My Name Is..."Garth, that was a haiku!"

Leah Brzezinski
Weary grace of a birch tree
gets her skin ready.

Yes,Yes, Lioness
Referee of naughty thoughts
between me and you.

Making Up for Lost Time (for Samantha)

An old college friend read this Best of Craigslist article entitled "Just fucking fuck me, already."  He sent me the link with the subject line, "did you write this? haha".  A giant existential shitstorm ensued.  Here's our email stream (with minimal edits made to better protect the identities of the innocent).

On Tue, Mar 29, 2011 at 11:51 PM, "I" <yesyeslioness@myemailaddress.com> wrote:

Nope! Though that was a great article, I'm now looking for a decent relationship over a hot fuck. Or both ideally, but emphasis is on the former.  How's shit?

On Wed, 3/30/11, "He" <thisoneguy@hisemailaddress.com> wrote:

From: "ThisOneGuy" <thisoneguy@hisemailaddress.com>
Subject: Re: did you write this? haha
To: "YesYesLioness" <yesyeslioness@myemailaddress.com>
Date: Wednesday, March 30, 2011, 1:44 PM

Things are ok with me. I am just working and saving money. Still trying to figure out what is next in my life. I saw you got a new job and that you are trying to quit smoking. Holy self improvement!


On Wed, Mar 30, 2011 at 7:57 PM, "I" yesyeslioness@myemailaddress.com> wrote:

"Working and saving money"...for what, is the big question, ThisOneGuy? I know what you mean about the scary "what's next?" question, but at least we're daring to ask.  It's really hard to ask yourself what exactly YOU want.  Even harder to be sure that your answer is coming entirely from your own heart.

I find myself wanting to settle down (gasp?!), sort my feelings/money/priorities out, stop partying just for distraction, carve out a little chunk of the world, and do something with this genius-chaos that is me.  I bit the lioness smarty-pants pride bullet and have been going to therapy for about 6 weeks now; it's been really good for me.  Just as you can't massage your own back--neither can you fix your own thoughts. 

Yes, the new job is much lower-stress, better tips/customers/coworkers/boss, and I get to educate people about beans/roasting/brewing methods (whee!...I get to play with Bunsen burners!), and being a better coffee consumer.  More like a coffee science lab/roastery with a shop/cafe attached.  Customer service, but not being a counter-whore/public punching-bag all day long.

I've already gotten the invitation to buy (partially) into the business, do admin and management, and go on salary.  Whoa!  I like the idea of some world business travel (we buy some beans directly from farmers and negotiate face-to-face in places like Guatemala and Brazil), but I'm gonna hold off for at least this summer and observe it all before jumping into anything like that. Really pleased with it in the meantime, though.

My band's pretty much grinding to a halt, may still record backing vocals for this and other people's projects, but enjoying the gig/whiskey/sleep deprivation/drama-free weekends.  Writing album reviews here and there for Savage Henry online magazine/Nadamucho.com.  It's fun to flex my typing fingers and my vocabulary muscles!  This one's on the new DeVotchKa album 100 Lovers, which I adored and asked to cover specifically. If you haven't heard already, get it--classical/modern gypsy-punk indie-funk party en sus pantalones! 

I have been cigarette-free for nearly 2 months; it feels like a lifetime ago!  It's terrifyingly exhilarating as I learn to manage my anxieties.  I have to come right out and feel things at the time I feel them instead of running away to light them up and inhale them, only to cough them up suddenly and inappropriately later.  (What a metaphor, huh!)  I feel better, look better, smell better, and my vocal range got a couple of notes back too!  Haven't cheated on myself, not even once, don't even care to. Seriously.  Done with it. So happy to be free of that evil sadness monster cloud.

