Jenny’s Gold Dress and the Persistence of Art

Very blurry Jenny Lewis at The Met Philly, October 26, 2019

The world seems to be ending in a million ways. The Getty, which seemed as eternal as any place I’ve ever been, might burn down. I spend time worrying about the denizens of the 1990 documentary Paris Is Burning, many of whom are probably long dead. In the grand scheme of things, there’s not THAT MUCH I can do for Kamala Harris or Greta Thunberg. And Yet.

We see the dress before the lights come up, a movement more than a color, a reflection of every kind of light, but unerringly, unceasingly gold. So many different kinds of gold. Gold in every light, heating up to pink or cooling to silver-edged shimmer, but always, always ALWAYS, gold, gold, gold.

This whole situation, this band, this stage, these multicolored neon landlines, this fancy new-fashioned chandelier, this rosemary-flavored hard seltzer, it all seems like a miracle to me. Like, how does anyone do anything? How does any driver ever make it where they’re going, never mind the logistics of this whole show?

And yet, this perfect gift, the actual prettiest person with her benediction of a voice. Somehow, out of all the world’s chaos, art. Solid, still, shimmering. It’s why I visit the Hope Diamond after the scariest protests, why I need to document nearly every flower. It’s important to take it all in, to honor it, to metabolize it into something new. This beauty, these perfect notes, this gold dress, this lifetime I’m in the middle of living.

I sat in the balcony with my cool cousin-in-law and her very ladylike friends, thinking yep, this is femme, and also thinking of the nearly 20 years since Rilo Kiley became my favorite band, my favorite almost-anything.

Though married then, I lived on a shifting sand of crushes, heartbreaks, and meltdowns. I played songs from beloveds’ MySpace pages to be close to them a little, watching a little blinking star near the cursor—I’m here, I’m someone, I’m someone else, I’m here in the world with you.

Though it seems like hometown, family, and true love would have stabilized me, would have made me feel safe, I was in a constant fight with the world to see if I belonged here, convinced that everything from closet-mold to weather was a personalized indication that the world was trying to push me out, that I would never be welcome anywhere.

I cried in the spring because I worried that I wasn’t looking at the lilacs enough. I cried in the summer if it wasn’t warm enough to go to the lake. I ate big salads with Amy on Sundays, read the paper, did the crossword, went over to our best friend Marc’s apartment to watch the Simpsons. I was in love with him too, and eventually that made us not friends, which could be the title of my memoir.

Since then, I’ve lost so much, but, miracle and meds, I’ve learned attachment. I’ve learned to (in my own extremely guarded way) belong in the world. My friendship with Amy is a stronger foundation than marriage ever could’ve been, a pedestal as important to me as the Statue of Liberty’s base. I feel, in some sense, permanent, though still glimmering, ridiculous, unsure.

Jenny’s voice and her gold dress plugged me back into something unbalancing though, and utterly vital. The way a cute guy or a good flower or a beautiful/sad documentary can grab me by the chin and face my attention in the right direction, toward my most central truth: art persists. There never wasn’t this ballroom, this flower, this gold dress.

And with that reminder, yearning comes back. Yearning to be solid and quiet and loved but also to be knocked off balance by the sheer force of gorgeousness, yearning for every destabilizing and grounding reminder that I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.

Thanks Bookstore! And What Comes Next

Yesterday was my last day at the bookstore. It’s hard to overstate the gratitude that I feel for the place—what I took for a straightforward and undemanding job ended up, of course, meaning so much more.

The day back in February when I emailed the OM to see if I could pick up some hours, the email was the only thing I was able to accomplish that day. I was still panicking hard, trying for an hour walk each day, writing down my dreams and not much else. After I sent the email, I was petrified that I would let everyone down, especially Amy, who’d be one of my supervisors.

I was worried that I was so broken that I couldn’t even do my old standby day job, which I love and which has brought me so much comfort over the years. I was still having panics in the grocery store sometimes, feeling unworthy of groceries I knew my former students’ families couldn’t afford. (Once a lunch-party guest, the brightest and most determinedly positive girl in the class, expressed envy of my baby carrots, she said her dad couldn’t afford things like that. I gave her all of my carrots and was never the same again.)

