Wow. Lot of thoughts about leaving lately--looking at my last post, and then this one. At this time of year, I can't help it. That thing I used to do is coming up, and my psyche reacts to it the way it used to react to the start of school in September long after my formal schooling had ended. (That doesn't happen so much anymore. Then again, I work for a university.)

Thorn Coyle, a pagan teacher and leader I respect, wrote this post about having to quit so you can begin. A few years ago I quit a festival I'd been involved with for a long time, one at which I'd had some of the most important spiritual experiences of my life. I left for a number of reasons, among them that I was starting to feel like I was going back to the well too many times, I'm not a minister, and there was drama.

But another reason, a big one, was that there were other things I had to do, and only so many hours in the day, days in the year, years in the life. Since leaving festival work, my writing and martial arts have developed exponentially, not only because I pursued a degree in the former but because I've spent hours every week practicing both. Turns out if you practice, you improve. Who knew?

I miss the spiritual community, though. I can't go back to this particular segment of the pagan community; that ship has sailed. And while I'm still welcome to circle with my former coven, a privilege I appreciate, that's not the right home for me either. I'm working on building a new one, which makes me very happy. It's a lot of work.

Sometimes you have to quit something you love. Sometimes you wonder whether you did the right thing.

Lately, I've been making an effort to connect with other people and groups in the area. The PNW community is incredibly fragmented, without any one real central channel for people to meet and communicate. But I did find a Meetup that gets together regularly not far from my house. I'm going to go to the next one and see what they're about. At this point I'm very picky about getting involved with any groups again...but it'll be nice to meet some new people.

The old associations fade, leaving only the brightest memories that I would never trade. I miss it, I suspect I always will.

There's no going back.

Do you think this t-shirt is a valuable collector's item, considering that Steve's out of the band and Kevin's sick* again?  

The sentimental value outweighs any fiscal value it might have for me, but I'm just curious. 

*Not as sick as my sense of humor. but seriously; according to BNL's blog, he's temporarily "on the bench," as he put it. 

Jesse loved books. He was a bookworm, and a bookhound; one of his pastimes was to go to the local Goodwill store and pick up anything that looked interesting. The upshot of this was that he had a lot of books. When I first started training with him in Pioneer Square around 1998 or so, a heap of these books had accumulated in the basement where we trained. (For my entire time with him, Jesse's gung fu was literally an underground school.) If you could manage to throw someone into the pile of books while sparring, it was like bonus points or something.

After I'd been with him for a few years, training moved to the International District, where the group still works out today. Underneath an apartment lobby, a restaurant, and a Chinese tea shop there's a series of linked basements. We work out in the one under the tea shop, which sounds like the setup for a martial arts movie. The one under the restaurant held the overflow of Jesse's books.

There were hundreds, maybe thousands down there: in boxes, piled on tables made out of plywood and two-by-fours. At some point someone spread tarps over them, because the building's plumbing leaks. (It's an old building, like most of those in the ID. I really hope there isn't an earthquake while we're down there, because I don't like our chances.) And there they stayed, for years.

Then Jesse died. Through the occasionally contentious discussions afterward over what would happen with his students and the future of the space we were training in, the question of what to do with his books and the other stuff he'd stored down there more or less remained on the table. The person who probably knew him best and would have been the best person to go through it all had a certain reluctance to do so, which I really can't fault him for. Meanwhile the books, boxes, and papers sat there, degrading, helped along by what became a fairly epic infestation of rats.

Finally one of the guys took it upon himself to organize a cleanup, with the approval of the person to whom the task had originally fallen. So far we've spent two Saturday mornings going through books, throwing away anything obviously damaged or badly soiled (water, rat shit, rats chewing on the paper), boxing up everything else, and setting aside anything of archival interest or value.

