I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this. Years, in fact. It’s the reason I watch Clean House and have spent since 2002 on a junk diet, in this case meaning I’m slimming down my ownership and acquisition of junk. This move even looks to be a sign of my success in that area: a good portion of what I own is already stored in neatly labeled plastic boxes, ready for transit.¹ The new move is close to ideal, with two exceptions: the bathroom has that icky hard-to-clean 80s tile, and the kitchen is much too small for my tastes. But I have Mike to consider, and it has central air, massive square footage and makes him happy, so at the end of July we transition our lives there, and I hope within a year to be able to spring for underground parking.

As to my own ideal environment – something temperate, preferably year round, located in a neighborhood where I can walk to everything. It’s what I liked about where I grew up – it was travel-friendly to pedestrians and hobos. But I like the large city aspect of where I live, without delusions of being small town/big city like Crown Point had. It helps that Minneapolis actually is a big city, with a population over 1 million when you count the suburbs. I like mass transit readily available, a good natural food coop nearby, a library and post office within walking distance and ultimately, even my credit union nearby. I like convenience. Having a place to read outdoors is also ideal. I’m going to miss Old Milwaukee Avenue (my reading outside bench is there) and it will be hard to come visit, but now I feel weird spending time there now that I know for sure I’m leaving this neighborhood.

Indoors, my first priority is comfortable furniture. Right now all the furniture in our home is extremely uncomfortable, so a good portion of the time we just sit on the floor because the outcome on our backs is the same. We’re trading it in for good stuff soon, and I’m being finicky because I want comfort. My health is better, as are my personal decisions, when my body isn’t challenged by the stuff where I sit or lie to accomplish my work. Even my desk chair is a problem, and to some extent, my desk. I need a larger plexiglass covering. In a perfect world, I would own a true live/work loft studio with a huge kitchen, including a kitchen island, hanging pots, and a dishwasher. Maybe one of those icemaker refrigerators. It would have lots of shelving so I could have lazy susans for all my herbs. My bed would be round, with satin sheets. The floor would be hardwood, with carpet installed in the bedroom. It would be way up high in the sky, away from excess noise. Pizza would deliver there. ² My office would have a skylight, maybe a second one for Mike’s desk, too, and extra shelving along the walls where he could put his damn penguins. Along with the bedroom with a magical walk-in closet of Narnia-like proportions, we would have that “third” bedroom filled with my books and ritual gear, along with the altar, a few bean bag chairs and a writing desk and chair. It would be well-ventilated and have different colors on all the walls. This would be our library/my ritual space. And it would have a balcony, spacious enough that I could plant hanging baskets and flowerboxes all over it so that in June and July things would bloom in crazy trailers, and on cold days they could perfume our home with oxygen. The keys to my idea place would be space and light – lots of open space, nothing accessory on the floor for any reason, not even lamps, space to dance, space to write, space to live. Color, vibrant, everywhere.³  An indoor swimming pool wouldn’t be bad, either.

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1. Made easier by the sucky layout of my current closet. Definitely not designed for someone as prone to clothing as I am. [↩]
2. I learned in Mankato that I never again want to live so far out of town I can’t have pizza delivered. [↩]
3. This can only be done in small doses – Mike can’t handle the work of my favorite artist, which is all vibrant color and brings things out of you. [↩]

Keep me true to myself
on this path to myself
Remind me, dear Eros
at the end of this journey
lies freedom
new journeys
heartbreak
and joy.
Amen.

-Artist’s Prayer by Diana Rajchel

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Xiane commented that this week’s work seems less appealing/unappealing somehow. I agree with her, but I think there’s also a factor of ourselves individually reacting to the process. It is in our nature to resist change, especially change driven by ourselves. Also, my inner critic is an astonishingly subtle bastard, and it switches tactics to throw me off being productive. I’m thinking of coming up with an exorcism ritual for that little brat – it makes me think of the demonic imps you’d see in woodcarvings back when witches were hanged.

I think all of us are prone to going on any self-improvement program and then, usually around week 3, dropping it dead or haring off – and I get the sense that all of us in this cluster are fighting that very tendency right now. A lot of painful stuff comes up fast, and no one likes dealing with unpleasantness, especially their own.

