P.S.A. – A woman’s reaction to rape (trigger alert)

I’m not going to apologize for the nature of this post, or for making anyone uncomfortable. I’m sorry if you have lived through these experiences and find yourself triggered; you don’t need this information, so you may want to stop now.

A few weeks ago, I was working out with my (dear friend and) trapeze instructor, who wanted to see if a position would work and suggested trying it out on the ground first. He made a lewd joke that, had we been standing, would have been just fine. If you know me at all, you know I’m a walking politically incorrect nightmare. This is someone I’ve known for over 10 years, who doesn’t swing my way, with whom I am incredibly comfortable and whom I trust implicitly. But I was in a vulnerable position and said “Hang on, I need to get up, I’m feeling triggered.” He immediately jumped back and apologized, saying “I almost just got kicked in the nuts, didn’t I?” to which I laughed quietly and then said…

“Actually, you know what’s sad? That’s not my instinct.” And, because he is a dear friend, I said, “The instinct is to just shut down. To not fight. Because you know that if you struggle, you’re going to get hurt and probably get raped anyway, so you just shut down and wait for it to be over.” He was surprised, and sad. And, because he was surprised, I knew I would have to write about it. Because if he’s surprised, how many other people don’t know this? It seems every court, everyone who hasn’t been raped, everyone in a position of power when a rape survivor comes in and asks for help and asks why there aren’t signs of a struggle, doesn’t know this.

Maybe this will help someone; just reading this. Maybe not reading it in the context of a court document will not put people on the defensive and they’ll be able to hear it. Maybe it’ll explain why, at night, I walk down the middle of the street instead of on the sidewalk where it is easier to grab someone into a doorway, why I spit when I realize I’ve attracted unwanted male attention. Because, though I am incredibly strong, and a fighter, I know the odds are that, put in an inescapable rape situation rather than a sheer fighting situation, the shut-down survival instinct would likely kick in. And I’m a 5’9″ woman who can bench-press her own weight. Quick, ask my shrink why I began lifting weights in the first place, over 20 years ago. The goal is to not get into that situation in the first place, and walking down the street alone at night is apparently “risky behavior”.

It is important that you know this, if you didn’t already. Sorry it lacks my usual humor; I got nothin’.

Valentine’s Day List 2013

Those of you who have been coming here for 11 (ELEVEN!) years, thank you. This year is a bit of a sea change. Luke and I have been together since List the Fourth and, while I could continue to hash material from my 20′s forever, I am happy, and joyous, and less cynical than in years past, in large part due to this incredible relationship. So, this year, I offer just a few short words on the subject. You see, while Luke and I have been together for much less time than many of the couples we know, we are much happier than … a lot of couples, regardless of how long they’ve been together. Because I hope to be with him for much, much longer, just a few things…

1) Healthy relationships aren’t built on common interests. When you go through the death of a parent or the birth of a child or anything else of significance, it won’t matter if you both listen to the Misfits and hate Uggs. The mutual interests that are built together are the best ones, anyway.

2) Parameters are established through word and through action. After long enough, actions cancel out words. Any unexpected change in parameters without talking with your partner is a breach.

3) “Be the type of man whom you want your daughters (or future daughters) to marry.”
-Pater James Moore

4) Your dating dealbreakers will become the things that you find adorable about your life partner.

5) Never stop riding motorcycles together. Never stop doing the glorious, ridiculous, bonding things that drew you to each other in the first place.

For previous years, go here.

To purchase last year’s book of all ten lists, go here.

Edwardian Ball – A First Look (in a long, long time)

Forgive my ElderGoth leanings – I can’t help it. I’m well into my 30′s, I remember dimly and fondly the nascent days of the goth scene in San Francisco (when we were so few that there was one scene, the goth-industrial scene, where swirlers and stompers shared a dance floor with the exception of the rare club with two rooms, where the swirlers swirled and the stompers stomped and only met at the end of the night when it was time to say “Nice Boots” and the swirly girls went home with the stompy boys and acted surprised when there was drama, before we were factioned and then crammed back together again nearly in sync with Marilyn Manson’s popularity) and, while I do occasionally visit it, I consider myself a graduate, or drop-out; I kept many of the leanings but won’t commit the time and energy to anything other than being 100% of myself these days… and my Self is not 100% goth, so staying up late to go to a club that doesn’t represent 100% of me for a guaranteed lack of sleep and suffering the next day… well, it doesn’t happen so much anymore. I like to visit, but it’s not where I live.

