heatherbeck

Long Weekend?

The disclaimer came from an Instagram that I posted literally a minute ago. I’m glad this picture has a place to live. I think it’s mysterious, and fun, and in the same tone as the stuff I usually post. If you’re reading this right now, I hope that means that you enjoy this kind of stuff, and that it makes it fun.

If I had to do all over again, I would’ve been born in… 1960. How about you? I just feel that I would’ve done really well in the days when newspapers still existed, and messages didn’t merit an instant response because the cost was prohibitive.

But, this is 2020, for better or for worse. I do hope that, instead of reading this, you’re hanging out at a barbeque, if your part of the country/preferences permit it. I miss barbeques. I hope that you have a really good burger, cooked by a man in denim shorts and white tube socks, and enough beers to take the edge off. It’s been an odd summer.

Let us never speak of it again.

Actually… I would literally kill a man for a New Orleans streetcart hotdog. With chili. And cheese. The artificial runny kind. Onions.

Ah, the little things.

Redrum

I don’t know why, but I’ve watched “The Shining” like, literally five times during This Modern Age. It’s always been one of my favorite movies, but it wasn’t until viewing number four or so that I realized that it’s actually a really good quarantine movie. I don’t think I’m being haunted by any sort of supernatural representations of my own demons and regrets. It just kind of fills a hole. And we all need a Lloyd in our lives. (“I’ve got two 20s and two 10s. Thought they were going to be in my wallet till May!”)

On brain droppings slightly related to Stanley Kubrick… I read an article, I’m not sure where… Some professional writer who does essays for the big boys. He was working on some large-scale project, and said that for about a year, he watched the movie “Eyes Wide Shut” every day. For a year. It wasn’t intentional. He wasn’t trying to set any record or anything.

I can kind of get behind such an idea. For him, visiting the same movie, even if it was just playing in the background, every day, centered him. It brought some stability. Almost like an old friend, but committed to celluloid. Something anchored when his brain was all over the place.

I’ve been trying to experiment with that idea. I wonder if there is a movie that I could just “have on” in the background every day for a year. Something that I eventually wouldn’t have to pay attention to. It’s just there, like talking wallpaper. But also like a kind of beacon.

Anyway, none of that has anything to do with this picture, which is just something old that for some reason, I never posted. It’s fun, so it might as well have a home.

Silly me, sometimes my brain gets so kerfuffled, that I put the bra on the outside. No wonder I get some weird(er) looks.

Auguries.

Oh, anachronimity. You know, I have a storage room deep in the American south. I still pay rent on it. And with each month it goes by, and with each rent check that I pay, I forget, more and more, what the fuck is actually in there. I suppose it’s all of my material possessions. But... if somebody were to show up here right now, hand me a pencil and a piece of paper, and say “You have 10 minutes. Write down what you want, and it will be teleported here immediately. But only the things that you remember, and the things that you write down...” The list would be very short.

Nostalgia, as Mad Men would have us believe, comes from the Greek, meaning “the pain of an old wound.” There hasn’t been enough time that has passed between me and my things for me to feel nostalgic about them… But there is nostalgia, nonetheless. The longer you’re away from somewhere, the more you ache for it. I think part of the pain comes from the fact that you, also, forget about it.

And, it’s because home, when it exists as an idea, is an ever-shifting thing. We think of home as four walls and a roof. Immovable, solid, permanent. But when it’s less tactile, when the brain has already cut the electricity for the season, and put tarps of plastic over the big pieces of furniture so they don’t gather dust... home exists as an idea.

It’s not that you forget about what home was. It’s just that, while you were gone, home changed.

I guess, in some form or another, most of us, if we are lucky, all have these auguries of innocence. We all fancy ourselves as being kids in a movie from the 1980s, who rode around their inconsequential town on bicycles, unearthing and solving conspiracies that threatened the very nature of the world itself. Something delightfully Spielberg-ian about the whole thing. But that was idealism. Nothing wrong with that.

But, it wasn’t that way. That’s what was shown to us, but it was never quite that dramatic. And besides, when we all stopped being 13, life moved on. We all went our separate ways, like all the characters in the second half of the “It” movies.

