Concerning Your Inalienable Right and Patriotic Duty to Throw Down on the Dance Floor

This Sunday afternoon at Sunset Junction Music Festival, I was soaking up Martin Luther’s genre-bending R&B/rock ‘n’ roll/pop music. His luscious lyrics - just to be alive is a reason to ride/ don’t give up the spirit of the phoenix/ RISE” – struck a chord somewhere deep in my expanding soul. As I watched the clouds behind the stage spread out in magnificent formations, I felt Martin’s songs reverberate from the tips of my toes to the top of my head.


I am the person at a concert who needs a little extra space – a sort of buffer around me, because I jump, spin, and get down to the ground whenever the music dictates that I do so. I have a compulsory physical reaction to music. Sometimes, when I find that I’m the only one moving, I wonder how people around me manage to stay so still. Are they consciously stifling this urge to take the music inside them and transform it into a physical impulse? Or inside their bodies, is there no trigger for the music to activate? Does it simply enter and flow through and out undetected?


I remember the first time I understood what it was to really dance. It was at a little event in Tempe , AZ called Wicca Wednesdays. It was a weekly gathering of hip-hop DJs in a strip mall bar. I went by myself one week and stood like I normally did, drink in hand, doing a little swaying and head bobbing. I was tapping my feet, shifting side to side, moving my hips like so. The music gradually elevated into a realm I wasn’t familiar with and before long it made a connection somewhere deep inside me, in a place that felt spiritual. That night I learned what freedom of movement was. I learned what letting go of physical inhibitions meant. I learned to tap into a higher power that reaches out to us through music, and in my case specifically, through good dance beats. That night changed my life.


When Sarah Silverman was asked what kind of music she likes, she said, “Anything that sounds good in my ear holes”. I couldn’t have said it any better. But I could add “anything that makes my body move” whether it’s my own version of ballet dancing to classical, pop-locking to hip hop or jumping up and down to some live guitar. If my body reacts to it, I know my soul is opening to it and I just ride the wave that comes my way.

I notice the others that do this too. I spot them, get near them and let their energy mingle with mine until we’ve created something larger than the sum of persons involved. It’s not hard to do when most of these soulful dancers are dripping with excess positive energy and joy. It is contagious and I soak it up.


When you’re dancing without inhibition, there is a focused connection happening between you and the music and nothing else. There is input (the beats) and there is output (your sweet ass dance moves) and in certain lucky moments that is all there is. Ego goes away and it takes worry and fear with it. Mr. Miyagi said, “Never trust a spiritual leader who cannot dance.”

And Agnes De Mille – who had a few things to say about dancing – said, “To dance is to be out of yourself. Larger, more beautiful, more powerful.” So why, may I ask, has anyone ever bypassed an opportunity to get down? Why miss a chance to sing, pray, love and give thanks through your feet? If you think dancing’s not really your thing, maybe you haven’t met the music that melts your ego yet. Keep searching. The rewards will be immeasurable.

Hey, Hey, My, My - The Creative Soul Will Never Die

Sewing, quilting, knitting, creating. They run in my bloodline. Only I never fully realized it until now. It should have been obvious. Several of my aunts are expert quilt makers. My mother sewed most of my childhood clothing and dolls. My paternal grandmother still makes purses although she can barely see. My maternal grandmother has presented me with more handmade gifts than I can count over the years, many of which I was too young and too “cool” to fully appreciate at the time. Growing up, I loved to create handmade cards for my mom and I dabbled in furniture painting, all of which gave me tremendous satisfaction. All of which, also, fell away in adulthood.

After a year in college prepping for a major in interior design, I opted for a theatre degree and used the stage as my creative outlet for years. Then, after falling into consciously deciding on a career in investment brokerage and a stint as a small business owner, my creative impulses felt lain to waste. I could barely drum up the energy to make a colored pencil card once a year for my mother.

But, then, one day as I was complaining about x, y, and z for the n^th time that month, I heard a muffled whimper. I listened closer. It was more forceful this time. Then, there was a fist pounding on wood. I scraped at the ground with my bare fingernails until I found it. It was my undying creative soul demanding to be dug out of its early grave. And ever since the moment that I lifted his frail little body into the sunlight, inspiration has been raining down from the sky. I’m currently standing knee deep in plans and schemes. The desire to do something with my hands other than typing is so strong that when a box of discarded business cards landed on my desk recently, a gothic village began to take shape, aided by a glue stick I found. Eventually, the structures became too elaborate to carry on at my desk and too conspicuous to passers-by. Operations have since been relocated to my home and plans blossomed into a line of gothic Christmas villages called Noel Gothique.

I have routinely said that I hate the question, “What’s your passion?”, because I never knew how to answer it. But, the other day, I wrote this sentence without even thinking twice about it: My passions are digging, discovering, dusting off, and rebirthing all forms of discarded objects.