I can’t speak for the other cluster members, but already my rewards and products have been significant – faster, more creative writing, a new visual bent previously unexperienced, and much more ease getting into the creative state of mind. Add this to increased synchronicity and I’m having one wild, wild experience, although the increase in crazymakers (see this post from my livejournal yesterday) is a curious offset. Also, there are physical effects – I need to exercise, so my body can sustain the literal burn from increased brain activity.

Traits I admire
One of the exercises is to look over yesterday’s list of the dead I’d like to hang with and consider traits that I admire. I realize now I’d be lying to myself if I listed “honesty.” Looking at these people, I prefer
1. Wit
Sharp observation with humor – it’s like honesty, but has more shape, and acknowledges that sometimes a lie is a necessary grease. It’s the overuse that would trouble me.
2. Ambition/Drive
If you’re going to change the world, you can’t just sit on your ass.
3. Passion
Real, burning love for a cause or desire, whatever that may be.

Habits
I did an analysis of my habits, and here are my bad ones:
1. I get sucked into TV until TV becomes my schedule.
2. I don’t exercise or convince myself not to because “I don’t have time.”
3. Because I don’t exercise, I then don’t meditate, which is necessary to mitigating how often I break out in hives.¹

I get what my “reasons” are:

Check-in
1. Yes, I did all 7 pages this week on my morning pages. I’m getting into the “rock layer” stuff I’ve not just buried, but that has solidified. The next few weeks will be really tough work for me.
2. Yes, I did my artist’s date. I went on a short tour of the Walker Art Center. I was bored – cement floor, bad shoes, inner critic petulance – but when I forced myself to come around I found some public art that has applications in witchcraft. Really intriguing applications. I’ve also decided I like Fluxus art; it appeals to my sense of humor.
3. Yes, I did experience synchronicity this week – when I left that Master’s Track information night after struggling with weirdness, I ran directly into the poetry director on the way out, after someone sidled up beside me and asked me what I thought so he could hear me say I had poetry interest. I met a fabulous comic artist in a coffee shop this week. I’m sure there was other stuff, but those are the most memorable to me.
4. As to issues significant to my creative recovery: the emotional gates are opening, and as usual the first one out on the track is anger, followed closely by love. I also feel like there is some entity or person that is not on my side and doesn’t want me to do this – I get a radio sense of interference. I’ve been producing more, freely, faster. My sense of comedy is also catching up.

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1. Now that I’ve tried to cut out corn syrup, this is less of an issue, but still has impact as corn syrup isn’t the whole story. [↩]

5 people I wish I’d met:
1. Tony Gladys (americanized spelling)
This was my uncle that led the escape from a labor/concentration camp – was it Krakau? My sister might remember. I want to know what is inside of us as a family that leads to that level of balls.
2. Mark Twain
He’s been a huge influence on my writing and my view of Americana, because even before anti-patriotism became a fad, he saw the truth of it – and it wasn’t all bad. It still isn’t all bad, and he’d be just as irritated by the anti-patriots as he is by the blind patriots. I know I am. But he’s a sad sack, having lost everything and everyone he loved before his death including his daughter. I only hope he’s been given it back.
3. H.L. Mencken a brilliant humorist, another comic who deserved to be taken more seriously, and not just because of The Great Monkey Trial.
4. Elizabeth Cady Stanton
I just want to say “thanks for the civil rights, I truly cherish them.”
5. Harriet Tubman
Any pointers? I have a feeling my next life may actually involving smuggling and hiding people running for their lives. Don’t know why.

Who would I want to hang out with?
1. Andy Kaufman
OK, he’d probably get off on making me uncomfortable, but I appreciate his “it’s funny to me,” humor and I get his jokes that other people don’t normally get. I think we’d get along fine.
2. Benzir Bhutto
Just because I want to know – whatever possessed you? And how did you manage it?
3. Eva Peron
Ambition. TRUE blond ambition. I love a woman that had the western world terrified without using a single bomb, just calmly serving tea and going about her life in a terrifyingly efficient way.
4. Ben Franklin
He’d probably hit on me, but my god, that mind.
5. Either Doreen Valiente or Scott Cunningham. I think I would choose Scott, because the element of gentleness appeals to me.

