Don't you wish you could be in your bathrobe at noon?

This morning, the brand new used coffee maker I bought yesterday at Goodwill kicked off at 7am. T’s alarm started going off soon after, every five minutes. At 9am, the jackhammer started. I think the universe was trying to tell me something.

Yesterday I spent all day feeling guilty that I wasn’t doing what I was supposed to be doing. I’m not good at getting things done when I don’t have that much to do and I’m working with vague deadlines. I need pressure, a deadline, fear of God or something like that to get things done.

I ended up torturing myself most of the day until the afternoon, when I said to myself. Self, if you’re not going to do it, just don’t do it. Why do you gotta be a martyr about it? Why don’t you just do whatever you want all the time?

Whatever I want all the time is my prime motivation in life. When I grow up, I want to be able to do that. Flow easily through most things, have sparkles come out of my fingertips and leave a trail of pretty flowers and magic blooming in my wake, like in Fern Gully when the forest starts healing itself or some shit.

I think the only thing that’s really blocking me is my thoughts. My thoughts tell me I have to be really awesome and amazing and smart and beautiful to do anything. It says I can’t to anything I want until I do all the things I have to do, like becoming really awesome and amazing and smart and beautiful.

But I have found a solution! Shut those thoughts down! Just stop thinking them. Just think… I’m thinking evil thoughts.. don’t think about that anymore! Think about what’s for dinner and what delicious cocktails you will make and listen to some music and dance around.

Yesterday, after I killed those thoughts, I went to the farmer’s market, got a coffee maker, found some cheese, made some delicious dinner that was lit by candlelight, made some muffins, and listened to music. It was fuckin’ bad ass. Life is more fun if you’re not berating yourself in your head and feeling guilty all the time.

And I’m starting to realize that if I just shut up those thoughts in my head pressuring me to be really cool and awesome (and successful and rich and popular), I can finally have the breathing room to be really cool and awesome, because that’s what I am naturally. COOL AND AWESOME. And hot. Yeah.

Also, I’m starting a salon (not like hair, like intellectuals and booze), because I want to feel like I’m in France all the time. ALL THE TIME. If you miss living in Europe you may know what I’m talking about: late nights, consuming things that are bad for you, long walks, and philosophical conversations over 3-6 hour drinking and eating sessions. It’s going to be fun and you wish you could be part of it.

I have been away for so long because first I was frantically looking for apartments and despairing and then everything was changing and I moved!! I have a super sweet pad now with a big kitchen made for people coming over and me feeding them, because it’s what I love to do. So come over and get fed!!

Moving is a bitch. I’m all, why do I have all this shit? I never use it but I keep it because when I get famous it will be worth a fortune. Like every single thing I made in college. All my fave books that I’ve already read and will never read again. There are things I’ve hauled all over this damn country that I’m now like “TOSS!!”.

And no, that picture above is not some new band I have formed. I have this special wine box full of letters and things that was pretty out of cont. I went through it yesterday and found an early love note from my first ever BF. That’s the side without the letter. Oh yeah, we were bad ass punks. Note the awkward 13-year-old whatdoisay theme, and subtle undertones of sweet adoration:

Hi.
I’m on the phone with you now. We’re not saying anything, but I don’t care. I thought I should write something with this, but! I don’t have anything to say. So in this package is:
- a “Book!”
- a “CD!”
- this “Note!”

I hate writing with a pen(cil). Prolly because I can’t do it. I’m almost tempted 2 rite like this bcuz it is ez but I am resisting. I am not looking forward to writing next year. I’m taking my time writing this so imagine my note-taking.

Aaah! I’m flipping TV channels, and on some shitty gameshow, the female contestant was named “Ketchup.” How sick is that? Adam’s middle name is Hilton. I wonder if that’s where he was conceived. I think he should have his whole family’s middle names after the hotels that they were conceived in. But then like, they’d run out of respectable-sounding hotels and it’d be like “Steve Holiday Inn Shaw” or “Alan 7 Buck Motel Shaw.” Yah.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Overbooking of Flights
Airline flights may be overbooked and there is a slight chance that a seat will not be available on a flight or confirmed reservation. If the flight is overbooked, no one will be denied a seat until the personnell ask for colunteers willing to give up their reservation. If there are not enough volunteers, the airline will deny boarding to other persons in accordance with the airline policy. Persons denied boarding involuntarily are generally entitled to compensation. The complete rules of compensation are abailable at all airport ticket counters.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am out of space.
I love you.
M

