song du jour: I Love the Night Life, Alicia Bridges
mood: funky
When I was 25, I dated the greatest guy. We met on one of the many occasions I attended 'Disco Hell Night' at a long defunct club that was downtown. It was the kind of place you could just get out and dance, whether there was anyone else dancing with your or not. There I was throwing down to a 70's diva, when this big guy, who looked to weigh about 6 times what I did, made a gesture with his hand to indicate "you & me dance together, baby." "Yikes! I'd be squashed alive!" I thought. In my complete panic to solve the problem without hurting the guy's feelings (I never used to handle unwanted come ons very well.), I instinctively made the same gesture toward another guy nearby, whom I was dimly aware was also throwing down solo for the love of it. This guy's eyebrows shot up over his head as he smiled and moved just a little closer to take this little damsel in distress up on her offer.
He not only turned out to be a nice guy, he had a bunch of nice friends with him, which is always a good clue one hasn't just picked up a psychopath. He looked a little like Tom Hanks only even much better looking with 6' of bod to swoon over. Though I was a little alarmed that anyone would be wearing khaki shorts and docksiders in the early 90's, his preppiness turned out to be incongruously charming. We dated for a year. He danced like Fred Astaire without so much as a single dance class under his belt. What he didn't know in established steps he made up for in sheer joy. I've never seen a straight guy, who loved to dance more, nor a partner, who ever made me feel more like the belle of the ball at every chic club in town.
I have to break for a second here and relate the further weirdness of that first evening in the interest of illustrating just how bizarre life is. My new hunk offered to walk me to my car, an idea which seemed wise, given that the odds he was a nutter were less than the odds of what might happen to a woman on her own at 2am in a downtown Atlanta parking lot. As we began making our way through the crowded bar area to get to the door, he looked back to find me not behind him, but suspended about 6' in the air.
One of the only other guys I ever met dancing - ironically at the old location of that same club a year earlier - had scooped me up as I was passing, and was holding me up to his face while my high heeled clad feet dangled a foot off the ground. He began drunkenly screaming, "Victoria!!! I can't believe I let you get away!!! You were the love of my life...Victoria!!!" Imagine a 6'4" Stanley from Streetcar just as loud, dramatic, and lost but without all the anger. Taking precedence over my embarrassment at the situation was the terrifying creeping I felt of my very short, very tight dress starting to go... up... way too far... This was another of those moments in my life when wearing a thong proved less than prudent. In another bit of irony, many years later I realize I was on a date with the guy, who'd been the bartender I'd accidentally mooned that night.
Eventually, I was returned to Earth, and the hunk walking me to my car said that scene had provided him with quite a reference. In the following year we had much fun on and off the dance floor. He wasn't emotionally unavailable, but he was commitment phobic, which wasn't that big a deal to me since I liked my space and was focused on school. When a job offer took him an hour and a half south of town, we only saw each other once a month or so and were no longer exclusive. Still, he'd sometimes have enough to drink to become even more outgoing and in front of his best guy friend, who would often tag along with us, he would exclaim, "Victoria, you're such a catch. I can't figure out why you're not married already! whereupon, I would usually nearly choke on my drink.
As I've indicated, the last thing on my mind was marriage back then, however, due to another wild set of circumstances I might or might not go into another time, the following summer I married someone else. Since there had been no declarations of love, only admiration, it never occurred to me that I was hurting this guy. Wow, was I stupid. What I didn't realize in letting him go was that I'd set myself up for a nearly endless stream of men, lasting between one date and 10 years, who relished attempting to boss me around or going for the jugular in the form of insults, interspersed by a few, who would alternately jump my bones and play emotionally unavailable. Yes, I was a complete idiot about the situation, but then had I not been, I wouldn't have Skyler. Still, every time I dance with a guy, who gets ridiculously focused on what I know or do not know salsa or tango wise, I remember what it was like to dance with a partner, who knew dancing is supposed to be, above all else, fun.
