I just asked my imaginary therapist if she could write me a prescription for an anti-anxiety.
She lowered her clip-board of all the notes she taken about me for the past 23-years.
"Are you sure that's what you want?" she asked.
I don't know.
All I know is that I'm tired of feeling like I want to scream obscenities at everyone for the most minor of blunders. I am exhausted to the point of fury at the feeling that I want to punch holes in the walls and the faces and the unimportant trifles which crop up.
"Since when did I lose my ability to brush things off?" I ask.
My imaginary therapist consults at her notes.
"It's been ... a couple years now ..." she says, analyzing the data.
She has my anxiety attacks in different degrees lined graphed in her notes - an awesome Excel feature she discovered years ago which has helped her practice.
"Before the bursts of anger you always dealt with your problems with downright and simple depression. It seems as though you've been fighting extra hard these past few years ... fighting instead of standing down, but then you've also been holding a lot of that back ..."
"Is it God? Am I fighting God?"
"You haven't been fighting God until recently. You feel like you've gained so much control over your life in the past year that you've been trying to thwart God ..."
"But I know God doesn't exist."
"Yes, I know, but the concept of God still remains - you are trying to kick holes in the sky - you want control of nature and fate and the steering wheel of your entire destiny in your own hands and any exstentialist must admit, that's just not completely possible."
I sulk for a bit.
"I just feel like I really need those anti-anxieties. My heart wouldn't hurt as much. I could come home and relax instead of worry."
"Have you tried smoking weed? I could get you a medical marijuana card."
"No, thanks..."
There is a pause.
"You do know, in your heart, really, what you have to do, right? I don't have to tell you, do I?"
Pause.
"No, you don't have to tell me."
"For Christsakes then Rachel, FUCKING DO IT. Why do you keep putting it off?! You don't even have to wait until your next project is finished, JUST DO IT. No one cares about your deadlines but you, it's all made up! The whole universe and all the rules! You made it up in your head and can just as easily change it! You don't have to change the universe, it's already yours - you just SNAP and you're there. You are fighting God but you ARE GOD! ABDICATE AND BE YOUR OWN KING!"
The time is up and she stands.
"See you next time?"
"Yeah."
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Introduction
Welcome, Autumn.
Two in the morning I walk outside and there has to an Eskimo word for what the snow is doing right now. It's sparkling but in the most subtle way. A glint here and there caught out of the corner of my eye - nothing deliberate. Penstla I have learned is the word for the idea of snow, astrila is the word for snow sparkling with starlight - what is happening is a combination of those two.
Already snow. I feel late in bringing this zine out.
Things happen.
The Portland Zine Symposium was in July, shortly after the publishing of my last zine. I went to John Issacs screen printing workshop, participated in a hugging exercise, hosted an honesty booth where people just took what they wanted and left cash, met some true badasses of the industry (including Theo Ellsworth: see mini zine: D-List Celebrity Magazine), ate a lot of free of bagels with hummus and was practically steamed alive in the humidity.
Snowball died in the middle of September. There is a story in here about that. A little cedar chest with her ashes sits high above the motley of the house between two Jesus hands. My family got together for a memorial and I was able to loosen the tight thread wrapped around my heart.
Bendfilm happened in the beginning of October: two weeks of putting together awards for indie film winners - spray painting porcelain figurines, staring at a computer, sketching out pictures, being practically unknowable to Kevin.
So.
I've been taking baths, pulling Sark in with me - a glass of wine and I force myself to sit there for an hour. I burn candles now and wear boots to keep my feet warm - prepared for sudden fall time gusts. The purple in my hair is gone, and I am on a tea drinking rhythm which involves green tea in the morning, mate in the afternoon, and chamomile at night. I will survive.
Stories in this zine include: a comic section regarding my weekly trips to Costco, a quip about a Craiglists ad, a mix for my friend Jessica's baby Dahlia, the story of how I met Stephen Baldwin, and a comic about Kevin though I will try to fit more an before this goes to print ...
Now friend, grab a blanket and get in your reading chair for 15 minutes plus of a concentrated batch of solid Rachel Lee-Carman material.
