How to annoy me

Expect me to make you feel better about yourself for the price of a cup of coffee.

Terminally ill and in love

When i worked at a certain organic foods cafe, there was a couple that ALWAYS made out while in line, fondling one another while eating, and grasping hands across the table. I was usually bitter and grossed out by this. We decided that one person in the couple must be terminally ill, explaining why they were embracing every last moment and grasping on for dear life. They fondly became know as the Terminally Ill Couple.

It is three years later, and Ben was having coffee in North East, when he heard two people smacking lips behind him. Once, twice...like seven times! He turned around, and there they were: the Terminally Ill Couple. They are now Mr. and Mrs. Terminally Ill, and it actually looks like love is suiting them quite well, because they appear very healthy.

And I kindof want to send them a card in the mail that says "thanks! you rock!" Because, despite my deep love for my significant other, I tend to be quite cynical about love in general. It probably has something to do with the thirty-two year marriage of parents fizzling... Blah, blah, family drama, etc...

This is love--these two people grinning and holding hands and appearing everywhere together and riding a tandem bicycle. The combination of the two of them and Betsy and Justin even makes cynical me jump up and shout: "yes! love! yes!"

And, it makes me especially fond of old love. And a shared history. Last weekend i worked at a party for two fabulous people in their late sixties. They are lively, in complete and total love, open-minded, awesome. They have known one another for so long! They have survived the horrible murder of one of their children. They keep themselves young in order to raise their grandchildren. This is fucking beautiful in my mind.

I am SO not getting on a relationship high horse...but despite the obvious thrills of new love (and yes, there are many...and I remember and get a bit envious. Because it rocks.), I don't generally envy the continual falling in and out of love. It sounds exhausting. Dating sounds kindof horrible. I think I would rather spend most of life as my own personal companion, rather than searching for someone new. There is something amazing about a person who knows all of your quirks and all of your shit. i do not take this for granted.

D is for douche bag, N for nostalgia, B for bliss

So, this year- meaning, school year, because i still think like that- was a great experiment. When i decided to veto Laban, I wanted a fun- meaning diverse- year, because I am easily bored and discontent. Hence, wanting to travel across an ocean to go to graduate school. So, I spent three months as a middle school drama director, followed by two more at St. Olaf working on a musical. And this was great, because I made quite a bit of money doing really nice things.

And then, March hit, and i was like "SHIT! I have to work at the coffee shop!"

And so I did, because as of January, 2009 I am practicing at being a MATURE ADULT. And this means things like taking responsibility for my actions and going to the dentist on a semi-regular basis. It also means paying my bills.

Point being, I have worked 3-4 days at a Coffee Shop Near You since the second week of March. And I've been doing a decent job of keeping my wits and dignity about myself, uttering affirmations when needed, and keeping the drama at work.

There are, however, some things that I have trouble overlooking. I have trouble leaving my TOP 5 (as in, most douchebaggy customers) at work. Because they are amazing.

1.) Woman with huge tits and dagger eyes who is very nice to the male employees, but doesn't look at me.

2.) Man who works with recovering addicts, but requires, like, 6 cups of coffee to get through his morning. And thinks I have a crush on him, although he actually triggers my gag reflex.

3.) Jim, whose speciality drink causes me to roll my eyes regularly.

4.) Wicked curly haired fag hag who also gives dagger eyes

5.) Gross Aaron, who stares at my ass.

I have this thing where I process my angst by swearing under my breath as I turn to grab the coffee. There is so much noise that it isn't noticed.

For example:

Woman: "Large chai."

Laura: *turns and grabs cup while under breath...* "Fucking two-faced cunt who can't even get off of her cell phone to look me in the eyes."

...and then turning around with huge smile.....

"That will be $4.25. Have a great day!"

Despite all of this coffee shop garbage and drama, I am so tickled pink with life right now. Every day my schedule is a bit different, and there are projects, and things to figure out and collaborations with cool folk and dance recital pieces to finish and shows to put up. This is what I've honestly always wanted: a life structured around my art making, where I can delve deeply into those things that I most want to put my energy into. And, time to occasionally slow down- to take a deep breath and realize that life is made to savor. And that some of my most glorious moments happen when I'm deep in conversation at the bar, or lying on a bed piled with my friends.

It is so damn good! I'm grateful that I haven't been on hold waiting for this...waiting for the perfect job, marriage, a house, a child, a raise, retirement.... Realizing that it is here is the most exciting.

Revelations come in all shapes and sizes. And God might be a thirty six year old woman.

As one gets older (as one does, says Laura Holway, aged 26 and 1/2), one hopes for a looming sense of sobriety. Purely metaphorically speaking. Or maybe not sobriety, but stability. But not in the 9-5 job and 2 kids way. Ease. Yes, ease. One hopes for the possibility of ease to at least present itself in potential form.

(please note: ease does not equal easy. it just involves confronting things with a greater sense of breath.)

This means less struggle. And that sounds appealing.