We used to joke that if he became a professor of history as he'd wanted, and I one of Egyptology as I once wanted, we might one day run into each other in the halls of some university. "What do you think we'd do?" he asked. "End up in the broom closet," I'd answered. No more universities (or broom closets) for me. I truly wish him well, wherever he is and whoever he's with now. I can't say he was the one great love of my life. I could never even decide for sure whether I was in love with him back then, but I do know he became the measure against which most other men have failed, save the little one, who likes to be spun around in the dining room.
10/27/2006
What I Won't Post for a Laugh...
song du jour: DMSR, Prince
mood: hee hee
After sending an email to my student list about the you know what release, I received an edited reply from one, um, dear student, revising how my blurb should read. In the interest of not causing the search engines to put this blog entry up instead of my D*D page, I've disguised the key words, but you'll still get the idea.
Are you in the m00d for some H0TT wire on wire action? Those kinky Ru*s**ns knew how to throw a party and Veronika Bigguns will show you how to make your stuff LONGER and MORE TWISTED than you could ever imagine! For only $1.99 (+$78 s&h) our sultry instructress will show you heated and steamy vid**s of the kind of pairings that only a metal pervert could imagine. Silver on silver. Gold on gold. Silver on gold. Colored gems lying with white pearls. Best yet this video will walk you through performing these acts yourself. We guarantee that learning these techniques will get you very hot and very bothered.
And I thought I bent over backwards (ahem) to ensure anyone learning from this production wouldn't feel 'bothered.' (Pete, you are a very bad boy!)
mood: hee hee
After sending an email to my student list about the you know what release, I received an edited reply from one, um, dear student, revising how my blurb should read. In the interest of not causing the search engines to put this blog entry up instead of my D*D page, I've disguised the key words, but you'll still get the idea.
Are you in the m00d for some H0TT wire on wire action? Those kinky Ru*s**ns knew how to throw a party and Veronika Bigguns will show you how to make your stuff LONGER and MORE TWISTED than you could ever imagine! For only $1.99 (+$78 s&h) our sultry instructress will show you heated and steamy vid**s of the kind of pairings that only a metal pervert could imagine. Silver on silver. Gold on gold. Silver on gold. Colored gems lying with white pearls. Best yet this video will walk you through performing these acts yourself. We guarantee that learning these techniques will get you very hot and very bothered.
And I thought I bent over backwards (ahem) to ensure anyone learning from this production wouldn't feel 'bothered.' (Pete, you are a very bad boy!)
10/23/2006
DatingMe
song du jour: Alhoeverah, Tan Cani
mood: reasonably blissful
I've started a new Sunday tradition, The Sketchbook Brunch. That's where I venture away from the studio and toward food, armed with inspirational books, and colored pencils and give myself carte blanche to play with design elements to my heart's content. This new possible but likely intermittent ritual was born less from a need to be around people than from my sheer stubbornness at not going to Whole Foods this week.
My new book on carving stamps and print blocks, Art Stamping Workshop by Gloria Page, and I ventured to FlatIron, a small, chic, bar-food dive in the nearby East Atlanta Village. Unfortunately, I didn't know it was Guns & Roses and Van Halen (the David Lee Roth years) Day, and I'm not much of a metal-head. - Ok, ok, I'll admit if you forced me to name my top 10 crank up the volume and sling my hair songs of the 80's, 'Cradle Will Rock' would at least make it to #23. - Fortunately my sketches were occasionally melded with the less familiar (read not played to death) chillin-warm strains of the Brazilian Girls and other more ethereal fluid sounds.
One of the basic staples of any person, who ventures into right brain activity, has become, The Artist Way. As I recently blogged, it's a book I tend to throw against the wall by chapter 3 as I do with anything else that orders me How to Approach Creativity as if such endeavors could be confined to rigidity and miserably limited terms like right, wrong, most and best. I dislike the book because of the absolutely required 'morning pages,' which hold all the same thrill and promise as did mandatory journal keeping in 8th grade English class. Being a working artist entails more than enough self discipline. Leave me what's left of my F-in' freedom for goddess' sake.
What I do love about The Artist Way are the terms like crazy makers those people, who claim they are being supportive when in fact they're taking your time and energy and sucking the life force out of your muse with their endless dramas and projections, and the artist date, where you thrive on the pleasure of your own company going somewhere or doing something that inspires your imagination. The sketchbook brunch definitely falls in that last group as did last Sunday's adventure to the Carlos Museum to see the exhibit, In Stabiano, fresco paintings from Roman villas of Stabiae. Incredible colors! Colors so yummy you could almost eat them, which must be why the majority of the most elaborate frescos in Roman villas were found in the dining rooms.
