singing in front of people even though i don't know what kind of cereal they ate when they were kids.

My COFFEE post isn't due for another 10 days. I've just enjoyed a victory. I will share: Immediately.

Per my COFFEE project, I hiked up my drawers and played my music in front of people--real people. I didn't even know all their names or what kind of cereal they ate when they were kids. Long standing fear here (of playing in front of people--not of cereal). Totally dumb, irrational fear. 'Twas time to rid the stink of the stink.

So I did. Thursday, I ridded stink of stink, more or less.

I had Chrispy ...

[A few days ago, I saw the word, the adjective, "crispy," used in a sentence, and I thought, "Oops, they forgot the h." I'd forgotten it was actually a word before it was Chris's moniker.]

Focus, P! …I had C(h)rispy video some of it for COFFEE. Afterwards, I deeply regretted this. That night, and all of Friday, I would not touch the camera. Aside from a few shaky wedding songs and some very safe back-up singing for Wendy, it has been well over a decade since Music and I went out in public together. Fifteen years ago I would have watched that video and become hyper-critical and violently negative. I would have completely shredded myself, disassembled my soul, and spit loogies straight into the face of my very existence. Then I would have locked my guitar in its case for another fifteen years.

Then picked the wings off a butterfly and kicked an old lady.

(Too much?)

(Yes.)

I like butterflies and old ladies very much, so I avoided the camera with its naked footage of my naked reunion with Music. My music.

This morning I was thinking, you know, I've done some growing in the past 15 years. I can control this now. So I downloaded the videos, said, "Be kind, Dear," and watched. And…

It's not that I was some kind of spectacular shooting star, because I wasn't. I sang wrong lyrics and mis-chorded, and stood kind of awkwardly and in an awkward part of the stage. But the fact that I watched start to finish, and I didn't say a single unkind thing to myself is AMAZING. And heartening! And makes me feel really awesome. I am 36 years old, and I have finally learned how to be nice to myself. Amen.

So now I can break this experience down into 3 triumphs:

1. I played. It scared the poop out of me (literally), and I did it anyway.

2. The playing went exactly as I'd expected; I will explain.

Expectations are a nasty beast. I am happiest (and I would guess this is true for most) when I genuinely appreciate and fully embrace: Here, Now, This, and With These People (hereupon: HNTWTP). Expectation for me has generally meant being constantly 10 years ahead of myself--the anticipation of This will become This which will become This and then This and then This will happen--which causes either total impatience with HNTWTP, total disconnection with HNTWTP, total invalidation of HNTWTP, and/or fear and anxiety, trepidation and subsequent paralysis about F (Future).

And butterflies lose wings and old ladies get kicked in the craw.

I didn't have those kinds of expectations this time around. I expected it to be imperfect, and it was. I expected it to not be a disaster, and it was not a disaster. I expected to not barf or shat myself, and I did not barf or shat myself (I understand that is not proper conjugation of -to shit.). I expected some things to go well, and they did. I expected some things to be clumsy, and they were… And every bit of it was just fine.

None of this was in the spirit of self-sabotaging pessimism. It wasn't negative self talk. It was actually the opposite. It was gloriously positive and uplifting. Hey, Puddin' Pie, you're not perfect. And that's a-okay.

3. I reflected, watched myself, heard myself, and was kind to myself. (Additionally, I would like to thank the sound guy for keeping my clumsy guitar at a mercifully low level. And no, recognizing that I'm a clumsy guitarist is not self-bashing. It's simply having ears.)

Winner!

I'll save the video for the COFFEE post.

No butterflies or old ladies were harmed in the creation of this blog post.

electric wriggling ball of stuff

I found a thick and intimidating spider scrambling across the carpet to the wall next to my red readingwritingandthinking chair today. I believe in the souls of things, that they are sacred and important, and we should do our very best to not tread all over them. ...But spiders flip my shiz. Snakes are cool. Spiders, not so much. (Actually, I do think spiders are kind of cool, but in the same way poltergeists, are. I don't want either one of them in my living room.) (I don't really want snakes in my living room, either, but.. I don't know where I'm going with this.)

At any rate, I saw the spider, spontaneously revisited my vow to go gently on the earth and do my very best to not tread all over souls, then grabbed a shoe, said, "Thankyouforyourserviceandpleasegoodjourneytoyoursoul," and I killed it dead. Squished it and its soul.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Spider. One day I will cancel my fear of spiders and live with you harmoniously. But not today. Today I will kill you.