It's definitely a brave new dating world when you don't have a "smoker dealbreaker rejection shield" too.  That was always a good excuse for attracting only other people who didn't seem to care very much about themselves, and/or me.  I read this article for women turning 30 and it said, "you will attract who you deserve."  It made me realize that I would like to deserve/attract better for myself, because time's a-ticking, and tough as I act, there is an ever-crescendoing voice in my head that wants to be someone's partner/mother/family.  I'm trying to get healthier, plow through my shit, use it for fertilizer, and plant the seeds to deserve the kind of man who'd want me to mother his children, share a home, build a decent life together, encourage each other to be the best possible versions of ourselves, who is attracted to this YesYesLioness who actually loves herself.

(Not the self-pitying, self-destructive YesYesLioness who won't expect anything more from a guy than a few drinks, an evening's-worth of "jackhammering", and new fodder for her latest Craigslist bitter single-lady bad sex rant.)

So, no offense, but your (semi-joking) suggestion that I could have believably authored that article hit me hard.  It occurs to me that I seem to have successfully created this character who appears uninterested in loving or being loved by anyone. Who tries to act as though she knows it would just be a bother if you loved her, as if she is sparing you the hassle of having to care by letting you fuck her and be on your way.  Befriend her if you must, to make yourself feel better about the whole "fucking her" thing and in exchange, get some funny, personalized sex advice. But do yourself a favor and move it along, Mr. Nice Guy, there's no HELP WANTED sign on this vagina, and who wants to fight a deathmatch with her for a job that allegedly doesn't exist? 

That persona may be well-developed, but she's usually a comedic side character in the story.  Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Surrounded by gay guys, cats, and eating her chocolate-covered feelings amid her ceramic tschotchkis and useless, non-committal assholes met at last call. "Ack!" They retired the Cathy comic strip for a reason.  She makes a crappy leading lady. And so did I, accidentally-on purpose.

I don't want to be the butt of this joke over and over again. I don't want to hate myself anymore, or laugh it off, either.  It is pretty embarrassing and humbling to look back at the things I've done and the people I've hurt/confused/laughed off/outright lied to about my feelings/moved in with because I did hate myself and would have done anything in order to keep from getting close enough to be hurt.  Or worse, truly loved and understood. Even though it usually backfired and hurt a shitload anyways. At least it was of my own design, right. Heh, heh...frown.

So I'm sorry, and this isn't (entirely) personally directed at you, but you accidentally pushed a button and all of these words and feelings are coming out. I guess I have to leave all of that behind now, but it takes a while to mourn the past and sort through what's coming with you into the future and what's staying behind. 

Know what I mean?  I think you kinda do.  Be nice to yourself.  Sorry to "unleash the beast" but there are only a precious few lions who can stand it. And for some reason I write really well when it's in "letter to ThisOneGuy" format.  Lucky you! :)

On Wed, 3/30/11, "He" <thisoneguy@hisemailaddress.com> wrote:

From: ThisOneGuy
Subject: Re: did you write this? haha
To: "YesYesLioness" <yesyeslioness@myemailaddress.com>
Date: Wednesday, March 30, 2011, 8:30 PM

Wow, thanks for the response. At first I looked at the length of this email and thought, "oh great," but as I read it, I kept wanting to read more. You have come a long way.

YesYesLioness, for so long I have been listening to you lament about bad things happening to you and making bad choices. Or, as [a mutual former friend of ours] would say, "poor choices". It is really refreshing and exciting to see you taking charge and growing up. Quitting smoking, finding a job that you enjoy, and taking control of your own craziness. It's inspiring.

I apologize if the email offended you. I saw the posting on reddit.com, thought it was hilarious, saw that it was from Seattle and it made me think of your abandoned "Bad Girls Wear Brown" book idea. 

At this point in my life, working and saving money is an excuse I am making because I am afraid to take another risk with my life. [Name of ThisOneGuy's Former Band] was a huge risk and as a business, it failed. That hurt me so much. I am still stuck at the crossroads of trying again with music and I have been so down on myself lately. I just think, "I'll just keep saving money until I figure it out." Figure WHAT out? 

I like the YesYesLioness who actually loves herself. It gives me some hope for how I feel about myself sometimes.

On Wednesday, April 6, 2011 8:31 PM, "I" wrote:

From:"Me" <yesyeslioness@myemailaddress.com>

Subject: "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!"