It's been my choice to spend the last 2 weeks in non-stop creativity mode. Every waking moment has been savored, working in the studio, redoing my site, dancing, hanging out with the world's coolest almost 7 year old, or working on my house. I've probably ticked off a few friends with my slowness to return emails and my refusal to 'talk on the phone at work,' but I haven't started missing people yet. I'm having too much fun spreading my giant wings, paint brush in one wing, torch in the other.
(Nod to Kate for the post title.)
Isis
mood: reasonably blissful
I've started a new Sunday tradition, The Sketchbook Brunch. That's where I venture away from the studio and toward food, armed with inspirational books, and colored pencils and give myself carte blanche to play with design elements to my heart's content. This new possible but likely intermittent ritual was born less from a need to be around people than from my sheer stubbornness at not going to Whole Foods this week.
My new book on carving stamps and print blocks, Art Stamping Workshop by Gloria Page, and I ventured to FlatIron, a small, chic, bar-food dive in the nearby East Atlanta Village. Unfortunately, I didn't know it was Guns & Roses and Van Halen (the David Lee Roth years) Day, and I'm not much of a metal-head. - Ok, ok, I'll admit if you forced me to name my top 10 crank up the volume and sling my hair songs of the 80's, 'Cradle Will Rock' would at least make it to #23. - Fortunately my sketches were occasionally melded with the less familiar (read not played to death) chillin-warm strains of the Brazilian Girls and other more ethereal fluid sounds.
One of the basic staples of any person, who ventures into right brain activity, has become, The Artist Way. As I recently blogged, it's a book I tend to throw against the wall by chapter 3 as I do with anything else that orders me How to Approach Creativity as if such endeavors could be confined to rigidity and miserably limited terms like right, wrong, most and best. I dislike the book because of the absolutely required 'morning pages,' which hold all the same thrill and promise as did mandatory journal keeping in 8th grade English class. Being a working artist entails more than enough self discipline. Leave me what's left of my F-in' freedom for goddess' sake.
What I do love about The Artist Way are the terms like crazy makers those people, who claim they are being supportive when in fact they're taking your time and energy and sucking the life force out of your muse with their endless dramas and projections, and the artist date, where you thrive on the pleasure of your own company going somewhere or doing something that inspires your imagination. The sketchbook brunch definitely falls in that last group as did last Sunday's adventure to the Carlos Museum to see the exhibit, In Stabiano, fresco paintings from Roman villas of Stabiae. Incredible colors! Colors so yummy you could almost eat them, which must be why the majority of the most elaborate frescos in Roman villas were found in the dining rooms.
It's been my choice to spend the last 2 weeks in non-stop creativity mode. Every waking moment has been savored, working in the studio, redoing my site, dancing, hanging out with the world's coolest almost 7 year old, or working on my house. I've probably ticked off a few friends with my slowness to return emails and my refusal to 'talk on the phone at work,' but I haven't started missing people yet. I'm having too much fun spreading my giant wings, paint brush in one wing, torch in the other.
(Nod to Kate for the post title.)
Isis
10/19/2006
The New Black
My website has a new look! It was a major undertaking on an evening when I'd so rather be banging on something (metal). It took me days to decide if I liked the new bar then days more to finish it... hours more to make it actually function with ease. Undoubtedly, there will be a few broken links to go with it that I haven't caught yet. Very soon there will be new work up as well. I've almost finished shooting and editing the photos and will create their new pages soon, so check back!
Oh, and check out the preview to my new DVD!
Oh, and check out the preview to my new DVD!
10/18/2006
How to Change the Weather
song du jour: Rafiki, Zap Mama
mood: groovin'
A couple of months ago, I had Skyler almost convinced that I can change the weather. I told him I could make a storm, and that in the event I didn't succeed at a full blown thunderstorm, I could apparently inspire a car collision that resulted in our power going out for a few seconds.