If you stay away from “home“ for too long, I guess you have to come to one of two conclusions: that home is something that used to exist, and that you can spend the rest of your life searching for; or that home is… Where you make it? Where the heart is? Where you keep your Le Creuset?

I’ll be honest with you, you guys. I’ve been fairly transient my entire life. Not quite to military brat levels, but I’ve moved around a bit. And recently, with the way things have been going, I don’t know if I know where home is anymore. I’ve got a 5 x 5 storage room in Atlanta. In it, I’ve got some winter clothes that I desperately wish I had right about now. A really cool coffee table/trunk. Books, books, books, books, books. Some wallhangings. And I know, a lot more… But I just can’t remember.

A couple of old school cameras I used to mess around with… One of which is a ‘70s-era 8mm film camera that made the exact same sound this video makes.

How weird, that a noise like that, when heard by a girl who grew up in the age of those big bulky over-the-shoulder electronin camcorders, can still inspire an idea of nostalgia.

Or, maybe that’s just what I was told nostalgia sounds like?

Cheeers to the Freakin’ Weekend.

What are weekends, again? I can’t remember. This bra just got a starring (or should I say… Supporting?) role on the Instagram, so I thought I would show it chilling out with a cold Spanish brew. Say what you will, but she works hard, and deserves a little downtime.

I think I might be going crazy. I just anthropomorphized a brassiere. Oh well.

Everybody put your glasses up and I drink to thaaaaaat.

(Yeah yeah yeah.)

Low-Hanging House Bra?

So, one of you lovely lovelies just left a pretty cool question in the comments: “What is a low-hanging house bra?”

This, my dears, is a low hanging house bra. Every woman who doesn’t pass the pencil test has one. Go ahead, ask around. Basically, it’s the outrageously comfy sweatshirt of the bra world. The one that has frayed cuffs, a cigarette burn on the sleeve, some coffee stains from three years ago... The kind of sweatshirt that you realize, only after pulling into the parking lot of Trader Joe’s on a quick grocery run, that you probably should’ve changed out of before stepping out the front door. The kind of sweater that makes you look borderline homeless. But if you ever lost it at the laundromat? There would be a sweater shaped hole in your heart. We all have one article of clothing like that. This is the bra equivalent.

I would never be seen out of the house in this bra. My right boob always bulges over the top of the cup, in a rising dough sort of way. Repeated washings (and I hardly ever wash my bras… I don’t think anybody does…) have caused these little pills to form, so if I wear a thin T-shirt, my boobs look all craggy and speckled. The first row of loops on the band have all come a little loose, but it’s super stretchy, so I’ve just moved to the second row of loops. The spot where the strap meets the cup has started to split and separate a little bit, so it’s probably not too long until I pull out the sewing kit again. In short, it’s a mess. And I fear, unfortunately, that it may not be long for this world. Yet, there are times when I just kind of live in this thing. Other bras are prettier, other bras serve specific functions, other bras hoist, or separate, or compress, or flatter. This one simply exists.

And, like the most reliable, most often used pieces of clothing, it didn’t start out that way. I got it off of Amazon, years ago, for about… 35 bucks? Dirt cheap in giant bra world. It’s made by a brand called Goddess. Some mass produced Made in China type of thing. I yanked the underwires out a long time ago. And the size is totally not my size. I’m a 40R, but I sister sized a couple of degrees of separation to the largest cup the had, so this one is a 44N. So, hence the name, it does hang kind of low.

But, for a day indoors? When you’re just doing a little bit of housework, some dishes, and general stuff? It keeps the jiggling to a minimum, keeps the girls reigned in and well-behaved, and takes a tiny bit of the load off. Sometimes, that’s all you need.

So, yup. That’s the Low-Hanging House Bra.

Fitting In.

I don’t think I’ve ever actually gotten “stuck.” I think that kind of scenario is something that mainly finds its home inside of breast expansion stories.

