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.

#TimesUp Means We Get to Claim All the Spaces

            Last Friday night, I went to Goth Night with a favorite friend and some of his favorite friends. Though I’ve been going to Goth Nights for about 25 years and my friend could NOT have been more welcoming, I was brightly-clad fish out of water. The people around us were all young and fit in their perfect black clothes, impeccably made up.  (Including these teeny tiny star decals—how did they know how to do that?!) But my perceived disconnect with my fellow dancers could not have mattered less—my pal and I were the smiliest goths in all of history and I could NOT contain my glee at getting to dance to Nine Inch Nails just like I did when I was 19.

            At one point, a bro-y guy sort of got in our space and maybe without even meaning to, my pal and his beautiful variously-queer squad formed a dancing wall between the bro and ourselves until he faded off away—a gift and a miracle.

            As I flailed around awkwardly and joyously, I compared this evening to the dance nights of my twenties and felt a PROFOUND difference—I’m all the way here on the planet more than I’ve ever been. My dorky fake converses felt grounded to the earth, solid in a way it’s taken me so long to achieve. I’m not just reacting to the currents of life anymore, I’m planted. Even when I’m not in my perfect blue bubble of an apartment, I’m home.

            I wanted to hug my twenty- and thirty- and forty-year-old selves, tell them how proud I am of how far we’ve come, how strong I am now, but instead I settled for leaping about like a demented cheerleader to the supposedly bleak music. I was so, so happy that I’d put on an outfit and gone.

            Earlier last week, I had a far less joyful but just as grounding experience, writing this bummer of a letter to my neighborhood gym:

“Dear --------------,

I am writing today to tell you a story that may be triggering. I do not currently feel safe attending (gym name) and I hope that you can help me. I am planning to pause my membership for three months to give the issue time to resolve.

On Saturday, January 28 at about 12:20 PM, I was sitting in the hot tub when a man came and sat down on the hot tub steps, directly across from me, blocking any comfortable exit. He was white, medium-height, bald, and had a mustache. As he settled into the water, he started contentedly rubbing his crotch, as if there were no one else in the room. He did this for several minutes, alternating with splashing water on himself. I felt very uncomfortable and violated. It didn’t seem like he was directing the behavior at me, more like my presence and the presence of other gym patrons didn’t matter at all.

When I asked him why his hands were in his crotch, he denied it, got very flustered and angry and stormed off. Although he had left the room, I did not feel safe and was forced to leave my workout early and go home.

I called and reported it on Monday morning, January 29^th, at around 7 AM. The woman at the desk was very kind and receptive, but the situation still feels unresolved. I often enjoy attending the pool at night, and I don’t want to risk being alone in the pool area with this man. I absolutely do not feel that this is something I should have to worry about at the gym (or anywhere!)

Female customers should feel just as safe and entitled to their space at the gym as men do. We are paying the same amount and we deserve the same access to services without fear of violation.

Here are the fixes that I am asking for:

1.      This man should have his gym membership revoked.

2.      The gym needs a clear sexual harassment policy, sent to members, visible on the website, and posted clearly in all gym areas.

3.      A female staff member should be posted in the pool area at all times.

4.      Staff should be trained in sexual harassment prevention and trauma sensitivity so that patrons can feel comfortable coming to them with any concerns.

I would be happy to meet with you and discuss this. I have otherwise enjoyed my time at (gym name) and I hope that we can find a just solution for me and for your female patrons.

Best,

Jane”

            I’m so annoyed that I had to spend my time on this, and that I’ll probably have to go to a meeting about it and/or find a way out of my membership contract, but this is the widest margin I’ve ever given myself for recovering from this kind of thing. I didn’t want to write the letter, but I asked my body what it wanted and this was the only answer that I got.

            This vexingly commonplace incident reminded me of an earlier one, from when I was sixteen or seventeen. I used to like to take the bus from the suburbs into what seemed at the time like the “big city” of Syracuse, NY. On this particular day, I had spent the day at the big library, picking out an art-themed and vaguely beatnik-y book of poetry.

            I was dressed as I dressed for most of high school-- a polyester thrift store find, a short, red floral print dress and probably lug-soled mary janes—I love the Nineties SO MUCH. It was spring, just warm enough to go to the park and read. I sprawled beside a tree with my poems and almost instantly, a man sat down next to me. He had curly hair and a shiny grey mustache and was wearing several mismatched hippie prints—and there was clearly something just…wrong with him. No one had taught me that you can tell someone to go away, so I just tried to ignore him and concentrate on my poems.

            I heard a terrible slish and looked up to see him tugging on his flaccid, worm-white penis and staring at me intently. In a wave of revulsion I stood up quickly to go and he said incredulously “You’re leaving?”