Turns out there's been a fair amount of that. Old photographs of people I don't recognize; advertising flyers from the 1970s and 80s; a poster Jesse's brother Mike Lee used to advertise his martial arts classes (there's a scan of it on that page; it's the black one); dime-store-sized paperbacks about various martial arts, including one in Chinese printed on that pulpy paper from the early to mid 20th century. Finding this stuff makes me glad we're doing this, rather than leaving all that stuff down there until it rots.

We've also found an epic quantity of rat shit, as well as two dessicated corpses. (Yes, we are wearing masks and gloves.) When everything's cleaned out of that room we're bleaching the hell out of that sucker. Hopefully with all the paper and furniture gone, the rats will find that space less attractive. I haven't seen a live one in awhile, but I've seen where they've been, if you catch my drift.

I can't help but think of all the stuff, the physical stuff, we leave behind us when we go. I wouldn't envy whoever got stuck with going through my shit, particularly since some of it only Mr. P would understand, and Mr. Darcy would find the experience overwhelming. Since Jesse's passing, two of his students, people I trained with and knew fairly well, have died as well. We're getting to that time of our lives, it seems—you know, the part where we remember being young and immortal, and realizing what people the age we are now meant by that.

After today's cleanout, I worked out with the guys for almost three hours. One of them is moving next week, taking a job down in San Diego. One of the other students who died was a good friend of his. He's feeling the need to be somewhere else for awhile. I can understand that. I'll miss training with him.

Then I rode my bicycle home under an early spring sun, laboring up a series of steep hills. After dinner I got my fiddle out and played for awhile. Music of late has become devotional, which might just mean that I'm reading too much Nietzsche. But more and more, I find the everyday invested with the sort of significance I used to reserve for ritual and festival. Discarding what the time has come to discard is a sacred act.

I still do ritual. Yesterday I went down to Centralia to see Mr. P and we set up an altar in the field behind his parents' house and I played my fiddle for the gods because in that moment it was called for, and that's just one of those numinous things you're going to have to take my word for. Jesse never had much use for that sort of thing, as far as I can tell, but even though it's something of a cliche, if I'm being honest with myself that a lot of how I think and what I do concerning spirituality came from him.

It was how I knew to put certain things down when the time came, and how I could clean out a basement full of the things he left behind.

So, I was going to post a lovely selfie of this great t-shirt I got from the swap, but my phone was co-opted by an enterprising Beeble.

You can almost see the shirt - it's black with gold flowers and stylized birds, but the Beeble face is much cuter.

This is a terrible picture of me - my hair makes me look like I have an alien head, but with Hunter in the picture, none of you are really looking at me anyway, right?  RIGHT?

When I left Philly for Indianapolis the other day, it was 35 degrees out, there was snow on the ground, and I packed a heavy coat, a scarf, gloves, boots, and ear muffs.  Today it was 60 in both cities. 

Mrs. Elia, my 4th grade teacher, taught us that "March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb." I think the lion has finally taken a hike.  

I am SO FUCKING HAPPY this FUCKING WINTER is now over.  I'm so ready to open the windows and get outside and watch the trees branches turn red and grow buds. 

Tonight as I stood outside abandoned Terminal B for Matt to pick me up from PHL, I almost cried I was so happy because I was wearing a T-shirt and a light jacket, and I was comfortable. My cold has pretty much ended (I'm about 87% better now, which is better than I've been in weeks (save for this past Friday night), and I feel like we're all gonna be allll riiiiight.

Here comes the sun, little darlin'... and it's all right.

 Today I can turn the heat off and open the windows to let in fresh air. 

Squeaky had her first grooming of springtime. She's gone from one stinky, itchy four-legged dreadlock to a streamlined dog. 

I heard this song for the first time this morning while I was making coffee, and it put a spring in my step. 

This also makes me happy. I hate it when people put their feet on the dashboard, but I like the song. I know some of the people in this video, particularly the girl who's driving around with a gorilla. 

I read February by Margaret Atwood, and it resonated pretty strongly. 

That's pretty much it for now. 

