movie, a recipe, a band? Usually I can figure it out, but sometimes it remains a mystery. I like to think that someday all these snippets will be combined into a montage of my life and mounted the length of a city block. It will say big things about me, important things, it will reveal things about me that are currently unfathomable. It will say 'dementia.'

The other day when she was in New York, my favorite roommate Sara hung out with her good friend and one of the greatest chefs ever in the history of the planet, Shuna Fish Lydon. (Shuna Fish Lydon!) I blog-stalk her, I pretend like I'm going to try her recipes, I call her 'Shuny' while we're out getting pedis together. In my head. And when I found out Sara was meeting up with her during her recent trip to New York, I made her swear she would get a recipe for me--written on a napkin and signed and EVERYTHING. And SHE DID IT! When I got home from North Carolina and saw the lovely napkin on my desk with it's perfect fuschia handwriting, I nearly tinkled my pants.* It's so gorgeous. And I'm going to scan it in and post it here because it's too good to keep to myself. Try not to be jealous, though. I can't help it that Shuny and I are so close.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to finish this blasted book that's preventing me from reading my next blasted book. Hugs hugs and if you need anything, you just let me know.

*I totally tinkled my pants.

The Talk

I've been emailing recently with a young friend of mine in England, a bright and charming and tiny eleven year old who tells the greatest stories. Most recently she's shared the news that her form in school is now going through sex ed and she's absolutely embarrassed to pieces over it (as any self-respecting young girl would be). Right away I was transported to the time my mother had The Talk with my sister and me. I was in third grade and my sister was in fourth, and our mother--deciding it was better to warn us of our bodies' changes before they actually occurred and we lost our minds--checked out a picture book from the library. We sat down on the living room floor, leaning against the sofa, our young skinny legs sprawled everywhere while my mother's were tucked under her. And as she went gently through the pages, she'd explain what the diagrams meant, and ask us if we had any questions. I quietly absorbed the information until we got to the back of the book, where it transitioned into How Animals Made Babies. Dogs, cats, roosters, sheep, your typical barnyard reproductive fare. And this is where I got confused.

'But if it takes a boy and a girl to make babies, how do dogs make babies?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, dogs are boys.'
'There are girl dogs, too.'
'But...what about cats?'
'Well...there are boy cats.'

I don't think there are words to describe the way my world exploded in that moment. Menstruation? Fallopian tubes? Penises? Pah. BUT GIRL DOGS AND BOY CATS?! SHUT. UP.  I couldn't stop talking about it for days. GIRL DOGS! BOY CATS! DO YOU PEOPLE KNOW ABOUT THIS?!

I'm still recovering from the shock. And when my period started five years later, I barely noticed. My mother's job was done.

santa cruz pics and oh my my

I've just realized that as of late all of my photography on here has been food-related. And while this may indeed indicate a certain change in lifestyle and hip-size, it's not an ENTIRE representation of the Daily Livin' of Rona-Girl. Mostly. But not entirely.

Last weekend's trip to Santa Cruz with Tanya T was perfect. We went hiking in the mountains in the pursuit of mushrooms, we relaxed on the beach, we hit a few wineries (to try their grape juice, Grampa), and we just chilled. It was unbelievably nice. Even though I left my laptop in our motel and they had to ship it to me and I lived an entire week in the technical dark ages, where I had to spend my nights * talking * to people and * reading. * I was one step away from whittling soap by candlelight and talking about what a hard winter it had been.

The toddler twins I live with had their second birthday yesterday. It was wild. There was a puppet show, corndogs, and a helium tank. Which is basically all this girl needs for a good time. This is the cast of characters who attended:

These are the twins' friends. I KNOW. Have you ever seen this much diversity outside of a Fabric of Our Lives commercial? Also I would like to point out--if I may--the baby in the top middle. He's a total gangster. We're going to see him in a towncar one day wearing a dark suit and surrounded by foxy ladies. I hope he gives me a head tip even though I'll be roughly sixty by then.

I'm going back to work tomorrow! This marks my seventh day at a fantastic job with the San Francisco Opera. I'm going absolutely nuts over it. I hopehopehope it lasts for a long time not only because I adore it and look forward to going every day, but also because now the work bar has totally been raised and I'm afraid all future temp work is going to look * yawn * next to it. But how about this for one of the perks of temp work: your network becomes crazy diverse!