            What happened next is so cliché that I don’t even want to type it—the police station was like RIGHT THERE next to the park, they totally could have nabbed the guy. The policeman, though, like a villain out of some perverse after school special, said “What are you doing alone in the city, and what are you wearing that dress for?”

            I quoted the cop in a bad poem at open mic night that night (I tried for decades to get his line into a good poem, it’s just too stupid!) but I’d gotten the message from both the regular creep and the cop-creep: This city, this space, is ours, and anything that happens to you in it will be your own fault.

            The thing is, though, that park was just as much mine as anybody’s. Despite the policeman’s assertion, nobody had planted the trees and flowers so that guys in mismatched hippie clothes could take full advantage of whatever glimpse of teenage leg he happened to get. That park was mine to read in, just like the gym’s hot tub is mine to soak in. This is my world too, and I am sick and tired of feeling intimidated out of it.

            Women and other people with marginalized bodies (i.e. everyone who isn’t a straight, white cisgender man) should always get to feel as welcomed, grounded, and safe as I felt on that dance floor Friday night. I’m angry at the amount of emotional labor it is taking to move us all forward, but I’m so, so glad to help us claim our rightful place, which is everywhere.

Dear Trumpish Guy at the Decemberists Show

I was superexcited to see The Decemberists Friday before last, but I almost didn’t get to enjoy it. While the crowd waited between bands, the venue (presumably at The Decemberists’ behest) played an old-timey country album that reminded me of every won’t-somebody-please-worry-about-poor-white-racists post I’ve scrolled past since the election. I’m sure it was a perfectly respectable album, but it made me feel so creepy and rotten and is-indie-rock-unintentionally-white-supremacist (probably) that I almost left.

But then the band came on and for a little while, the rotten feeling went way. I remembered how good (if Bush-era bleak) the band is and settled into the very enjoyable task of looking at Colin Meloy’s lovely face. We were only a few songs into their tenth-anniversary rendition of The Crane Wife (Which, okay, is not the most soothing album.) when I saw a scuffle starting up a few people away, right in the middle of the crowded general admission floor. A short, mean-faced blond guy with the demeanor of all the social nightmares was yelling at a woman, calling her an asshole for asking him not to dance into her.

I offered to switch places with the woman and did my best to be big and silent and ignore the guy, but he just transferred his yelling onto me.

“Thanks, FEMINIST,” he hissed. “What are you, gonna wear your PUSSY HAT?”

            While I was trying to keep my space on the floor next to this jerk, the woman he’d originally been yelling at told me that The Decemberists had been her band with her late husband, and she’d asked the man to stop dancing into her so she could enjoy the experience. Seems pretty fucking reasonable to me.

“Just so you know, I’m gonna stand here.” Said the guy, and pushed his shoulder into mine.

“You can step away from me,” I said, but he pushed back harder onto my shoulder.

“Okay, I’m going to get security, I told him, and struggled my way out of the crowd. I told security that there was a guy at the center of the crowd harassing women, and I never saw whether it got taken care of or not. I felt guilty for leaving the woman in there with him, but I didn’t have it in me to persevere back to my spot. I stood on the margin of the crowd and tried to get back into the music, but it was hard. There was another argument going on nearby, so it was hard to un-jangle. I felt an emotion I’ve felt on and off since the election, the feeling that all of us, the grieving woman, the shoving guy, the backup singers, everybody, are adrift in this soup of fear, loss, and anger, with no way out.

And then they played their new song. Introduced as “This is kind of a state of the union…” the song went:

“Everything,

Everything,

Everything,

Everything,

Everything is AWFUL…”

            The crowd went bonkers, and I went bonkers with joy. I felt my jangledness and trauma move and shift out of my body as I jumped around, bobbed my head, squealed, smiled, sang along, and clapped in true fangirl fashion. You could feel the audience breathe a sigh of relief, let go of a little of the weight of this moment in history.

            In that spirit, I have some things to say to the reason I ended up on the margin of the crowd.

Dear Trumpish Guy in the Middle of the Decemberists Crowd,

I guess you’re what they mean when they say that misogynists and bigots are emboldened by the Trump regime, though hate has always seemed pretty shameless to me. Either way, what I see in you is the opposite of boldness. I see a deep, broken, desperate cowardice, a poisonous avarice that makes you feel entitled to more space than you have earned, a greedy urge to shore up your own lack of self-worth by colonizing everyone and everything. It must be exhausting.

And you know what? Women are not going to let our bodies be claimed. The pussy hat may have been put away with the winter clothes, but this is our time, and you are a tarnished shard of a gender structure that is already broken, that has already abandoned you.  We’re not yours. This isn’t your world anymore. Give up and get on board or be washed away in the tide of your own hateful limits.

Best,

Jane

Happy Friday: John Lydon on Mental Health, Bettie Page, and Other Awesome Things

I can't seem to make a link happen, but if you Google, "John Lydon world Cafe," you'll find a wonderful interview. Who knew Johnny Rotten could be so comforting?

