Because One Round of Elfin Anarchy Isn't Sufficient

Santarchy: In New York, the Saturday Night before Xmas. Drunken yuppies dress up as Xmas-related figurines and lose their collective mind publicly.

In San Francisco, seemingly any Saturday night after Thankstaking because of course no one can simply agree on doing something collective just once, so every little posse's gotta take matters into their own damned Bay Area hands.

So my first conscious brush with Santarchy was quite accidental last year. It went a little something like this:

I was innocently walking home. I was stone cold sober. A piss-poor bone chillingly cold Saturday night before Xmas. December 17,2005. When I suddenly realized:

Something is afoot in San Francisco.

And it looks like a goddamned drunken santa/elf convention out there.

I am telling you, the streets are scary tonight. There are santas in every crevice. Not just your run of the mill bell ringing salvation army santas either. Not the homeless fellow trying to get a buck in a santa cap, which completely and utterly sucks on 8 million levels.

I'm talking a santa/elf paramilitary takeover. I'm talking santas in stilettos, santas in fishnets, santas who pull down their beards to swill beer. Groups of santas in the street, shaking fists and cursing cars as they get nearly mowed down. Gaggles of elves fighting with other elves. Cold santas hopping foot to foot awaiting the bus. Frat-culture-stereotype santas. Santas waving bells screaming Merry Christmas, just shy of taking off your cheek off by their sheer proximity. Elves calmly in line to take 20s from ATMs. I started to count them. They are everywhere. In the four blocks near my house, I counted no shit over 39 santa/elves in just under 4 minutes. And I am not even counting the santa/elves who were all at Zeitgeist (a big ol ol-school-turned-pro hipster biker bar place a block or so from me) because such attire won you a free drink in which to completely drown your dignity.

I helped three santas either readjust their beards and/or find their cars. (Elfin Man: "Dude. I parked it on Valencia and 14th. Where IS Valencia and 14th? Where AM I?" Response: "Physically, you are on 14th and Guerrero. Does that help you at all? Because if you cannot find your car, it is perhaps a sign from Santa and his elves you should maybe not be driving.")

It's like community theater and I never got the flyer. It's like loud, furry, red white green roach swarms. It's like an epidemic. It's like the Castro during Halloween. It's like Fantasia, part 2: the LSD Really Kicks In. It's also like... a little annoying.

And let me tell you it is DUMPING rain and friggin freezing (ok, freezing for me, not freezing for you new york types, I know....). But does that keep the skimpily clad santas and the elven eared folks at home? Noooooooooooooooo. They are taking over.

One block 'til my house I passed a slower moving gang of santa/elves on the sidewalk. Meanwhile, on my right, I saw a crew of 6 santa/elves chowing down sausage sandwiches together. The restaurant bunch, sitting in the window, sees the sidewalk crew and starts banging on the window. Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey, Santa Kin! Santa Kin! And the crew on the sidewalk starts hoopin and hollerin back and clanking those crazy bells. And as I tried to maneuver my way through the madness, a third batch of elf-santas saw me and started "merry xmas"ing me like popcorn. Like this (imagine high-pitched helium-esque Alvin and Chipmunks voices): Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! (Just keep going as they pile up in your ear.)

And I stopped and said:


Seriously, what the hell is going on around here? Where did you all come from?

And they giggled and smiled and cackled and grinned and said in those 90 rmp sped up record voices, "Ooooooh, isn't it wooooooonderful?" and "It's like a christmas miracle!" (I kid you not - verbatim) and popcorned "Merry Xmas" me more. And I stopped. And I looked at them. And I said:

Actually, I find all y'all deeply deeply disturbing.

And though I admit to the creepings of a maniacal and somewhat incredulous grin making its way to my face by the time I passed the puking-in-the-median-and-on their pointy-curled-up-shoes santas, just imagine if I were some christmas-adoring 3 year old who still believed in santa. Were I then on the street around my place, on so many levels, I would be fucked up for life.

So....

My friend M-Pants, who is worldly and wise about anything related to costume dressing, Burning Man, and other rituals that scare me, heard my rant the next day and responded.... oh, Santarchy. That was Santarchy, Granny (Aside: she calls me granny. You may not, but she can).

She's all calm. Like I should feel better because that freakiness has a name. Right. But she told me the history and all. Like anything with a history makes it ok. Like the Spanish Inquisition? OK? Lots of history. Right.

So my really long-winded point? One of the things she told me was that it takes place all over the world the Saturday night before Xmas. There were hundreds of thousands on debaucherous Santas in Moscow this year, apparently. Look it up. But did you get M-Pants' wording, people? THE. THE = ONE specific.