Like, for serious, I couldn’t make this shit up. This letter is exactly how this guy was, too. Awkward, random, but really sweet and well-meaning underneath it all. The mixtape that came with that package was the best one I ever got. I wish I knew where it was. I got it when I was 13 or 14 and 11-12 years later one of the songs on it is still my favorite. I still try to replay it in my head, the whole mixtape. It had good transitions and soundbites and everything.

Reading through these old letters makes me appreciate how many wonderful, sweet, loving people I’ve had in my life so far. I’ve been so lucky.

On that note… my social life has been on hiatus for too long. Call me up, stop by, and I’ll make you pie.

The mind is a funny thing. Truth is perception. What you see and hear and experience becomes your reality. The people you talk to, the books you read, the art you look at, the schools you go to all contribute to what you experience as your reality. When you decide to believe something, it becomes true. Sometimes we don’t know that we have made that decision. Putting yourself in new situations often challenges what you have accepted as your reality, and makes you reconsider your ideas and beliefs.

So I think if it’s so easy to chance your perspective, why not just do it yourself? Sometimes there are thought patterns you keep going after, and they can shape who you are and who you become. I’m looking to make some new thought patterns today.

My name is Ari and I am a 25 year old emerging artist. I am very creative, curious, and open minded. I love to meet new people and find out who they are inside. I can make pretty much everyone feel comfortable. I love feeding people and hosting them and making them feel all warm and gooshy inside. I like things that are old and worn, like buildings or books or furniture or metal. I like to cook and bake and I am very good at it.

I have amazing taste. I have the uncanny ability to find good, cheap restaurants and find really good music. I often find that something I was into a year or two ago has become amazingly popular. I am a good writer. I am versatile and creative and can write something for any occasion. I could be an amazing DJ. I always look effortlessly beautiful, whether I’m in ratty clothes full of holes or expensive fancy stuff. People want to know me when they see me.

I’m about to make an amazing body of work. I’m going to go to all the places I like to go to find things and I’m going to collect them all together and use them to make paintings and sculptures that are beautiful. You will like them.

I like creating new ways of interacting with the world. I try to treat everyone as if they are already my friend. Secretly, I am an incredible gardener with no experience. I am pretty good at almost everything I try. I am really smart and my memory is amazing. I have really good ideas and I’m on the verge of an amazing career being creative.

I am a traveler. I wander all over and I have good karma and amazing luck. I am open to new ideas and I love everyone. I am very generous. I see the good in people when even they can’t see it. I am well read and can see all sides of any argument that isn’t close to me. I am loyal and true and will fight for you. I have great ideas and I love to brainstorm.

I work hard and have a high standard for everything I do. I know how to have fun and I know how to dance. I am a great singer with a beautiful voice. I can make a mean martini. I am passionate and emotional and I cry easily. I am sensitive and maybe even a little psychic. I can feel your energy. I can feel your pain. I am hotblooded.

I have the most incredible life. It is full of love and twists and turns and adventure and new things and old things and change and challenges. One day I will live in NYC. One day I will live in the middle of the country. One day I may show up on your doorstep and I will tell you all the tales and show you what I have found in my journey.

Someday I will make a cake for you and put it in my bike basket and ride it to your house and you will be surprised, because you don’t know me yet. And we will sit and eat it and talk and laugh and it will be amazing.

I love you.

I’ve been watching a lot of trash TV this week. We are house sitting at a place in a super residential district with no internet, a big flat sceen, and Direct TV. I never watch broadcast TV, but every so often it’s nice to experience. I like to think of it as a sociological study about American Society and Pop Culture. Mostly, my conclusion is that it’s really fucked up. There are some quality shows, but I would say 99% of television tells you how to be, who to be, how to fix all that is wrong with you, and be as beautiful as the skinny bitches strolling happily along Caribbean beaches in bikinis with hot guys. THIS IS LASTING FULFILLMENT.