To:"ThisOneGuy"

Date: Wednesday, April 6, 2011 8:31 PM

Hey,

First of all, thank you for those words of encouragement, they mean a whole lot coming from you.  I wasn't angry with you about sending me that article.  It was more just the metaphor that set my thoughts ablaze.  I really want to make myself proud, have been asking myself tough questions, and trying to be honest. Honest and kind with myself and with other people, with the words I say and write and think.  It's quite a simple concept, but is also really fucking scary/painful sometimes to do . 

I'm really, really enjoying my writing again right now, trying to figure out ways that I can do it and maybe even get paid for it(?)  I can't believe you remembered my book title, Bad Girls Wear Brown!  I wouldn't call it "abandoned", more like "in the process of being dramatically revised".  I need your help thinking of a new title.  In the meantime, you can read one of my album reviews here.

...And for dessert, may I suggest:  YesYesLioness' Life Advice, a sundae with 3 scoops of adorably-personally-relatable-metaphors, sprinkled with mythology, symbolism, astrology, pop-culture references, and a self-deprecating cherry on top...courtesy of the house.

We lions are natural performers.  We glow under the spotlight, effectively-yet-demurely handle the attention, get off on the pressure to hold it all together in a masochistic way.  This is what our former dorky lonely adolescent selves thought we always wanted, to be the "coolest possible 20-something version of us". We thought we'd feel fuller, but we feel drained, sweaty, broke, hung over and weary of the constant party.  It's really lonely, despite the crowds of people fawning over us, telling us how great we are, wanting us around, buying us a shot, maybe even getting naked with us, "hooking us up". We're divvied up into a zillion handshakes and polite responses and souvenirs of ourselves, and we've handed them out to everyone, until suddenly it feels like we've become our own cliche, and there's nothing at the center holding us together. Jesus Christ may have been a Superstar but he was also the original total fucking martyr. 

We have this knack for attracting crowds, but for as many "fans" and "friends" that attend our shows, only a chosen/fated(?) few get backstage passes and really see us without our costumes on.  We tell ourselves most people don't really want to meet or know the real person behind the spectacle.  They're just using us to maintain their illusion of "the great and powerful Oz" and don't give a fuck about "the man behind the curtain". We're afraid to stop entertaining, terrified to disappoint, and as a result, we haven't gotten SHIT done offstage.  Same old song and dance, and the audience is dwindling.  Even our parents don't show up much anymore.

When you spend your life playing a character for everyone else to enjoy, there's not that much that you can really call "yours" at the end of the show.  The more everyone "LUVS!<3"  you, the less of your true self there is left for you to actually love. [Cracks a beer, commences self-destruction to pass the time until the next show.]

I always I wished I were better friends with "Offstage ThisOneGuy", even though I was a superfan of "Onstage ThisOneGuy" too.  Offstage ThisOneGuy had time to talk, made the most realistic plaster Maple & Brown Sugar PopTart sculpture ever, had a bizarre love for pet birds, and is a really great son/big brother/dude from the suburbs of Chicago.  He's really goddamn smart, well-read, and (despite his oft-inappropriate sense of humor) hilarious. He loves music and movies and has good manners and an appetite for great food and people and culture.  He publishes his list of top albums every year and is a great writer.  He's a crazy-talented musician/graphic artist and a hard worker. He cares about his friends and wants the best for them and reads their long emails :) and yells at them when they make poor choices.

Onstage ThisOneGuy was cocky, flippant, and sexy as all hell. Tight pants, tour vans and red guitars, impish grins and after parties.  In with the muthafucking Hollywood "in" crowd, binge drinking with the guys in their ironic thrift store t-shirts and their hairdos, capable of shoving his massive cock down the throat of the least-suspecting scenester babe in the room (and knowing it). Hearing his own song play in a Hollister store while on tour promoting his show at a mall. Getting wasted and angry and saying/doing inappropriate shit/puking all over the place. Pretending he didn't see me watching from the audience, pretending he didn't know any better.