But somehow, in its transmoglification over time, the THE got lost. Which means that the two Saturdays of December I was in San Francisco, neither of which were THE Saturday before Xmas, little spouts of Santamas-Santacon-Santarchy arose. And wove singing and blathering down my street in bunches. Veeeeeeery anarchist. Hats off to y'all, but it unfortunately means I have to hunker down and hide under the covers up to THREE Saturday nights before a holiday I otherwise ignore anyways. Sigh.

Here is what I have to say about that:

Go Elf Yourself

Happy best-day-to-take-a-walk-in-San-Francisco-except-Thankstaking-Day....

Smooch.

How to Wear Down People Who Have Vowed to Hate You

1. The 'Kill them; kill them with kindness' approach.

I take sweet pleasure in picking away at the petrified toxic armor of the scads of rude sarcastic unhappy sourpuss depressed angry and depressing adults (and youth, but really there are many less youth) who flock to spend their day within the walls of our most esteemed school district. It's hard to tell which came first, the chicken or the egg on this one, since the school district does appear to cause grumbliness in the most well-adjusted happy souls. Caustic spreaders of blanket negativity, these folks require a slow but steady regiment of someone like me: grinning, laughing, happy in spite of them me. It makes them insane. They resist. They fight back. They up the ante. They say some seriously stupid, nasty shit. And I grin. I smile at them all the time. No matter what. Even when I am telling them what they said is bullshit. Which I do. A lot. But I don't engage. I just keep breathing and smile, and I say something really, really nice and yet truthful. I smile for real, the kind of smile that includes your eyes and results in what folks call "laugh lines" or "crows feet," depending on your gender and outlook on life. And it takes them a while to catch up with what just happened, by which time I am singing my way down the hall. And meanwhile, I let their poison run down my back and shake it off my legs with a twitch. Because these people? They have not met my family. So they have no idea what I can stand and what I can dish out.

I would say it takes an average of six months to have them saying hello to me, smiling and talking with me. And then I know I have broken them. I have done it so far with three adults at my school this past year alone. The Grin Approach - it leaves no visible bruises.

2. The 'Torture them; torture them like a pebble in their shoe' approach.

Equally effective, this technique involves some serious hunkering down and digging in of the heels. Luckily, my Capricorn sun/Scorpio rising origins leaves me scarily stubborn. This is an effective approach with people whose first instinct is to reject anything or anyone new or that they cannot control or don't understand.

This is the approach I have chosen to use with the professor who attempted to block my admittance into this piece of crap Masters program I am currently so disgruntled about. She first tried to ensure that I was not admitted, even though her reasoning just made their department look ridiculous (which turns out to be accurate, but nevermind). She argued that grief and loss had nothing to do with education, and I should get a counseling degree. I laid it out for her one track at a time, schooled her ass and then essentially forced my way in over her protests, basically by refusing to hear her. I call this the Insert-Fingers-in-Ears Ignore 'Em, Keep Moving, and Explain Later (widely-practiced in this good ol teaching district) while Killin'em with Kindness approach (with some logic and threatening mixed in -- it was a bit of a blended approach).

But she really didn't realize how bad it would be until she became my professor. Yes, the one who makes us highlight bullshit. Like that is a surprise. She certainly made it clear she was not having me. And yet, for the last four months, I have been wearing her down while ignoring her attempts to Alpha Male me. Again, she has clearly never met my family.

At first she tried to argue with me, push me around, discourage me, question me, get me to leave. She almost won. But slowly, she started to get it. Well, she both started to get what I wanted to do and why I wanted to do it, and she started to give up the fight. And then tonight, she sent me back a paper, saying in her most eloquent way (she is an English Teacher professor, by the way): 'I am being impressed by your good writing, Sarah. You got the talent, girl!'

Huh? OK, so she needs an editor. Whatever - we will ignore that. The point is.... She now loves me. It's actually a little disturbing. She cares infinitely more about my thesis and my completion of a masters at this point than I do. But in your face, Masters in Navel-Gazing and Piece of Shit Education. Bite me.

The long and the short of it? Don't mess with me. I got all sorts of patience and I get biblical on people, just like my name.

Officially Pronounced Healed, I am Set Free

But not before the usual mind-numbing pain.

Daily Deep Quote: "Without getting sick, there is no transformation. Without darkness, there is no healing." I have pleeeeeeeenty of replies to that, but I will abstain (enjoy that you have avoided diatribes #76-84).

And now for our class agenda... Short but deep.



Maybe so deep I get the bends. And yes, that does say:

Closing
Houston
Thanks beauty
Closing

Please don't ask me what that means.

It's Survival of the Fittest... But How Fit Am I, Really?

We are all about circles today. Circles of tangelos. Circles of paintings. Circles of pain. Today is brought to you by the following object: the Circle. Our Medicine Wheel has never been more edible.