Hey! This is random, but I need advice. I'm in the market for a watch and don't know where to go. My old one--a fantastic plastic piece with dancing cows on it that I got at Octopus, the greatest shop in England ever--has officially called it a day. Now I live in a land without time and I feel slightly disoriented. Does anybody know a good place for watches of whimsical design?

Just now a freshly-bathed Timo came running up to me with a handful of hangers and I swear he looks taller than he did before his bath tonight. I mentioned this growth spurt to his mom, Sara, who calmly replied: 'We watered him.' 

Speaking of bath time, I think tomorrow is a Shower Day. I can usually tell Shower Day is approaching when I comb my fingers through my hair and it stays in place. So that's cool. I just wish Shower Day didn't also happen on a Work Day, because that means I have to wake up at an insane hour. And I love my sleep. In fact, I love my sleep more than I love my personal hygiene, which is why Shower Day is so rare and I'm so well-rested.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some mad carbonara to chow on (have I ever mentioned how much I love living with a professional chef?) and I've got to finish whittling this clipper ship I started last week. I heart you.

And you can paddle all around it in your big canoe.

Today a friend of mine sent me the following article: Fat Butts May Be Healthy. I can't imagine why he thought I'd find it of interest.  * admiring my backside in the mirror *

Do you want to see the view from where I'm living? You can see the mountains of MARIN from here. And today was all sexy and rainstormy out and when I went to move my car for street cleaning, I almost died of a heart attack from the view and had to run back inside for my camera and then back out into the still wet streets where I stood in the middle of the road and shot shot shot and fell in love with the towers of Golden Gate Bridge and the hills of the Presidio and the easter egg houses and I kept causing cars to pile up but that's okay because LOOK AT THAT VIEW!

What's even more mind-blowing is how awesome my roommates are. They're snuggly, they don't talk too much in the mornings, and they like to share their food. This is just the way I like my people.

(They come with two grown-ups, but they're slightly more elusive to photograph. Like elves.)

Living in the Richmond is great. I'm surprised at how much I'm loving it. In my past San Francisco life, I always thought of the Richmond as another city altogether: 'I can't meet you for dinner way out there, are you crazy?' But seriously. San Francisco is only 7 miles x 7 miles. NOTHING is way out there. And now I'm ten minutes from the Ocean, and I'm ten minutes from Golden Gate Bridge, and I'm a half hour from Union Square on that tricky tranny hot bus the 38 Geary. Things aren't inaccessible at ALL. And at my doorstep? HOLY AWESOME ASIAN FOOD, BATMAN. I've got Vietnamese noodles, Korean bbq, tofu houses, Thai, and sushi sushi oh the sushi. There's also an interesting Russian and Irish population, which would be great if I were into pubs or the Russian Orthodox Church. Which I'm totally not, Grampa. Either one. And there's also Tommy's Mexican, the most famous margarita bar in the world, which would be great if I were into smooth and flawless tequilas. Which I'm totally not, Grampa. Tequila comes from the plant of the devil, the cactus. I go to Tommy's for the enchiladas. And the free chips and salsa so fiery my nose runs.

Oh, and the best part of living where I am? Golden Gate Park is RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET. Literally. ACROSS THE STREET. I'm within walking distance of the California Academy of Science, and the Conservatory of Flowers, and the Japanese Tea Gardens, and if I was prone to sleep-walking, I could easily stumble right into Stowe Lake, which I am determined to paddle around in one of those rentable paddle boats if I can ever find somebody to do it with me. Or maybe I should just go out and paddle alone, in one giant circle like a one-legged duck.

Alright, I'm gonna go now...the babas are in bed and the house is still and quiet and I think I'll go curl up with a book* and a mug of tea.

*I'm lying to you. I just got my Glee disc in the mail today and I'm totally going to zone out on it and re-wind all the singing and dancing scenes to watch them over and over again, just like I did the first time I watched Dirty Dancing and the final dance gave me goosebumps and I had to see the look of shock and awe on the father's face over and over again. I'll read later, like at bedtime.**

**I'm lying to you again. I'll turn on my lamp and open my book as though I'm GOING to read, and then I'll fall asleep before I can even find my spot on the page. Then I'll wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and my book will fall off the edge of the bed except toward the wall-side not the open-side and I'll be like, 'SON OF A!' and then I'll have to lean over to get it and then I'll whack my head against the wall and get all mad and so by the time my fingers fumble and find it and pull it out, I've vowed never to read in bed again. Until the next night, which will be different.