There are good parts of both ThisOneGuys...I don't mean to slice your heart out and feed it to you on a platter. I just want you to know that I see that there's a lot more within you than your ability to play that one particular character.  Not just in [Name of ThisOneGuy's Former Band], but in your whole life.

Questions to ponder deep down, alone in your heart with no one watching. You don't have to answer them to me (unless you'd truly find that helpful).   No wrong answers.  I've found them to be very helpful questions/ways to think about my life.

1) If you read your own life story thus far, would you like the protagonist? Why or why not?

2) When fantasizing about the story's ending, what would make you put the book down with a satisfied sigh?  Who's with you? Where are you? What's the last line of the book?

3) What is different about the future you fantasized living from the present you are living/past you have lived?

4) Who will help you get there and how do you ask them for what you need?

5) What do you think you could reasonably do to become more like your fantasy future self?--What do you think is unreasonable to expect of yourself/others/beyond your ultimate control?

6) What about the you of past and present is to keep and celebrate and cultivate, what is to be mourned, shed and moved on from?

Ok, that's probably a whole lot of brain digestion to do. But I really do appreciate your loyal subscription to my "would-be newsletter" all of these years.  There's but a few that have a high enough threshold for my bullshit and I realized that I must remember to give them my utmost gratitude and respectful attention. Much love!

-YesYesLioness

Blood Sisters: Ode to My New Friend the Rosebush

I made friends with a rosebush today. At first I was hesitant, warily eyeing her in the front yard, smoking a cigarette and squinting in the sun. I didn't really know where to begin. I'm not much of a gardener, but I just reached out, cracked off one brown leaf, and became instantly obsessed. Gloveless, I plunged into the brier and started pulling off her leaves and buds and branches, thorns be damned. I felt the pain register and even pulled a few out of my fingers and hands as I went along. It was hot out, and I was in the direct sun in my front yard, with afternoon traffic whizzing by and people no doubt staring at me, doggedly pruning this weak pink rosebush like a madwoman on the corner of 49th and Charlestown.

I say "her" because a rosebush just seems like a plant that is a woman. At the core, she's very intertwined and complex and stiff and stubborn, impossible to touch without getting hurt, nay, bleeding. But when properly cared for, one of the most beautiful, colorful, sweetest-smelling things you've ever been fortunate enough to be near on this godforsaken earth. An infuriating paradox.

Anyways, I was hurting and stinging and sweating and pulling off dead rose parts everywhere. Every time I'd step back thinking I was done, some section of brown would call to me and I'd plunge back in. I was bending down branches to get to others, extracting my hair and sweatshirt and arms from thorn pulls, and I wanted to be angry at her for being so hard to take care of and for leaving my hands and fingers in splintery red shambles. But there was this one small, lovely, "flower shop-worthy" hot pink rose on a perfect stem, sprouting right out of the center of the dead branches, and I suddenly felt a great affinity with this frustratingly beautiful plant. I adopted her as my charge and welcomed her into my utterly inexperienced care.

Every lady needs a good pruning, myself included. Even though it hurts to dig in there and you're specifically designed not to be messed with, it's healthier to cull the dry, dead leaves and branches and former blooms that are just dead weight and a drain on your life's energies. Sometimes parts of you stop growing and turn brown and brittle and need to fall off on their own, but sometimes you need a little help with the pulling. It's hard to find someone who's willing to embrace the pain along with the pretty, and a good strong wind is too rare to be of much hope.

I bet by next spring she and I will both bloom bigger.

Eleanor Rigby

It's funny how a casual conversation with my mother can burst me into tears, however inadvertently the comment is made. This time, the conversation isn't even about my life, but about my 40-something, never married aunt who is experiencing a health difficulty. I coo my sympathy like the mourning dove that lived in the ivy of my bedroom window one spring and ask about her, if she's heard anything. My mother questions the magnitude of her reaction and suggests that perhaps her youngest sister may be making a bigger deal of it than need be for the attention. "Well, it must be tough for her though, being alone like that," she goes on, "I'm sure it's kind of scary."