Capturing a rare glimpse of the very offical Circle Hug Healing technique in action, shortly before being enveloped in it. Now imagine me sighing, putting the camera down, finding a couple backs on the outskirts, opening my arms and leaning in to those backs, eyeballs rolled up, trying to touch nothing but pressing just my fingertips against the shaking arms of people hugging other people's backs as though their very lives depended on it. Another very long sigh while somewhere muffled in the center, the Object Of the Circle Hug Healing (the OOCHH) sobs uncontrollably, ostensibly in relief.
Unfortunately, there are people who are NOT in the center who are also weeping. They are called Healing Hounds. The Owlette? Let's call her a healing hound, ya know, one of those people who always wants to be the person in the center, being healed?

The venerable CHH is not to be confused with the Required Individual Closing Hugs Offerings (RICHO). Both happened. I survived both.

I Heart Locally Owned Movie Houses

Bless the Balboa Theater.

Only 5, count 'em 5, independently run theaters left in "lefty" s.f.

And the Balboa Theater is one of them. And even though they are way the fuck out on the avenues, as inconvenient by bicyle, walking, MUNI, or car as possible from my house or most of your houses, I suspect, I am still going there. Why?

10, count 'em 10, reasons to hightail it over to the Balboa Theater:

10. Meem-ami live right there. OK, that is a bonus special to me. So you might want to substitute in the following... Some seriously good food lives right there. All around that theater. Even on the same block. And we all know that kick ass food in sf? Hard to find (yeah, right). OK, so let's go back to the part where MeeAmi live over in those there parts. Hmmmm.

10 (revised). The Balboa Theater is actually located on Balboa Street, unlike Balboa High School, which is located as far from Balboa Street as humanly possible, or Washington High School, which is equally far from Washington Street, or really the plethora of other SFUSD schools named the same names as streets but located not even a little near those streets. Which somehow makes sense but confuses people anyways. The point? Ah yes, the Balboa Theater is both sensical AND not confusing. Good times.

9. They run first-run movies.

8. They serve veggie dogs.

7. They run shorts before the main flick movie.

6. They serve spicy popcorn.

5. You can buy passes and use them even on the weekends.

4. On your way out of the theater is a board with index cards and pencils and tacks. Here you are encouraged to write and post up your reactionary view of the movie you saw not even 10 minutes before, which makes them doubly funny since of course people are all emo (for better or for worse) right after movies and say things like: "If you want to dip your cup deep in OLD LADY, see THE QUEEN." Thanks people. Really. Cheers.

3. They let you in free on your birthday. Awwwwww.

2. They are not so crowded (so do your duty to keep them alive, people).

1. They sponsor some weird-ass contests on their website

http://www.balboamovies.com/

and the guy who won the last one was at our screening and he won a .... Making an Oscar Acceptance Speech. So that is what he got up and did, wearing a tux type item, clutching an Oscar statue, to us, the viewing audience, just before the movie started. Cute. And kinda weird. And cute.


So despite their rock-hard, sciatic-nerve crushing dirty ass seats, questionable sound system, and sky high baby screens, I am there. And you should be, too.

How to Really F@#k with Yourself in Just 2 Steps

Step One:

1. See the Last King of Scotland.

Step Two:

2. Rush from there onto BART to cross the Bay to get to the Punchline to see Meem's baby sister, whom you've known since she was such a wee munchkin in lil' diapers, host a stand-up show.

3. Wish you had a brillo pad for your ears-brain as she talks extensively about the fishy smell of poon, oral sex, and so many other things you instantly block from entering even your short-term memory.

4. Move the brillo pad to your eyes as she gesticulates extensively as well.

5. Blink. A lot.

6. Laugh at the rest because she is really hella funny.

7. Through the brillo, hear Meem say, "The first time is really the most shocking."

8. Nod your head. Sigh. And get so excited for how fuckin fab aliwong has become!

Wanna see her yourself? Check her out:
http://www.aliwong.com/

Destani Wolfe? She Rocked.

So I took Meem to the Independent to bask in the CD drop of Destani Wolfe (formerly of O'Maya fame) and I must say, she is supahfly. Her album is mature and she's a great performer. I am sure it is somewhere on myspace. Feel free to go dig around there for it. Lord knows Rupert Murdoch will love ya for it.



But on top of her music being dope, the cd release was just hilarious. She brought along her capoeira folks, her family, the O'Maya crowd came out, her Berkeley High buddies - it was just super multigenerational, with presumably her abuelita leaning up against the stage tapping a hand on the set and beaming up at Destani, all manner of Berkeley parents grinning ear to ear, drunk drunk drunk and dancing their little hearts out, predictably embarassing their children, particularly Destani's sister, Kelly, whose debut it was as stage backup singer.... I probably could have guessed that even without a whole series of Berkeley parent-friends-of-family sloshing wine down my shirt as they one by one leaned in conspiratorily and then yelled in my ear, "Oh honey, that is Baby Kelly's first time!" before turning back and screaming "Keeeeeeeellllllllllyyyyyyyy! Keeelllllllllllyyyyy! Do you see me? Keeeeeelllllllllyyyyyy!" and waving at her.