So last night I flipped on the Boob Tube and my boo, T, and I started watching Phat Girlz on Oxygen. Intrigued, and yet, also slightly put off by the movie’s title, I thought it would be a hot minute before I turned the channel, but something stopped me. I got sucked in.

For all of you in the dark, Phat Girlz is about three ladies who go on vacation, two of whom are lovely thick women, and one of whom is a tight assed aerobic instructor. They are all surprised when a group of Nigerian doctors at the hotel for a conference introduce them to a different point of view. In Nigeria, they say, the thicker the woman, the richer and more attractive she is thought to be. The aerobic instructor, thong and all, starts getting treated like the ugly chick while the other two are swept off their feet, at which point one of them can’t believe that this hot guy actually likes her and freaks out, sure that his affections are dishonest, and bails.

I related to this movie in two ways:

1. I once had a Nigerian boyfriend too!

And when I told him that usually thick girls are treated like lepers, he didn’t know what I was talking about. He could hardly conceptualize the idea that people would prefer skin and bones to hips and boobs and butts. He thought I was hecka sexy and it felt really good.

2. I still ask my boo, T, if he thinks I’m attractive.

I think he’s super hot, and I often wonder how I get to be with such a beautiful guy. I have never, in my whole life, been skinny. Add to that bad skin when I was a teenager, a few stupid boys treating me awful,  many years being single, jerky comments from jerky jerks every so often, and you know, 24 hour media messages telling me that I am ugly, unhealthy, unattractive, not sexy, and not rich enough, dirty, slobby, unfashionable and pathetic, and you have my crippled self-image. For the longest time I thought I’d never have a date, that no one would ever in a million years want to sleep with me, and I would just be alone and live with my best friend and his lover and whoever else and we’d be like Full House only queer and without any widows. And I was okay with that.

The point I’m dancing around is this. ISN’T THIS FUCKED UP?

It’s fucked that I have spent so many years feeling all these inadequate feelings about myself because this society is so obsessed with LIES! Just looking at the other channels, most of them are dedicated to making yourself feel shitty about yourself, and then trying to sell you something that will make you better. Or trying to make you jealous of a lifestyle you will never have. Or making you buy crap you don’t need because it will lead you to a more fulfilled and happy life.

Lies!

We are all insecure humans, and lots of business feeds off our insecurities. From now on, I’m going to make a dedicated effort to not give a shit how ugly I might seem to some people. I’m going to look in the mirror, say “Hot.” and call it good. I’m also going to tell everyone beautiful I see that they are beautiful, and why. I mean, doesn’t it feel good when someone gives you props? Sometimes it can change my whole mood for a whole day or longer. Why don’t we do this all the time? Why do we have to be jealous and compete and try to bring each other down when we can drive around the city yelling “Hot Stuff!” to people on the street? I think the latter would definitely be more fun. And it would be time spent having fun, instead of just sitting around thinking about all the things that are so wrong about you.

*Not actual tilt-a-whirls, but like, brain spinning media messages and stuff. And it rhymes.

My boo and I went out last night. We drove through dark residential neighborhoods, looking into the lit windows of people’s houses. We drank tall boys on the sidewalk, listening to hipsters name drop and out-cool each other. We drank coffee at our favorite cafe, listening to a lady sing and a man strum his guitar. We listened to Journey in the car and when we got home we watched a movie about an epidemic wiping out 90% of the population of Earth.

I love my boo and I love the apocalypse.

A few months before I met him I was writing a column for  Sustainable Style. I had been watching all these documentaries about peak oil and energy and 2012 Mayan Calendar end of times junk. Sometimes I like to fantasize about the apocalypse. Usually I skip the bad stuff and end up somewhere safe with everyone I love. We build shanties and cabins and grow gardens and live this amazing communal-hippie anarchist-back-to-the-land existence where it’s always spring and everything is wonderful. When I think about all this I look forward to is as a time where I will be released from the confines of having to actually work for money and instead I can just build and grow things and do that whole mutual aid thing, which I’m totally into.

Then I met my boo, T. When he asked me out I invited him to this potluck series I was doing. Every month I would find 6 strangers and invite them to a potluck at my house. I’d sit in the kitchen, serve their courses one by one, and record the conversation they had. So our first date was really me listening to him relate to 5 other complete strangers about life, existence, humanity, philosophy, and experience. At this point, T was a stranger to me. He worked across the street from my shop, and whenever I saw him I got totally drunk by his charisma. Not that he really did anything special, but to me being in his presence was like being next to a pop star I was really into. Like Billy Corgan when I was 13.