So, the final question on this exercise: what traits do I look for in these personages can I look for in friends? Hm.

1. Courage
Every single one of these people had their balls just about dragging on the floor they had so much courage.
2.Humor
A sense of humor, especially a strong one in the right place, is an extension of sense of humility. I deeply appreciate this. This isn’t mockery, it’s the type that brings about an awareness of the world.
3. Strength
I am attracted to genuinely strong people, people who can stand against the world for its betterment, or stand with it to guide its betterment.
4. Clarity
People who are strong in who they are, what they want/why they’re doing what they’re doing, and how they’re going to attain their accomplishments.
5. Decency with passion
I like people who have a cause, who really intend to serve something greater than themselves. And yes, I believe that Peron and Bhutto were among those, but being women were highly pragmatic and thus it make them seem less cause driven than in fact they were.

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Today has been harder than previous days to get and stay on track with morning pages and the whole “work of the way” than previous days. I’m doing what I do in other therapies: I do great right up front, phenomenally well, and then I hit a stopping point where both the therapist and myself are just digging into rock. Except now that it’s just me and no therapist involved, I’m going to have to get past that rock. It doesn’t help that I didn’t sleep well last night – it’s terribly humid, which is a big problem in summers in the Midwest, and I’d had a near misadventure in Minnehaha Falls with some kids that were looking to harass Joel and I as we did a quiet ceremony. That said, Eros has kept his promise – I am protected, and the kids, upon seeing what we were doing, moved on. I’ve also been having trouble with forgetting my camera, and my phone – it’s a point of much frustration, as I see many hilarious and interesting images, seemingly more without them in hand. Lesson learned: stay out of the south end of the park after midnight. Bad things go on there, in multiple dimensions.

Yesterday was the culmination of my lecture series, where we did a tour through a select set of art galleries in the Walker. I had to struggle with my inner critic, my aching feet and my own tendency towards easy boredom – the instructor talked too much, something she admitted she did, and I took to wandering around the gallery while she blathered on. Once in awhile she said something truly interesting, but mostly she over-repeated points I’d already understood, and her flaky understanding of spirituality concepts – like the difference between Dionysan and Bacchanalian – kind of set me off. It wasn’t all bad; she has a true passion for art and on gets that their is a spiritual principle that causes people to dedicate their lives to it.

Notably the art she didn’t “get” was the set that I understood best: it was a set of small sculptures: a snake, a poison bottle, a silver sphere and a gold sphere. Any witch worth their practice is going to know what those are for, and what the artist is saying, clear as day. It’s only a shame they’re caged up in a gallery. There was also this cool piece of granite/strata on the floor with a compass embedded in it in the shape of an arrow. I can, with proper direction, highly magically useful, from right there in that gallery, without having to touch it.

Artists are witches. It’s just in a socialized form.

I’m sure I took away far more than I thought I did and more than aching feet – I have from the lectures, I certainly will have that experience from seeing the art. And I do want to go back. Yes the Walker is dry and Minnesotan, an example of the humorous void local hipsters see as being “with it” that I just see as another form of being “vacant.” But it triggered my cartoon brain, so it did something. Jake from Witchblade with cow’s udders strapped to his bare chest, chased by a horde of beach babes and Keystone Cops. A random idea for a prank, inspired by Fluxus – as a prank, leaving random bright-colored objects throughout the Walker gallery, just to see who took it for art. Comedy is art, and it is deeper and richer than the deepest of belly laughs – yet it gets tossed off as not art because it profits. Fluxus is an expression of magic – real magic. I could use it.

When I came home to hang out with Joel, there was more painting. I need to scan things in and post them on my flickr account. But my brain has been vibrating at such a rate it’s raised my metabolism – I can feel it. So now, I need some rest.

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For convenience and sanity’s sake, I’ve also opened a Moving Sale section to my shop.

If you’ve been curious, now’s the time! Fritz needs a new home, after all.