And we knew the set was over when suddenly anyone over 40 had vanished from crowding the stage and moved to the back, wine glasses in hand, and then melted into the night before the next band came up. So go out and buy the girl's album. She deserves to blow up.

How to Take Teachers At Their Word, or How WALC Saved My Ass

Enabling quote of the day: "About your final projects: You don't need to explain them. They don't even need to make sense or mean anything."

This works out well for my final project. In fact, this comment is said specifically in reference TO my final project. I feel just so special.



Part A: Outwardly, I pontificate on my utterly obsessive love for the coolness that is Tannic Acid... and Redwood Trees in general ... while inwardly offering thanks to my equal obsession with using pastels as note-taking devices as well as Mr. G, Mr. B, and Ms. T for their love of all things Hendy Woods.

Having received essentially a visual biology-lesson-as-healing lecture, the circle of students stares at me. Even the teacher-child cocks his head like a confused dog. So sighing, onward I plod.



Part B: Reveal... a quilt. Tie it to the Gee Bend exhibit at the MOAD/De Young and a woman's voice saying, "After he died, [my mom] quilted his overalls all together, wanting him to keep her warm through the winter, covered in his love."



More tilting of heads. Time to bring out the big guns of Part C:
Read student writing and poems. It always makes 'em cry. And crying people? No longer critical thinkers. Good stuff. And doubly fortunate for me, since I couldn't create a connection if I tried, these 30 criers ultimately turn out to be great at forging healing art and healing connections between redwood trees and quilted sheets, and poetry honoring people, places, concepts and things.

And so they all nod at last. Sigh a collective sigh. And we are off to the next project. And I am free. Don't understand it? Me neither, but please re-read quote of the day.

How to Crush My Teacher

Unfortunately, it is not so hard.

(4) Teacher-as-Child: "I invite you to show me your journal."

Me: [Blink. Stare.]

Teacher-as-Child, one hour later (not wanting any actual paper to exchange hands): "I invite you to email me your final paper."

Me: [Politely and quietly decline both invitations, demonstrating that my ability to set limits and say no is well intact.... which any of you who have sent me Evites as of late already know and which remains a good and useful skill, as those of you who know the current state of my lovelife will agree.]

Teacher-as-Child: [Slight Wilt and a sigh.]

My Teacher, Open to Tremendous Growth and Change

Mounting evidence shows that my physically present teacher is a child revealed:

(1) Our teacher is excited before lunch. He has received a phone call from his electronic owl (think: Harry Potter, but whatever) confirming that all his hard work has paid off: University of Florida's Medical School is going to do a staff development in which the ENTIRE faculty (then the whole school, eventually) attends a "Rave for Death." I would get carpal tunnel even attempting to explain this here. [I just want to point out that that would SO never happen in San Francisco's med school, so all y'all sf-haters can drop it.]

(2a) Our teacher is crushed after lunch when we all come back in the room, for someone, someone, someone [no, not me, relaaaaaax] has RAISED THE VENETIAN BLINDS (gasp).

(2aa) He is at first disappointed and quite concerned that the pulled up window blinds will make it extraordinarily difficult for the Power Point/slide show final projects to manifest themselves with any clarity.

(2b) Our teacher is amazed to learn that the blinds slide down to cover the window.

(2c) Our teacher beams, clapping his hands and like a cheerleader he praises continually the co-op dwelling fellow (who is a child revealed himself) who pulls them down with great mastery so we can see someone's slide show. "Magnificent," he remarks, amazed shaking of head while grinning. "You are doing a truly magnificent job with that."


(2d) Our teacher beams like he dropped e for the remainder of the day.

(3) Our teacher, beaming. He is really quite cute, actually.

More skills to pack a CV with... my paper pushing future is now secure....

I know you are all excited that I have left behind the Literary Olympic sport of Crafting and Arranging the Perfect Paragraph [that's CRAPP, to you]. Today, my class moved on to a much more meaningful graduate school topic.... the Where's Waldo search for Cohesion Words. Yes, I spent three hours this evening using an array of Smelly Markers (you know the kind) to circle every Additionally, In contrast, However, Moreover, The above, Overall (and yes, the list, it just keeps chuggin). Not on one of my papers, mind you - which would be a fruitful Where's Waldo task of its own, since it turns out I no longer believe in finishing or turning in papers, woops - but rather on some random probably dead former graduate student's paper. Luckily, such a silent (apart from my compulsive muttering) and olfactory activity lent itself to ample reflection on my part about how continually surprising it is to re-realize that this is NOT actually an English class I am mistakenly attending. Now, normally even such omphaloskeptic tasks can be made better through the inclusion of Smelly Markers, but not today. Henceforth today will be known as The Limitations of Smelly Markers Becomes Apparent Day [I am not even bothering to come up with an acronym here, folks]. Play taps, people, it is the end of an era.