Next, I will write 3 paragraphs about my skill for camouflage:

In this first paragraph, I will review something that happened to me very very (very) frequently when I taught at the community college, which is the same thing that happened to me very very (very) frequently when I worked at the gym. I had taught at the college for 3 years, and in that 3rd year, teachers I had been seeing in lounges and hallways, some I'd already been introduced to, often approached and re-introduced themselves and welcomed me to the staff. I'd been at the gym almost a full year when members often commented, "Oh, you're new." And I would smile and say, "Nope, [first name], I've been here a while."

Now, in the second paragraph, I will tell you a story about what happened last week in the cafeteria of my current job, where I have worked for 1 year and 3 months. The man who makes the deli sandwiches, L, to whom I have said hello at least 137 times, and who has made me at least a dozen tuna salad sandwiches, said, "Oh, hi. What's your name? You're new here."

Finally, in this paragraph, I will note as I have many times in the past, that I would make an excellent spy, because I apparently blend very well with my surroundings. I mean, sure, if it happens once, maybe even twice, you could argue that people are thick-meloned and don't pay attention. But if it happens 10 times, by 10 different people, you really ought to take a long gander in a mirror just to make sure you are actually present in your body, and that it wasn't snatched and replaced with a stranger's.

Now that I've talked about that, I guess I'll just ramble on about how creative I've been the past few weeks, and like I've really squeaked open a hidden pantry. Songs are coming out. A new tale-telling venture is hatching (which I will keep secret until I am sure I won't self-sabotage, as that is kind of my way of things -- to self-sabotage, a very special trick I've been perfecting since I was about 22.). A cool work project is lighting my noggin on fire. In passes such as these I get a vision of myself, and I like it. I'm buoyed by it. There is even some spirit of creation in the marathon training, which I can't quite put my finger on.

At the exact same time, there's a little undercurrent of Holy Shittedness. And I think I have a better understanding of why I keep the reins so tight. Every time I nudge the door open, all this stuff, this exciting, electric, wriggling ball of stuff, starts barreling toward the light. Although I know it's good, and it's liberating, and it's as it ought, it's alarming. So I gasp and kick shut. Typhoons just aren't sustainable.

Mr. Ebu-Pants is laying across my legs. I feel his motor running, and I love this cat. His is my favorite feline soul.

until the spots stopped

I spent an unnatural amount of time trying not to pass out this morning. Bad run. It was a "back-off" week, and I may have been over-confident. 12 miles just seems silly now. 12 miles is for children and puppies. 12 miles is for heels and skirts while eating pie.

Not so much, no.

I ran 6. It was hot. My body didn't feel right. I kept having to pause in the shade and squat until the spots stopped. So I walked the rest. It took a while, so I had time to think on things.

I thought:

Music--really, when it comes to running, whatever works, you know? If you want to listen to a bunch of 90's Pantera, nobody can revoke your hippie card. Same for Britney Spears and Fergie. But if you're 36, and Miley Cyrus's The Climb has snuck into your iPod, you should make sure you have plenty of Grace Potter and Eminem to balance things out.

Grace Potter--Totally badass. I want to sing and write songs like that.

Foresight--Foresight is funny business. I can't look ahead 10 minutes to say, "Hey, P, if you eat these potato chips, you're going to be sick." But put an idea in my head, and I will--in an instant-- project 20 years ahead to some kind of fantastical outcome that usually includes an interview with Diane Sawyer and a Grammy. Seriously. Give me any idea. Any idea and all. And I will tell you how it leads to Diane and a Grammy.

It's All In Your Head--I hear this about running, that at a certain point, it's just a mind game. I'm on the fence on this. It seems like kind of a dumb thing to say, because it's only a mind game if your body is already on board. My brain is a pretty magical place, but no amount of fantasy is going to put fluid in my body when I'm dehydrated.

Phones--I wish we didn't have cell phones. I wish we could go back to phones with twirly cords mounted on the kitchen wall... and no voicemail. I really do. And letters. I want to write letters. And I want people to write letters to me. And I want them to come in the mail with a cool stamp.

Pride--I think I may have quit this marathon training business a few weeks ago if it wasn't for my personalized race bib. I registered early, so my race bib will have my first name printed in big letters. It is the thought of that lonely race bib laying unclaimed at pick-up--so sad--that makes me too proud to quit. I mean, how many PATRESAs are going to be running this thing?

Swimming--I think I would swim if I could properly execute a flip turn.

