Catch the Un-Train

I have acquired a clearer understanding of myself in relation to this world. I aspire to reflect the world not as it is, but as it could be. 

Stepping back from this manhandled world to gain perspective,

Fortune amazes me.

For a heart and a mind that are curious and dissatisfied

that I have come this far 

To participate in creating

my own path

my own culture 

freedom

To secure consciousness

freedom

To protect all that is mine

my inheritance

all that I represent

To reject old explanations.

What a difficult task to upgrade 

this culture, my operating system,

bombarded with horror.

Every person’s consciousness 

bombarded relentlessly.

Symptoms of distress:

early awareness, begins with

Clinton’s sex-capades in grammar school.

Trade towers incinerate in high school 

NSA-ttack 

Creation of “global terror” 

Iraq genocide, 

people in cages,

sex and torture

once overseas, executed nextdoor

Enron 

Galactic terror

Militarize Afghanis

Swine flu outbreak— 

vaccinate all babies.

Swindling banksters

What is this virus, this multiplying sickness?

Drag all these files to the trash.

My operating system is crashing

Salvation?

Time to upgrade the operating system—

Let’s call the tech.

Tech says, Trash the old,

make room for the new,

download a new operating system?

But I have to empty the trash,

dissolve the dysfunction

get rid of the old: It must be erased.

What needs to go?

Ideology

Corporate support

Figure-heads

Political parties

Bureaucracy 

Authority

Consumer capitalism 

But why?

Because it’s flawed 

It’s very non-competitive 

It’s messy 

It’s poisonous

It wastes resources

It wastes peoples and cultures

It runs on stereotypes 

and low sample rates,

making everyone appear the same,

when the real value is our differences.

So what.

All that is

must be examined for viruses.

The old is yesterday.

The new is the unfolding,

constantly changing,

present—

living authentically, 

dismantling the false self.

Dissolve exterior pressure.

Look inward.

Relinquish the strangle-hold.

Remember

the little girl that is me.

The body holds more intelligence than the mind.

Who is me?

The me of which there is no other?

First, I ask,

who is the trickster?

The false self, who, 

like the old operating system,

must be trashed.

Difficult, it is,

but I create my paradise,

a privilege,

and an endeavor 

I share it with an Aquarian. 

Living in paradise

erasing the old,

minute by minute,

keep telling myself

nothing out there could ever compare

to the creativity so unaware.

Stirring beneath the false self

is awareness waiting for a god

like myself to awaken the dreamer.

Each day devoting god-like awareness 

to the breath, 

constantly quieting my critical clock-driven mind

back to the heart.

This is me in the present, communicating my heart, in limited vocabulary. 26-letter variable language—

could it be more constricting!

-Caroline Coleman

Thanks to Terence McKenna, Alan Watts, and Lenon Honor.

"Instant French"

Across from me is a bookshelf jammed so thoroughly with books that many have been placed horizontally in the spaces remaining above the vertical books.


One of these books is entitled Instant French. Wouldn't that be nice? Instant French. Open the book. Bam! Croissant. Read the first chapter. Zhoom! Snotty accent. Close the book. Voilà! Eiffel Tower!


Another book is called Macrobiotic Cooking for Everyone. What it really ought to be called is Macrobiotic Cooking for Everyone Who Loves Rice and is Willing to Part with Flavor.


Another book is an amazing interactive guide to birds—Western North American ones—and their habitats. it would be easy to make fun of this book, but I absolutely adore it. It comes with an electronic guide that you can press through and listen to bird calls by corresponding numbers. I bought it for my mom, who has been getting into identifying birds ever since she started leading tours at the local estuary. I am thinking about keeping it for myself, even though I have practically no knowledge of birds nor a reason to learn about their habitats. I just really like the interactive feature.


Another book on the shelf isn't really even a book at all. it's a pile of cards—not just one deck, but three. And not just playing cards, either. The first deck is a collection of yoga poses that you can do "on the go." I never use it, although I do enjoy the occasional yoga class. The next deck is, in fact, playing cards, a special Communist China edition that I bought in Chinatown with my ex-girlfriend's ex-girlfriend, who was visiting us for a week from back East. My ex-girlfriend wasn't even with us when we went to Chinatown. I bought the cards so that my ex's ex would feel comfortable purchasing something, but she never ended up getting anything, either way. The cards still have the plastic seal on. I already have too many playing cards. The final deck below the other two is a deck of Tarot cards. I've heard these were an invention of the 1930s, but I still can't help but feel a little mystified by the medieval imagery. I'm not even quite sure how you use Tarot cards. Whenever I "use" them, which is not too often, believe it or not, I just turn them over in response to a question. An example might be: "Will I pass this test?" If I turn over the Hanged Man, I might reasonably assume the answer is "No." One might also infer that the test will be fatal. It's hard to say, but the ambiguity is delightful. No one was ever mystified this way by the Magic 8 Ball.


