crisis!

i'm out of coffee!!

and it's raining!

i might as well go back to bed.

christmas night

last night driving the cold clear stars were above me. The moon was a silver crescent, so beautiful i wanted to call someone to share, but i passed into the mountains and under a blanket of mobile blackout. i stopped the car and got out. i could see my breath and the beautiful city laid out before me at my feet. the phone sat in my hand searching for signal, and i felt suddenly as if strings had been cut.

i slipped the phone back into my pocket and slid back into the warm car. i had champagne in the trunk and chocolates in the passenger seat, and it was time to go meet people warm alive and in the flesh.

and i thought, how wonderful it feels to have the stars and the moon and somewhere to go and someone to welcome me when i get there.

thank you.

But Only Tonight

"To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune. To lose both looks like carelessness."

- Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Ernest

Somewhere along the road of my life, I've failed to keep a family - or to make one. Somehow I've lost both my parents - carelessness! tsk tsk - and nearly lost my sister to bitterness the root of which I hardly remember. I've lost the comfort of several surrogate families, the warm and welcoming arms of my various boyfriends' homes. And I've failed to build my own - unwedded, unoffspringed.

It never matters any other time of year but tonight.

I allow myself a moment of indulgence in pathos. I have been "strong" all afternoon, reading and knitting and working and writing. But now as night falls and the rain begins and the cats leave, the house is quiet and I remember what is was like before, when I had my mother and father and sister around me.

We used to have a tree every year, of course. And it would stay up past new year's, if I remember. We often had a holiday party. My mother worked all day in the kitchen and emerged with a spectacular Christmas goose, Yorkshire pudding, yams, and apple pie for dessert. We had fire in the fireplace. Anne and I got to stay up and drink a little bit of champagne, for luck.

On Christmas Eve Anne and I were allowed the rare treat of spending the night on the sofa-bed in the living-room, well within spying distance of the fireplace where we knew magic happened. I don't know how we managed to fall asleep, brimming over with expectation as we were, but we did. And in the morning we unfailingly woke up before the sun came out. We rushed to our stockings to find not just chocolates and oranges and little gifts but also beautiful letters from Santa Claus, with sketches of the North Pole and special-delivery postage, written in a long, slanted, slightly shaky hand that only years later I connected with my father's.

And then we got to the serious business of opening presents. Mounds of toys for us, and sometimes clothing. I can't remember what we got for our parents, ever. I am afraid that we, selfish children, did not much care.

These images and sounds are so distant. I can't remember the last happy Christmas I had with that family. I was thirteen when my father fell ill - just before Christmas as I recall. Some things are forever lost. The house where we gathered has long since been sent to ash and earth. My father is a photograph on a dresser, my mother is an urn. The living room where we sat around the tree and teased the dog and surveyed how rich we were in gifts and love is a memory that only I and my sister now share; no one else is now alive who can recall that. The past - such a fragile thing, so easily destroyed.

And tonight, I feel the weight of failure and loneliness. What have I done to lose this? Where have I strayed, wandered so far away from family? Certainly I rely upon beloved friends; but tonight they are all busy with their blood-relations. I don't wish to intrude, as I don't belong. I've turned off communications, such as they are; I don't wish to hear other families right now, drinking and dining in the background.

Don't worry, don't weep; it's only once a year. I just have to get through tonight. The rest of the year, I make my own tribe, and it is large and varied and peopled with friends from all over the world whom I do not hesitate to think of as family. But tonight, the burden of the past and tradition forces a different, stricter definition of family on me, and I am bereft.

But only for tonight.

not really discontented

Videogaming and its Discontents on Salon.

it's about my own personal malaise with gaming - but there's always exciting things to write about too. i LOVE video games after all, and maybe it's just a personal slump i'm going through.

well, happy holidays, friends.

geek out

i'm home sick today. so i'm watching dvds and making a character sheet.

it's a work in progress.

unleashing the warlock

Elric of Melniboné and Stormbringer	Jane of Dealership and the Warlock

my new credo has inspired me to do something i've never tried before: rock the guitar solo.

i do not think this is entirely MY doing. i am not by nature a rocker. i have been a goth, a mod, a new waver, a euro-disco girl, a raver, a brit-popper, and a classicist, but the Rock has historically eluded me. now, however, the Warlock, long restive, yearns to be free, to sing, to call its minions forth. that is what it was forged to do. it is the Warlock's destiny to Rock.

