Deepwater Horizon

Dear Mike,
I am writing in hopes that this letter will reach you in time.  I hope it's not too late and my warning will spare your life, as well as the life of your friends and family.  If it hasn't reached you yet, it's coming.  The ooey-gooey black slime my brothers and sisters accidentally spilled in the water.  Fly hard, fly fast and fly far.  When your wings tire and you think you cannot fly any farther, fly some more.  When the air becomes almost as hot as hell itself, take a sharp left and land on one of the dotty patches of land that we call the Carribean.  I'll meet you in Barbados, with a big bag of Doritos and some of those oyster crackers you so much enjoyed.

I'm sorry my people have done this.  They didn't mean to.  Really, they didn't.  It was an accident causing human fatalities and the loss of millions and millions of dollars in equipment, contracts and product.  It's a sad day.  It's just that we have created all these things that we think we need.  Things to make our life more comfortable.  I am just as guilty as all the rest, wanting all these comforts.  The only part that makes me feel terribly guilty is that all this that we do, affects you.  I would like to say that we should stop all of this illusive urgency to have more, be more, make more, eat more, see more, get more.  In the end, I can't say that I'm any better than the next person.  I'm sorry, Mike.  I want more.

I spent five days with Mike last summer. He was different and distant from his friends, appearing to be the outcast.  He didn't run or fly with the group, instead holding his place on the beach all day long.  His feathers were a bit rumpled and he looked sort of dissheveled.  No matter what time of day it was, Mike was on his spot on the beach.  While I had my morning coffee on the deck, Mike was there.  In the afternoon, while I sprawled in the sand in a tequila-induced slumber.  In the rain, in the wind Mike was there.  I even spotted him one night after dark, still in the same spot.  Looking back at the pictures from that trip, I laugh as I see almost half of them are of Mike.  I hope he has some sort of bird-radar that will tell him it's time to move on.

I'll miss going to that beach this year.  I'll miss Mike. I'll miss Gulf Shrimp and Gulf Oysters.  God, will I ever miss the oysters.  I'll be cussing when the price goes up at the pump.  I wish I was one of those die-hard environmentalists that could get really pissed off at Transocean and BP, point my finger in their direction and rant and raise hell.  I wish I could paint a sign on a piece of cardboard and protest my little heart out, feeling like I was taking a stand.  I wish I had a giant straw that I could have lent to President Obama so he could have quickly and personally sucked up the oil himself, avoiding blame for his lack of an immediate solution.  I wish I could be happy and fulfilled living in a yurt, sans electricity and plumbing.  I wish I got as much joy as riding my bike as I do driving my car.  I wish I believed that those eco-friendly cleaners work as well as their chemical-laden courterparts.  I wish I could do without anything plastic.  Think about that last one.  Plastic. Glancing around the area immediately surrounding me this very minute, I would be seriously lacking if it weren't for plastic.  I wouldn't be typing this blog, as a matter of fact.  I wouldn't have a phone, a calculator, a pen, the fancy-dancy plastic filing cabinet.  Looks like I'd have a wood desk, some books, paper, pencils, paperclips and staples with no stapler.  That's a lot of petroleum.

I'm sorry Mike.  I want more.

melodia

To Live Is To Fly

Did you ever come to a point in your life, a seminal moment maybe, where paths seem to lead off in every direction? Leaving you standing alone in the crossroads wondering which path is the one to take.

Standing in the middle of nowhere, wishing someone or something would just push you in a direction. It seems huge, the choice of direction.  The bigger question is, "How do you know when you get there?"  And yet, "When do you get there?"  It seems to me that the road ahead is endless, crossroads upon crossroads.  The directionally-challenged, like myself, remaining in a constant state of quandary.  After these years, it seems to me that all that matters in the end is the journey.  Turn around, take a look back down the road.  It's the trip. That's what you take with you.

"Days, up and down they come
like rain on a conga drum.
Forget most, remember some
but don't turn none away.
Everything is not enough
and nothin' is to much to bear.
Where you been is good and gone,
all you keep is the getting there.
To live is to fly
Low and high,
so shake the dust off of your wings
and the sleep out of your eyes."

The approach of my birthday always takes me back down the road.  This year, I keep going back to a time when I survived a meager existence full of emotional turmoil, physical and mental exhaustion, endings, beginnings and simplicity.  Sitting on the porch of my doublewide in the middle of nowhere with my Red Ryder BB Gun taking aim at the hundreds of summer-blooming orange daylillies.  Working in a factory as a production artist by day, doing design work and folk art by night.  Wedging my car between the pines after the call from the Repo-man.  Spending weekends being eyes for my sightless mother.  Snagging rare precious moments sneaking across the pasture, eating wild strawberries and floating in some stranger's pond.  I had practically nothing and virtually everything, with a thousand roads leading in a thousand directions.  I picked one, and here I am. Living a very different existence in so many ways.  Good ways.  Still, the crossroads appear.  I still have no idea which way to go, but have a peace within that each path will make a great story.