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These are my 5 Childhood Accomplishments:
1. Won first place in the Indiana History Challenge. I had a little Indiana-shaped trophy collecting dust for years after that, and I was so proud.
- can I add historian to my list of alternate life careers? I’d make a fab historian, I’m a storyteller.
2. Nominated for attendance at the Young Author’s Conference.
3. Got 3 girls to climb up on the tank in the middle of Main Street and do the hokey pokey. Resulted in an ordinance prohibiting climbing on the tank.
4. Raised both my chemistry and advanced algebra grades from ds to bs in less than 6 weeks.
5. Straight A’s the last quarter of senior year; also, wrote a one act play about Dr. Pepper during this time that was truly hilarious, cementing my reputation and knack for comedy.

These are 5 favorite foods from when I was growing up:
1. Mac & Cheese
2. Kielbasa
3. Potato Chips
4. Knox blocks (these finger-Jello things)
5. Cottage cheese w/ honey – this was when yogurt was still a “special treat” rather than the daily vitamin it is now.

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I went to check out the master’s track program at the literary center, and immediately got an urge to go sit in the poetry circle, but instead I sat in creative nonfiction. I noticed one of the instructors more than once pausing on me with an odd gaze, which I would meet – and she would immediately look away. While no flags were raised in discussing the program, just before the group broke up, she looked straight at me and said, You need to have a sense of humility about what you write. Some writers can be overconfident. I got the impression that too much confidence would get me turned away, and there’s no doubt in my mind this was said for me and me alone. Given that I hadn’t said word 1 in the circle, not even to ask a question – I don’t seriously think I can raise the $10K required when I still owe somebody else that much, and not a word of financial aid was mentioned ¹ I decided to stifle my “what the fuck?” Most of the women were really nice, but more than once I wished I could flip someone off with my toes. It was the looks. I was the only woman wearing red, and dressing with sexual confidence. Clearly, this was a problem.

More important than the bizarre reactions to my silent self was that the entire time as I sat in the circle I’d volunteered to pigeonhole myself into, the little voice in my head was saying GO TO POETRY. GO OVER TO POETRY. FOR FUCK’S SAKE DIANA, GET UP AND GO TO THE POETRY CIRCLE! This is very strange, as those who remember my grad school days and my fun with poets will recall. I don’t know where this poetic urge came from. I haven’t written a good poem in years, and I’m doubtful I could produce 6-10 good poems during the two months before the application process begins. I ignored it despite an inner screaming tantrum – delayed when I promised us ice cream.²

On the way out, a girl I hadn’t spoken to asked me what I thought. I told her it all seemed very reasonable, about what I had expected/hoped for, but the voice in my head kept telling me to go over poetry. Right there in front of us to hear this was the coordinator of the poetry department. I told him who I was, that I write occult stuff, that my love for poetry had been thoroughly killed by a graduate education ³ The guy’s name was Thomas, he made sure to get my name. I liked him. I felt sympatico. For him, I might dig up 3-5 poems and force myself to write a few.

But where did this poetry urge come from? And how would I pay for it? Taking these practical concerns and displacing them is so converse to how I operate.

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1. not to mention a serious lack of confidence in grantwriting for myself [↩]
2. This gives me a whole new insight into my eating disorders. I would eat where other children would tantrum. [↩]
3. mainly, by graduate students. I would hate it if Robbins blamed himself. [↩]

I am continuously amazed at what this process is bringing out of me. Xiane observed last night that I’m clearly impacted visually – I am thinking more visually, and it’s coming out in my writing not to mention in my urge to draw and paint. Also, I like lowbrow art. This shouldn’t surprise me – I have a prankish sense of humor.

There are people who think they know me well who approach me as though I’m dead serious all the time. Those who do know me well know that couldn’t be further from the truth: my laughing phases are just as intense as my angry phases which are just as intense as my working phases. It just hasn’t occurred to some of these folks that I still exist when they’re not in the room. I’m guessing if any of these folks picture me as a child, they picture a solemn, lonely little kid. Yes, I was lonely most of the time, but I wasn’t solemn. I had a sense of humor about all of it, and I played jokes on my family because I knew my schoolmates weren’t advanced enough to distinguish between “prank-you mean” and “prank-you-I-like you” behaviors. My saving grace was an innate sense of knowing that all my circumstances were temporary.