Spotlight on... "DJ Boy"

OK, I admit it. I have a secret love for the predictability that is the Single DJ Boy. This sub-genre of on-line daters is easily recognized by his profile, so you can hit it or quit it without even reading it. His ad has at least one picture of him on some mode of transportation with headphones draped like earmuffs or a scarf on and sporting a t-shirt sold by the Giant Peach in limited numbers (best referred to as the Hot-DJ-Shot), followed at least one action photo of him dj-ing (we'll call the Whaaaaaaat?-I'm-No-Music-Poseur [WINMP] Shot). He's knows he's hot, so he is a little surprised not everyone hits on him. Despite presumably being an auditory fellow, it doesn't occur to him that maybe those big old couch stuffinged headphones might be preventing him from hearing his adoring fans.

Ah, the DJ boy. Love him I do.

Momisms at the Movies

My mom, who is really never at a loss for words and rarely cares when people are mad at her, leaves the most fascinating messages on my machine. This installment definitely explains why she never got that film critic job (well..... besides the incidents in which she missed that the guy DIED in The English Patient or that she labeled My Life as a Dog as The Worst Film Ever Made because she did get that the dog died in it).

LAST WEEK

Answering Machine: Beeeeeeeep.

Mom: Your dad is mad at me. [My mom is really not into Hellos or anything]

I took him to see a movie about sailing [my dad LIVES to be anywhere near a boat]. I couldn't remember the name of it. But I told him it was about sailing. So we went to see it and now he is mad at me. I don't know what his problem is.

Machine: Beeeeeeeeeep.

Me: Huh?

[Movie? Dead Calm]

THIS WEEK

Answering Machine: Beeeeeeeep.

Mom: Your dad is mad at me. [See above about mom and greetings]

I wanted to make up for the last movie, which he says was not really about sailing. So I took him to see a movie about canoing [my dad would be buried in a canoe if it were legal]. I couldn't remember the name of it. But I told him it was about canoing. And we went to see it and now he is mad at me. I don't know what his problem is.

Machine: Beeeeeeeeeep.

[Movie? Deliverance]

Sometimes Other People Offer You Spirit Animal Guides

Meem, bless her dear sweet deliciousness, has taken to dreaming for me, since she somehow psychically knows I no longer get enough sleep to go into REM....:


Meem's Dream

"You were taking surfing lessons."
[Editor's note.... first indication that this is, indeed, a dream]
"You were on the beach with an instructor, then it was time to go in the ocean.

"I [that's Meem y'all, keep up] was up on some cliff watching you bob up and down in the water when a huge grey whale popped out in front of you.

"You screamed. Ducked underwater.

"But turns out it didn't eat you. In fact, it didn't want to hurt you at all, it was just playing.

"It was a bit short for a grey whale, might have been a baby.

"Then my little brain coasted off into thinking about what it would be like to be swallowed by a baleen whale...."

Thanks, Meem, for dreaming for me. I appreciate it, AND I am glad you are back in the Sucka Free with me. Missed you somethin' fierce.

Alert: Washed-Up 60s Icon Still Livin in the Past

Sadder still is when that 60s icon stumbles into class (wearing the G-rated version) and her students:1. Think she is a substitute (which has gotta worry ya about the subs in this district)
and
2. Find out what she is supposed to be and shake their heads, saying in their wise old man worldly ways: "Giiiiirl, I know a mess of folks like that...."
and 3. Tell her: "Dude, you look so much younger like that. You really should always dress that way. Duuuuuuude, seriously. And seriously, you should always do your hair like that." Um, cheers. And, um, WTF?!!

In case your head has been in a hole...

I figured everyone was already all up in the US and Mexican Governments' faces to stop the absolute insanity.... from before last summer even when the protests against the insane brutality against Oaxacan teachers started. But it turns out folks still aren't getting informed. Come on, people. What does it take?


http://www.indymedia.org/en/index.shtml or http://www.indybay.org/ to find out when to put your voice out there at the Mexican Embassy next (in SF, anyways)

"Den of Vipers"

SHAME! SHAME! SHAME! The librarian's finger tip is all up in my personal space, somehow rigid and waggling all at once. "How DAAAAAAAAAAAARE you masquerade as a high school student! How old are you? What year were you born?" Yes, I have come full circle to being "carded" once again, this time for being too old. And even with all the finger pointing, I could handle it 'til she said, "Please! You don't even LOOK 18!"