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.

This Was Made for Me: Emotional Bag Check

A friend of the factory and my #OKCSupportgroup alerted me to this adorableness. You tell your story and people send you songs to make you feel better. They also write you really nice notes of encouragement! 

Here's my favorite of the songs I got:

New Year's Mix Playlist

I Can Change: LCD Soundsystem
Tightrope: Janelle Monae
Wake Up: Arcade Fire
Crash Years: The New Pornographers
How I Got Over: The Roots
We Used to Be Friends: The Dandy Warhols
We Used to Wait: Arcade Fire
Hands in the Air: Girl Talk
I Can’t Stand the Rain: Ann Peebles
Dear God 2.0: The Roots feat. Monsters of Folk
Home: LCD Soundsystem
Don’t Look Back: She and Him
Have a Heart: Sleigh Bells
Use It: The New Pornographers
You Are Not Alone: Mavis Staples
XXXO: M.I.A.
Halo/Walking on Sunshine: Glee Cast

Poetic License Horoscopes: Concerts I've Been to Edition

Poetic License Horoscopes: Concerts I've Been to Edition

Cancer: New Order, Oakenfold, Moby, The Orb (Area 51 Festival, San Bernadino, CA) We'd just worn ourselves out dancing to Oakenfold and were buying some lemonade when we heard the first note of Moby's “Porcelain.” We joined hands and ran up the hill toward the big stage under a full sky of stars. It was the must fun I ever had while running.

Leo: The New Pornographers (The Trocadero, Philadelphia, PA) I haven't been to a concert in like, 4 or 5 years because I had this weird idea that I was too old for rock shows. As the gorgeous lights went up and the harmonies hummed me up some new chakras, I kicked myself for every show I'd ever left myself out of. What have you left yourself out of?

Virgo: Aerosmith, Skid Row (The War Memorial, Syracuse, NY) I went to my first concert with my mom. For all that I go on about my cheesy first concert, seeing Steven Tyler sing Dream On was a very moving experience for my 15-year-old self. “Sing with me, but just for today, maybe tomorrow, the good lord'll take it away....” Maybe that's why I became an existentialist! Also, my mom said this: “Why do they have to swear so much?”

Libra: A Tribe Called Quest, Wyclef Jean (Cornell University) Remember how much fun it was to shake our asses to to “I left my wallet in El Segundo”? How many things have we left like that, then had to tell elaborate stories about retracing our steps?

Scorpio: Soundgarden, Ministry, Pearl Jam, etc. (Lollapalooza 2, Saratoga, NY) Dye your hair pink, watch it run down your back in the heavy rain, get drunk on a stranger's flask of sloe gin. Do inadvisable things in the bushes. Watch out for poison ivy.

Sagittarius: Ben Folds (Syracuse University) It was the day after my Uncle Tony died, but he was a music guy, so why not use the tickets? We got separated from our friends, so we watched from a distance as they danced in the collective effervescence. There are few things that can't be soothed by cathartic piano.

Capricorn: Morrissey (Central Park) There was a guy in front of me who had Morrissey's face tattooed on his arm. (Whose face would you tattoo on yours?) I didn't want to throw gladiolas on the stage like everyone else, so I threw pink roses. They got kicked off the stage anyway!

Aquarius: Rilo Kiley, Tilly and the Wall (Hamilton College) 1. If your car isn't that good, wear thick socks in the dead of winter! 2. Hipsters are weird. One minute they're watching 80s TV shows ironically and the next moment they're crying along to an Elliott Smith death ballad; they're raising their hands up and clapping, singing “It's sixteen miles/ to the promised land/and I promise you/I'm doing the best I can.”

Pisces: Flaming Lips, Ween, The Magic Numbers (New York State Fairgrounds) Carnival rides were the perfect backdrop. Wayne Coyne advised us to turn to our friends right then and tell them how much we love them. “Though they were sad,they rescued everyone. They lifted up the sun. A spoonful weighs a ton.”

Aries: Paul Simon (Born at The Right Time Tour) This was the time our family was picture perfect. We even stopped for a picnic by the river one the way there. That day was a perfect rest stop on the way to falling apart. 1. It eventually came back together. 2. It makes the nostalgia sweeter.

Taurus: Tori Amos (Syracuse, NY) 1. She can play two pianos at once! 2. My friend Randy waited backstage and gave her a necklace he made and an antique china teacup. Buy some lovely presents for someone of whom you are a huge fan.

Gemini: Ben Folds Five, Ween, Beck, Neal Young, and... (HOARDE Fest, Saratoga, NY) My brother and I used to go to a lot of concerts together. As we were driving to this one, we were listening to Soul Coughing and I said “Wouldn't it be awesome if Soul Coughing was there?” AND THEY WERE! Maybe a little more wishing aloud this week, Gemini.