Don’t get me wrong, there have been some tight squeezes. Phone booths are rare, but they do still exist; it’s actually been a long time since I’ve been in an elevator, but if there are a lot of people in the lift, you can imagine an elbow or two intentionally or unintentionally digging in; one time, I was touring some ancient castle here in Spain. That was a little interesting… It was a small tour group, and at one point, we all had to squeeze through this narrow hallway that was more secret passage from Clue than anything. Everybody did pretty well, except for me and this very large German man. I think he was a little embarrassed too, about barely being able to squeeze down the narrow corridor. We didn’t speak each other‘s languages, but we did look at each other after we squished our bodies through, and shared one of those eye chuckles. I think each of us would have been quite a bit more embarrassed had the other person not been on that tour for some unintentional but much appreciated moral support. But getting actually stuck? It’s never happened. (Yet.)

A good friend of mine owns a camper. He took it out recently, and remarked that it’s a little oddly shaped. There’s a long hallway that goes down the center of the camper, all the way to the bedroom at the back, and the hallway tends to narrow as you get closer to the end. He wondered to me if I would be able to squeeze through without touching walls, so we did a little experiment.

He sent me the picture with the paper towel roll and the Snapple bottle. So, I decided to dig out a tape measure and did a horizontal version of those height charts your parents used to do on the door frame in the living room.

I didn’t know this before, and I apologize for the metric system, but in translation, I’m about 17 inches deep, and a little over 18 inches wide. According to the picture, it looks like his tape measure clocks out at about… 16 inches? 😬

So, it’s not difficult math to do, I suppose. The really funny thing? My measurements were taken in my sturdy-but-reliable, relaxed-fitting, low-hanging house bra. If I would’ve dared pull out one of my heavy-duty, hoist-them-up underwires for my measurement? I think we might be looking at another inch or two of depth.

Some people talk about not being able to fit in… Yeesh. I’m sure there’s a metaphor in there somewhere about the necessity of pushing yourself a little.

Yee-Haw.

My apologies, everybody. I thought I could finally overcome the buttons on this shirt, but they are apparently stitched in with some sort of fiber that is stronger than adamantium. How dare it not submit to the threat of Natalia and Olga!

Anyway, part two of that video from before. Thought y’all might be intrigued. 🤪 Bonus points to anyone who knows the song. 🎸

Notes of Geisel?

Where in the hell has this blasted year gone?

Has the whole damned thing been for naught?

Yesterday was March, and soon it’s November,

With gunpowder, treason, and plot.

But nothing changes, out here, very much.

The cows, they room, and they poop.

The grass, it was green, not too long ago.

And something else that rhymes with poop.

I’ve recovered from Covid; it wasn’t much fun.

I spent lots of days in the bed.

I didn’t get fever, or coughing, or seizures.

Just a lot of haze in my head.

You wonder a little, when you stare at the wall;

If delirium finally kicks in,

The thoughts that roll ‘round, inside of your head,

“Is that a unicorn, or a d’jinn?”

Or neither of those, ‘cause your fever is breaking.

The one you did not have before.

This fucker, it got you, just like everyone else,

So hang a red drape on the door.

It wasn’t so horrid, you casually think.

Your circumstance didn’t bring you quite to the brink.

But for the rest of the folks, your heart solemnly sinks.

“Just wear your damn masks, you big bunch of dinks.”

So with only two days in the month left to go,

You ever-so-effortlessly, casually show,

Your dear lovely Patrons that you certainly know,

That their patience is valued, so, hey, here we go —

In the next 24 hours, I’m just gonna drop a bunch of random pictures and some vids. I hope you don’t mind if there’s no text, some text, or all the text. Or, if any of it makes any sense!

Also, and this is a promise, because if I put it here, I have to carry through with it… Chapters 8, 9, and 10, of Girl in the High Tower are already done. (9 is where the fuuun starts! 😜) But this transition chapter 7 has been giving me an absolute conniption. It shall be done tomorrow! So it has been ordained!

Seriously, thank you all for being patient, despite my lack of putting anything out there recently. To be completely honest, this whole last half of the month has been a crazy blur. Novel coronaviruses suck! But I have been going easy on myself, and I can certainly say that I am back to 100%. (99%? Best % any of us can hope for?)