Um... I happen to agree with her, but tell that to the plethora of adults at my old worksite who were constantly screaming at me to get out of the faculty bathroom because it wasn't for students AND THEN counseling me to start wearing corduroy dresses and bows in my hair (no exaggeration) so I would stop being mistaken for a student. Cheers. And this is after I successfully wrote an entire rough draft (rough being the operative word here, folks) of a literature review during a staff meeting that ended at 5pm for a class that starts at 5:10pm. So my point is, this? This was a bit of a buzz kill. I haven't been yelled at by a librarian in, well, years. I always put them top in the NICEST PEOPLE EVER category. Well, just below such upstanding individuals like my friends John'n'Steve.

So I respond, "Um.... I'm 34? And um.... that is my ... um.... Teacher ID."

"Oh." Retraction of pronounced accusatory finger waggle. swipe of books. "Due back in three weeks. Have a nice evening." Magnanimous librarian smile. As AA pointed out, a Den of Vipers out there in librarian world. And they are all dressed innocent as PowerPuff Girls. Watch out.

Haiku, Haiku, Set Me Free

Haiku my main means
To maintain sanity while
I sit, butt numb.


Here class paragraphs
turn poetry from me, dreams,
count five seven five.

Teacher rhyming speaks
My math mind keeps time. I grin.
She stops. Stares. Frowns. Glares.


Instant Messaging

Inside basement walls
Creep in outside southern calls.
Bless the wireless.


Drab walls florescent
Create concrete haiku lines
What minds can grow here?





Tonight in class I learned to write a paragraph. I am almost positive I suffered through that last week, but such apparently is the life of a wheeling hamster, which may in fact be my animal. 2 hours. Scissors. Glue. One paragraph. Yagadabekiddinme....

I am even too tired to laugh hysterical about it or get all PTSD-y.

So rather than finishing the most seriously TWISTED lesson plan I have maybe ever created, I will blog dribble. Nice. Really nice.

Please, everyone, live vicariously for the likes of me, wouldja?

Another Fine Day of Healing Through Art

I am pretty sure I am developing Stockholm Syndrome. Evidence?

Sign #1: It is 80 degrees on my porch, but I spent 8 hours in a 7 degreed fog-banked class and today, well it didn’t seem so bad (at least up until the 3:30 pm community healing dance. That blew it up for me…. So let’s give this sign only 1/2 credit.)



Sign #2: I make it through the day without logging every minute like some paranoid attorney.



Signs #3-10: I am beginning to appreciate my teacher.

A. I find myself beginning to believe that my teacher is secretly talented like Picasso, knowing how to do phenomenological studies but choosing not to. this is not a good sign.

B. I found out today that we don’t have two teachers, we have three. One, as you may recall, is with us spiritually because she remains physically in Florida. The other is M. P., my professor’s son’s dear friend who was like a part of their family, who was killed on Mount Tam many years back. My professor stops at the site of his death to speak with him every morning, at which point they have a sort of team meeting on what MP wants to do that day in class. This one strikes me as more reasonable than the Florida co-teacher-spirit. Until Teacher-In-Flesh says, “I was talking to him this morning on the way in and he told me that I forgot to tell you a lot of stuff. So the first thing is.... hey, what does that say?" (he cocks his head at words scrawled all over the board. So much for MP’s input today.) So he gets all off-kilter and looks at the chaos known as his written mind/Matthew's words to him, which he now cannot decipher, on the board.

C. I even appreciated that as he tilted his head at the board, it was all silent for several minutes before his next professorial bomb-drop quote: "I wanted to thank you for being here, because this class is not a typical class; this class is almost devoid of content, but it is full of emotion and feeling, and it is kind of a mystery." This somehow makes me feel less crazy. (Reminder... Sign #3-10, people, signs #3-10)

D. Plus, a very sweet person in my class checks in about yesterday, saying that “we took a walk, where I gave thanks to the trees, while [my dog] gave thanks to the squirrels, and then the little man and I went to the beach and gave thanks to the sunset together.” And I? I barely found his sentence noteworthy.

And then E: we did many things as a class all day, but I? I shaded and scribbled and blended and generally covered every ounce of my skin and clothing a fine layer of pastel-colored charcoal dust all day. I never was a neat artist. It was almost better than haiku as a Sanity Maintenance Device. And I felt, well, close to ok.

And last but certainly not least, (F) Other Horrified Student is now volunteering for everything, from being an Eagle Man in our community healing bear dance to shaking rattles to reading his spiritual journey poetry.

Maybe Stockholm Syndrome is unavoidable?