Another horizontal book is Careers for Gastronomes and Others who Relish Food. At the time I purchased the book, which was probably around 2003, the advice it offered felt like real insider information. Now it all seems very obvious and slightly boring.


Another book is the Treehorn Trilogy, a very thick illustrated book for over-educated children. It was given to me by my ex-boyfriend. He once told me he had read it numerous times. I still haven't managed to get all the way through it. The book resting on top of this children's book is a sex-themed graphic art book called Grafuck. Get it? I've managed to get through that one numerous times.


The rest of the bookshelf is what you'd expect: a travel clock that hasn't been adjusted to reflect Daylight Savings Time; a picture or two of my sister and me at different stages in our lives; a very broken acoustic guitar; a pair of electronic stuffed-animal bunnies (the kind that walk with great difficulty and then do an epic back flip); an origami crane made out of magazine paper; my college diploma holder without the diploma; a Nantucket wicker basket with my dearly departed grandmother's name burned into the bottom. Oh yeah, and a few other random books.

-LM

"Natty Ice"

Last night, I wanted to get in touch with nature and feel real again. I started by lying naked on the ground of my apartment. Face down, I studied the grain of the wood my ribs pressing into the second floor. Hearing my neighbor below having sex made me realize these perfectly man-made strips of wood were not getting me any closer to touching mother nature's finger tips. I sat up and returned to my mattress. Tomorrow I will try again, I thought. I awoke with new hope that it was possible to feel alive in this city. I lie on the pavement for 15 minutes, staring up into the narrow view of blue and felt nothing.  I climbed a tree on Perry Street; I swung and gripped the unevenly textured branches and noticed the spray painted "X", meaning it would be cut down. I wasn’t getting anywhere.

I took the 1 train to 59^th Street and smiled — surely Central Park would hold everything I had been missing. I walk down the paths and past the lake full of rowboats. I see readers, coffee drinkers, and couples lying on top of each other. I am feeling better already. I see a nice lawn and decide to slip off my shoes and lay down. With my hands behind my head, I inhale. Breathing, feeling the grass in my toes and the sky above my head, I smell something awful. I push my body up to my elbows and looked around. An Upper West Side woman in Louboutin heels just let her little dog shit three feet away from my nature-loving session. I watched as she scooped up the dog, unlike the feces, and opened her bag, dropping it in just like the other material possessions in the large leather purse. Those heels walked away smoothly in a way only certain a woman does. Cunt, I thought. I was fully upright sitting in the huge grass field, feeling frustrated and defeated. As I walked back to the subway, all the optimism I had felt on my walk to the park had been replaced with the sight of a homeless man peeing off a rock;  nannies with babies crying in strollers, missing their own mothers that are too busy to take care of them. This was a disaster.

I passed the doorman, I took the stairs to the rooftop of my building. Maybe the ground isn't what I need, I thought. I stomped to the ninth floor, excited to swing the door open and feel the freeing sensation of the sky above me. It was almost sundown and the world had never looked better. I stood with my toes on the edge the roof. I inhaled once again with my palms facing up. Sure, I felt an adrenaline rush, and I had never stood on the edge of a building before. Don’t worry I wasn’t trying to kill myself — that comes later.  Anyways, I feel the air. New York and the lights are all around me, and I'm still not feeling in-touch with nature, just in touch with, well, being up high. The only thing making me feel alive was the thought of my foot slipping. A person coughed behind me. I turned, he was putting out his cigarette. He smiled, I smiled. He opened the door and was gone. I stepped down onto a table, jumped back to the gravel, and retied my shoe.

Lying on my mattress again, I sunk my head deep into the feather pillows and thought of what drives me to live—what makes me scared. If that fear is from nature, I must find it.

I woke thinking of water. I sprinted down Charles Street, past Washington Street, and onto the highway. The freezing air burned my lungs. I had neither a jacket nor the sweatpants from Grossmont Center that my mom purchased because she loved the five-dollar deals at the store with singing animals at the entrance. The faster I ran the more I thought my bra was going to snap off from how hard my heart was pounding. I ran past the West Side highway and onto the astroturf. What the fuck is this? Astroturf? Really? I swear to fucking God... 