I am moving next week for the first time since 2004. This is a happy thing and an exciting time dampened only by the humiliation and judgment that accompany accepting financial help from a family member. Otherwise, yay! For the first time in my 42 years, I will own a single home. Bonus: I'll be sharing it with someone I love deeply, his son (at least in the months of December and July), 2 cats, and a dog. So, we are packing.

This is difficult for me, a person who is sensitive to surroundings, comfort, and having my "things" nearby. The disorder, disarray, and extra dust flying around have me and my partner sneezing and snapping ever-so-slightly at each other. The furkids have a constant expression that can be interpreted as, "Please don't leave me here," "Please don't put me in a box (dog)," or "Please, put me in a box! (cat)." 

In acknowledging the stress this packing and moving process puts me under, I am hoping to contain the more irrational and emotional reactions that tend to be my defaults. Success varies by the hour. In the midst of packing hell, I did smile at a surprise last night: when cleaning out the contents of a low corner cabinet into which things seem to disappear (Honey, did you know we have a food processor?!?!?), I found the lid to an adorable little plastic container that fits a perfect cup of ..... whatever. The lid has been missing for sometime; turns out it was there all along, just waiting to be rediscovered.

I have always wanted to see what it looked like inside.

The Pink Building--or more properly known as the Scottish Rite Cathedral--at the corner of Paseo de Peralta and Washington has been there, thankfully unchanged, my entire life. Iconic, mysterious, pink. A Santa Fe landmark that I've driven or walked by a million times. On Saturday I finally got a glimpse of what lies behind those pink walls when the temple was opened to the public. The Moorish-Revival style building has been around as long as NM has been a state (1912), modeled loosely after Spain's Alhambra, and is home to the Scottish Rite Freemasons.

Inside it's as though time has been suspended, from the most lush ornamentation to the plebian workaday features. I'm drawn to vintage, so I noticed little things like the push-button light switches, 50s atomic-era bathroom sinks and faucets, gorgeous metal radiators. Furniture, from the 1930s era oak chairs to the 1950s era lamps and tables. The door handles. A lavish auditorium. A to-die-for costuming room. A light-filled ballroom. An enormous kitchen. Narrow staircases. Wide staircases. Closed doors. Rooms and rooms and rooms. Just...so much. It was a lot to take in.

One reason why I wanted to go, besides getting to peek inside at last, is that I hoped to learn more about my great-great grandfather, who immigrated to the United States from Latvia in the mid 1850s or so, ending up in Texas. He was a high-ranked and highly-involved Mason, according to his obituary and the newspaper articles about him that I've been able to find. Maybe if I knew more about Masons, I thought, I would know more about him. And indeed that is how I now feel. I came away from Saturday's experience (listening to an introductory lecture, speaking one on one with several Masons who were there to answer questions, wandering around the place) with a lot more than just having my curiosity about this building satisfied; I now think I know a lot about what kind of a man he must have been, and I feel even prouder to be his descendant.

I can't seem to figure out how to get my vertical photos (taken with cellphone, not The Real Camera (I should have brought it)) to post vertically. They all end up sideways. This first post of mine here is a test anyway.

So, until I figure it out, please to enjoy this vintage postcard of the outside of the building. It doesn't even begin to capture the Pinkness of this place.

We played a 15-minute gig to open up the Homey Award Show on Friday.

Jill was awesome, and I say that with as much objectivity as possible. She nailed it. Me, I was eh. Made only one "mistake," really, and it wasn't major (of course, I nailed it in rehearsal). But I wasn't particularly on - I was a little too self-conscious to really play.

But I've certainly been a lot worse, and on those occasions I never gave it any more thought than "hey, they can't all be your best show" or "sometimes your fingers have minds of their own" and other musician clichés. For those who've never seen us, there's a lot of "act" in our act, which gives us a little cover, making it easier to fake-till-ya-make. So a flub here and there is no big deal, right?

Well, maybe it's because we were in a room of fantastic musicians, or maybe it's because my panic attack last week was the first strike of a deep-seeded, long-planned Revolution of the Brain, but my first thought after taking our bow (to a semi-standing O, no less) and running off stage was, and I quote: "I am a fraud."

