The things that matter
When Spike Jonze took the stage at last year’s International Advertising Festival in Cannes, I was really excited to hear some advice from a creative superhero. But when he started talking, it was immediately obvious that he was uncomfortable. The confident man I'd imagined looked like a deer in headlights, all wide-eyed and frozen, and every question from the audience was received as though he was being interrogated. Lots of stuttering, lots of throat clearing, lots of umms and errs.
Instead of giving us a secret recipe, Spike admitted to never knowing nor caring whether or not his projects reach anyone. It turns out his process is simply about reflecting what he loves and doing it for himself. That there are others who like the end result is just lucky. A lot of people were disappointed to leave the auditorium without a shortcut to fame and fortune, but I remember walking out with a light in my belly.
I feel the same warmth each time I read a Steve Jobs eulogy. Most people highlight the same qualities: He was a tyrant in the work place, he didn’t take no for an answer, and he absolutely loved what he did. In her own version of his life, Steve’s sister Mona called love his supreme virtue. His god of gods. “He tried. He always, always tried, and always with love at the core of that effort,” she wrote.
These are two men from opposite ends of several spectra, but I see a very clear pattern that connects them. Passion is like a personal language. The individual chooses the sounds, the structure, the inflections, and attempts to communicate. There’s no method outside of having the courage to tell the world who you are, knowing that nobody will ever fully understand.
I love the word ‘courage’. It comes from the root ‘cor’ (the Latin word for ‘heart’) and its original meaning was to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart. Speaking from experience I can tell you that the process is scary, doesn't usually make you famous, and the cost can be high and heart-wrenching-- especially when it's a friend. But I also know that the vulnerability it brings to your life will make you a better person.
I like to remind myself of this (permanently!) because I am passionate about telling the story of who I am: a tyrant, a deer in headlights, intensely emotional and painfully nervous. And this isn’t just when I’m writing or practicing some other creative outlet-- I am one or all of these things (plus more) every second of every day because I believe living is about having the courage to be alive.
To all the people who have stuck with me over the years, thank you. Thank you for listening to my story for better or for worse. Though you've never fully understood it, you've somehow managed to recognize that at the core of it there is only love. For that, I am more than lucky to have you. I am blessed. And to all the people who have left or ever will leave, I never lock my door
Well said
Try looking at your mind as a wayward puppy that you are trying to paper train. You don’t drop-kick a puppy into the neighbor’s yard every time it piddles on the floor. You just keep bringing it back to the newspaper. So I keep trying gently to bring my mind back to what is really there to be seen, maybe to be seen and noted with a kind of reverence. Because if I don’t learn to do this, I think I’ll keep getting things wrong. -- Anne Lamott
Twenty seven love letters
Yesterday an old friend took me to dinner for my 27th birthday. On the way back from the restaurant we saw a man (presumably homeless) in a wheelchair who wasn’t strong enough to push himself up the small incline from street to sidewalk. He hung there on the edge and called out for help as the traffic light changed. A nearby group of people pretended not to hear him.
After sending the man on his way, my friend burst into this big angry rant about how “chivalry is dead” and the general suckiness of people, and I was reminded of a common phenomenon.
For those who either didn’t take Psych 101 or slept through Psych 101, here’s a quick lesson: Catherine “Kitty” Genovese was raped and stabbed to death in the street outside of her apartment in 1964. Weeks later, a newspaper reported that several of her neighbors admitted to witnessing the event, but failed to react. Genovese syndrome, a.k.a. the Bystander Effect, is this condition of unresponsiveness during an emergency, and the driving force behind the Real-Life Superhero movement. Watchmen character Rorschach was said to have made his mask from one of Kitty Genovese’s dresses.
That this particular friend of mine exemplifies the hero complex as though it’s inherent (he also once dove in and saved me from a crazed dog a millisecond before I would have lost a limb) is probably what I admire most about him.
I'm crazy about this friend in a not-so-friendly way. Big time. The biggest time. And so here is the part where we go from regular blog post to direct letter. Hopefully one day he’ll find his way here and read it.
Dear unmentionable friend,
Thank you for the dinner, for your company, for reminding me that there are people in my life whose non-douchiness shines through regardless of how hard they try to stamp it out or disguise it as something else. The opportunity to see you in rare form was like a birthday gift all on its own, and has inspired a list of other things I want from you in particular. I wrote down one for each year of my life since I didn't publish an official birthday post this year and you know how much I love themes:
1. Your complications
2. All of your insecurities; especially those over weight, appearance, how others perceive you
3. Your struggle with commitment
4. Self-deprecation, humor, sarcasm -- your biggest defense mechanisms
5. Your frustratingly hectic schedule
6. Your inability to show or deal with emotion
7. Your inability to deal with yourself
8. Your inability to deal with stress
9. Your stress
10. The recklessness with which you treat both yourself and the people around you
11. Your addictions
12. Your unpredictability
13. Your fear of not being good enough
14. Your vulnerabilities
15. Every stupid front you make about being “awesome”
16. Your pride
17. Your shame
18. Your volatile mood swings
19. Your bad habits, including white lies (and black ones)
20. Your misguided sense of obligation
21. Your grief
22. Your refusal to evaluate and look for meaning because of what you might realize
23. Your crippling disbelief
24. Your selfishness
25. Your cowardice
26. Whatever it is that makes you reject anyone who thinks higher of you thank you think of yourselfI want these qualities aaaaaaaaaaalll up in my shit. I want them in my face, sitting next to me at dinner, reclining in the crevices of my brain while I work. I want them to wake me up each morning so I can say, Hello qualities! I accept your challenge! I will take you along with me as I attempt to help show this man what he cannot yet see in himself.