I turned and ran onto the pier. I can’t get away from it. It was winning. But the wind was so strong that I knew maybe this time was different. I felt the uneasy planks of wood beneath my tennis shoes swivel with each step. The Hudson River was murky and brown. The waves were violently pushing into each other, slamming into the pier and then back together again. I wondered what it would feel like to be that powerful. 

New Jersey was staring at me and I was glaring back. I thought of the spray tans and gym memberships. I sat on the ledge watching my feet dangle. I thought of porn magazines and beauty pageants. I felt the bleach in my hair and licked my corrected teeth. Nothing natural exists anymore, except birth, death and sex—and all of those have been objectified and materialized. I thought of my future daughter and how I’d never want this world for her. She would be an object, and I would make her into one everyday. I slipped smoothly into the water. Unlike the violent waves crashing, my body seemed to melt into the ice water and liquefy into an orgasm of colors and shapes—and then calm darkness. I always did like nighttime.

—CBF

Current Events

Poetry for you and you.

Current Events

By Liz (and a little from Lulu)

Today I fear Obama

I drank my chai tea too fast

He is much like a llama

Street dust stuck to the coffee shop carpet

Fortune, fame, and fury

Never paid for my caffeine

are making my eyes blurry

typing to distract myself from myself

I’m in Love with the Bourgeoisie

By Liz

How curly tendrils

Make me squiggle in my seat

Now I know defeat

Just a Stopover

By Lulu

I walked past your house

The dog shit was still intact

But our love long gone

Blind

By Liz

Although they are green

My eyes remain unseen to

You, now they are blue

Text Message

By Lu

My pocket vibrates

Your boredom is my pleasure

Pieces of your day

Thoughts for the Future

I have an encyclopedic knowledge of impractical information, which probably makes me a fascinating person to know – even for a brief moment, at a cocktail party or on the bus – but generally pretty useless in the financially gainful areas of life that call for knowledge of things like calculus and Laffer Curves and rocket science.

Unfortunately, and unavoidably, Math bores me to tears. It’s just the same thing repeated over and over again, and yet somehow always yielding confusingly varied results. Science I like, but it has way too much math. It seems like many would-be interesting fields always do. Words, I like; but even their use can become very clinical and depleted. Growing up, schools and other developmental programs try to help us become as competent as possible in a very limited set of areas so that we can go on to succeed in a relatively narrowly defined set of socially acceptable jobs: doctor, lawyer, “business man,” engineer. Or, still socially acceptable as concise descriptions, though notably less lucrative: florist, plumber, swim instructor, dog walker, etc. It seems like we tend to define ourselves shallowly by what we do for a living – perhaps hoping that the implicit social ethos of this work will speak for our greater personal identity.

Needless to say, this limiting paradigm might work better for some than for others. Do I want to be seen as a florist, a lawyer, a “business” woman, or do I want to be something intellectually, emotionally, and experientially richer, to suit the richness of the way I experience the world? I am not sure I am willing to reduce this amazing place (this world, wherever I am in it), and such a potentially amazing life (mine), to one limiting categorical endeavor. I don’t have to, and you don’t have to, either. We are not just cogs. Let our helpfulness to one another come from joy and compassion, and not purely obligation or a hasty need to belong (you already do).

Now, before you write my thoughts off as those of a sky-gazing bohemian (guilty, sure), let me say that I have nothing against the doctors and the plumbers, the playwrights and the undertakers, etc. I have valued the work of each at key moments in my life. Still, sometimes people need to do what they need to do in order to survive, and those roles may not be the most befitting their natural interests. I understand that dialectic. But one ought not let the mind die a premature death while she passes through this life a capable body performing routine things, lest she loses her curiousity. Let’s not let memorized, pre-designated actions detract from the powerful and revealing imagination with which we are equipped (if you are willing to tap into it). Is that not the essence of discovery? Our actions proceed our thoughts, and our thoughts are the filtered energy of the mind. Therefore, embrace your free thought, and don't be afraid to wander.