In the kitchen, I heard him talk about jumping out of planes, traveling the world, talking to shamans. He whistled the sound of a hawk. He spoke of seeing visions while sick with ameobic dysentary. He talked about the philosophy of the Tao and traded lessons he’s learned about society and human nature with those around the table. It wasn’t just him, everyone at the table had their own piece to add to this night. At the end of the evening a pipe was brought out, all the wine was drunk, and people sat on the stoop smoking and literally singing with each other. It was the best potluck of the summer.

He stood out. We moved in together after a month. It was magic. He would bring me wild flowers and we would sit on the porch for hours looking at the stars and talking about the dragon that appeared every night in the bush across the street, under the streetlamp. He told me about all the different lives he has had, all the things he’s learned and seen and suffered. He even helped me build a shanty in the backyard one Sunday, and we spent the summer living in the backyard, watching movies, eating, sleeping, listening to music. When we didn’t have a barbecue, he made one using a pitchfork, a few bricks, and the rack from the oven. When we got locked into a park all night, he built a big fire and we spent the night talking and watching the trains go by. And when it came time to move, he spent the day cleaning the gutters, washing all the windows, and loaded the truck down the windy staircase all by himself.

And in the back of my mind, I knew. He was the person I wanted with me when the shit hit the fan.

Right now, we live in the city, struggling to keep a roof over our heads and food in our mouths. We spend days in front of our computers, learning, stressing, dealing with clients, and reading. But I dream of the day when the population is wiped out and we are stuck on our own, surviving on what we can do with our two hands.We will be the ones to build a safe haven for those we love. We’ll be really buff from chopping wood and gathering wildflowers and swimming in creeks. We will have an amazing hand built house, delicious hand-grown and gathered food, and all our friends will finally be in bucolic harmony.

But even if that day never comes when the apocalypse strikes, there is still the catastrophe of everyday to manage. And it’s so nice to know that no matter how little or big it is, he is always there, making it a little easier.

Since moving to the city, I’ve been working on cultivating possibilities. I feel like the more seeds I plant, the more chances stuff will happen. In the last couple weeks I have joined a ton of event mailing lists, found tons of calendars with things to do, researched the cheapest happy hours in the city, and thought of a ton of ways (read: art projects) to make new friends in this place. I might get a job with the census, I’m working on buttering up this bakery I really want to work at, I’ve applied to volunteer at the botanical gardens, and figured out when the collective bookstore has their monthly meetings to introduce new volunteers. I’ve even figured out what permits to get to become a street artist and started experimenting with making things to sell out of my supply stash. I also found a baking and pastry program at the community college that’s free. Though my next few months are still veiled in mystery, it’s nice to think about all the things that could happen as a result of all the seeds I’m planting. I hope something sprouts.

In addition to the now future, I’ve also been thinking about the future down the road. I try to remember what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wanted to be a talent agent, a torch singer, an artist. I wanted to travel around the country, sit in the sun, find swimming holes, make forts, and live like an indian. Nothing has changed much. I envision myself learning to play the ukelele and sing on the street corner for passersby. Sometimes when things get tough I imagine just running away, walking out of town and just trying to keep going and see what happens. I went to a show for the first time in a long while on Friday, and listening to the music reminded me of how much pleasure music-making gives me. I thought about being at house shows in Seattle, and letting visions of art and sculpture float through my head inspired by the sounds going on around me. I want to sing loud, without fear, my own words with a strong voice.

Sometimes I dream of moving to the country, into a big wooden house in a meadow not far from the forest. I’d plant a garden, learn how to keep goats, make cheese, bake bread, build a greenhouse, and find somewhere good to go swimming in fresh water. At night we’d light a fire outside and sing and play music and look at the stars and hear the crickets. I would cook, make art, read and write. I’d invite people over to make things, eat, drink, dance, and make music. I’d take long walks and bring home wild flowers. I’d have special places to go for picnics, make forts, and hang birdhouses in the forest.