in the past, i mocked the Rock. i derided the wankishness, the hair, the goofy machismo. i especially reviled the dreaded guitar solo, which i found to be the most boring aspect of a rock song. i thought it was so needless, so silly. i liked the angst bands. the bands who were in pain. bands too depressed to rock out. those were the bands that spoke to moody thirteen-year-old me. thirteen-year-old jane was too cool for rock, unless it was, like, rock with a message, like punk. yeah, punk was fine. or ironic rock. irony's cool.

also, i was not a good enough guitarist to play any kind of lead solo part. that probably had something to do with it too.

i came around to the Rock slowly. i covered The Scorpions at a benefit concert one year. i forgot all the words to Rock You Like a Hurricane but it was fun to make up growly, raucous parts. but i was still not taking it seriously. i was still ironic.

then i got The Warlock. or actually, it got me.

i think it was Guy Higbey's influence. Guy was our recording engineer. he used to be in the metal band Epidemic. he knew all about the Rock. he used to play CDs for us, i think to try to open our minds to the Rock. let the Rock slowly creep into our veins and spread like a virus through our organs. ahh... i can feel it working! i realize now that he must have be a High Priest of The Warlock.

so i found myself at Guitar Center, and this big black shiny thing just called to me. it was so not our musical aesthetic, so not my personality. but i had to get it.

then, how to explain? eldritch force, that's my guess.

when i first strapped on this thing, it felt awkward - far too heavy, unbalanced. it pulled at my neck and hurt my shoulder. i regretted my decision more than once as i struggled with the beast. what was i thinking? it's far too much guitar for me.

but i bonded with it. the tone is so clear, so rich. the action is fast. and it's damn good-looking, if you're into evil pointy things. i felt like a rock star with it strapped on. i mean, a fucking rock star, you know?

but The Warlock wasn't satisfied. it needed something else. i was playing sweet tunes on it, quiet tunes with lovely little melodies and twee sevenths. i started turning up the amp. i started using the Metal Zone effects pedal. i started casually dropping hints that we should play some of our old rock tunes that we ditched as being too simplistic, too primitive, to fast, too hard.

i can tell - The Warlock wants it. it whispers to me. "you've only got me turned up to four. i can go up to eleven." it seduces me, like a powerful engine. i know it's just raring to go. i haven't ever pushed it to the top range, driven it at full speed. and it urges me on. "louder, faster, harder," it says. "more!"

it demands the solo. and hence, it is transforming me into a rocker. i am a disciple of the Warlock. i have converted to the church of Rock. i want to give in to the power of the Warlock and let it take me to hair metal heights.

perhaps i will get a mullet.

i think that's what the Warlock wants. it's only a matter of time before it will have me, body and soul. and hair.

* photo of me by Darren. painting of Elric by Michael Whelan [thanks, adam!]

rock and the mullah

Pakistani rock star investigates Islamic ban on his music - story at the BBC. throws into relief the tensions between the hard line extremists and the modern moderates in Pakistan.

the return

i saw Return of the King last night, at a midnight showing at the Metreon. the theatre was packed.

i developed tears in my within fifteen minutes, which remained the entire movie. by the end i was sobbing.

it was so very beautiful. and it felt like the end, truly.

strange solitude

i'm alone at home. anne's in japan. i'm working late.

and i keep feeling this odd anticipation, as if someone's coming home any moment.

must be too much coffee. and not anything like loneliness.

why i can't sleep

i had a late night, and an early morning. i can't seem to sleep past eight or so. the sun comes up, and my brain turns on.

IMing with souris briefly this afternoon, she asked me, "how do you do it?" which is funny, since she, along with jee, is the most active socializer/project manager i've ever seen. these days though she's got to put in face time at the office and so she's cut back on some of her activities.

how do i do it? it seems i can't NOT do it. when the sun hits my eyes flip open and my mind starts running. "oh i have to email her, and talk to him, and remember to do this, and what's on my schedule?" it's not stress - i don't feel stressed exactly. just full. full of ideas and projects and brimming over with the will to drive them through.

just as i seem to be driven to have drinks, dinner, party, after-party with different people in one fantastic evening, running around town in the rain with my gloriously impractical powder-blue high-heeled boots (thanks, ladies, for all the fashion advice!). and it sounds as though i should be exhausted, but i'm not. something's burning in me and keeping my fires fueled.

and yet sometimes i feel a vertigo, as if i stand at the edge of a precipice, and the threads of my organized life unraveling and slipping into the chasm while i stand and watch, helpless. yes, sometimes i do feel on the verge of losing control. perhaps i will faint away, or lose myself in a whirlwind of my own making. it's thrilling more than terrifying, like racing a car just to the point of crashing, playing on the edge of controllable speed.

no time to speculate on this wild, dark fantasy; must get back to work. write, read, and write some more. so that i can go to dinner and a birthday party tonight.

girl night 4

a shortened girl night for me, as i had to leave for band practice. delicious Chinese food, an enormous mai tai that went straight to my head, and some sad news and some good news.

tonight? why does everyone have something going on tonight?? Kart party, Halo party, *surface party. also, an invitation to play the go game in the mission. and, a ♥date♥ with a sweet and understanding boy who doesn't mind all this game-playing madness.

the most important question is, how will i dress to accomodate all these activities?