"HOW?!?" he asked with big eyes, too logical to believe me, too under the influence of Mommy not to wonder a little.
"Well, every time I set the time on the answering machine, the power goes out within no less than 3 days. It NEVER fails."
"Come on, Mom," said with rolling eyes.
"Ok, so perhaps I don't really cause the weather to change, but it really never fails that the power goes out within 3 days of my finally stopping the flashing 'CL' on the machine. It NEVER fails. Weird, huh?"
"Mom, you're silly."
Later on in a phone conversation with his Gran, I heard Skyler tell her, "Mom controls the weather, hee hee."
How about Mom is the weather? Listening to a podcast off Bluetruth a few months ago, I heard David Deida declare that women are as logically and easily predictable to men as the weather. Sometimes you can tell what's coming, and sometimes whamo: a tsunami out of no where. It's never out of no where to us. There's always a front forming over the mountains or a storm brewing near the coastline, but to those not privy to the brain workings of the complex, it's like an Atlanta summer day: One minute it's sunny, the next minute there is a flash flood complete with flickering electricity (indoors and out).
Leonard Shlain proposes that the crazy destructiveness of patriarchy stems from men's fear of nature. It's not a big leap to look at how desperately the masculine need for power manifests as a desire to control nature. The Michael Crightons of the world drone on endlessly, stupidly, and in vain about the existence or non existence of global warming, and I just want someone in power to notice that fewer and fewer of us can breathe easily out there.
Recently, the whole notion has made me wonder why the patriarchical mode of masculine thinking has us all headed toward an early grave or at least a half life, hell bent on controlling the uncontrollable often in utter denial of the consequences. Ye old serenity prayer comes to mind: God/dess, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference. As a child, staring at a plaque of that prayer at my (fairy)godmother's house, I found it hysterically funny because it seemed so totally obvious. As a young adult, I often found it to be an immensely annoying reminder, and as a neither old nor young but firmly adult (on the outside anyway), I think of it and realize that more often than not, the courage to change what I can manifests as "leave me the f**k alone to pursue what I may."
With all my focus on dreams and fulfilling them lately, I have been keenly aware of the price we weather girls pay in aspiring and achieving our whirlwinds of creativity. A friend of mine, who has just watched her dreams go from doggedly making the impossible happen to having it go wildly, financially, artistically, successful on a grand scale, just signed her divorce papers a couple of weeks ago. Her now ex-husband didn't like how much time she was spending at work. A man, who achieves his dreams, usually has a woman behind him, taking care of his needs and frequently sacrificing her own for the greater good of his or their dreams, and then said man will often take pride in describing himself as 'self-made.' A woman, who achieves her dreams usually has at least one major partnership behind her and is often a solo parent. Only if she's extremely fortunate does she have a mate, who cheers her on and understands about long hours and late nights.
Of course, to the untrained ear, this will all sound like I'm complaining, when in fact, I'm just reporting it as I see it. Yes, it's a grand injustice, but on the other hand I've begun to wonder if it's even possible for me to be creative with anyone else pulling for my attention, and being creative is the thing that makes me most happy in life, whether it's the centering flow of painting or my ridiculously off the wall approach to parenting and homeschooling. Achieving my dreams is no substitute for an adult oriented we life. It IS my life.
My answering machine is blinking 'CL' just begging me to set its clock again, but I want to paint my fence and porch railing this weekend, and there's already rain in the forecast. There is immense euphoria in embracing my sunny tsunamic powers. On days with no distractions from the flow I'm able to share my talents with friends in need of soul food. What I'm doing when not blogging? Illuminating a newly single friend's dark moment with a little more light.
Fiery 'O'
Illuminated Calligraphy
Acrylic on Paper
©2006, V. Lansford
mood: groovin'
A couple of months ago, I had Skyler almost convinced that I can change the weather. I told him I could make a storm, and that in the event I didn't succeed at a full blown thunderstorm, I could apparently inspire a car collision that resulted in our power going out for a few seconds.
"HOW?!?" he asked with big eyes, too logical to believe me, too under the influence of Mommy not to wonder a little.
"Well, every time I set the time on the answering machine, the power goes out within no less than 3 days. It NEVER fails."
