Mar 23 2003

Ack. Mumph.

I won’t be posting much about the war for a while – there are plenty of other people out there who are keeping much closer tabs than I on developments – as I found out yesterday morning that my father died on December 18, 2002. Three months ago.

Nobody. Fucking. Told. Me.

My aunts, my father’s sisters, knew where to reach me had they chosen to. The last time I spoke with my father he informed me that I’d been named executrix of his will. Apparently that changed at some point. Obviously we weren’t in any kind of close contact, but still… as all three of you know, I consider irony to be a core component of any significant experience, and this is a rich one. Every so often I’d Google my father to see what he was up to, keeping tabs from a distance. I’d been wanting to get in closer touch with him recently, but was waiting until the dust settled somewhat from my divorce before tipping that moldy can of worms out into the sunlight. Ironically, every time I typed his name in, I’d be cringing in the back of my brain, hoping that since he was only in his early sixties, it wouldn’t be his obituary reporting on his recent activities. This time it was.

I’m just beginning to deal with and process the litany of old and new pain, anger and regret. So many things that I regret that can never be cleaned up. I had begun to blog about all of it, to clean it out of my brain, but Blogger ate my post and my heart is too tired at the moment to recreate everything I wrote. Suffice to say that I most regret maintaining distance between us out of the desire to protect myself from being hurt and to punish him for hurting me – he wasn’t there when I almost died, and I wasn’t there when he did. In many ways this has been the easier path. But it’s certainly not the more honorable.


Mar 17 2003

The Revolution Will Be Homogenized

This last bit scares me – but it figures… they’re gonna ruin it for everyone. Bastards.

“Because blogs tend to focus on specific subjects and attract people in similar demographic groups, they could be huge for advertisers hoping to target their pitches. Dr. Pepper/7UP already is testing this theory by mining the Blogosphere to launch an unusual marketing campaign for a new flavored milk drink called Raging Cow. The beverage, currently available in five test markets, is aimed at teens and young adults, a demographic that has embraced blogging. To create a buzz about Raging Cow before its national launch, Richards Interactive culled through 300 blogs to find the ones that appeared most influential. The teens writing the blogs, including the likes of boymeets life.com, italianize.com and sparkley.net, are getting some merchandise and Amazon.com gift certificates in exchange for testing the milk and expressing their opinions online during the next few months. Richards Interactive also created a blog, ostensibly written by the raging cow herself, punctuated with the slogan, “The Revolution Will Be Homogenized.””

Ack. Uh huh. Right.


Mar 8 2003

Reasons or Excuses

Some of the best advice I’ve ever heard, from a column online at Salon (where X is a person and Y is an act, or another person, quite possibly): “You are going to hurt X if you take off and do Y. The key is to make it count. Don’t squander your hurting. Make it mean something. Make sure it’s what you have to do. But then do it with all your heart.”

Lots of friends who are only somewhat in the know with my divorce think that it’s because he got laid off, because I ended up stuck in a job I hated for too long and solely responsible for a house payment I never wanted, that it was a split about money and power.

It wasn’t.

It was about love.

Not the romantic sort of love, but rather, a love of self, a love of life, a love of excruciating awareness of possibility. I don’t care how much someone makes, how much societal validation they receive by way of cash for following a passion – I care that that person do what feeds his or her soul. Yes, we have to live in the world and make a living, and yes, that means hanging it out there sometimes for weird or boring stretches of time, and yes, Los Angeles is full of folks who, in various quiet and loud ways, lead lives of passionate desperation in their quests for emotional and artistic fulfillment, but I truly believe (up there with believing that I need oxygen and chocolate in different ways to survive, and that I have serious issues with gravity) that if you have talent and passion and dedication to what feeds that flame in your soul, you will also achieve societal validation by way of cash. Maybe not a lot, maybe not all at the right time, but if you love something and you are good at it and you don’t listen to the steel-fanged ferrets in the back of your brain that whisper insidious, sabotaging lies at you, but rather you duct-tape them into a closet and get out there and do what you love brilliantly, you can indeed make a living and have a life that doesn’t feel like you’re just going through the motions.

A life that counts for something.

A life that isn’t comprised solely of moving your corpse from place to place in search of instant and fleeting media-driven gratification.

Because if you’re not really living the life that scares and thrills you the most, you’re just marking time and you might as well stop wasting oxygen, because you’re already dead and just haven’t realized it yet.

My to-be-ex-husband is a wonderful man and a brilliantly talented artist who let the ferrets take over for far too long, and one day we both woke up and realized how we’d let what we were “supposed” to be doing according to someone else’s idea of a life run the choices we’d made for ourselves and with each other. And after long conversations and tears and shouting and sadness, we realized that we couldn’t both have what we really want in life and stay together, stay married, live in a house in suburbia and raise a family. We don’t hate each other – matter of fact, we’ve both been incredibly fucking civilized about the whole thing because neither of us have wanted to add to the pain and heartache – we still love each other very much. But that’s not enough to make it work such that we both get to do and be who we really are. And neither of us are necrophiliacs.

I’ve finally started writing again after what felt like a long hiatus with only sporadic relief, as you dear readers three might have surmised. Thank the gods it happened before I’d started to decompose too badly.