Remove Your Tradition in School

For several months now a special presidential commision in France has been tasked with debating whether or not to let young Muslim women wear headscarves in schools. Today the BBC reports that the commission recommended a ban on headscarves.

Large crosses and the yarmukle are also officially under the ban, although ""[d]iscreet" medallions and pendants which merely confirm a person's religious faith would be allowed." Presumably, small crosses and stars of David pendants? Unfortunately it's not possible to make a headscarf discreet. What if it were transparent?

I agree with Moise Cohen, "president of the Consistoire of Paris, which directs religious Jewish life, [who] said he opposed a headscarf law because it could be viewed by Muslims as a discriminatory measure and could "exacerbate emotions".

Of course it will be viewed as a discriminatory measure. Because it *is*, both in gender and religion. Those most affected by the ban are young Muslim girls.

Is the French public so scared of Muslim girls that it would prohibit them from wearing their headscarves in public? Why not use the opportunity to teach students about the symbolism of the scarf? The history of Islam? To educate the public about religious diversity? To remove fear rather than monger it?

The commission also recommended starting Arabic language programs in schools, observing both Jewish and Muslim holidays, and developing a national school of Islamic studies. But the scarf remains at the center of the controversy, and the most volatile social issue in French schools today. And on this the commission comes down strictly and unequivocally.

What a shame.

read!

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nothing like procrastination

when you've got a ton of work to do. AND there's nothing like online quizzes to procrastinate by! here's the indie quiz, from lisa nola.

You're a Britpopper. The UK is your thing. The
Smiths really were 'terrif' and Blur are indie
no matter how much money they made. You could
drink all the other indie kids under the table.
You plan on moving to London someday and dream
of one day owning every Beatles release on
vinyl.

You Know Yer Indie. Let's Sub-Categorize.
brought to you by Quizilla

okay, i think i only got this result because i said i'd slept with Damon, which is a LIE*, of course. if only! but that was the only one that would remotely fit in that particular category. that said, i do love those 80's brit bands.

*i hate to lie. won't you please help make my lie a truth? if you have any information that may lead to my sleeping with Damon Albarn, email me right now.

on the latin tip...

Paul sends me this delightful link: a clever live journal user has translated a popular song into Latin, and then has translated it line-by-line back into English.

practice

sometimes we practice and i just want to play music all night long. i want to close my eyes and let the beats direct the movement of my body. i want the harmonies to spiral crazily out of control, adding sevenths and ninths and diminished fourths to build chords that should never enter human cochlea. i want to turn up the distortion as high as it will go and lose myself in the oscillating feedback that whines and sine curves between the amps. i want to collapse under my guitar with the strings still resonating, vibrating against my chest and fall asleep with my ears ringing. i want to give myself to music.

i haven't played in a long time, can you tell? GOD i've missed it.

tonight we revived a song we all love, but have never been able to arrange for a satisfactory live performance. it's such a catchy, rocking tune. i used to play guitar on it, but i switched to keyboards and added a Final Countdown-style riff to open it. oh my goodness i was fully channeling Andrew WK.

on a related note, Jesse introduced me to The Darkness recently. the lead vocalist, one Justin Hawkins, has a set of pipes like i've never heard on a guy. he reminds me of Freddie Mercury in the high range - such power and flexibility, such control. that's hard to get in falsetto.

we have a show on the 18th. think i can perfect my kicks and stage dives by then?

rain

makes me want to curl up on the couch under the blanket and watch Lawrence of Arabia. and eat chocolates and drink Turkish coffee.

The Return of the King

I somewhat embarrassed myself recently when a friend asked casually, "So the last Lord of the Rings movie opens soon, right?" and I answered without a pause, "December 17th."