"Come on, Mom," said with rolling eyes.
"Ok, so perhaps I don't really cause the weather to change, but it really never fails that the power goes out within 3 days of my finally stopping the flashing 'CL' on the machine. It NEVER fails. Weird, huh?"
"Mom, you're silly."
Later on in a phone conversation with his Gran, I heard Skyler tell her, "Mom controls the weather, hee hee."
How about Mom is the weather? Listening to a podcast off Bluetruth a few months ago, I heard David Deida declare that women are as logically and easily predictable to men as the weather. Sometimes you can tell what's coming, and sometimes whamo: a tsunami out of no where. It's never out of no where to us. There's always a front forming over the mountains or a storm brewing near the coastline, but to those not privy to the brain workings of the complex, it's like an Atlanta summer day: One minute it's sunny, the next minute there is a flash flood complete with flickering electricity (indoors and out).
Leonard Shlain proposes that the crazy destructiveness of patriarchy stems from men's fear of nature. It's not a big leap to look at how desperately the masculine need for power manifests as a desire to control nature. The Michael Crightons of the world drone on endlessly, stupidly, and in vain about the existence or non existence of global warming, and I just want someone in power to notice that fewer and fewer of us can breathe easily out there.
Recently, the whole notion has made me wonder why the patriarchical mode of masculine thinking has us all headed toward an early grave or at least a half life, hell bent on controlling the uncontrollable often in utter denial of the consequences. Ye old serenity prayer comes to mind: God/dess, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference. As a child, staring at a plaque of that prayer at my (fairy)godmother's house, I found it hysterically funny because it seemed so totally obvious. As a young adult, I often found it to be an immensely annoying reminder, and as a neither old nor young but firmly adult (on the outside anyway), I think of it and realize that more often than not, the courage to change what I can manifests as "leave me the f**k alone to pursue what I may."
With all my focus on dreams and fulfilling them lately, I have been keenly aware of the price we weather girls pay in aspiring and achieving our whirlwinds of creativity. A friend of mine, who has just watched her dreams go from doggedly making the impossible happen to having it go wildly, financially, artistically, successful on a grand scale, just signed her divorce papers a couple of weeks ago. Her now ex-husband didn't like how much time she was spending at work. A man, who achieves his dreams, usually has a woman behind him, taking care of his needs and frequently sacrificing her own for the greater good of his or their dreams, and then said man will often take pride in describing himself as 'self-made.' A woman, who achieves her dreams usually has at least one major partnership behind her and is often a solo parent. Only if she's extremely fortunate does she have a mate, who cheers her on and understands about long hours and late nights.
Of course, to the untrained ear, this will all sound like I'm complaining, when in fact, I'm just reporting it as I see it. Yes, it's a grand injustice, but on the other hand I've begun to wonder if it's even possible for me to be creative with anyone else pulling for my attention, and being creative is the thing that makes me most happy in life, whether it's the centering flow of painting or my ridiculously off the wall approach to parenting and homeschooling. Achieving my dreams is no substitute for an adult oriented we life. It IS my life.
My answering machine is blinking 'CL' just begging me to set its clock again, but I want to paint my fence and porch railing this weekend, and there's already rain in the forecast. There is immense euphoria in embracing my sunny tsunamic powers. On days with no distractions from the flow I'm able to share my talents with friends in need of soul food. What I'm doing when not blogging? Illuminating a newly single friend's dark moment with a little more light.
Fiery 'O'
Illuminated Calligraphy
Acrylic on Paper
©2006, V. Lansford
10/05/2006
The Most Powerful Thing I've Read All Day!
song du jour: Dreams, FLeetwood Mac
mood: Just Wow
From Chapter 2
If you're a man, when you were growing up I'll bet there was one pair of words you never heard set up against each other with regard to you and your life, that is selfless and selfish. These words are for women. Oh, from time to time your mother may have told you you were selfish, but she didn't really mean it. After all, you were different from her. You were supposed to be so absorbed in your own activities that you were more or less oblivious to the state of order or disorder in your room and the subtle mood changes of the people around you. You got love for being precisely that way-active and self-absorbed and good at things. (Good at what things is the rub, but I'll get back to that in a moment.)