THUD. There goes my heart asplatter on the floor, like only my mother can manage to do. I unsuccessfully swallow the lump in my throat. "Yeahhhhh...it must be...wonder what that must be like?" I reply, unable to contain my bitter sarcasm as I follow up with my typical forced chuckle to sound more lighthearted about it than I am. The throat lump turns liquid and the tears crest my eyelids silently and I thank God I'm on the phone and not in front of her.

SPINSTER. I hate that word. It hangs in the air like a horrible curse, a cautionary tale, a fate worse than death. A life spent alone without romantic or domestic partnership. A single income. An unused womb, despite its fervent urge to be filled with children, knowing forever that you would have made a good mother. Going to the movies by yourself, collecting weird ceramic crap, making people watch your boring vacation slide shows, owning lots of cats. Hating Valentine's Day for the rest of your life. Shopping on QVC, tables for one, or worse, tables for 3 or 5 or 7 as your friends slowly couple off and make pitious attempts to still include you. Endless wedding showers and bachelorette parties and baby showers; you make your best attempt to be gracious and not constantly wonder what it is that she did to deserve it and not you. Family members whispering worriedly and unfounded rumors that you may be a lesbian or something, as if that would be a more satisfying explanation than "Simply no one that I want seems to want me back, and I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

Feeling like you're disappointing everyone, and wanting to stab people (especially guys) who tell you, "I don't know why no one's snatched you up; you're such a catch!" Choking to death on a piece of food because no one's there to give you the Heimlich, or cracking your skull open and bleeding out/slowly drowning in your own shower. Your death only discovered days later when the neighbors become concerned about the smell drifting out into the hallway. Fucking Eleanor Rigby. I know that shit's morbid, but these are honestly the thoughts and fears that shoot through my mind like the crappy laser effects in a sci-fi movie. I try to stop myself from worrying and thinking these things, try to tell myself Mr. Right is right around the corner, but I'm 28 and only moderately pretty, and it's all downhill from here.

My mother finally realizes who she's talking to and proceeds to backpedal: "Well, you have your buddies and stuff..." she offers lamely. I assume she's referring to my gay friends/roommates (who are essentially as married as the law will allow them to be). Translation: "Well, you're at least enough of a faghag to live with someone else." I assume this is supposed to suffice as consolation, but it only makes me cry harder. "Yeah, but it's not like I have anyone forever," my voice cracks. I have now blown my cover, and it is clear that my mother has made me cry. I hate this. "I know, honey, they're partnered and it's not the same thing, I know. And of course, that's what we want for you too."

This is not helping. "Well, your father's almost done eating his popcicle, so I'm gonna pass the phone to him. I always joke that him eating the popcicle in bed is like our foreplay, hahahaha!"

Okay, did my mother just make me cry, make me feel guilty for feeling sorry for myself, make me feel guilty for not finding someone and fulfilling their dreams for me, and then unnecessarily insinuate/fucked-upedly "brag" that she was about to have sex with my father in the space of a 3 minute conversation?!? Yep.

Please contact me if you'd like to donate to my therapy fund.

The Genius Waitress Part 2: Coffee Shop Sonnets

Weird when you realize that stuff strikes the same chord (pun deliciously intended) in you because it strikes the same chord in the collective unconscious in everyone. In thinking about my last post, and about contemporary odes to waitresses, I have loved very much a couple of songs over the years and it's never all come together until just now.

Here are the lyrics to "You", one of the most haunting songs off of Atmosphere's most recent album, When Life Gives You Lemons, You Paint That Shit Gold, (which is an incredible, soulful, intelligent mix of Twin Cities hip-hop beats and straight, honest poetry in the lyrics, I'll have you know).

"You love the people that love you
You hear the music they move to
You give your ode to the fall through
But you don't know you don't know you don't know you don't know

You love the people that love you
You hear the music they move to
You give your ode to the fall through
But you don't know you don't know you don't know you don't know you.

You just got off work, huh?
Another night feeling like the worst one
You didn't even count your tips yet,
But you can tell that it ain't no big step
I don't see why you so nice to customers
They're all fucks and lowlifes.
But don't fight, just keep the lip stiff
And get that money, it's the weekend shift.