Whoa! There it was. It’s not grandiose and it might not save the world, but those things are what get me really excited. They manifest themselves in picking up furniture off the side of the road, rescuing stray animals, and scavenging through warehouses and thrift stores in search of items worthy of a second chance.

Then, I started a list. It's like a "Makes My Heart Beat Faster" List. It’s just the things that get me really excited. The things that make me feel exuberant. Mine came out like this:

Gypsy Caravans
Vegetarian Cooking
Thrifting
Hats
Writing
Bicycle Knickers
Interior Decorating
Dirigibles
Reusing/UPcycling
Homes on Wheels
Mopeds
Brightly Striped Canvas
Urban Cycling
Linen

Random. Fitting for a renaissance soul like mine.

Here is my first completed project.

I call it La Infanta y Su Precioso. The frame belonged to an ex-boyfriend, the cat broach has been mine since kindergarten, the vine wreath I made while pulling kudzu off the back wall of my store in Tennessee, the doll was discarded by my neighbor’s daughter, and the gears in the background are a broken box top. Who knew that all these wandering objects would find each other and cohabitate so beautifully within the confines of a box destined for the recycling bin?

There’s much, much more in the works… My heart is seizing up just contemplating all of the ways to get my hands dirty.

Right now, I am thrilled for having been asked to create more of the yarn flowers seen in the photo to the right for Kelee Katillac. She is a woman who saved herself and her soul through accessing the creativity inside her and now she is a well-known blogger who has published books, been on numerous television programs, and developed a system of healing through creating sanctuary. And, she likes my scrappy little yarn flowers!!! (Maybe it’s Penny’s adorable-ness that really sells them.)

So, big thanks to my craggy, dehydrated, little waif of a creative soul (in my mind, he looks like a dirt-smudged marionette with a top hat) for reminding me that he will always be there no matter what. I think I will offer him some wine and we will convene this afternoon at the craft table.

“Do you want to have children?”

It’s a question that’s raised fairly often in discussions at my age. I’m almost thirty, unmarried, and have never expressed a deep sentiment for children either way. But, when I read editorials like Paul Krugman’s Betraying The Planet, in today’s NY Times, the answer is – in no uncertain terms, “Absolutely not”. And, on top of it, I need an explanation from new parents as to how they were able to face down the science that is readily available to us all – the science that paints a scorching picture of our planet’s future and whose looming deadline seems to creep ever closer – and make a conscious decision to people this planet with more innocents – innocents who, from day one, are also consumers. (Note: I am not trying to make a judgment, I truly want to know how.)

I want to know, as I look down the row of computers to my left – each one populated by mothers and fathers – how they can spend 8-10 hours a day making money instead of making this planet a safer, healthier place for their children to inherit. I want to know what they do in their off-time, their real-world lives to ensure that their children won’t die young in an insane heat wave or enlist in the military in order to fight a war over access to clean drinking water. In short, as someone who has made a conscious decision to add more beings to an already overpopulated planet, how is it possible to do anything without weighing the impact it will eventually have on the planet that your bloodline inherits?

Yes, I desire a family. I desire to inculcate a little person with everything I have learned in my years of trial and error and adventure. I desire cute baby clothes, hearing Mama for the first time, and height charts on the wall. But, who do I desire these things for? Do I feel there is a soul somewhere floating in the ether saying, “Please birth me onto Planet Earth! There’s nowhere else I’d rather be!” Hell no! That’s ridiculous to think that. I want all that stuff solely for selfish reasons. I want to experience my pregnancy. I want a child to strengthen the bond between my future husband and me. I want that child to care for me when I am elderly.

But, what do I want for the child? I want my child to live an enlightened, peaceful life. I want my child to experience the beauty of the natural world. I want my child to know, live, create, and share love. I want an Indigo Child. And I want a world that will match my child’s beauty and purity. But, in order for that to happen, I need to be creating that world in every step I take every day that I live.

So, that is my last question to new parents and parents-to-be. Is that what you’re doing? Are you conscious of how every decision – whether minute or major – is part of the foot print you leave on a planet you ultimately bequeath to your children? Do you use that awareness to lighten that footprint until it’s almost invisible? And if not, at this point, how in the world could you possibly do anything different?

(Note 2: Although the tone of this piece sounds self-righteous at points, please know I am asking myself these very same questions and hoping if anyone reading has found answers that work for them, that they share them with me. - Julie)

Give The Cheap Seats a Chance!

Yesterday, I went to see Anvil: The Story of Anvil at the Regency Fairfax. This retro theater in the center of LA offers a $5 matinee price for all shows before 6:00. I remember when it was $3, then $4. Even at five, this is the cheapest show in town. So, here’s the mysterious thing. Hardly anyone is ever there! It was ironic to be watching a documentary about a band who fears performing for pathetically tiny crowds in a theater with two patrons.