It's no secret that I have always found my solace in music, one way or the other.  The "Trailer Days" as I call them,  were no different.  For many reasons that are strange and wonderful, Townes Van Zandt was my saviour.  Don't feel left out for not knowing who he was.  He lived in the background, most likely due to his drinking and drug habits, making him no less in my eyes.  A lyrical genius, who probably found himself in the same tough crossroads as we all do - he just decided to check out in the only way he knew how. 

“Townes Van Zandt is the best damned songwriter in the world—and I’ll stand on Bob Dylan’s coffee table in my cowboy boots and say that.”  -Steve Earle

"Artists as diverse as Mudhoney with Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Norah Jones, Son Volt, Doc and Merle Watson, Evan Dando, Nana Mouskouri (in French, no less), Dashboard Confessional, Counting Crows, Glenn Yarbrough with the Jimmy Bowen Orchestra, Bob Dylan, Peter Rowan and Tony Rice, Cowboy Junkies and Robert Plant & Alison Krauss have all embraced his singular sense of how a lean lyric stretches over the essence of melody, the naked intensity of emotions distilled to their purest forms."  -American Songwriter

Townes is one of the musicians and lyricists that make my skin turn to gooseflesh.  His songs have been covered by a long list of musicians including Willie Nelson (Pancho & Lefty), Robert Plant & Alison Krauss (Nothin'), John Prine, Norah Jones, Lyle Lovett, Emmylou Harris, Be Good Tanyas, Nancy Griffith, Steve Earle and of course Cowboy Junkies.  I was lucky enough to see him perform with the Cowboy Junkies just before his death on New Year's Day, 1997. 

So, here I am.  Years past.  Turning around and looking down the road and finding the same person that was there nearly twenty years ago.  The road, it's been a good one.  Memories of the choices along the way hardly remain.  The journey, well, it's one hell of a story.
melodia

Cowboy Junkies pay tribute to Townes Van Zant part 2

Buddyassholes

The proper terms are Hair Stylist, Hair Colorist, Hair Designer.  If you're in the salon it's even appropriate to drop the 'Hair' prefix resulting in Stylist, Colorist or Designer.  I am not a Hairdresser.  I do not "dress" hair.  I do not fit hats or tie bows on the end of pigtails.  I am not a god-forsaken Beautician.  I don't do roller sets for blue-hairs, nor do I know shinola about those horrid rinses that rub off on pillowcases at night.  I don't work in a beauty shop.  It's called a salon.

I am capable of giving you a damn good haircut and color.  I am not capable of giving you the face of the celebrity of your current obsession. 

I work in a salon.  I have worked in a salon for years.  I use salon-quality products.  I have no freakin' idea what products they sell at the drugstore, let alone which one is the best.  Most drugstore products contain sulfates (salt) which damage your cuticle and strip the color you pay me dearly for.  Almost half the products contain waxes that coat your hair and can cause a multitude of issues in regards to color and condition.  I also have no knowledge of box haircolor from the drugstore and I'm not gonna tell you which color you should buy or how to apply it to your hair.  If you are gonna brave the territory, you're on your own.

When I ask you direct questions in regards to your cut or color, please don't answer me with "I don't care" or "It's up to you" unless you really mean it. 

My expertise is in the hair department, not below the skull.  I am not a head doctor.  I cannot fix your problems.  I don't want to hear about the bad thing you did that you don't want anyone to know.  The details of your Irritable Bowel Syndrome gross me out.  So you have a vertical hood piercing.....Do I really need to know that to do your hair?  When I nod my head and smile that means I have tuned you out.  I will tune back in when I see your hands reaching up to the level of your head, signaling that you are again talking about your hair.

A trim takes just as much time and effort as a cut, in some cases more.  It is what it is and the cost is the same.

I am on a schedule.  I devote my full attention to you when you are in my chair.  I will schedule you as soon as my schedule allows, and if I'm booked and say that I cannot 'squeeze' you in, I honestly cannot.  I give myself 2 days off a week and I am not willing to come in on Sunday or Monday to do your hair.  I do not 'do hair' at my home, and if I did it would not be at a discounted rate.  It would cost at least times as much.  My time is as valuable to me as yours is to you.