There have been fleeting and awesome moments in my life where I have felt infinite. And my life felt infinite. And these moments are usually brought on by letting go. Totally releasing, and just BEING, as is. Usually, an hour later, I forget how to do this and return to my usual self. Sometimes, however, this feeling lasts for days. I do not worry about money. I do not worry about love. I do not worry about the trajectory of my career, or success, or making sure that I have some more credentials after my name. Or about making sure that I have a house at a certain point. Or a certain amount of income. All of this becomes fairly irrelevant when you are infinite. Because those things are finite. They are points on a map, and the infinite cannot understand them.

Most of these thoughts were provoked by a performance artist of sorts. Her name is Cynthia Hopkins, and last night- at the most important, necessary moment, I saw her The Failure of Success (or the Success of Failure). And I fell deeply in love with this woman. (please see above)

What came out of her was some of the most coherent, heart-felt, skillfully-crafted awesomeness I have ever seen! It was clever without making me feel stupid. It was inclusive. It admitted to being "art"- just that- and "art" sometimes is senseless.

I wish I could say more about the piece. But to dissect it is to ruin it for myself. So I won't.

The LARGER point of writing about infinity and Cynthia is to re-state a point of made (or heard) about a million times over in the last couple of nutty, nutty months: make the work. If you want to be an artist, be an artist. Just make what you feel you are called to make, and tell everyone else who makes you feel like you should be doing something else to f*ck off.

End scene.

Golden Valley, Maple Plain, Roseville, Rosedale...

i got lost in a number of suburbs today trying to find the Day Spa to spend the luxurious gift certificate that B's mom got at a silent auction. This was my second trip to the suburbs for spa treatment. Last time I went for an amazing massage- the worst I've ever had given by a cougar in a pink jogging suit and white high heels. But that is another story for another time.

Today, my trip was mostly aimed at relaxation and spending the remaining $200 gift certificate. I now have less hair on my body, and what I have is more blond. I think this is supposed to be attractive. But it mostly seemed exhausting. Even waiting is exhausting, just like Andy Warhol says:

"I suppose I have a really loose interpertation of 'work' because I think that just being alive is so much work at something you don't always want to do. Being born is like being kidnapped. And then sold into slavery. People are working every minute. The machinery is always going. Even when you sleep."

Anyway, sitting there and reading dumb magazines and conversing with my sweet, albeit nieve, stylist felt exhausting.

She asked me if I knew anyone on Dancing with the Stars. Hm... I've never watched it. How do I explain that my dancing is mostly rolling around with people until we're sweaty?

So yeah, suburbs= scary, and spa= boring. And that's that.

As an after-thought, however, I want to make a point to say that I have two really obnoxious flaws (obviously I have more, but let's just deal with them two at a time): I am very stubborn. I don't like to take advise. Oh...and I'm very impatient. I want everything NOW.

I would just like to take a moment to thank the world for all the nice people and friends and casual acquaintances that have cheered me on over the past five years as I've tried this weird dance making things. And I especially want to thank all of the people who have given me pep talks over the last year as I've been DEBBIE DOWNER CENTRAL when it comes to wanting to make things, and not having enough time or resources.

Ha! I'm probably the first artist to ever complain of that, right?

This week, as I've been talking to people and moaning and groaning and reading my pep-talk books (Mark Morris biographies and Twyla Tharp's creativity book), I realized that I could fucking use some butch up skills. And I could also use some "WOW!" skills--as in "damn-it's-really-awesome-that-so-many-people-can-make-this-career-work." I am glad that they continue to go. Because continuing to go is hard work.

And they remind me to shut the fuck up and just make the work. Just make the work.

Asking

I am bad about asking for what I need. But, damn it, I need a few things:

*A couple more GOOD days- i've had three in a row.

*A break. It could come in a number for forms (artistic would be nice).

*April 1 to be here (for a couple of reasons).

*More mornings working and nights free.

*A bike.

*Yeah, mostly a break.

*Reassurance- again, in a number of forms.

*Life to be a softy on me for a bit. I'm tired. It's been a hard winter, damn it.

Things that are fucking exciting

Babies, it's MARCH, and if there's anything not exciting in Minnesota, it's MARCH, which means (usually) more snow and icy drizzle and more waiting.

It also means that coming of Spring, and nothing makes me more beautifully crazed than Spring.

So, exciting things to get me through March, in no particular order:

1. Many visitors at the end of March/beginning of April- familia, and....APRIL!

2. A new project, auditioning today.

3. My own project, which I'm officially holding auditions for later this month.

4. A choreographer's group (kinda like a writing group, but for dancing), hopefully starting soon.

5. Career planning courtesy of Springboard.

6. The thought of little nice things--a thrifting day next Monday, spending my gift certificate at Ax-Man, earrings at Patina.

7. My piggy bank. Which equals a new haircut and hell, a wax, when full. It's 2/3 full!

8. A trip to San Francisco in June.

9. Spring, which means bikes and gardens. And Ben's porch.

10. The new sigur ros, which equates with awesome.

Things I'd like to do:

1. More sewing.

2. More thrifting.

3. More sporadic phrases throughout the day.