Number 27, of course, is just you.
The people that know me are probably reading this and either shaking their head, sighing or considering how much courage it is taking me to publicly admit my feelings. But the funny thing about the word ‘courage’ is that it comes from the Latin word for 'heart' (‘cor’) and its original meaning was to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart. Imperfections and all.
By that definition and considering what I write on this website, I am courage.
Here I can be who I am without fear that my feelings won’t be accepted or reciprocated. Without fear of being judged. This authenticity and the resulting vulnerability, I think, is just as fundamental to a healthy society as not turning our cheek when we see someone in danger. The reason is simple: Once we accept flaw we can truly be open to the things that make us great, and then we can be better people.
Here goes some more truth:
I love you differently than anyone else in this whole world. And most importantly I believe, without the tiniest hint of doubt and regardless of what has gone down or will go down between us, that you are worthy and deserving of it.
I understand that you need to come to these big realizations on your own, so please don’t mistake this as an attempt to be a martyr or Superwoman. I just have to get the words out. Besides, as the hero the cape is more your thing.
If you’re reading this, I don’t expect you to say anything, to do anything, or to return my feelings. In fact, I’m almost certain that this post and its admissions will be nothing but a tiny blip-- if that.
I guess the most important thing here is the strengths I’ve acknowledged and all that’s left to say is this: Let’s stay in each other’s lives. I’ll bring the courage, you bring the action, and maybe we’ll save the world. And if we start hanging out with each other more? Maybe even ourselves.
Love, always love,
Chelsi
Say what?
So it goes like this: I moved to San Francisco, lost one of my closest confidants to shitty circumstance, got a promotion complete with an actual office to go to, went home with a stranger, slept with a friend, herbed with my personal guidance counselor and, most recently, was forced to evaluate my life on the fly when Jesus Christ popped up on my caller ID. I’m not exactly sure how I’m still standing.
The move was fairly sudden. In December my good friend Bern hit me up on chat to say that her roommate was probably going to move out and was I interested? Hot damn! I couldn’t respond because I was too busy packing.
By February I was waking up to the sound of gulls, traffic and pissed off crack heads. It was glorious. On the not so glorious side, a rent bill. But just as I was mentally preparing to revisit the ramen section for the first time since my metabolism left me high and dry my boss was all, Hey, I just moved to San Francisco from Paris so it would be great if you could find us an office and then work in it with me for more money than you make now. Hot damn! I couldn’t respond because I was too busy consulting Craigslist.
Things have been falling into place like that for the majority of this year, which simultaneously makes me happy and freaks me the fuck out. I so desperately want to to lean on 2011 like an old friend, exhale, and say something to the effect of, I'm so glad you're finally here! But a tiny bastard of a voice named EVERY EXPERIENCE I'VE EVER HAD tells me that as soon as I do that, a storm will come.
***
I wish I could say that the accumulation of all this good stuff is the reason I haven't been writing much, but no, the accumulation of all this good stuff is why I'm becoming increasingly paranoid. I wish I could say living above a pub is the reason I haven't been writing much, but no, living within stumbling distance of a beer fountain is the reason I need to seriously look into getting some health insurance.
The reason I haven't written is because Life didn't forget about my steaming side of WTF, and this year's model is so deviating, so marvelous, that thinking about it exhausts me almost to the point of illness.
Things took a turn for the strange when I went home with a dude I met at a bar immediately after epically losing to him at Street Fighter. I want to say I don't know why I did it, but I know the reason and it is sick and twisted. The hat, the face moles, the delicious self-deprecating humor -- it all reminded me so much of another life. In the end it worked against him because I couldn't bring myself to sleep with someone who was already somehow so tragically familiar, and our weird month-long fling ended with a slap on the ass and a couple's kiss on 4th and Market.
I mentally tore the situation apart, wondering over and over again which fucked up part of my mind it was that made it impossible to undress for someone who was so very much like someone I desperately missed, and stitched it all back together so I could relay it to my most trusted friends for their own evaluations. But before I could say a single word, I was officially ditched by one of said confidants and the world became an even sadder, more confusing place.
And then the Universe said, Hey Chelsi, I'd like to make up for the sudden departure of someone you never thought would leave with the return of someone you never thought would have the balls to come back.