Day Tres, Part Deux

OK, here is a Choose Your Own Adventure moment (you KNOW you miss that line of books) from the pre-computer age:

(Pg. 13) You go to the restroom at the end of a class break, where you realize you can:

Choice A: Return to your classroom. (Turn to page 54... where you are eaten by drum-wielding love monsters. They will of course only eat you because, like Jeffrey Dahmer, they just want to be closer to you.)

Choice B: Back slowly out of the building with your backpack in hand. Head to the public library and then to Dolores Park. Read. Accept baked goods from strangers in the form of Rice Krispy Treats offered on a cake plate by a random white and pink haired woman who reportedly made too many for the band that is playing on the other side of the park. Chew and wait to see visions (NOT on the level of Alex Grey but...) or die. Take a nap. Move feet to music. Become human hurdle for small leaping dogs. Turn over. Continue to nap. Concern your friends by disclosing that you have agreed to go on a date with someone whose name you never even caught and whom you are probably not interested in and whom you know nothing about EXCEPT that their favorite word is SNACKS. Watch friends appear appalled that this last bit of trivia was sufficient for you to agree to meet them. Wonder aloud briefly whether any cafes or restaurants in San Francisco serve snacks. (Turn to page 46... where you get more choices.... mostly about snacks....)

Season Two, Grad School Woes, Back With Fresh Episodes

Sorry for the reruns on the blog, people, but it has gotten too unbelievable to write about even. I know I babble a lot on the blog, but the too personal? The too don't-know-where-it-fits-yet? The too I-wanna-remember-or-forget? The too traumatic? Those don’t make it to public consumption. Ya know how that goes.

As many of you have heard first-hand, I and my laryngitis have been busily working on our future as a lounge singer/ motivational speaker against smoke inhalation for at least a few weeks now. It certainly hasn’t helped to be doing crazy school-wide events or running an assembly for 1200 students when you have to welcome everyone but the mic.... not working. So you get to do the shout out in the most literal sense. Nice.

But it perversely could be helpful when you are required to spend a balmy, san-francisco-october weekend indoors.... For 16 hours.... Because at least you can pull the pity card and, in your voice that sounds like a boy in the throws of adolescent hormonal changes, you can blink and whisper to your professor that you just might not make it through the day.

In one very complicated sentence, he simultaneously tells me to do what I need to do (that'd be.... Um option a. LEAVE?) AND changes the ENTIRE agenda of the day to have the whole class do a healing ritual on me (E, you either predicted it, or you 'manifested' it. I choose to believe the former, b/c otherwise I am gonna have to be pissed, girlfriend sistergirl. You don’t even know your power).

Professorial Opening Statement, 9:12 am: "This is a weekend in which we work on more practical applications of healing and art.... And around that I will do some dance and poetry with you."

On board is the first half of our agenda. On board is also the second half of the agenda, reportedly.

Feel free to check out the photos. A treat to the person who can figure out the board agenda most accurately:



Yes, that does say, "You are 1/2." There were objections to this one from some in the group. Good to know what we all find objectionable here.




So today I learned my professor was once fired from this illustrious institution. It turns out he was fired for none of the behaviors that I have outlined for y'all this semester so far; he was fired for giving everyone in his class As. Greeeeaaaaaaaaat. Which might make one wonder how it is we are all here together again. This would be confusing were we not already in an alternate universe.

9:16 am: My friend Other Horrified Student is MIA.

9:54 am: Other Horrified Student has arrived to find people in a circle crying as they check in. And he looks very, very worried. He sits on a stool at the end of the room, one cheek away from fleeing.

10:06 am: "Sacred space is not bound by space or time." Yes, it just keeps following me around, this blanket of the sacred. I feel a bit warm, really. Maybe a little feverish, actually. Can someone open a window?

10:10ish -11-something a.m.... Proof that time slows down when shit starts happening. This was the longest 50 minutes of my life, and that is only slightly an exaggeration. I experienced being healed by 30 wonderful, beautiful, well intentioned people. I am pronounced "looking better" and patted on the back for my good work. Words fail me; I bite my lip a lot. Surprisingly, my voice is no longer raspy. In fact, it has completely left me. Maybe in a 'screw this shit' moment. But again, it just might be the shock of the whole experience. I remain truly beyond words to describe this chunk of time. How fortunate for all of you.

11:40 am: Taking our focus off formerly-known-as-sick, shell-shocked me, we have moved on to a guided visualization in which we stick our Inner Critics in lock boxes within our minds, proof that healing too has room for violence. I am no fan of locking everyone up, but word on the Inner Critic lockdown movement. Now we are drawing or writing what we saw. We are not to question what we saw in our visualizations. I saw many things. Most appeared related. Some appeared to be focused on wishing I had worn socks on my feet. I call this my Inner Coldy. I also saw a sandwich. I saw lying in grass. Are visualizations and fervent desires distinct?