Nearly a decade after my nascent days and at the beginning of my waning days was the inception of an event called the Edward Gorey Ball. It was an homage to the brilliant man who was one of many artists (like Poe and Bowie) to show us a grown-up version of what we could be – dark, artistic, eccentric and lovely, appreciated by those not entrenched in the aesthetic but still intrigued by it. The early days of the ball were housed in a favorite dive bar, the Cat Club. The Cat Club features a front room with a long bar and a small dance floor, a tiny hallway, and a back room with a smaller bar and a larger dance floor, a strange, pervasive smell and bathrooms that’ll make you want to curtail your liquid intake. I did, in fact, work security at the Cat Club for a brief period of time. It’s where I learned I wasn’t willing to take a punch for money. The Edward Gorey Ball was a once-a-year event. A place for the swirlier of the dark side to assemble, we wore our most victorian garb (a lot of velvet, a lot of Funhouse and Shrine, the occasional hard-earned Dark Garden) and watched the visual spectacle while enjoying the lovely strains of Rosin Coven, the group producing the event and simultaneously showing the world what it could eventually become.

I greatly enjoyed my time there. But, as sometimes happens (if we’re lucky), it got crowded. And every bone in my socially-anxious body railed against being crammed into a dive bar and not having the room to dance, to step back and watch, to enjoy without someone slamming into me and spilling their drink down my carefully crafted outfit. At the same time, I had begun focusing more heavily on my singing career and was not going to events where I was not Creating Something. So I didn’t attend as the event grew in number and scope, as it moved to the Great American Music Hall. I didn’t witness the evolution.

Focusing on one’s art can yield some pretty incredible things. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you’ll be asked to participate in things that you would attend anyway. And so it happened that, as the Edward Gorey Ball changed names to the Edwardian Ball (something about Gorey (RIP) not being dead long enough to allow free use of his name) and added live performances, as I cultivated my own particular brand of opera and the Dark Side, classical music combined with the harder edge of the 21st century, opera over a beat performed while climbing a rope and doing things on a trapeze, I was asked to sing at the Ball. And, as sometimes happens when one focuses on one’s art, one doesn’t have time to perform all of the places one wants to perform. So, for several years, I was invited to participate in the Ball. For several years, I was honored, and overwhelmed, and humbled, and heartbroken to have to say no, as I was already committed elsewhere. We should all have such problems when it comes to sharing our art.

I watched as my friends prepared, talked about their costumes and plans. I watched as other friends prepared performances, interactive gegaws. I eagerly searched images online immediately following the event, boggling as it eventually moved to the Regency Center, a stunning setting that even the most ambitious of event producers would be hard-pressed to fill.

2012 occurred, and it was a brutal, rough, unforgiving year. But it was also a year that brought to the fore dreams and passions, and the incredible brevity of the time in which we have to act on them. And, before the end of the year, before I said yes to another gig, I contacted a friend and co-producer of the event, and I said… WILL YOU STILL HAVE ME?? And, to my utter joy, he said yes.

And so it happened that, on Saturday evening, I returned to the Edwardian Ball for the first time since it was at the Cat Club. I returned to create which, if you haven’t tried it, you should – it’s the ultimate way to participate in anything, let alone to return to something you’ve always admired and loved. I returned to see where my fellow ElderGoths of all stripes had ended up. What I found was amazing.

ElderGoths were but a small faction. Everyone creating, or supporting the creativity of others. Everyone making, unique, strong, amazing; the best version of themselves. Not the ugly shock-value of Marilyn Manson goth. Not the harsh white-face-black-lipstick of Goth 101. No, this is something different. This is a grown-up, lovely, thoughtful aesthetic. It’s creative, intelligent, stunning visuals and music. It’s a wonderland of spectacle, of color, of dream and reality, of real job and art, of classical and modern, of dance and music and craft and design and performance and gadgetry. In the audience and among the performers were friends from High School, the SF Conservatory of Music, SF Renaissance Voices, Lyric Theatre, Velocity Circus, Adobe (my DayJob), Burning Man – Thunderdome, Administration, DPW, Rock Opera, Temple Crew, ALL of my Burning Man worlds, ancient Death Guilders… everyone. HERE was the culmination. HERE was where my brilliant, eccentric, talented weirdo cohorts were convening. HERE was their New Year’s, their Christmas, their Easter. There was no faction missing, except maybe “motorcycling” but, to be fair, that spans all those categories. Here, swirling, dancing, celebrating, CREATING, they all were, all 100% of me, filling and SELLING OUT this gorgeous entire building in the heart of the city by the bay. Here was an event to which I could point anyone who ever said “What ARE you?” and say “I am this. This doesn’t define me, but this is a culmination of the efforts of people like me.” And, finally, on Saturday… I could truly be counted among them.