***
When my homie Jesus called me I was in a crosswalk on the way to my new office. I saw his name and immediately fell apart, reformed, and fell apart again. What would he say if I answered? Would I be tested? Had I been living my life right? Would I feel ashamed relaying it? I didn't have any of the answers so I just let the phone ring. Later, a voicemail full of telltale signs of ass-dialing was all I had left.
Distraction came in the form of sleeping with someone I really, really enjoy -- both in the bedroom and out -- but we put an end to it the following week for oh, about 192873918273 good reasons. This is significant because it's one of the only times I've really looked a situation like this in the face without fear of what I'd find. The relief I felt afterward was almost tangible, and changed the way I handled what came next.
Of course Jesus didn't really call me, but the emotions I felt when I saw that the aforementioned ex had were so intense that I can't think of a better comparison. After all, this man was practically my religion and I hadn't heard a peep from him in years.
The accidental voicemail lead to a text, which lead to a reply, which lead to a phone call, which lead to many phone calls, which lead to an in-person visit, which lead to a realization, a confession, yet another rejection, and then a letter that was so heartfelt, so deserved and so relieving that I still can't read it without crying.
The next few weeks in this storyline lead up to today, and there is no way I can do them justice in this medium. But I will say that I'm living out some kind of strange sequel, and that even though it's nowhere near as exciting as the first version, I can feel that long lost urge to hug someone/something to near death because I'm so grateful starting to creep up. For that, I am happy.
***
If anything in recent times suggests that I've finally crossed some invisible threshold into adulthood, it's the way I'm dealing with life's surprises. That and the moment my old teacher/current friend/favorite person in the world passed me a suspicious looking cigarette at a small Funk show here in the city.
If you're having a hard time navigating through all the shit life is throwing at you, I recommend getting lifted with a group of people you previously thought knew everything there was to know about the world. It won't give you any solid answers, but there's something about knowing you're in the same boat to crazy-ville as a handful of really awesome people that's more comforting than anything else.
Kiss kiss, bang bang
During college, when the world as it is known within tiny high school walls breaks apart and becomes a fragmented universe of New and Awesome, it's easy to obsess over silly things. My own list includes Ayn Rand, Easy Mac, obscure bands that were so obscure I can't even remember their names anymore, and overly self-indulgent films like The Rules of Attaction. On the other hand, it was also during these years that I found Belgian beer, Thai food and Saul Williams.
Saul Williams is an amazing poet, performer and writer. Between cheesy microwaved noodles and daft tunes, I read Said the Shotgun to the Head, a poem he published in book form. To this day, one section of it stands out clearly in my memory:
Have you ever lost yourself in a kiss? I mean pure psychedelic inebriation. Not just lustful petting but transcendental metamorphosis when you became aware that the greatness of this being was breathing into you. Licking the sides and corners of your mouth, like sealing a thousand fleshy envelopes filled with the essence of your passionate being and then opened by the same mouth and delivered back to you, over and over again - the first kiss of the rest of your life.
The first time I read that passage I felt like making out extra-passionately with every dude I passed on the street. Oh, how easy life would be if I were a tad sluttier. Instead I waited months until a guy I really felt like kissing came along, only to have him tell me that I kissed too much.
Can you believe that? Too much kissing! Who knew there could be such a thing? Certainly not Saul Williams.
The next guy I kissed came really close to Saul's description. In fact, it was probably spot-on, but in the end so many terrible things happened between the two of us that I can't reflect on our kissing without replacing the thousand fleshy envelopes with a thousand stinging nettles.
The last guy I really kissed kissed was the exact opposite. After it happened, nothing happened.
The kissing itself was good. So good that I forgot to breathe. So good that I felt the urge to press his hand to my chest so we could laugh at how fast my heart was beating---but didn't. Did I see a vision of Mother Mary riding a unicorn? No, but maybe I would have if we'd had more than a few minutes of make out time.
And then again, maybe not. A good friend of mine once criticized our tendency as humans to push every connection we make with others in the direction of the soul mate pool, as if liking the same hobbies, foods and colors automatically means a lifetime of blissful companionship. She argued that sometimes a connection lasts for only as long as the two individuals are in the same room, and forcing it into a place that it just isn't meant to go only serves to deform and ruin it.
I can, unfortunately, speak to that last bit from a place of too much experience. Realizing that the way two people get along in a friendship doesn't always translate over to a relationship hasn't been an easy thing to digest, but it has opened new freedoms.
The good kissing guy will always be the good kissing guy because that's all we were. Kissers. It was like a hit-and-run with tongue, and I don't have to worry about nettles because there isn't enough material to grow such drama. I kinda like that, and I wonder if Saul Williams wrote his loveliest of love poems after a succession of one-night stands.
In any case, if I had the guts for it I would tell all the guy friends I mistakenly thought I could date that I'm sorry. I don't mean to be a tease or a ruiner of friendships, it's just that I'm as confused as the next person when it comes to working out this whole life/dating thing. Then, as if it could ever be appropriate to do so, I would call up the good kissing guy and say, HEY MAN! THAT WAS SO YUM! THANKS!