But why they all gotta be freaks?
Wish they would just eat and leave
And keep they eyes to they selves, already insecure, don't need any help
And you can blame the pride that makes you hold your anger inside,
But deep down you wanna curse them all.
Fuck off asshole, jerkoff, dirtball.

You love the people that love you
You hear the music they move to
You give your ode to the fall through
But you don't know you don't know you don't know you don't know

You love the people that love you
You hear the music they move to
You give your ode to the fall through
But you don't know you don't know you don't know you don't know you

Now attitude check,
Still show up, you haven't quit yet,
And even when your meat gets sweet
They still treat you like a piece of meat. Huh.
Outrageous, each day this
clock tick-tock and you still a waitress

Trying to pay them student loans
And the lights and the phone and the food and the home,
And you ain't quite broke but you couldn't afford that place on your own.
Got a roommate, to split the rent with
Now you never feel independent.

And everything seems so hollow
‘Cause after work, where'd that smile go?
Better bring it back tomorrow.
Now, pick up the pace and you might make bar close.

Perfect, last call, then some.
Flirtin', sexual tension.
Surfin', through them men
‘Cause they all searching for that bent one
Or just one to bend, and “you look like you could be my friend
With a smile like that, I gotta flirt,
Girl, you just look like you got off work.”

You love the people that love you
You hear the music they move to
You give your ode to the fall through
But you don't know you don't know you don't know you don't know

You love the people that love you
You hear the music they move to
You give your ode to the fall through
But you don't know you don't know you don't know you don't know you."

And the other, an oldie but goodie, "Tom's Diner" by Suzanne Vega. You'd know it by the simple, haunting "doot do do do doot doo doo do" refrain if you heard it, believe me. We've done freestyle lyric riffs off it just for fun. But her lyrics are infinite, epic and so very simple. I just love coffee shop sonnets, I suppose:

I am sitting
In the morning
At the diner
On the corner

I am waiting
At the counter
For the man
To pour the coffee

And he fills it
Only halfway
And before
I even argue

He is looking
Out the window
At somebody
Coming in

"It is always
Nice to see you"
Says the man
Behind the counter

To the woman
Who has come in
She is shaking
Her umbrella

And I look
The other way
As they are kissing
Their hellos

I'm pretending
Not to see them
Instead
I pour the milk

I open
Up the paper
There's a story
Of an actor

Who had died
While he was drinking
It was no one
I had heard of

And I'm turning
To the horoscope
And looking
For the funnies

When I'm feeling
Someone watching me
And so
I raise my head

There's a woman
On the outside
Looking inside
Does she see me?

No she does not
Really see me
Cause she sees
Her own reflection

And I'm trying
Not to notice
That she's hitching
Up her skirt

And while she's
Straightening her stockings
Her hair
Has gotten wet

Oh, this rain
It will continue
Through the morning
As I'm listening

To the bells
Of the cathedral
I am thinking
Of your voice...

And of the midnight picnic
Once upon a time
Before the rain began...

I finish up my coffee
It's time to catch the train."

The Genius Waitress

Tom Robbins is without a doubt my favorite contemporary author. My dad gave me "Still Life with Woodpecker" for Christmas when I was about 18 or so, and since, I have read almost all of his novels, save one or two. Talk about goddess worship! This man understands and appreciates the strong, sexual, gypsy-like female protagonist like no other. I used to joke around that my parents raised me to be a "Tom Robbins female protagonist", encouraging my wacky, independent, quasi-evil gypsy magic side. Or maybe I was destined...

On a recent trip back to Chicago/home, my dad left me with "Wild Ducks Flying Backwards", a collection of his short writings we'd been talking about and he'd been meaning to lend me. It's travelogues and articles and short stories, and also tributes to stuff he thinks is laudable, more of his counter-cultural commentary side rather than spinning his own hippie-ass tales.