Saturday evening meant that I had done things right. Not just practicing and honing my craft, but following my heart and my passion. My singing, my tech nerdery, my aesthetic, my art, my creativity, my passion, creating a blend of classical and modern that was palatable for people of almost all stripes… here was a living, breathing, celebrating representation of what I had dreamed the world could be when I was a young aspiring opera singer being dragged to my first goth club at the age of 17 by my best friend (Through the Looking Glass at Thunder Bay, for those keeping track at home).

Thank you, Justin, and Mike, and the vast numbers of people who have kept this alive and breathing and thriving and moving through time and space. Thank you from, literally, every aspect of my being.

I’ll make it to the next one

Or, “Don’t Call it a Hobby”.

This post is long overdue.
No, it’s not directed at you. It’s a general, long-brewing feeling. It has been exacerbated recently by people being very. very. very. excited about my upcoming wedding. This is awesome. I’m excited, too. When people are more excited about that than they are about a performance, it’s confusing and, well…hurtful. Sit back, have a drink. It’s gonna be a long one.

First of all, the people who attend my shows humble me. Their effort acknowledges the culmination of 30 years of work, and they make me cry with their support. It means… the world. My world. It means everything. This is not about them.

It happens Every. Fucking. Time.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make it to your show. I’ll try to make it to the next one.” What follows are a litany of excuses that are the reason I’m not a manager for money. I don’t care. I don’t care why you didn’t go, and your need to awkwardly defend your choice of time and money is degrading to both of us. It is not a priority for you, and I understand that. And that is fine, for fuck’s sake, it’s beyond fine. We have lives, we have priorities, and we cannot all be best friends. Who has the time? So this isn’t about not going to shows. It’s only partially about the gross excuses with which we all feel the need to placate each other. It is a lot about a few other things.

If you know me, you’ve heard this first part of this before, and it bears repeating – I have been doing this, as of September 2013, for 30 years. 30 years I have been performing. Rehearsing. Dedicating time and effort at a rate of, oh, let’s say 100 hours of rehearsal/practice per 1 hour of performance time, for … well, longer than most people have been doing most things. Longer than most people my age have been masturbating. Think about it. At that age, to go to school, then go to rehearsal while other kids were doing homework, then come home and do my homework while other kids were watching TV. And to practice at home on non-rehearsal days after school. Every day. And weekends of music theory and rehearsal and performances. Since I was *7*. Yes, it’s dedication. Yes, it’s an insane amount of time and, yes, it’s a practice the culmination of which can be observed. For, theoretically, entertainment. You hate opera? Fine. I’m not the biggest fan of kids (except my nephew. he doesn’t count. he’s cuter than all other kids. and smarter.). Hear me out, I’m going somewhere with this.

If we are lucky, we have dear people in our lives. We enjoy them, what they have to say, their insights, conversations with them. We become friends. We support each other’s endeavors – we go to their birthday parties. We go to their weddings. Their baby showers. Their bridal showers. Their Landmark Shit. Hopefully, they celebrate ours. If we are fortunate enough to have artistic and creative friends, we support them. We buy their wares. We purchase their services. We promote them. We attend their events. This is what friends do.

Now. Sometimes. Occasionally. Ok, often, there are people who fall into the category of traditionally accepted milestone celebrations (birthday/wedding/baby/showers/yaddayadda) who do not participate in the latter, creative milestones (making art. opening a store. starting a clothing line. whatever.). We are provided opportunities to support their life choices. This is fine. This is great. Good for them. Where this falls off is when we celebrate them, and their choices, and then… well, and then they don’t support ours.