It was hard. For the first few bookstore weeks, I could pretty much only work and sleep. I rode with Amy to work most days, which, like the job itself, ended up making me feel both comforted and trapped. The shadows of school life lurked around with me, I was never sure if I was acting normal or like a mental case.

Sometimes, the young people who worked with me wanted to talk about Important Topics, and I would feel the fear and self-loathing and self-consciousness that precipitates a panic well up and I would have to stop them, but I found their existence so comforting—the wild-haired blogger who declared herself “sick of corporate America” and just stopped showing up, the philosopher who used the phrase “patriarchy as death machine” in casual conversation, they give me hope that everyone’s going to keep fighting evil, even as I move on to cozier ways of doing so.

But what I loved the most, what I’ve always loved the most, is idle work conversation. (This is why Clerks is one of my favorite movies, in spite of my brother’s complaint that nothing happens in it.) (see also: the season three OITNB conversation about the Black-Eyed Peas)

I love the genial, jokey exchanges of near-strangers, the kind that arises from the most exquisite boredom: parsing the intentions of cable radio pop singers, punning on book titles, eventually finding out what creative projects are lurking just beneath nearly everyone’s surface.

And in that spirit, another miraculous thing happened—I got a crush. One day a few weeks ago I was startled to realize that I’d flirted my way through eight hours, with only a break for lunch, and with a mix of embarrassment and exhilaration, I felt a return to myself. Another day went by like that, complete with him recommending an album and me typing while listening to it and settling back to the part of me that has muses, that gets a little giddy and then makes more things. He’s not a viable option, this isn’t that awesome of a story, but just to be off the rails a little, kind of dizzy in the head for someone, it gives me hope that I might still be capable of happily falling when the time comes. Also, it makes me just an eensy bit impatient for that time to happen.

I told someone yesterday during the process of goodbyes that I was broken when I started, and he asked if I was unbroken now. I’ll go with less broken—last week, I wasn’t sure if I had Lyme disease or was sick from all the racism news. I’m better able to engage with the world now, easing back to the Important Topics. It’s still hard to fight the sense of failure and the crippling self-consciousness that got exacerbated in the classroom.

Even though my poetry class is very fruitful and camp seems promising, it’s so hard not to feel like a failure about teaching. Talking to my brother-in-law, a born teacher, over the weekend, it’s hard not to envy the confidence he has with his career, with his place in the world. I envy my friends who all seem so settled, so at home in the world, in their families, in their work.

But playing Mario Kart with my nephew, I wondered aloud why I ended up off road so often. He said “Maybe you’re a…criminal? No, that’s not the word.”

“Outlaw?” I asked, and he heartily agreed.

Outlaw sounds about right. I hate the way that the school system is set up, the way it focuses on data and saps the creativity of teachers and students alike. I feel desperately jealous of my friends who slot so easily into their classrooms, but I have to sympathize with the intensely talented friends who’ve had their love and inspiration sucked right out—that waste isn’t okay with me. It’s not a sacrifice it seems right to make.

Somewhere in my love of connection and my madness for protecting creativity, I hope to find my next line of work. It may be in a nicer school or in homes or I don’t know where. I take comfort in knowing that summer art camp is a job that makes sense, that pays well enough, so maybe that can give me hope for the jobs that follow. My brain is still fragile, but I’m so grateful for the healing that the past four months have brought—thank you, self, for making summer come in February. Thank you, friends, who’ve supported and loved and written with me. Thank you, work, for bringing me back to myself. I’ll do my best with the road less traveled, and I’ll always choose the Kart with good offroad capabilities.

Poetic License Horoscope for March 18-24

Pisces (Feb. 20-March 20): “If you see something you love, you’ve just gotta get it, and eat it.” (Shappy Seasholtz) This quote was inspired by coconut cream pie, but it can also be applied to your biggest, deepest meringue-cloud wishes. Get it. And eat it.

Aries (March 21-April 18): Sometimes I like to pretend that something is a big magical mystery for a while before I realize that I can just Google it. Research is magic, too. Know your true self by your search terms, or just look at pictures of kittens.