(if you want to see something that makes you smile go to jonsiandalex.com and go to recipes...)
http://www.mendosa.com/snow.html
Two in the morning I walk outside and there has to an Eskimo word for what the snow is doing right now. It's sparkling but in the most subtle way. A glint here and there caught out of the corner of my eye - nothing deliberate. Penstla I have learned is the word for the idea of snow, astrila is the word for snow sparkling with starlight - what is happening is a combination of those two.
Already snow. I feel late in bringing this zine out.
Things happen.
The Portland Zine Symposium was in July, shortly after the publishing of my last zine. I went to John Issacs screen printing workshop, participated in a hugging exercise, hosted an honesty booth where people just took what they wanted and left cash, met some true badasses of the industry (including Theo Ellsworth: see mini zine: D-List Celebrity Magazine), ate a lot of free of bagels with hummus and was practically steamed alive in the humidity.
Snowball died in the middle of September. There is a story in here about that. A little cedar chest with her ashes sits high above the motley of the house between two Jesus hands. My family got together for a memorial and I was able to loosen the tight thread wrapped around my heart.
Bendfilm happened in the beginning of October: two weeks of putting together awards for indie film winners - spray painting porcelain figurines, staring at a computer, sketching out pictures, being practically unknowable to Kevin.
So.
I've been taking baths, pulling Sark in with me - a glass of wine and I force myself to sit there for an hour. I burn candles now and wear boots to keep my feet warm - prepared for sudden fall time gusts. The purple in my hair is gone, and I am on a tea drinking rhythm which involves green tea in the morning, mate in the afternoon, and chamomile at night. I will survive.
Stories in this zine include: a comic section regarding my weekly trips to Costco, a quip about a Craiglists ad, a mix for my friend Jessica's baby Dahlia, the story of how I met Stephen Baldwin, and a comic about Kevin though I will try to fit more an before this goes to print ...
Now friend, grab a blanket and get in your reading chair for 15 minutes plus of a concentrated batch of solid Rachel Lee-Carman material.
(if you want to see something that makes you smile go to jonsiandalex.com and go to recipes...)
http://www.mendosa.com/snow.html
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
An article that sucks.
"No," is Jaman's response to my lengthy story-telling question:
"While on tour do you ever feel void of home ... ( I trail off unable to find the words). Example: ever since I moved out of my parents house I've never quite felt at home whereever I am, it's like I am always restless - moving things around, turning circles all the time. I have never since felt there was a place for me. Do you feel that way when you are living in the bus, on the road, not settling?"
The difference between Jamin and I is that he has found home.
Home is this band, Larry and His Flask - his family - and everything he needs is there.
There was this time I read Jamin's palm, he has a fate line which shoots right through the head line and the heart line right between the Jupiter and the Saturn mounds.
This is a rare thing.
The line indicated to me at the time years and years ago that Jamin would find his "place," surpassing doubts in love and head issues.
In the present, with his simple answer, Jamin tells me this was a destiny fufilled. He had found his home, place, heart, the philosophers stone, the alchemists ultimate goal. I don't know what the word is exactly but while I am still looking Jamin, eating homemade chili at my house next to Dall, perusing the Source, has found it.
"While on tour do you ever feel void of home ... ( I trail off unable to find the words). Example: ever since I moved out of my parents house I've never quite felt at home whereever I am, it's like I am always restless - moving things around, turning circles all the time. I have never since felt there was a place for me. Do you feel that way when you are living in the bus, on the road, not settling?"
The difference between Jamin and I is that he has found home.
Home is this band, Larry and His Flask - his family - and everything he needs is there.
There was this time I read Jamin's palm, he has a fate line which shoots right through the head line and the heart line right between the Jupiter and the Saturn mounds.
This is a rare thing.
The line indicated to me at the time years and years ago that Jamin would find his "place," surpassing doubts in love and head issues.
In the present, with his simple answer, Jamin tells me this was a destiny fufilled. He had found his home, place, heart, the philosophers stone, the alchemists ultimate goal. I don't know what the word is exactly but while I am still looking Jamin, eating homemade chili at my house next to Dall, perusing the Source, has found it.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
More Scott Hanson
Possible Central Oregon colloquilism up for submission in mainstream speech:
Scott Hanson: verb or noun
I don't need to go to get a degree in graphic design, I'll just Scott Hanson it until I make it!