Hey, how about you guys? I really hope it hasn’t bitten you too bad. You’re a small, utterly chill collective of interesting fucking chaps, all unified around a flighty girl with big boobies. That makes us a club, and as the proprietor of that club, I care about your well-being.

I know this has, for all of you, in your own unique ways, been... weird. So I won’t say, “Stay safe, ok?” Instead... it’s like that last line in “The Martian.”

Just keep doing one thing at a time, and if you do enough of them, you get to go home.

Busted.

Recently, I’ve taken up a little social experiment. Something fun, frivolous, and silly to while away the time, and provide a little joy.

Here’s how it goes. Basically, if one of my Patreon lovelies goes through the trouble of sending me an article of clothing, I will wear it, and I will take a picture. I have certain limits, of course. Used underwear is a little creepy, for instance. Used stuff goes straight to the washing machine, no offense, you’d do the same. But for the most part, anything within reason.

So, one of you dropped an old button-down in the mail, and it arrived. I knew right away there was going to be some trouble. It was a mens size large, I believe, which for non-stretchy fabrics, is basically an impossibility for me. But I’m a good sport, so what the heck.

The first few buttons were no problem. By the time I got about halfway down, all of the pulling and tugging and sucking-in in the world wouldn’t bring the button to the hole. And then... rrriiiiiipppp!

I made my way to the bathroom to check out my reflection in the mirror, each step causing an additional, much smaller rip-rip-rip-rip. Yep. It’s a goner.

I realized I should probably get the phone out straight away before this poor gingham shirt was completely torn to shreds. While it’s not necessarily the effect that was intended, I have a sneaking suspicion that y’all might actually prefer this one. Like Bob Ross said, “happy accidents.”

A Little Bit of Ragtime.

For no other reason than I was listening to some Scott Joplin, and decided it would pair up rather nicely. A small shred of completely stupid goofiness. Hope your weeks are off to good starts.

(Mini) Memoir Update, July 21

Hi guys! So, before I forget, one small update, just so you’re in the loop.

Originally, I said that the book is going to be printed by Blurb, using their “imagewrap” technology. This is one of those books where it’s a hard cover, but the cover is the image. I’m sure you’ve seen this type of book before.

I’ve done a little thinking about this, and there’s one little drawback… I’ve been speaking with the cover designer, and while I was providing her some specifics, found out that the imagewrap has one pretty big flaw. You can decide on the image for the front and back cover, but the spine has to be boring, with only one color, in one of a small pallete of pre-chosen typefaces. Given how cool the cover is looking, I just think it would be such a bummer to sacrifice that “from a big publisher” feel. Seems like it would make it just a little cheap, you know?

Soo... instead, I’d like to step it up to the next level. Hardback, but with a traditional dust jacket. This lets the spine really stand out, plus, it gives yours truly the chance to write little blurbs for the inside flaps. And hell, it’s just more in keeping with the cool retro vibe this thing is taking on.

Plus, the cost per unit is only a couple of dollars more. I’m not gonna charge any extra for that. You are all being so generous as it is. 🙂

If anybody has any objections, let me know. As I mentioned, these books are being printed individually, so if your heart was set on the imagewrap, I can make that work for you. But I really think going this route is going to make the overall thing just so much cooler. 😁

(Re this post’s image: By the way, you like the title? 😜)

So, that’s just a sundry little thing. But speaking of retro vibes… enough of you have asked me about “Big Girls Don't Cry,” that memoir by Tina Small that I’ve already mentioned is a spiritual cousin of this book. I’ve never gotten my hands on a physical copy of that book (quite a collectors item, from what I understand!), but at some point, a transcript fell into my lap. The formatting is a little jacked (I think it’s literally a .txt file), but the text is there. So, if anybody is interested in giving it a read, shoot me a DM with your email address, and I’ll see if I can dig it up?

Salud, y’all!

Sweet Dreams.

My work schedule has been kind of jacked lately. For those out of the loop, I write content marketing copy. It can be a little soulless sometimes, but whenever possible, I try to write compelling copy for products and services people actually want and need.