Taurus (April 19-May 18): “What we think about ourselves and our possibilities determines what we aspire to become."(Robert Frank) Add to your own thoughts the screams of your adoring fans, your mom and dad’s opinion on their best day, and, of course, the stars; we just think that you’re the bee’s knees.


Gemini (May 19-June 21): You’re in one of those dreams where you keep finding more and more rooms in your house—where did this extra parlor come from? Why is this ceiling painted like waves? What are these algorhithms painted on the windows? Why won’t this top stop spinning?

Cancer (June 22-July 23):  When the Big Love series ends next week, I have this wish that Margene (the most liberated sisterwife) would come to Philadelphia and pal around with me. Which adorable fictional characters would you invite into your life, and why?

Leo (July 24-Aug. 23): I’m sorry if you are still singing to the music of a long commute. There’s work closer to home, soon, I promise. Imagine your life on two tokens a day, instead of measured out in gas tanks.

Virgo (Aug. 24-Sept. 23): (SPOILER ALERT) Congratulations to Kurt from Glee on his first romantic kiss with a guy. The stars are taking this to mean that all of our cute love-wishes are about to come true. Bury your broken songs in a festive ceremony and ready yourself for duets.

Libra (Sept. 24-Oct. 21): Write a thousand hymns to what’s missing. Make a scale model of the Universe out of cut paper. Stand in the middle and yearn.

Scorpio (Oct. 22-Nov. 22): I used to slip ashtrays into my pocket to remember every diner I loved, and then sit in the middle of that plunder and smoke. Do whatever is the healthier version of that. Send me a picture of your wholesome souvenirs.

Sagittarius (Nov. 23-Dec. 22): “You must do the thing you think you cannot do.” (Eleanor Roosevelt) Rethink your limitations, even if it’s just to change the color of your scarf, your ink. Know that you are the pretty thing you always talk about in everybody else.

Capricorn (Dec. 23-Jan. 20): At my church we used to light candles each week, to celebrate a joy or mark a sorrow. Recently they changed it to dropping a stone into water, and I don’t like that at all. Give yourself a little gift of warmth, a little time to think.

Aquarius (Jan. 21-Feb. 19):  You are an aquarium of lost things, attachments and unattachements floating by in lovely, unattainable colors. 1. Don’t tap on the glass. 2. Look and see who’s standing next to you, out of the water.

Poetic License Horoscopes is a free syndicated series which appears weekly in such places as The Serotonin Factory, Critical Mass and The Legendary  and Apiary.  If you are interested in adding the Poetic License Horoscopes to your lit journal / lit blog, please email me at serotoninfactory@gmail.com.

Poetic License Horoscope for March 4-10

 ***I'm excited to announce that the horoscopes have another new home this week: Apiary! Thanks to Lillian  and the rest of the beautifuls over there for always including me in their fun.

Pisces (Feb. 20-March 20): Things to do while you’re waiting for the next season of Portlandia: Memorize famous bridges. Send lavish bouquets to Aimee Mann. Listen to Sleater-Kinney records backwards, for the hidden messages. Remember your mantra: Put birds on things. Put birds on things. Put birds on things.


Aries (March 21-April 18): The stars told me to tell you that Ira Glass is your guardian angel. He watches over everything you do, asking thoughtful questions and moving the story forward in such a patient, soothing voice.

Taurus (April 19-May 18): “The sum of all known reverence I add up in you whoever you are.” (Walt Whitman) Etch that into your mirror, paint it on your coffee cups, write it in the middle of your palms for luck.

Gemini (May 19-June 21): I like Steve Carell’s character in Dinner for Schmucks. He loves his ex-wife so much that he makes her a whole parkscape diorama. Peopled with little dressed-up taxidermied mice, but still, endearing!

Cancer (June 22-July 23): Dress optimistically, even if it means your ears might get cold. Show your faith with just-light-enough sweaters. Believe it’s warm out until you touch the window pane.

Leo (July 24-Aug. 23): Last night as I was snuggled up, reading in bed with my sweetie, she with her Wonder Woman graphic novel and I with my Bitch magazine, I thought, “This is exactly what I always hoped for.” Be prepared for similarly snuggly revelations.