I believe in the power of coincidence. Books and words often come to me when I need them most. You could even say that words and language are the means by which I experience the divine. I'll pick up a book or glance at a newspaper or a random article and it perfectly encapsulates my situation or thought process. It completely illuminates the door behind which I feel stuck, and the words bring me the thoughts to open it. That, in some weird way, is God to me, if that's what we're calling it.

Anyways, this particular essay found me on my break at my job at the bakery and it was exactly what I needed:

"The Genius Waitress

Of the genius waitress, I now sing.

Of hidden knowledge, buried ambition, and secret sonnets scribbled on cocktail napkins; of aching arches, ranting cooks, condescending patrons, and eyes diverted from ancient Greece to ancient grease; of burns and pinches and savvy and spunk; of a uniquely American woman living a uniquely American compromise, I sing. I sing of the genius waitress.

Okay, okay, she's probably not really a genius. But she is well-educated. She has a degree in Sanskrit, ethnoastronomy, Icelandic musicology, or something equally valued in the contemporary marketplace. Even if she could find work in her chosen field, it wouldn't pay beans--so she slings them instead. (The genius waitress is not to be confused with the aspiring-actress waitress, so prevalent in Manhattan and Los Angeles and so different from her sister in temperament and I.Q.)

As a type, the genius waitress is sweet and sassy, funny and smart; young, underestimated, fatalistic, weary, cheery (not happy, cheerful: there's a difference and she understands it), a tad bohemian, often borderline alcoholic, frequently pretty (though her hair reeks of kitchen and bar); as independent as a cave bear (though ever hopeful of "true love") and, above all, genuine.

Covertly sentimental, she fusses over toddlers and old folks, yet only fear of unemployment prevents her from handing an obnoxious customer his testicles with his bill.

She doesn't mind a little good-natured flirting, and if you flirt with verve and wit, she may flirt back. Never, however, never try to impress her with your resume. Her tolerance for pretentious Yuppies ends with her shift, sometimes earlier. She reads men like a menu and always knows when she's being offered leftovers or an artificially inflated souffle.

Should you ever be lucky enough to be taken home by her to that studio apartment with the jerry-built bookshelves and Frida Kahlo posters, you will discover that whereas in the public dining room she is merely as proficient as she needs to be, in the private bedroom she is blue gourmet virtuoso. Five stars and counting! Afterward, you can discuss chaos theory or the triple aspects of the mother goddess in universal art forms--while you massage her swollen feet.

Eventually she leaves food service for graduate school or marriage, but unless she wins a grant or a fair divorce settlement, chances are she'll be back, a few years down the line, reciting the daily specials with her own special mixture of warmth and ennui.

Erudite emissary of eggs over easy, polymath purveyor of polenta and prawns, articulate angel of apple pie, the genius waitress is on duty right now in hundreds of U.S. restaurants, smile at the ready, sauce on the side. So brush up on your Schopenhauer, place your order--and tip, mister, tip. She deserves a break today.

Of her, I sing."
-Tom Robbins, Playboy, 1991

Thank. You. I officially have a relevant contemporary social archetype. The genius waitress is another contemporary example of the "sacred prostitute." The coffee girl, behind the espresso bar at the temple of energy and wit and warmth, ready to warmly smile and remind you that there is cheer and spunk left in this world. There are so many turns of phrase in this essay that chill my bones and cut to the core of my spirit, much like his novels have lit sparks inside my brain. And I LOVE that it was published in Playboy, the only magazine that openly worships women and publishes bold pieces like that. How incredibly validating it is, indeed.

It is sort of funny that I moved to Seattle, having no (conscious, adult) idea that he lives around here and writes about the area frequently. Rumor has it, he also shows up in "the city" periodically, and I have randomly hung out in La Conner, the Skagit Valley town he resides in. I have been to the same bars, have seen the same things and people. I feel like we're kindred spirits. In a non-Fatal Attraction/schizophrenic way, I wonder if I'll ever run into him in person. In the scheme of things, we're like, 1 degree of separation away. It's freaky, I feel like I'm gushing about my grad school professor or something. I'm not into older men, but I feel like if he wanted me to be his concubine/temporarily pampered muse-of-sorts, I would not say no. Just so we could hang out for awhile. The things that guy would do inside my particular head...