If you were a little girl, you probably weren't told you were selfish unless you tried to do something you wanted to do that wasn't for anybody but you. And then-especially if you got so wrapped up in it that you forgot to be nice to your baby brother or set the table-it was made swiftly clear that you lacked the quality that makes for lovable people and you'd better shape up.
Women are raised for love. That is, we have been raised to give it in order to get it. Our upbringing trained us to nurture other people. We're supposed to be good to our children so that they can grow up and realize themselves. We're supposed to back up our husbands so that they feel free to go out and realize themselves. In other words, the flowers are to grow, and guess what that makes us? Fertilizer-to put it politely. That's how most of us were taught we would get love - not by being flowers ourselves. If we dared to flower-to be active and self-absorbed and good at things - nobody would feed our roots, and we would die. At least, that's how it felt.
The psychologist Abraham Maslow has written that all human beings have a hierarchy of needs. Our more basic needs have to be fulfilled before we can even start thinking about the higher ones. First come food and shelter—the physical, survival needs. Then come the emotional needs-love for ourselves as we really are and a sense of belonging. Only when all those all those needs are fulfilled do we really feel secure enough to seek self-realization. Love is such a fundamental need that people go where the love goes just the way the roots of a plant turn toward water and the leaves turn toward light. Our culture trains us to take certain roles by putting the love in that direction - and we just grow that way! And the fact is that in our culture, until very recently, most men have gotten love for realizing themselves; most women have gotten it for helping other people realize themselves.
mood: Just Wow
From Chapter 2
If you're a man, when you were growing up I'll bet there was one pair of words you never heard set up against each other with regard to you and your life, that is selfless and selfish. These words are for women. Oh, from time to time your mother may have told you you were selfish, but she didn't really mean it. After all, you were different from her. You were supposed to be so absorbed in your own activities that you were more or less oblivious to the state of order or disorder in your room and the subtle mood changes of the people around you. You got love for being precisely that way-active and self-absorbed and good at things. (Good at what things is the rub, but I'll get back to that in a moment.)
If you were a little girl, you probably weren't told you were selfish unless you tried to do something you wanted to do that wasn't for anybody but you. And then-especially if you got so wrapped up in it that you forgot to be nice to your baby brother or set the table-it was made swiftly clear that you lacked the quality that makes for lovable people and you'd better shape up.
Women are raised for love. That is, we have been raised to give it in order to get it. Our upbringing trained us to nurture other people. We're supposed to be good to our children so that they can grow up and realize themselves. We're supposed to back up our husbands so that they feel free to go out and realize themselves. In other words, the flowers are to grow, and guess what that makes us? Fertilizer-to put it politely. That's how most of us were taught we would get love - not by being flowers ourselves. If we dared to flower-to be active and self-absorbed and good at things - nobody would feed our roots, and we would die. At least, that's how it felt.
The psychologist Abraham Maslow has written that all human beings have a hierarchy of needs. Our more basic needs have to be fulfilled before we can even start thinking about the higher ones. First come food and shelter—the physical, survival needs. Then come the emotional needs-love for ourselves as we really are and a sense of belonging. Only when all those all those needs are fulfilled do we really feel secure enough to seek self-realization. Love is such a fundamental need that people go where the love goes just the way the roots of a plant turn toward water and the leaves turn toward light. Our culture trains us to take certain roles by putting the love in that direction - and we just grow that way! And the fact is that in our culture, until very recently, most men have gotten love for realizing themselves; most women have gotten it for helping other people realize themselves.
10/04/2006
Totally Twisted
song du jour: Baghdad Cafe, A:Xus
mood: overworked (My 'boss' is a tyrant!)
As I was frantically working as much as possible during non-vampire hours, I received an email with this pic from Skyler, who was hanging with Disneyland-Daddy at the Apple Store. Not sure what the hardware/software set up is, but it must have been fun!
mood: overworked (My 'boss' is a tyrant!)
As I was frantically working as much as possible during non-vampire hours, I received an email with this pic from Skyler, who was hanging with Disneyland-Daddy at the Apple Store. Not sure what the hardware/software set up is, but it must have been fun!
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