Once I got into the theatre, realized there was only one other person besides myself, and began contemplating how much money this for-profit establishment was losing on the screening of this film, I rushed back out to the lobby during previews and bought myself a popcorn, handing at least $4 of straight profit over to management. The popcorn was stale, of course, being there had been no one else to eat it all afternoon.

So, I would like to take this opportunity to ask everyone to patronize their local discount theaters! Please! Before they are gone and we are forced to see films like Anvil or Every Little Step at the Nuart or the Arclight for $14.50 or to wait for them to come out on DVD. These little cheap seats are there to reward you for your patience by slashing prices and making movie-going affordable again! Sure, the air-conditioning is out in theater 2 and the girl loading the projector is also getting your popcorn, but you can see three second-run movies for the price of one first-run release here!

So, what’s keeping you? Take advantage while you can!

I’ll be there again for The New Twenty on Friday night if you want to join me!

If Sidewalks Could Sprout Leaves

I remember reading in 2003 that future wars would be fought over access to clean water. Ever since then, I have been highly conscious of my water usage. If I’m over at your house and you walk away from the sink to grab something out of the refrigerator and leave the water running, I will jump up from the table and shut it off. Or, if I don’t know you that well, I will cringe on the inside and you will lose major points.

The other day, I returned to a neighborhood where I used to live and when I waved to an old neighbor in his yard, he dropped his water hose on the ground, still running full blast, and came over to engage me in a conversation. I couldn’t focus on anything he was saying, as all my attention was drawn to the gallons of water spewing forth onto his cement walkway. I quickly excused myself so that he could get back to what he was doing (watering non-drought tolerant rose bushes).

This encounter, in conjunction with the malfunctioning sprinkler across the street that erupts like Old Faithful onto the sidewalk every morning at 5:00 am, gave me an idea for a grassroots website. www.WaterWasteWatch.com is a place where residents of LA can post reports and photos of local water squanderers and cite their physical address. Visitors to the website are encouraged to then send a polite, concise letter to the offender asking them to fix the problem. Templates are included on the website in order to encourage a consistent message and friendly tone. The website also acts as a resource for the recipient of the letter, where he/she can find assistance in taking action to correct the water misuse problem.

I was all ready to give the idea a go when I visited LADWP.com and saw that they have a Water Conservation Team already in place! I was thrilled. Mission accomplished. Move on to next task. You can either call 1-800-LADWP or you can send an e-mail to waterconservationteam@ladwp.com and make your report. Apparently, they then follow up on these cases, issuing warnings and eventually tickets. They are also proactive about catching water wasters and drive around in a “clearly marked Prius” on the lookout for those breaking the law.

It has been six days since I reported the gushing geyser across the street. It’s still going off. I’m not discouraged. It’s only been four business days and the house is currently uninhabited and undergoing intermittent remodeling. But, I have to wonder…if www.WaterWasteWatch.com existed and I had posted photos and a report there (assuming I had done sufficient work to promote the website), would the owner (also assuming he has mail forwarded from this address or checks it frequently) have already received a small stack of letters encouraging him to make a change for everyone’s sake? Would he have been moved by the peer pressure and made a trip to the house over the weekend to turn the sprinkler system off? Perhaps.

There is another seriously malfunctioning sprinkler system on my street (oh, if driveways too could sprout leaves!) and I will send that report in. If I see that neither of these matters are resolved by the time the summer heat – and inevitable drought – sets in, then expect to see Water Waste Watch go live. And expect some water conservation, grass roots style!

Here's to holding everyone, including ourselves, accountable.

The Keyhole in the Laundromat

Who knows why early childhood memories broadside us at completely random moments? Who knows what jostles the small pocket that houses them just before the minute details of light, color and texture spill out and reconstruct themselves before our mind’s eye?

Today, I was sending an e-mail out at work (something about information technology and outsourcing) and without a moment’s notice, I was six years old at the Laundromat on Main Street , peeping through a keyhole into the apartment in the rear of the store. I have no idea the last time this memory surfaced or, honestly, if it ever has since then, but the emotional clarity that accompanied it was surprisingly sharp.

The Laundromat was in Almena, Wisconsin, population 456. It is where I was born and where I would spend the weekend with my dad after my parents were divorced. My dad didn’t have a washing machine, owing to the fact that he had no running water in his dilapidated home. So, every now and then, we would drive the block and a half up Main Street, past the bar, the post office, and the “supper club” (In those days I viewed this as the fancy place to eat, but if I were to see photos of it today, I would probably shudder at the sight.) to the Laundromat.