Busted! Well, it's understandable. I can, after all, name all of Aragorn's names. And discuss his lineage in detail, as well as that of his sword Andúril, Flame of the West, that was Narsil, the sword that was broken and - well, never mind. But anyway tonight after dinner instead of seeing The Last Samurai as I had planned, I went over to 26mix on Mission to pick up my exclusive ticket to a private screening of the final, and by all accounts the best, Lord of the Rings movie. "I feel like Charlie getting the golden ticket," I said. I guess that would make Dan Willy Wonka.

The Dimple Bumbleroot in me is jumping up and down with glee.

tongue of the dead

i took Latin for six years.

i started in seventh grade, because my father insisted. then i continued in high school. i took both APs (Virgil one year, Homer/Catullus the next). my senior year, my school had run out of official Latin programming, so i and the other Latin nerd, Dipanjan, hung out with our Latin teacher at Café Roma and pretended the read the Eclogues. really what we did, mostly, was gossip.

but this early rigorous training in conjugations and gendered declensions instilled in me a life-long appreciation for language. even dead ones. especially dead ones. there is nothing so beautiful in English that can't be said more elegantly, more beautifully in Latin. there were times, then, certainly not now, when i could read and enjoy Latin poetry without the mediation of translating it. i could just feel words, the language, the meaning - the pure sound of it in my mouth gave me pleasure. i could almost feel the essence of Rome. or so, melodramatically, i thought.

my favorite was Catullus. last year i started a novel about Catullus. i wrote a pop song based on one of his poems. the Sapphic one. there's something about him - his tone, alternating between joy, despair, whimsey and cynicism - which really resonated with me as a teenager. the mood swings, the intensity of feeling, the pasison - these lend themselves naturally to poetry.

and Latin is such a subtle language, prone to puns, multiple meanings, occlusions. like Japanese in that way. i developed flexibility in the brain, an ability to accept shifts and shades in meaning, a tolerance for ambiguity. i'm all for clarity in prose but sometimes, meanings can only be hinted at. the world, after all, is not black and white. it doesn't improve always from exposure to harsh light. some mysteries are best left in shadow.

i'm grateful to my father for decreeing that i should take Latin. it is because of him that i worship words today. an abiding respect for the power of the pen has not only been supremely useful to me, but it has offered some of my keenest pleasures. it was one of the gifts i thanked him for on his deathbed - the gift of tongues.

Multas per gentes et multa per aequora vectus
advenio has miseras, pater, ad inferias...
...atque in perpetuum, pater, ave atque vale.

fascinating

celebrity mugshots.

some look good. some look great. and some induce wincing in sympathy - with a splash of disgust.

and some are almost surreally beautiful.

others, simply surreal.

wipe your damn shoes off

i don't understand.

if you don't like me, why are you here?

i mean, this is all about me, after all. me, me, me. so you're shit out of luck if you find that frustratingly self-indulgent. or stupid. or upsetting. i'd understand if you wanted to stop reading. in fact, i'd encourage it. life's too short to waste time on unrewarding activities.

but - you're still here? don't you have anything better to do than comment on shit that annoys or bores you? do something with your life you love, and don't spread negativity. it's so fucking pointless. if you're really that upset or irritated about something, do your own thing. don't shit on mine.

oh, perhaps it amuses you to put people down. does it make you feel better about yourself? does it make you feel cool to attack someone else? does it make you feel superior somehow? then you're an asshole. and i, for one, don't have the time to waste on assholes.

but you know, i don't really want to understand why you do it. i don't care why you snipe at people, why you put people down, why you lurk where you don't want to be. i'm really not interested in hearing explanations. it's your deal. that's fine.

but this my house. wipe off your shoes or don't come in.

the strength of the single woman

saturday i dropped by to see old high school chums in town at a house in berkeley. this was rahel's house, which she owns. bicycles hang from pulleys on the ceiling and her kitchen shelves are lined with an impressive array of spices. she keeps kosher these days, and was sporting a yarmulke in her short hair. dr. mo was there too, she had just finished her residency. she remarked that when you buy a house, as she just did this august, you learn a whole new set of vocabulary you never knew before, like escrow, finial, and i can't remember her last example. and, of course, my friend daria had bought a house a couple years ago. she is in the process of redefining her life, as so many of us are. she studies music, dance, and crossstitch. jen was looking tan - she spends a lot of time outdoors, she noted. "yeah, on her surfboard," daria chimed in. jen's working at the Scripps Institution of Oceanography, goes surfing on her lunch breaks, and will be full professor next year.

looking around the table at my friends - all single, successful, happy and comfortable in their skin - i thought, how rich our lives, how full. smiles all around, and not contentment - that's too complacent, perhaps - but a deep joy in living. the room was warmer for it.