Here’s where the outcry of time and money comes out. And where I say… bitch, please. We all have 24 hours in a day. Most of us work 8 of them and, in the Bay Area, commute for two more. This leaves 14 hours for most people, minus the 6-8 we sleep, to prioritize. Weekends? Weekends, parents Parent, creators Create, homeowners Homo… wait. You get my point. We have the same amount of time in the world, and how we fill it shows the world, and those closest to us, our priorities. So, if I attend your performance/talk with you on the phone/send you a card/go to your kids’ birthday/go to your birthday/attend your talk/send you a text/[even]post a funnny to your facebook wall because it made me think of you/help you to promote what *you* create, these are my ways of prioritizing you. They take time. Additionally, if I need to purchase a gift or service I’ll try to purchase it from one of my creator and/or business owner friends. Because I want to support them more than I want to support some stranger. Because I want to see us all be successful.

2013. In addition to the shedding of unhealthy habits and relationships, one of the themes is reciprocity. In work, in love, in relationships, in friendships… in everything.

Some unpleasant truths come up when we look for reciprocity. When we are not mercenary, necessarily, but we look at what we give, in time and in energy, and what is returned. And, folks, the numbers, they aren’t adding up.

All you had to do to get to be a year older was not die. And, you know, given the odds of 2012… thanks for that.

For your kid to get to be another year older, all you had to do was not kill your kid. Good on you.

For me to get on the stage with a leading role in an opera takes… well, more work and more years and more dedication and tenacity than most people who haven’t done it can conceive. In addition to those years of work, years, dedication and tenacity, it takes approval from other people over whose judgment we have no control, and constant, inexplicable rejection by them. And, after each rejection, we do the impossible – we get up and ask for more. And they wonder why artists are nutty and hyper-sensitive. Point being – I had a show running for 4 weeks last year. The previous one of this magnitude was in 2005. I have no guarantees of another, and any noises people make about their certainty of my having another major role (closer to their home, for their convenience) show an utter ignorance of this field. “I’ll come to the next one” is hollow and downright infuriating. I perform all the time. One a year, one every 18 months, the Big Ones? Not asking too much from people who call themselves friends.

Additionally, a performance is entertaining. Music is FUCKING AMAZING, and opera, holy shitballs, this shit is difficult and incredible. What it takes emotionally and physically is like a trapeze workout, jogging, and an all-night fight with your lover that ends in incredible sex, all at once – trust me, I know; I’ve done the legwork. And the armwork. And the… yeah.

What we do for FREE when there are more people onstage than in the audience is the last trembling leaf of fall – bittersweet and brilliant.

Is it worth the cost of two drinks? 1 fancy drink + tip in San Francisco? 3 packs of cigarettes (I’ve no idea; I haven’t bought cigarettes for a boyfriend since I can remember.)?

The outliers are people like my friend Suzanne, who has a toddler, an infant, is pursuing her own operatic, teaching and directing career, and makes it to a significant number of my performances. Oh, did I mention she drives up from Gilroy? In return, I come to as many of hers as possible. We make it a priority.

For someone to live in the same area and not have *specific plans* or illness the evening of a major performance, then call themselves my friend and miss said performance in the same breath…well. You and I have different definitions of friendship…friend.

I would much, much rather a person celebrate with me my specific, directed, hard-won life choices than celebrate a milestone that simply means I’m above ground. If it’s not a priority, that’s fine, but please, don’t invite me to your birthday party. Thanks for not dying. I’ll try to make it to the next one.

Clean

To come out clean on the other side, one must first be put through the wringer.

This will not be the year that starts with keeping vigil for two days, sleeping in my father-in-law’s bed while he lies dead in the next room.

This will not be the year Donovan falls out a window and, after 4 agonizing days, is declared dead.

This will be the year entered knowing with me knowing my worth as an artist, a friend, a contributor to any organization or group. Knowing that my desire to perform, to travel, and to write cannot be contained but, with luck, can be harnessed. The fledgling knowing of these things that can’t be unknown, but will only bloom from here.

Who knows what this year will bring. I am hopeful, but I am tired.

Fuck you, 2012. If the door hits you, suck it the fuck up.

2013, you get us angry and spent, but you also get us honest and whole. It came at too steep a price, but it is better than the alternative.

Please be safe, and go with love through all that you do in this bright new year.

Best Intention

We go into things with the best intentions.

As we get older, and become more damaged, our best intentions sometimes skew. We have to go beyond the logic of a child to explain our behavior; this should be a sign that we are failing. 

This year, the solstice comes with an end-of-the-world faux scare, an ironic cap to the end of a year that was the end of the world for several people I love dearly, and with a body count too high to count on fingers and toes for the loved ones of loved ones.