Maybe I can manifest a sandwich. Falafel? Hmmm, I love falafel. I am getting a cleansing real time here. He waves a wing at me while I type this. Sage smoke makes my eyes water a little, but I can type and stare at him at the same time. He is healing me and I am ungrateful, unworthy, and increasingly concerned about my mental health as I begin to appreciate him in an odd way. I thank him.

In his efforts to heal me, he sets off the fire alarm. Sometimes you manifest too much power. We ignore the bell clanging of the fire alarm; we continue to draw/write. Perhaps he will be fired for this. Which certainly means he can’t be rehired for at least one more year. He puts down books in the four directions of the Medicine Wheel. He offers crayons and markers to the Medicine Wheel, too. I make a mental note to donate some Smelly Markers to him, since they make everything in my life a little brighter.

He reminds us that Art-Healing in hospitals can be a lucrative career. He is very practical in his own way. At least my teacher has not changed his name to something just-a-little-more-'Native,' in the stereotype sense of the word. He retains his Judeo-Christian boy name. Bless him for that. The fire alarm, realizing that it will be forever ignored, somehow resets itself without anyone actually coming in to make sure we are alive. This must be manifesting or the divine feminine. Or perhaps the patriarchy hatin' on the divine feminine? My ability to become sarcastic has grown leaps and bounds in this class. What joy. I know what we all wanted was a sarcastic Sarah.

Lunchtime comes and we are set free. I go off to lie down on the grass. And eat a sandwich. A symbol of both connecting these two worlds I am to spend my Saturday in and making my dreams a reality.

TO BE CONTINUED THIS AFTERNOON....

Love It Or Hate It, Ya Can't Stop the Depth of Sucka Free Propositions

(Note the middle square there.) A thousand reasons to vote, plus several reasons to roll one's eyes while doing it...

I Heart T4SJ... Even though we are always roping me into stuff I don't wanna do....

Now normally, my T4SJ compadres do what any good grass-roots organizing force would do... wait for someone to miss a meeting and use the opportunity to sign that someone up to do stuff. That is standard and therefore margninally acceptable. But in a flip-script, this year we apparently took on the spirit of "one, two, three, not me!" organizing, which resulted in me being informed I was running a workshop at the conference (Saturday) as we stuffed folders for the conference (Thursday night). I should be grateful I was told. Their punishment was that they had to come up with a topic (um.... games, games, games.... a.k.a. teambuilders-for-social-justice) that I could do in my sleep. So here is THE FLAVA of an SB workshop for teachers off the cuff and after 7 hours of sleep spread over 4 nights.




But I really must give a shout out to T4SJ because this was the biggest, tightest conference yet, with a dope after-party and all (and not just because I had some delicious nibbles and drinks). Which is (one of so many reasons) why Karen Z. is the damned bomb.

That's no Disney Small World Either

http://www.miniature-earth.com/

Largest Urban Farm in the Country: Barred+Trashed

But still cactus is coming back to bloom inside its bulldozed space. That is some deeply disturbing shit. Check it out and then holla about it to whoever will listen (thanks Roberta for the first photo) http://www.southcentralfarmers.com







A shout out to the ever-fabulous Jorge, his ridiculously cute niece, and Hijos de la Tierra for puttin on a good show (ok, shameless promotion moment, but these folks are family, their sound is tight, and they are trying to help the farm, so check their shit out on myspace while you're at it). And that cute band of folks from Oaxaca were dope, too, but I don't remember their name...




And a special shoutout to the borracho waiter at "Skinny's", as Amber likes to call it, who made our day with some serious comfort food. Their menu even has a "everybody's mother's yellow cake with chocolate frosting" option, for those of you who are anti-Auntie Flossie's Floating Sweet Potato Pie.

Sing Out Sisters

Raising money for breast cancer in the midst of boytown Castro@18th the night before the Castro Street Faire in San Francisco seems like, well, a bad idea, but somehow shit always works out, especially when the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence get 'hold of it, ya know..








































































And We Heart Harvey's in the Castro for always keepin it real with what's going down around town raisin' moneywise. Twas lovely drag show, although of course we were all there secretly to whoop'n'holla at the absolutely fabulous and ever-tasteful Louise Evans, complete with her vodka filled airline attendant attache case. Now, I am not a shallow person, but y'all know I am a suckah for a fella in a dress and, well, she IS dreamy, isn't she? I am especially impressed with her ability to put on that glam gal face and shake up some mean drinks for the audience even after some little nitwit stole her clutch (and cell and cards and cash.... that she was busily giving away all night to the CAUSE and all) while she was shaking her very firm (but unfortunately not hers) parts on the dance floor with G and me.