A polluted version of the American dream whereas in the American Dream you go to school, work hard and then get the job of your dreams you just work hard and try to get the job of your dreams.
At first I wanted to go to med-school but then I dedided why not be a Scott Hanson and go right into my own private practice?
Some people go to culinary school, I just Scott Hansoned and now I'm executive chef at a resort!
In a act of Scott Hanson some level of deceipt is required, e.g. not discussing education but focusing on work experience or the opinion of quality references.
A royal Scott Hanson: getting a really sweet job with the lowest possible credentials (and perhaps under the lowest but evading the issue during the interview)
I pulled off a royal Scott Hanson to get this job! When they asked about my education I let a chicken out of my briefcase!
Scott Hanson: verb or noun
I don't need to go to get a degree in graphic design, I'll just Scott Hanson it until I make it!
A polluted version of the American dream whereas in the American Dream you go to school, work hard and then get the job of your dreams you just work hard and try to get the job of your dreams.
At first I wanted to go to med-school but then I dedided why not be a Scott Hanson and go right into my own private practice?
Some people go to culinary school, I just Scott Hansoned and now I'm executive chef at a resort!
In a act of Scott Hanson some level of deceipt is required, e.g. not discussing education but focusing on work experience or the opinion of quality references.
A royal Scott Hanson: getting a really sweet job with the lowest possible credentials (and perhaps under the lowest but evading the issue during the interview)
I pulled off a royal Scott Hanson to get this job! When they asked about my education I let a chicken out of my briefcase!
Monday, October 26, 2009
D-List
Celebrity I would like to meet:
Viggo Mortenson: Just want to sit across from him at cafe, reading.
Jake Gyllenhaal: make-out for a couple hours followed by deep conversation.
Douglas Coupland: spend the afternoon painting my house white and then drinking sake on the porch.
Patrick Wilson: giggle uncontrollably and run away
Gerard Butler: have him give me a back rub.
Drew Barrymore: do a guerilla art project, terrorize the town at night, wear converse and have beers and dance at the Silver Moon during a Larry and His Flask show.
Bill Cosby: bring him to a dinner with my entire family and talk really loud over the table peppered by his continious flow of awesome jokes.
Joaquin Pheonix: lay in the park and sleep. Upon waking draw comics in a spiral notebook then go back to sleep.
Javier Bardem: una noche.
Paz Vega: cook her dinner and talk in backyard full of Christmas lights at night in summertime.
Celebrities I would not like to meet:
Wanda Sykes
Ernest
Steve Carrell
Winona Ryder
Tori Spelling
Anyone from the film Twilight
Hilary Swank
Janice Dickinson
David Duchouvny
Kanye West
Any of the Osbournes
Celebrity I thought I met
Matt Groening: got a call at one of my receptionist job about possible donation of comic books from a comic book collector who claimed to receive, "many free copies" with his orders. Learned he went to free comic book day and was interested in my zine after casual banter. Name was Matt. Coworker confirmed possibility. Next day found from another coworker it was not him.
Celebrities I have seen or heard) but not met:
Rider Strong: juror at the Bendfilm awards where I was volunteering. Saw him at the Awards Ceremony. Made eye contact.
William Hurt: sat at table 23 at Johnny Carino's on Father's Day and had calamari with son and wife. Friend Bryce was server. Left memo for the Hulk 2.
David Blaine: flying on the same plane to Texas (or was it Cancun?). Wearing fedora and glasses. Not 100% positive of identity.
Rainn Wilson: did a talk at the Spiritual Awareness Center. Heard him, did not see him. Everyone said he was a dick.
Celebrities I have met:
Stephen Baldwin: served him at a restautant in Redmond while he was in town for a church thing.
Daniel Martin: "Jarrod," kid on Gummo: met him at Timber's in Redmond while he was grounded in town (he's a pilot). Drank a lot of beer and ended up at the Larry and His Flask house.
Theo Ellsworth: incredible illustrator. riding same elevator during the Portland Zine Symposium.
Dialoque
R: That's a cool box
T: Thanks
R: It's a Theo Ellingsworth.
T: Yep.
R: ... Are you Theo Ellingsworth?