Triathlons--I think I would train for triathlons if I could properly execute a flip turn. I don't like riding bikes, but I could get over that. But swimming. No, I need flip turns. And space. I don't want all those elbows and feet in my face. And also, I don't think I like the idea of riding a bicycle with a wet butt.

Running As Life Lessons--It's too obvious. I can't bear to print it--training for the long haul, pushing beyond your limits, slowing down when your body says to, anything is possible with a plan, it's always hard at first, keep going... I know the application. I just don't (apply). But I'm pretty sure if I can yank this marathon out of my buns, I probably have a novel up there, too.

unabashedly imperfect

It's 9:30. I should be much more tired than I am. I think working out at 5 a.m. every morning has reduced my body's dependency on sleep.

Because I like to observe my own neurosis, and because I believe my neurosis is not unique and likely matches your neurosis, which makes it a shared neurosis between most people and therefore probably really shouldn't even be called "neurosis" but instead should just be called human nature, I would like to recant the frenetic brain activity that happened after my last blog post, the song blog:

Neurosis: This is attention seeking behavior. Stop, immediately.

Rationality: Why is posting a song blog any more attention seeking than posting a word blog?

Neurosis: This song is horrible. You suck. You are horrible. You should be ashamed. Stop, immediately.

Rationality: It doesn't have to be good if it's honest.

Neurosis: Yes, it does. Why do anything at all if you can't do it perfectly, Idiot?

Rationality: But, there is no such thing as perfect.

Neurosis: Maybe, but this is really awful. Be ashamed. Stop.

Rationality: But, isn't it liberating to publicly and freely acknowledge your own awfulness? To bare your limited skill set and failed attempts? Isn't it soul-freeing to bite the dust of imperfection in front of lots and lots of people? Isn't that the only true way to find joy--to release all unrealistic expectations for self and just...be?

Neurosis: No. Stop.

Rationality: But, maybe someone somewhere won't think it's awful. There is an audience for awful things. Just listen to all that weird obscure indie music. They can't even sing, and people love them!

Neurosis: They have horrible taste and their opinions don't count.

Rationality: But it's not okay to cap honest expression based on outside opinions.

Neurosis: Have you no pride?

Rationality: Yes, I have too much.

Anyway, just a sampling.

Another frenetic dialogue is happening right now as I type. But I'm going to just leave it at this.

Good night. Sleep tight. May tomorrow be wildly and unabashedly imperfect, and may you fail publicly and not give a flying tin can of shit.

Swim: a song blog

I really like songs that tell stories -- too-many-words songs. So, with my last beautiful day of staycation, I tried to write one. I found it... hard. And for someone with normally very fine rhythm, kind of... annoying. But I like it, in a not classically good sort of way.

Here is the song:

(And if that doesn't work: Here is the song...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUmL65WPews)

And here are the words:

You know, when I was six I was

sucked in by the ocean

on vacation to the beach and the waves pulled me

under, pulled me under

and sideways.

And I still remember toes

in seaweed, kicking for sand,

searching for land,

But the tide flipped me on my side, and I

took in water

so much water 'til I

couldn't breathe

I couldn't breathe.

Ocean in my ears, I heard what

whales hear

what squid hear

what seals hear

when they're underwater.

So, my uncle pulled me to shore

wrestled me through choppy waves,

and I cried into the castle

my sisters built.

He's gone now, that uncle

Taken too soon, too young

No warning, and

isn't that the way with the tide,

it takes and it gives and

you never know

which or what or when, so you

just swim

and swim

'til you're tired.

Yeah, you never know

which or what or when, so you

just swim

and swim

'til you're tired.

Every summer we went to Minnesota, to

the lake to my grandparents' river, and

we floated downstream in rafts with

turtles and fish

and snakes.

They had a canoe, too, but

between me and you,

I hate canoeing.

There, I've said it.

I really frickin' hate canoeing.

Flimsy, stupid, unstable vessel

wobbling like a drunk on water

just me and a paddle

and a partner, and we tip

side to side, and

spill into the water,

Athough, I'm a good swimmer

a strong swimmer, I still

hate it.

It's just, I want to know when

I'd rather jump than be pushed.

Do you know what I mean?

Boats, they dump you into water &

conspire with the river who drags you

downstream, upstream, sidestream, wherever

she wants. So I muscle through

and scream, "This is not my choice!"

Not my choice.

Maybe I'm too high strung

Never been too good at floating, so I

swim

and I swim

'til I'm tired.

Yeah, maybe I'm too high strung

Not too good at floating, so I

swim

and I swim

and I swim

'til I'm tired.