While waiting for the clothes to finish, surely I got bored and I think my dad even left me alone once in a while when he went to retrieve his mail from a post office box. I would wander towards a door set in the center of the rear wall, tucked back in a small alcove between soap dispensing machines and hard plastic chairs. In my memory, it’s a thick, glass door with curtains on the reverse side. This is where the elderly owners of the Laundromat lived, although I don’t remember ever actually seeing them. I would get my eye right up to the keyhole – the old-fashioned kind that afforded the peeper a moderately decent view – and I would look inside. What I remember most is the light – filtered and dusty – as if the shades were permanently closed. I remember faded greens and a hint of mauve. I remember heavily textured synthetic fabrics. It was like a museum. A room of steadfast relics, void of movement with an almost dollhouse-like quality. A place very unlike my father’s house.

I think of what I would do as a parent if I found my child peeping into someone’s home through the keyhole. I imagine I would tell them to stop immediately and teach them a lesson about personal privacy. That, to me, seems appropriate. But, how could I ever know what I was robbing them of in doing this? How could I know that I was dispossessing them of a mysterious, magical flashback twenty years down the road on a day when they need it most.

It’s amazing to ponder this collection of moments. The keyhole at the Laundromat segues into playing 301 with my dad at the bar next door, drinking Shirley Temples and playing Rosanne Cash’s Tennessee Flat Top Box over and over again on the jukebox. These images, however convoluted or gussied up they’ve become over time, are our histories and when they pop up and give us a jolt like mine did this morning, I know it’s a signal that the time has come for me to tell that part of my story, lest I let it slip away and it chooses not to return to me again in this lifetime. How many moments have already done this? How many memories will not return again before our last day on earth? A great many, I suppose. There’s only room for so many thoughts in our heads. But, as long as they choose to surprise me here and there, root me, and make me grateful for the path I have traveled, then I will honor them by putting the words, as best I can, down on paper.

Here's to telling your story.

See, Mom! Look What I Can Save!

I am a self-professed thrift-store junkie. Spotting a good buy gets my heart racing. I will dig, sift, climb, and linger until I feel confident that I have seen every last item and pondered its each and every use before I leave the store. Some days (but not often) I leave empty-handed and some days I leave utterly triumphant. Yesterday was one of the latter. I went to my favorite Goodwill in search of brown heels, because my dog had snacked on mine all day while I was at work. I left the store without the heels, but in possession of a few unexpected treasures that thoroughly thrilled me.

I cycle to work, so I love knickers. I also love them because almost no one wears them and that makes them even more unique. Knickers are not to be confused with Capri pants (gag). They are shorter and often cuffed at the bottom. Yesterday, I saw a beautiful textured fabric poking out of the overstuffed pants rack, reached in to pull it out and found I was holding a pair of Louis Verdad knickers in my hand, tags still on, with a heart-stopping price of $374. In my size!

I moved over to the jeans rack and quickly flipped through the Express denim, the tapered Levi’s, the bell cuts with frayed bottoms until my fingers felt the luxurious denim of a brand new pair (again, tags still attached) of Karl Lagerfeld Slim Fit jeans. My size, to the inch!

I went to the dressing room and both pairs fit beautifully! The Lagerfelds, aside from possibly being the sexiest pair of jeans I have ever worn, were designed to be worn with high heels (or by a woman measuring 5’10” or taller), so I made my way to the shoe rack where I found an ever so gently worn pair of red Via Spiga heels that looked killer with them.

When I was trying on shoes there was a gentleman who had started conversing with me (there definitely are those types who treat Goodwills like community centers). He said, “Now certainly you could find a man who would be willing to buy you a nice, new pair of shoes.” I appreciated his sentient, but explained that besides the fact that I’m not chasing anyone’s money and the fact that I could buy myself a nice new pair of shoes, this is fun for me. Whenever I need something, my immediate reaction is “time to go to the thrift store”. It hasn’t been “time to go to the mall” since high school.

So here are the calculations I came up with.

Retail Values:

Louis Verdad Couture Knickers: $374
Karl Lagerfeld Slim Fit Jeans: $220
Via Spiga Heels: $150 (price adjusted down $40 b/c they are not BRAND new)

TOTAL: $744

Goodwill Prices:

Louis Verdad Couture Knickers: $6.99
Karl Lagerfeld Slim Fit Jeans: $9.99
Via Spiga Heels: $9.99

TOTAL: $26.97

I saved: $717.03

And I was out of the store within 30 minutes.

From my friends who don’t thrift shop, I usually hear that they don’t have the patience to sift through the junk to find the gems. But, if saving over $700 in less than thirty minutes isn’t a good argument for giving it a shot, then I don’t know what is. Which, I’m totally cool with because then, as they say, more for me!