I don't carry my cell phone with me at work.  Once again, I'm on a schedule.  Please, at least, wait until your processing time to talk on your phone.

My job can be fun, yes.  It is a job, no less.  I stand on my feet all day, rarely get an official lunch break, try to meet each client's needs and honestly desire that each person that leaves the salon has a smile on their face.  The hours I spend behind the chair, I leave my personal life, my ego and often times my needs at the door.   It's a job that I take very seriously.

Hair color takes formulation.  I can't just put the color of the swatch on your head and it magically turn that color.  There is this thing known as the color wheel that applies to paint.  The same theory of color applies to coloring hair.  The current hair color has to be taken into consideration, and then there is the law of hair color that unwanted tones appear with each level of lift.  When a dark-brown is lightened it will go through stages of red, orange, gold and then yellow.  These tones are most often referred to as "brassy" and must be counter-acted with a complementary color.  With that I will say one more time,  some hair is not ever meant to be blonde.  Hint....if your hair is damn-near black, give up on the blonde.  Unless you don't mind brassy, unnatural tones or hair damaged beyond recognition.

Ok, bitch session over.  It has been a week, and obviously retrograde is kicking my ass.  Tomorrow's another day.  Thank you, come again.

Lily

Goodbye nothing.  Hello Lily.

I knew before I took the three-hour trip to meet her that the odds were good that I would be bringing her home with me.  It was the look in her eyes, detectable even through a picture.

I stepped from the truck and waited by the fence.  After a few seconds I saw her bounding from a pond then rambling through the horse pasture. Less than a minute later I was tackled to the ground by a wet, slobbering dog and it was over.  I fell in more ways than one.  I signed the adoption papers, dried Lily off and we made the journey home. 

Home.

Canis Familiaris

It's been five months in a dogless house, which doesn't seem that long and at the same time feels like an eternity.  Every morning as I awaken and gaze across the floor to where the dog bed used to be, I am reminded.  The dog bed where my sweet girl used to sleep that is no longer there.  An empty spot left behind.  As I turn around to pull the door shut on my way to work, I now say goodbye to the house because Maple is no longer there bobbing her little tail.  When I walk through the door in the evening, there is no jumping, squealing and licking.  Just cool, quiet, lifeless hardwood floors.  There is no playing catch and there are no half-eaten stuffed animals laying about.  There is no warm little furry body to curl up beside me as I laze in bed on Sunday morning.  There are no beady little eyes staring me down for a bite of my bagel.

There's no dog hair.  There's no worry about getting home in time for the dog.  There's no worry someone will leave the fence open.  There's no barking, no 'accidents' and no dog snoring.  There's no pre-planning required for staying out all night or going away for a few days.  There's no need to stop at the store on the way home to buy dog food.  There's no need to give the dog a bath.  There's no reminder on the calendar for flea preventative.  There's no vet appointments or vet bill.  There's only quiet.  There's only nothing.

I think I'm done with the nothing.  It's time.....stay tuned.

38

The last of the cold is gone.  The sun is shining.  My skin is a nice pale shade of pink and everything else in sight is covered with a heavy coat of greenish-yellow powder.  I'm so thankful winter is over, although I do feel pretty guilty even complaining at all.  Comparatively speaking, the winter here was mild eventhough it was the coldest and wettest winter in nearly twenty years.

The change of weather brings about the seasonal change of my closet.  It's a huge deal and takes at least 2 days and usually more like 2 weekends since I can't devote full days to putzing around with my wardrobe.  Things get washed or dry-cleaned if necessary, folded and packed away in rubbermaid containers and hauled to the attic.  Containers are categorized by item and then color - just like the closet.  The new season's containers are hauled down and things are freshly laundered, pressed if needed and folded or hung up according to category.  It's a disease I don't know the name for. 

Then there's the shoes.  I quit counting them this year, but I did count the boots as I packed them away this year.  Yep, you guessed it -thirty-eight pairs of boots.  I have to admit there's two pair that should really go to the Goodwill, but I'm just not ready to part with them yet.  (See sweatshirt post if you have any doubts about me parting with my favorite things.)  There's the quintessential boots that I bought in NYC - knee-high, pointy-toe, stilletto, buckled and studded.   My favorite of the bunch is a pair of black cowboy boots that are a half size too big, making them extremely comfy.  Four pair are classified as punk boots, with my favorite pair of that bunch being a red tartan and black lace-up.  There's bronze boots, green boots, leopard print boots, embroidered boots, studded boots, thigh-high boots, ankle boots, quilted boots and those damn godforsaken sheepskin boots.

Most of the boots got lovingly packed away not to be seen again until the cold arrives.  Most of them.