Not "I  kind of sucked tonight," or "that was disappointing," but "I am a huge fucking fraud, and everybody knows it."

Not exactly fair, brain. 

                                            You used to be cool, dude.

Look, those aforementioned clichés are true - little flubs happen, and no one cares. I'm experienced (read: old) enough to know that although my guitar acumen is just barely strong enough to justify my presence on a stage, my strength is in performing, in connecting with the crowd, in being Kage to Jill's Jables. But when we tell people "what we lack in talent we make up in cheap theatrics," we're only joking about one of us. I can write, but I lack the performance skillz; cheap theatrics is all I got. 

Before I go further: this post is not a plea for praise and attention. That's not why I'm sharing this, I promise. In fact, I fear such responses, well-meaning and sincere as they are, can sometimes make my problem worse.

So to be on the verge of tears of humiliation after an ultimately successful, borderline triumphant gig - especially considering how few people in the room were even interested in live music - is to know that some neurotransmitter ain't transmittin' right. And to have that "FRAUD" feeling only triple in size and volume after winning the "Best Live Act" award means this might ultimately be a job too powerful for Xanax. 

Speaking of: after we won that trophy, I texted this to Joe Trainor (who was happily sharing our table): "I seriously cannot shake the feeling like I'm a fraud" (apparently whatever synapse zapped my confidence was also responsible for grammar). He walked up next to me and gave me a "what the fuck!?" look, telling me the show was strong (I trust him to be 100% honest about that) and I was being ridiculous. I explained the feeling the best I could, asking him if he'd ever felt that. 

He thought about it for a bit, and said "not really. But I think I'm objective enough to know that I'm a good player and singer, and subjective enough to really like and believe in my songs. So, fraudulent? I've had moments where I felt like I wasn't performing up to my own standards, but I never felt fraudulent. Disappointed? Sometimes. Disillusioned? Definitely."

He's right - he's one of the few musicians/actors/writers I know with an accurate assessment of his own talent, which is a rare but vital skill for those of us in the biz. But I think I'm pretty good at that too, and that's not an entirely comforting feeling right now. 

I dunno. I got over it before the night was over (one Xanax! Two Xanaxes! Ah, ah, ah!) and ended up having a great time. Our performance earned us at least three potential gigs, and I could not be prouder of Hot Breakfast! and all we've accomplished. And even though I'm writing this on maybe three hours of sleep, leaving my filter filled with holes, I'm still having a hard time conjuring up that "fraud" feeling I keep talking about. So maybe it was fleeting, and this, like All Things, must pass. 

But still, I'm gonna keep one eye on my brain for a little while. Just in case it's up to some old (and new) nasty tricks. I'm too happy for this nonsense. 

I got sick two Tuesdays ago and was sick up until Wednesday of this week. That's two solid weeks of sick.  I was supposed to be teaching in Indianapolis last week and by the grace of jeezas my flights out got cancelled so I couldn't go. Seriously-- someone from The Great Beyond was lookin' out for me, because it gave me a week to be sick. I spent that Sunday through this Wednesday in bed. Thursday (snow day) was the first day where I felt like maybe I was better. Friday was the Homey Awards Ceremony/Concert at which we were performing for our peers so the stakes were high, and thanks to adrenaline, we did a good job (and even won "Best Live Act" which was the only award we really cared about).  Today (Saturday) we were in the studio all day and had an event in Arden that we had to cancel because my body just failed. We didn't get to lay down lead vocals on the new tune in the studio because my throat was too sore, and we knew there was no way we'd be people-worthy tonight in Arden. I felt bad for canceling, but nobody cared really, and I've gotta fly tomorrow (Sunday) to Indianapolis again. My throat feels like I've swallowed glass that's been coated with Sriracha sauce. Talking hurts unfathomably. I need to be better.
Looking forward to 12 hours of sleep starting NOW.
(x-posted to xtingu.livejournal.com)