Ok, that's creepy, but seriously, Tom Robbins, what's up, and many many props to you. Call me.

Um, Like, Oh My Goddess!

I am really getting back into learning about goddess worship these days. I took a class or two in college and was really into the subject, incorporated some of it into my own personal philosophy, but haven't really done much about it recently. Until I found this awesome book and it seems to be exactly what I want to know about it all.

I'm not a militant feminist per se, and I think men are just super, thanks, but I've always been curious why fertility, femininity, and celebration of the life-giving capabilities of women is seemingly absent or scarce from any modern religious doctrine. I've always had a nagging sense that our "Judeo-Christian tradition based" society is really backwards when it comes to sexuality and its role in achieving spiritual enlightenment. We've all been made to fear our own sexuality, and in general punish or scorn the symbol of a "sexual" woman as temptress or whore. The "lusty" woman is a force of evil, and to be attracted to, or worse, participate in the sexual act with her is a source of intense collective male unconscious guilt. The old Eve eating the apple dilemma. And oh, that Mary Magdalene. Just sluts messin' shit up for everybody.

You know what? I think that blows. So I started investigating.

Turns out, before Christianity and the "Patriarchy" came around and f'ed stuff up (**did you know an estimated 6 to 9 million people, 85% of them women, were executed for "witchcraft" during the 15th-17th centuries? That's a friggin' holocaust, peeps!**), certain women had rights and were in fact allowed to be leaders, queens, run the goddess temples, etc. They were worshipped for their sacred sexuality, their beauty, and were considered the human embodiment of the goddess and symbols of love and fertility. They were known for their dance, their massage and healing touch, for giving advice and guidance. These women would dance at community celebrations for the harvest and blessing of the fertility of the land, their beauty and sensuality a symbol of the fruitfulness of the earth and its gifts to humanity. Check out this sexy re-enactment of the sacred prostitute's dance: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AcJIflaPEQk

Then she'd pick one lucky representative man of the village to participate in the "sexual act" with her as a symbolic ritual celebrating human love and creation, thus "re-activating" the ongoing creative cycle of the earth.

Academics and scholars of this stuff use the term for these women "the sacred prostitute" (not to be confused with the "profane prostitute", which also existed in ancient society--more on this later).

Here's some interesting movie clips from a documentary about the sacred prostitute. If you're at all familiar, tantra, the Kama Sutra, and all of these more commonly known sexual traditions play into the "sacred prostitute" mythology and practices. You've probably heard these women and the goddess they represent, too: Salome's "Dance of the Seven Veils" is based on the 'Welcoming Back' of Ishtar - Inanna- Isis. Also Known as Astarte, Ashtar, and Aphrodite among other names.

"Whether in public celebration or in the quiet privacy of her temple chamber, the sacred prostitute expressed her true feminine nature. Her beauty and sensuous body were not used in order to gain security, power, or possessions. She did not make love in order to obtain admiration or devotion from the man who came to her, for often she remained veiled and anonymous. She did not require a man to give her a sense of her own identity; rather she was rooted in her own womanliness. The laws of her feminine nature were harmonious with those of the goddess. Her raison d'etre was to worship the goddess in love-making, thereby bringing the goddess' love into the human sphere." -Nancy Qualls-Corbett, "The Sacred Prostitute: Eternal Aspect of the Feminine"

I like that. She doesn't want your money or your power or your soul or identity, she's got her own. She's just working to remind you that there is joy and beauty and fun and female moon goddess love out there. Turning the idea of "whore" upside down.

I am smitten with this subject. I kind of feel like it's my "great gig in the sky", my particular societal archetype. And once you google it, there's a whole crazy world out there about it!

I'll probably write more on this subject, but that's sort of an introduction to what I'm thinking about this whole thing.

There's so many crazy images to pick from, but here's a modern-day interpretation I like very much. I think it says something. What does this image evoke in you? I'm curious to hear what other people have to say on the subject, if anything?