A message attached to my tea bag once read something along the lines of, “The meaning of life is to experience yourself.” Narcissistic, yes – but freeing. I think I’ll give it a swing. – LM

"Huff" Season 1 Review by Maura Kelly

Hello. I’m Maura, your resident film reviewer. As I never aspired to be a film “critic”, what you’ll be getting from me won’t be the paradigmatic dissection of cinema (for that, check out the NY Times, or give Roger Ebert a ring). I watch films, and review them my way, plain and simple. How am I feeling today? Lonely, alienated, and real stoned? Then I say, Fuck you, “Pretty Woman” cause that shit’s never happened to no real girl.

But today I’m reflective – more sunshine than clouds – and only a tad buzzed off of a tall boy of Coors Light. I’m also super into “Huff” Season 1. The Showtime series debuted in 2004 and chronicles the life of L.A. psychiatrist Craig Huffstodt (Hank Azaria) and the characters that weave in and out of his life. Wait. Showtime…series? But Maura, I thought you were a film reviewer… Yes, but I can explain. TV development in the past half a decade has engendered an incredible amount of smart, character-driven, cinematic quality productions. “Huff” is one such show, and I am totally hooked.

The first episode begins with Huff at a martini lunch with his offbeat, vice-ridden, lawyer best friend, Russell (Oliver Platt). Huff’s phone rings: “Shit Karen, you can’t do that. Whatever, tell him I only have 15 minutes.”

Waiting in his office is Sam, a teenage boy who just came out to his parents. His father told him that he’s better off dead. Sam told them that if his mom hadn’t “tweaked his penis when he was 5” and “stuck her tongue down his throat and said that’s how French people kiss”, maybe that would’ve helped. Looks like the freak-show doesn’t brake for the gates of Beverly Hills. Comforting… I guess?

Huff assures Sam that he’s done the right thing, but reminds him, “The message Karen gave me said your father threatened to kill you, and that’s a lot different than ‘you’re better off dead’.” Sam becomes irate, flips his chair, asks Huff why he’s siding with them. At almost warp speed, he pulls a revolver out of his backpack and into his mouth. Before Huff can intercept, he pulls the trigger and blows his brains all over the room.

Most of the series centers around his family dynamic — their tensions, betrayals, and dirty little secrets, which I think is a whole lot more interesting than watching his patients bitch for 30 minutes (Ahem, “In Treatment”. Gabriel Byrne you’re a dreamboat, and I’m sorry, but that’s the only reason I still tune in).

We meet Beth, his wife, his voice of reason teenage son, Byrd, and my personal favorite, his mother. Izzy Huffstodt (Blythe Danner) is the live-in mother-in-law from the deepest trenches of hell. The St. John-clad, martini permanently in hand Izzy is chock full of WTF quips like: ”That’s one thing I’ll say for those Jews — their food is clean,” and “Where’s the Clorox. That little fella was a homosexual. Thank God you outgrew that phase.” She’s so out of touch, that you fall just short of hating her, and instead wait for what ridiculous stunt she’ll spring on us next.

I’m not going to lie: After Sam went out with a bang, I had to click the ol’ pause button and take a few moments. Where could this show possibly go from here? Structurally, things like this don’t usually happen until mind-fuck season finales, and we’re only at 14:49 here of an hour-long, 13 episode season. But “Huff “ is smarter than this. And its season finale also manages to give “mind-fuck” a whole new meaning. Story lines involve Huff’s schizophrenic brother, a patient-turned-stalker that tries to kill his wife, his best friend inviting the whole Best-Buy TV department over for an ecstasy party and knocking up a sales girl, his mother’s channeling of Dr. Kevorkian, Huff’s brush with infidelity, and his son’s coming of age.

The product of all this is a thoughtful and engaging dramatic series, full of jaw-dropping moments that, as it’s tagline reminds us: “Life. Sometimes you wake up in the middle of it.”

-MK

Anna's Thrifty Finds 1st ed.

Let’s face it -- I’ve been waiting all my life for the opportunity to showcase two of the greatest loves of my life: bargain shopping and women.  My days of waiting are over!  My goal in this edition is to successfully pair timeless clothing with the women – living, dead, and fictional – who blazed trails not only for our clothing, but for our rights to live, love, and fight.  Clothing has and always will effect women, and of course, women have and always will effect the clothes we wear. As always, I promise to keep the vast majority of the pieces included in Anna’s Thrifty Finds second-hand, as a reminder that we can blast apart the capitalist, sexist, heterosexist, racist, elitist system while retaining a vestige of its shell. 

Annie Hall

Inspired by the classically tailored style of Diane Keaton’s alter-ego Annie Hall, this outfit captures the whimsical and playful nature of that unforgettable character. Annie’s wardrobe consisted mostly of neutral beiges and muted tones – fitting for the streets of NYC – but these shorts are undeniably Californian, especially paired with a sun hat. 