I am trying to get there. Guide my life in the direction that will lead me to this place, this time. Sometime the path seems invisible, blocked by lack of money and obstacles in my way. Sometimes I feel like I have to be able to trick society in some way to get this. Sometimes I just want to run away because that’s the only way I will get to where I want to be. Sometimes I feel like I need to sacrifice something to get to this place, but I’m not sure what it is.

Sometimes I wish there was a set, known path I was on. Where I could just follow the directions and go along the conveyor belt, not having to thing about how I spend each day, each hour. Just doing what they tell me and not having to think about it outside the hours of 9-5pm, and be able to have money to pay my bills and buy my groceries and go out and have a good time.

So I’m figuring out how to ignore the obstacles. How to think of what I want to do and just do it. How to stop waiting around for the right time or the right resources and just go for it. Get some failures under my belt. Learn. Be active. Stop feeling anxious or scared. Dance, sing, be good to those people around me. And maybe one day I’ll look up and realize that I’m already on the right path.

I love food. Since I was little, food has been one of my favorite activities. I grew up eating brie and pate from infancy. I learned how to mix martinis when I was eight. Every night my family would sit down to dinner. Both my parents are amazing cooks, and I’d watch them make sauces and marinate meat and make pie crusts. In high school, I started baking. I experimented with bread, cakes, cookies, biscuits, crumbles, and anything else I could think of. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday because the whole family comes over and cooks together. Food makes community. Cooking is cooperation. It’s a beautiful thing.

When I was a teenager, I used to eat at this amazing, sadly departed restaurant called Bistro E. Europa. Julia owned the restaurant with her husband, Sdravko (I hope I spelled that right). This restaurant was different from any other restaurant. You would show up at 7pm and be there all night, drinking, dancing, laughing, eating, and drinking. At around 4am, you would pour yourself into a taxi and go pass out at home, where you’d wake up the next morning sore all over and with a wicked hangover. But it was all worth it. My sister and I took a cooking lesson with Julia once, learning to make her flatbread and paprikash, delicious staples of her menu. She taught us some key steps to cooking success.

When you are going to start cooking,

1. Open a bottle of wine and pour yourself a glass.

2. Start frying some onions so it smells like something is cooking, for anyone who is waiting for food.

It is with these two tenements of cooking that I started last night to tackle a new challenge: cooking without a kitchen.

This is the sole drawback to our new place. There is no stove, no sink, no cabinet full of dishes, and until last night, no knife. My amazing mother sent us home with some steaks, potatoes, mushrooms and onions, and I was determined to make a feast. So I started out, opening the cheap bottle of chardonnay, bracing myself for the task before me, armed with wine, a microwave, and a george foreman grill. This won’t be hard, I thought. My mom said you can make baked potatoes in the microwave, just stab ‘em a few times with a fork, cover them in butter, and nuke for 15 minutes. Everything else would go on the grill.

I started with the onions, slicing them into rings to be easily manageable on a grill that is sloped downwards, and using a cake tin shoved underneath the front of it to keep the juices from dripping all over the top of the mini-fridge. I sliced the onions, then ran to the bathroom crying to wash out my eyes. Put the onions on the grill. So far so good. Then I stabbed the potatoes and stuck them in the microwave. After trying to figure out how to set the time instead of having the automatic express 5 minutes go on, I gave up and pressed “Add 30 secs” until I got to 15 minutes. After 10 secs, the whole thing shut off.

T: “The surge protector tripped off. It’s pulling too much juice.”

Me: “Can we just plug it into the wall?”

T: “That might blow a fuze. No potatoes.”

What? Steak and potatoes without the potatoes? I would not be thwarted. I took out the potatoes, and cut them in slices. I pulled the onions, mushrooms, and garlic off the grill and stuck them on.

It worked well. After a few minutes the potatoes were crispy on the outside and soft on  the inside. I took them off, slapped some steaks on the grill. They were cooked in just 3 minutes. I put the onions and mushrooms on top to heat them up again, slid them onto the plate with the potatoes, and poured the drippings from the cake pan over all of it.

It was delicious, if I do say so myself. I think I could get the hang of this. One grill, dinner for two. Faced with obstacles, wine is key. Dinner #2? Bring it on.

P.S. If you don’t have a wine opener, don’t use a drill. I just gets cork everywhere.