A year ago today we arrived in Vancouver, celebrating my soon-to-be-sister-in-law’s birthday. The next day, Luke went to visit his dad and realized that the situation was dire. From there, the year has been fraught with death, unexpected death, work stress of a type in which I promised myself I would never find myself again, friends’ divorces and splits (SO MANY), and more other perspective-making bullshittery than I have had since… well, since 1998′s Big One. 

That’s not to say this year hasn’t had high points. We got engaged. I can’t believe it, and it still feels like the idea is breaking in (engagement is annoying, cloying, temporary – I think I prefer the solidity of “boyfriend” or “husband”, but this verbalized temporary state doesn’t sit well and sounds pretentious). My Wedding Team is fantastic, however, and I am excited for the party and to be married. I had a movie debut of which I am … well, quite proud. Though it happened two years ago, I got to work with one of the greatest directors of all time, as *myself*. And people can see it. And that’s crazy. We went to Alaska with wonderful people and saw amazing things. My nephew is my dear, sweet love. There are beautiful things in the world, and I get to experience so many of them. My role in Ballo is a high I am still riding, has set the bar for performances, has changed my entire perspective of myself as a singer. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.

Last night I cast out in ritual. What I drew in is what I have been working for; life doesn’t change. Terrible things continue to happen. How we handle them is the stuff of life, is what makes us who we are. We don’t get to wait for things to settle down before we can stop being stressed out, before we can stop being addicts, before we can stop being assholes and snapping at people, before we can stop and pet the cat before we leave for work, before we clean the house, before … anything. It is now. It doesn’t get easier. While I resent people who view my life as “easy” because I don’t bitch about it on facebook (yes, there are people who think that the facebook story is an accurate reflection), I also must cast out judgment – whatever comfort people may feel in thinking my life is anything other than the product of backbreaking work and a lack of sleep is theirs for the taking. Thinking it’s luck means they free themselves from the hard work it takes to get here… and that’s ok. Because defending myself to people is on the cut list, too.

I draw in what is loving and beautiful. I wish for a better year, but I draw in the strength and calm to handle any year. And I hope to share it with you.

An ounce of prevention

We Americans are so predictable.

A disturbed person uses a gun to commit a horrendous act, and we talk about guns before we talk about mental health, before we talk about what this person is experiencing and what could have been done to prevent it. It is so much easier to look at the weapon of choice rather than the systemic failure that causes someone to think this the logical course of action. I’d rather talk about the gun, too, but it’s gotten us nowhere since Columbine, so let’s talk about what his life was like. Where his community was. Whether he was exercising. I want a study on the amount of exercise someone is getting and the amount of processed food someone has eaten before they do a mass killing. The amount of community and human interaction these people tend to get.

Like looking for a cure for diabetes without modifying diet before we’re sick, we are so sick, mentally, physically, emotionally, community-wise, that we can’t look at the system; it is too big an issue. So let’s look at the particular method chosen. Because, sure, that’s to blame. These are arguments levied by people who never studied supply and demand. What makes someone want a gun for killing? Isn’t that the bigger question? What makes a person want heroin? Good thing about that war on drugs, though. It’s totally working. Last I heard, no one could find heroin anymore.

We have educated about safe sex, and provided condoms, and the teen pregnancy rate has gone down. If we take the same approach with white men under the age of 25, and we know and recognize that they have huge hormonal shifts and feelings of isolation that may cause them to commit an atrocity, maybe we can do something to channel that, instead of acting shocked when something like this happens. There’s a reason that, for thousands of years, men of a certain age served in the military, whether or not their country was at war. The first step is admitting we have a problem.

Leslie asked me today if I thought our mental fabric was tearing as a society. I said yes, of course, it has been, it continues to tear, and we are so removed from each other, despite our technology that allegedly helps us otherwise (it doesn’t), that it may be too late. We are witnessing the symptoms of a society so sick that, if it can afford to, moves away from violent crime neighborhoods and pretends it’s not happening. That sees horrible treatment of other human beings around the world and soothes itself by saying “at least it’s not happening here”. The ultimate symptom of a society that doesn’t care what is happening to other human beings until it impacts them. This is what happens when we behave as though atrocities committed against humans in other countries, in another state, two miles away in a poor neighborhood, have nothing to do with us.

I have no words of hope. I told her that this is a big part of why I don’t have children. I find this world nearly impossible to bear, and singing is the only thing that makes me feel like less of a complete waste of flesh.

Hold your loved ones close.