Black sailor blouse: $15 from Wasteland (SF, CA)Pink trouser shorts: $35 from Wasteland 


Because the color and structure of the shorts are so remarkable, black provides the perfect compliment to enhance the main attraction without competing for attention. I think Annie would certainly approve.

Lolita

For as twisted as Nabokov’s Lolita is, the iconic poster for Kubrick’s film – Lolita wearing red heart-shaped sunglasses sucking a red lollipop – exudes a playful eroticism that is both intriguing and heartbreaking.  That poster, not the complexity and tragedy that Lolita herself represents, is the inspiration for this thrifty find. 

Heart-shaped sunglasses: $10 from Flashbacks (Encinitas, CA)

I fully admit that there is a sense of the ridiculous in a grown woman wearing something so silly as heart-shaped sunglasses, and that is precisely why I love them.  The sunglasses acknowledge the absurdity of reverting to childhood while simultaneously embracing the 12-year-old girl every woman holds inside – the girl about to fall from innocence into the heartache of adulthood.

Katharine Hepburn

In an era when Hollywood actresses (and women in general) were expected to prance around in dresses and skirts at all times, Katharine Hepburn refused to answer her gender’s call of duty.  Donning pants not only in her life off the screen, Hepburn insisted that her characters also showcase an unconventional wardrobe.  

Beige linen suspender trousers: $20 from Flashbacks 


These suspender trousers are an homage to her ferocity.  Perfectly tailored, light, playful, and cut with a woman’s body in mind, they are the perfected version of the sometimes-severe suits Hepburn and other “cross-dressers” of her generation wore.  The straw hat similarly pokes fun at the felt bowlers Hepburn’s male counterparts wore, and demonstrates the gender-bending power of ornamentation.

Lana Turner

Lana Turner is a little-remembered Hollywood femme fatale from the 1940s and 50s – the ultimate sweater girl of her day and age.  Her skirts and dresses were tight, and those sweaters were even tighter. 

Purple sweater vest: $18 from Flashbacks

This outfit (modeled by Caroline Coleman, for those of you who didn’t recognize her radiant face) provides a paradigm shift in the expectations of the “sweater girl.”  Not only is Caroline’s vest decidedly loose, her dress is similarly free-flowing; and yet both are form-fitting in the waist – naturally accentuating the female form without imposing strict (and unrealistic) dimensions on the body.  You might even say that, apart from the fitted waist, the sweater vest resembles the prototypical “Grandpa sweater vest.”  A close look at the details in the sweater, however, reveals the complex and uniquely feminine qualities of the piece: the lines that the pleats create, the perfectly-tailored sleeves, the sculpted collar, the deep indigo hue.  The dress similarly exudes a quiet but intent femininity in its playfully full skirt, capturing simultaneously the carefree and sophisticated nature of womanhood.

Annie Oakley

As we were all taught growing up, Annie Oakley was a willful woman from the Wild West who could shoot, wrangle, and ride with the best of the cowboys (at least you were taught this if your mother is a raging hippie feminist like mine is).  

Beige jacket with tassels: $25 from Flashbacks


This jacket embodies the time-specific fun and daring of the previously uncharted territory (both geographically and socially) that the West provided for those, male and female, who had the guts.  Paired with a similarly time-specific bracelet and American Apparel mini-dress, the outfit defies tradition and genre, and instead embraces contradictions.  The muted tones of both pieces allow the tassels, and all they represent, due attention without seeming costume-y or kitschy.  Yee-haw!

In a rampantly material culture, these truths about women and our myriad ways of ornamenting ourselves are turning into curses, burdens we must bear to properly perform the role our culture dictates.  In my own small way, I want to help reinstate the sense of feminine power that ornamentation can offer women.  Dressing up, whatever that means to you, doesn’t have to equate to an acceptance of the system that expects its women to look and behave a certain way.   I believe that by bringing out the best in ourselves physically, we can actually reclaim a sense of pride in our womanhood that has been taken away from us. 

Finding and creating beauty doesn’t have to come at a financial, social, or environment cost.  And so I leave you to enjoy my contributions to Curious Tastemakers Collective with these words from the mother of us all (Sappho, of course):

what country girl seduces your wits

wearing a country dress

not knowing how to pull the cloth to her ankles?

All photos courtesy of Lulu McAllister.