Virgo (Aug. 24-Sept. 23): “Love the music our beatbox bodies loop over sunrises. /Love the soft spots we leave for each other.”(Elliott D. Smith) The whole Universe is waking up next to you, blinking its eyes, with swoony thoughts and fancy plans.

Libra (Sept. 24-Oct. 21): Last week when I was freaking out about an upcoming math test, my tutor pal came over to help me. Even though he only stayed for an hour and most of that hour was spent on gossip, he helped me to improve my score by 14 questions worth of points. Someone’s waiting to work that kind of magic for you.

Scorpio (Oct. 22-Nov. 22): Hooray for Barb on Big Love! She’s realizing that she can have access to the divine without a man’s intercession! Sister-wife, listen more to your inner Margene, and less to your inner Nicki.

Sagittarius (Nov. 23-Dec. 22):Last time my nephew Holden visited, he was very, very disappointed that he could not give a cheeseburger to either of our cats. But as for you, in the words of T.I. as paraphrased by Lolcats: you can haz whatever you like.

Capricorn (Dec. 23-Jan. 20): I unsubscribed to my previously favorite podcast after the host made me cry on Twitter. Maybe we don’t need to interact with everything we love, or maybe we just have to keep trying. #stillalittlebrokenhearted

Aquarius (Jan. 21-Feb. 19): Like a ghost in a library, you have access to everything, but need help turning the pages. What little winds can come along and flutter you forward? Maybe an Aries can lend you her guardian angel?

Poetic License Horoscopes is a free syndicated series which appears weekly on such lit blogs as The Serotonin Factory, Critical Mass and The Legendary and Apiary If you are interested in adding the Poetic License Horoscopes to your lit journal / lit blog, please email me at serotoninfactory@gmail.com.

Sarah Silverman on Happiness

My memoir-crush of the week is Sarah Silverman. This quote from her book The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption, and Pee kind of counters the Lady Gaga quote from last week.

“A lot of comics think the real threat of mental blockage lies in being happy. They fear that happiness or just dealing with their shit might make them not funny anymore. To me, that’s a bunch of romanticized bullshit. I don’t know, I guess if you write your best stuff when you’re miserable, maybe, but I don’t. I’m paralyzed when I’m miserable. I sleep. A lot. I will always try to be happy. I don’t think people understand the value of happiness until they know what it’s like to be in that very, very dark place. It’s not romantic. Not even a little.”

Misery isn’t inspiring to me, but I find that my ongoing sense of something important is missing is a great motivator to keep making more stuff. It’s lonely and frustrating sometimes, but I like a sense of quest-ishness. And that is romantic.

Last Summer's Work Crush

I’ve been thinking and dreaming about Mr. Nick lately, thinking I see his smiley bald self everywhere. I guess that’s because it’s summer camp season. My soul wanted to be his friend immediately. Not only was he cute, tall, and chocolaty, he was positive and enthusiastic about education, at least at the beginning of the summer.

I was Program Facilitator, which means the lead teacher for a lot of the kids at Emlen Summer Camp. Nick was one of eight camp counselors, one of the few who weren’t openly hostile towards me. Seriously: They threw fits because I thought I deserved a desk in the office. They reported me to management for being out. One guy would tell the kids “Ms. Jane’s here this morning, get ready to be real bored.”(Fuck you, Mr. Dwayne, wherever you are.)

Mr. Nick, on the other hand, sat at the corner of the gym with me with Dixie cups and potting soil helping the kids plant their seeds for the science lesson. He chimed in on my rousing speeches about how we were there to fight the achievement gap. He protectively backed the kids off me when they crowded around for prizes. (Oh I miss working with kids so much.)

Mr. Nick was one of the few adults in the camp who actually looked me in the face. And he said the magic words: “I really like your teaching style.” I think I fall for people who say that because I really want to love my teacher self. I want to believe in it. I hope I’ll get there some day.

I lost touch with Mr. Nick but one of the last emails he sent said this: “Keep believing in yourself so that our future won't end up in chaos...for what it's worth I BELIEVE IN YOU ...HUG!”

Thanks, dude. <3