T: ... yes. (puts box over head)
R: (freak out)
Henry Rollins: came in to town and I joined a circle of people surrounding him after his spoken word show. Denied everyone who offered to smoke him our or buy him a drink. Enjoyed short dialogue with him about abdicating your comfort zone and how travel makes you feel like you live a longer life.
David Sedaris: came in to town for reading. Had him sign my typewriter, stole his water bottle off the podium.
Viggo Mortenson: Just want to sit across from him at cafe, reading.
Jake Gyllenhaal: make-out for a couple hours followed by deep conversation.
Douglas Coupland: spend the afternoon painting my house white and then drinking sake on the porch.
Patrick Wilson: giggle uncontrollably and run away
Gerard Butler: have him give me a back rub.
Drew Barrymore: do a guerilla art project, terrorize the town at night, wear converse and have beers and dance at the Silver Moon during a Larry and His Flask show.
Bill Cosby: bring him to a dinner with my entire family and talk really loud over the table peppered by his continious flow of awesome jokes.
Joaquin Pheonix: lay in the park and sleep. Upon waking draw comics in a spiral notebook then go back to sleep.
Javier Bardem: una noche.
Paz Vega: cook her dinner and talk in backyard full of Christmas lights at night in summertime.
Celebrities I would not like to meet:
Wanda Sykes
Ernest
Steve Carrell
Winona Ryder
Tori Spelling
Anyone from the film Twilight
Hilary Swank
Janice Dickinson
David Duchouvny
Kanye West
Any of the Osbournes
Celebrity I thought I met
Matt Groening: got a call at one of my receptionist job about possible donation of comic books from a comic book collector who claimed to receive, "many free copies" with his orders. Learned he went to free comic book day and was interested in my zine after casual banter. Name was Matt. Coworker confirmed possibility. Next day found from another coworker it was not him.
Celebrities I have seen or heard) but not met:
Rider Strong: juror at the Bendfilm awards where I was volunteering. Saw him at the Awards Ceremony. Made eye contact.
William Hurt: sat at table 23 at Johnny Carino's on Father's Day and had calamari with son and wife. Friend Bryce was server. Left memo for the Hulk 2.
David Blaine: flying on the same plane to Texas (or was it Cancun?). Wearing fedora and glasses. Not 100% positive of identity.
Rainn Wilson: did a talk at the Spiritual Awareness Center. Heard him, did not see him. Everyone said he was a dick.
Celebrities I have met:
Stephen Baldwin: served him at a restautant in Redmond while he was in town for a church thing.
Daniel Martin: "Jarrod," kid on Gummo: met him at Timber's in Redmond while he was grounded in town (he's a pilot). Drank a lot of beer and ended up at the Larry and His Flask house.
Theo Ellsworth: incredible illustrator. riding same elevator during the Portland Zine Symposium.
Dialoque
R: That's a cool box
T: Thanks
R: It's a Theo Ellingsworth.
T: Yep.
R: ... Are you Theo Ellingsworth?
T: ... yes. (puts box over head)
R: (freak out)
Henry Rollins: came in to town and I joined a circle of people surrounding him after his spoken word show. Denied everyone who offered to smoke him our or buy him a drink. Enjoyed short dialogue with him about abdicating your comfort zone and how travel makes you feel like you live a longer life.
David Sedaris: came in to town for reading. Had him sign my typewriter, stole his water bottle off the podium.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Today I feel like me.
Today I feel like me.
Me is a dancing thing. It is a thing with hands and legs and a loudness and a mudra, a way of making sense of my feelings through hand contortions. It drinks and it slides on the smooth surfaces and doesn't check in with reality -- the sleepy future or the past crystallizing impossibly like expired honey.
I bought a new dress, a black dress reminding me of those Iranian woman I saw in the newspaper protesting the election - all black and kohl and unquestionably sexy. This dress reminded me of me - the dancing and the music is loud in a way that is absolutely distrating from the unnecessary things.
Why hasn't Bollywood caught on full-fire yet in the United States? Why aren't we in the streets yet with our rainbow saris in some magic sychronized bitty?
But today I feel like me and don't want to share the world myself - don't feel like teaching the world how to live succulently, I will live succulently myself and keep it all in this big house with Sushi the cat and my mug of orange juice tequilla and keep it all to myself tonight.