So, looking at 5 traits I had as a child that I liked, I want to say that most of these traits were from first grade and before. By 2nd grade the onslaught from family and the world started to damage me, so these traits began to disappear. But looking back at them, I liked them. They still inform who I would like to be, someday when I’ve evolved past all the internal muck.

1. The duck-coating. Up until age 8, meanness would generally just roll off my back. I even remember being attacked quite literally by the neighbor boys in a sandbox and by the time my bath was done, I’d forgotten it.

2. I accepted people as they were, wholesale. I was all about the opportunity to be nice.

3. I sang a lot. I loved to sing – in May, I’d yell the lyrics to Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer from my backyard swingset.

4. Sensual enjoyment – silk between my fingers, the leap in my stomach when the car went fast over a hill, and the delicious pleasure of pushing a button. I still love pushing buttons.

5. Love. I loved everybody, and believed fervently that everyone had kindness in them, just that some needed help unlocking it.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I grew up to be exactly who I was as a little kid.

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My first room that I remember in childhood was a space I shared with my sister; it was mostly decorated in “Big Sis Decor” with Duran Duran and Menudo posters at various phases ¹ and there was NO space allowed for my self-expression, save a single Strawberry shortcake corkboard. Even the corkboard was not sacred: once my sister took to posting nasty notes on things I had attempted to express and put out into the universe in my 8 year old way, I pretty much quit adding to it, having learned early that disclosing anything about what I really wanted out of life was not safe, and most especially not safe to express to my family, who had a clear idea of who they wanted me to be, and whoever that person was they had in mind, she sucked.²

My second childhood room was not nearly as restricted in expression. I opted for the smaller of the two upstairs bedrooms, with cork ceilings and an “open floor concept.” I was careful not to put anything completely personal or cherished out – I’d learned my lesson about allowing my family to get to know me – and put up this facade of old Americana 1930s car prints, cartoon strips and environment = yay posters. Certainly, I cared about those things, but they were never the things I cared about most. Those were just the things I put up so that my mother could be smug in her “normal” daughter and I could be at least somewhat left alone. I didn’t really explore my true interests at that time – becoming teenage in my house meant a complete revocation of any remaining privacy or trust, two things not in great supply in that house to begin with.

The best thing about the bedroom was the bed itself. In fact, it was really the only good thing about the bedroom. It was a daybed with a trundle bed, the mattress was more comfortable than the supported crossboards I’d slept on in the old bunk bed my sister and I shared, and it was comfortable for long hours of reading and journaling. The next best thing is that my parents didn’t always know what I was doing in there – so if I needed to be up, there was no bitching at me for being up outside of their sanctioned hours.

That said, despite me having the smallest room in the house, most of it was still used for storage of my mother’s excess crap. It sent a message to me about my real importance to the family that I received loud and clear – I was not as important as the crap my family wasn’t even using. It was unlivably hot in the summer, getting up to 130 degrees at times, and the “cooling” solution was an ancient, grating fan that prevented sleep and one year I damn near failed my finals because my mother insisted I have it on.

I’ve got to admit, that bed was awesome, though, especially since it did double well as a couch.

As to my current room – in the bedroom, the thing I like best is my vanity table and chair. I didn’t really have my own space to put on makeup or brush my hair when I was growing up, and I like the quiet meditation of grooming. It’s very centering. My jewelery is hanging off some shabby-chic coat hooks, my necklaces sorted rather than tangled, and I have a slew of organization stuff on the tabletop. I like the new bed. Most of the furniture I own right now is terribly uncomfortable – the side effect of having little or no money to spend on furniture – but I’m hoping to build up my entire apartment with one layer being a comfort palace.

What I like best about the place? It’s mine. It’s private. If anyone has boo to say about the way I decorate or how I live who is not my boyfriend, the exactly appropriate response is “Fuck off!”

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1. this has a lot to do with my relative aversion to music, the rest of the aversion completed by that ugly incident where I had to play a Christmas concert in high school when I could barely breath and couldn’t speak [↩]
2. Who my sister was as a child is at this point not who she is as an adult, thankfully. That and she knows I wouldn’t tolerate the histrionics or outright meanness now. [↩]