We can't all be a Devendra Banhart - there simply isn't enough money for drugs and we can't all be Thoreau (my English teacher Mr. Jones says if we were all Thoreau we would no longer have a functioning society).
And I will let you in on a secret I have kept from myself for such a long time: I want you to see me in the windows. I want you to look in and see me and how I live. How I make my tea, how I dance and how I take off all my clothes and do the dishes and draw my pictures and throw my typewriters across the room. You will see through transparent drapes dyed orange put up so I can not see you and you can watch me kiss my boyfriend and light candles and watch the way I worship the gods and build my shrines up from cardboard and paint and crayon chards and maybe you will allow me to watch you.
Maybe you will think my idea is grand and realize you have no secrets strangers cannot see and you will let me sit in the cold with my hands wrapped around my nighttime cauldron with greyblue mittens and I will see you (please?).
You will read your books and look through your LPs and not think of me once. I will watch you through your blue stained transparent curtains without embarrassment as you turn up that Liz Pappademas song swinging your arms
and we will be changed in an instant, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet and something in each of us will come alive and we realize we are one like that crazy Dr. Bonners used to say and still says on every one of his little bottles of peppermint liquid soap, lavendar liquid soap, almond liquid soap and every little bar of soap (WE'RE ALL ONE OR NONE!)
Today I feel like me though and I want to share that more than anything because I am an angry thing most of the time. The frowning face in the grocery line who doesn't want to make conversation, who thinks everyone around me is slow and dumb and forgetful and irresponsible (but this isn't true because you are so lovely dark and deep!). And I am depressed most of the time but forget that, please!
It's so hard to be a child everyday as well as an adult (J'essaie! Vraimont je fais!).
Me is a dancing thing. It is a thing with hands and legs and a loudness and a mudra, a way of making sense of my feelings through hand contortions. It drinks and it slides on the smooth surfaces and doesn't check in with reality -- the sleepy future or the past crystallizing impossibly like expired honey.
I bought a new dress, a black dress reminding me of those Iranian woman I saw in the newspaper protesting the election - all black and kohl and unquestionably sexy. This dress reminded me of me - the dancing and the music is loud in a way that is absolutely distrating from the unnecessary things.
Why hasn't Bollywood caught on full-fire yet in the United States? Why aren't we in the streets yet with our rainbow saris in some magic sychronized bitty?
But today I feel like me and don't want to share the world myself - don't feel like teaching the world how to live succulently, I will live succulently myself and keep it all in this big house with Sushi the cat and my mug of orange juice tequilla and keep it all to myself tonight.
We can't all be a Devendra Banhart - there simply isn't enough money for drugs and we can't all be Thoreau (my English teacher Mr. Jones says if we were all Thoreau we would no longer have a functioning society).
And I will let you in on a secret I have kept from myself for such a long time: I want you to see me in the windows. I want you to look in and see me and how I live. How I make my tea, how I dance and how I take off all my clothes and do the dishes and draw my pictures and throw my typewriters across the room. You will see through transparent drapes dyed orange put up so I can not see you and you can watch me kiss my boyfriend and light candles and watch the way I worship the gods and build my shrines up from cardboard and paint and crayon chards and maybe you will allow me to watch you.
Maybe you will think my idea is grand and realize you have no secrets strangers cannot see and you will let me sit in the cold with my hands wrapped around my nighttime cauldron with greyblue mittens and I will see you (please?).
You will read your books and look through your LPs and not think of me once. I will watch you through your blue stained transparent curtains without embarrassment as you turn up that Liz Pappademas song swinging your arms
and we will be changed in an instant, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet and something in each of us will come alive and we realize we are one like that crazy Dr. Bonners used to say and still says on every one of his little bottles of peppermint liquid soap, lavendar liquid soap, almond liquid soap and every little bar of soap (WE'RE ALL ONE OR NONE!)
Today I feel like me though and I want to share that more than anything because I am an angry thing most of the time. The frowning face in the grocery line who doesn't want to make conversation, who thinks everyone around me is slow and dumb and forgetful and irresponsible (but this isn't true because you are so lovely dark and deep!). And I am depressed most of the time but forget that, please!
It's so hard to be a child everyday as well as an adult (J'essaie! Vraimont je fais!).
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