In the past, I’ve had my fair share of bullshit products to push. Things like Apple Watch knock offs, ill-fated vacation destinations, goofy takes on ice cream that are just venues through which novelty can be used to con people out of $15, clothes... God, clothing people are the absolute worst of them. Don’t get me wrong. Everyone’s got to wear something. But if I ask you what makes people want to spend $350 on a blouse, and the best answer you can offer me is “because we’re telling them how much to pay for it,” then you clearly ended up missing the point completely at some time in your life.

These days, there’s a stasis. I’m good at selling houses using words, so qualified real estate people can get through the door and drive the point home. Folks need a place to live. Recently, I had the opportunity to work with an individual who imports traditional Latin American products into the States and waaaaay overcharges for them. What makes her different? She gives literally half the proceeds back to the women’s co-ops who manufacture them (not common in imports like this, where usually, the seller pays $5 to the manufacturer, the buyer pays $60, and the other $55 goes into a greedy pocket. In this case, everybody wins). Otherwise, I try to give back. I’m working with a program in the United States, sort of pro-bono stuff, where I provide free marketing copy to an organization that takes first generation college students and recruits them to be mentors for elementary school students. If you saw their website, you would understand that they need every bit of help they can get. Nice folks.

An occasional interview. The other day, I had a rare but dreaded zoom call with a company that, and I swear to God this is true: while I’m not a genius, I’m not a moron… I still have no idea exactly what it is they do. Apparently it was important to them that I do B2B writing, which I don’t; and that what I do right is marketed directly to more “cynical analytical” types, who typically respond poorly to emotional content because they “don’t like to be bullshitted.” Eegh. I’m glad I didn’t get the job. Venture-capital weirdos. I gave them six months.

Thing is, for the first time in a while, all of my clients are located within North America. And, I need to be on call for them. Keeping normal business hours is something that COVID-19 hasn’t quite changed yet.

So, what does that mean for me… It means that my clients are having their first cup of coffee when it’s already 2 in the afternoon here. So, I get to sleep at my usual wee hours of the morning, hopefully before the sun comes up, because I’ll just be buggered at that point. And then lately, accidentally, I’ll end up sleeping in.

Do you know that period of time when you are just waking up, and the dreams are most vivid? That’s usually 10 minutes, tops. For me, a lot of mornings have involved that period of time lasting a couple of hours, partially because I’ve gotten to the point where I intentionally want it to. I’ve been experimenting with lucid dreaming lately — that method of harnessing and taking control of your dream state, and weaving your own internal reality. I’m not fantastic at it yet, but I’m actually getting really good. Creative ideas that I never would’ve had while I’m awake, take form in the most abstract of ways. And instantly. It’s almost like watching a movie every morning before getting out of bed. I’ve even been getting better at dream journaling, too. It’s led to some pretty crazy revelations. Add notions that never would have otherwise been given a voice.

Dreams are a lot like elevator pitches… You only have 20 seconds to talk about them, no matter how fascinating they are, before the person listening just gets bored. So, I’m not going to tell you what any of these dreams are. Suffice it to say, in the days and weeks coming forward, I can assure you that you loyal lovelies will be the benefactors of that weird, organically brewed abstraction.

Do you ever wonder if the person who invents some device that allows you to record your dreams will be the world’s first trillionaire? Do you think that this technology will usher in some new age of human understanding, or do you think it will be something cheap, like the 2050s version of sharing pictures of your vacation on Instagram?

Whatever the case, I would still give anything to know exactly what it was the strippers, Kennedy and Stalin said to me while we were having brunch on the Great Wall of China.

(Bonus points if you appreciate how an Oxford comma would have changed the meaning of that sentence completely.)

Good Cats Eat Ants

I’m not sure if any of you saw this today, but I posted this picture on Instagram just a little while ago. Within about 30 minutes, it got taken down. Violation of the TOS, with that pang of discomfort that comes with not knowing if this will result in your account (finally, and somehow inevitably) getting blocked.

Funny thing… It didn’t violate any rules. An obvious lack of nipple. Absolutely nothing that would be considered to be explicit in any realm exceeding PG-13. But, enough naked boob, which I guess violated some unwritten rule. I saw a T-shirt a little while back, that one of my Instagram contemporaries donned in some picture: “Big boobs are not a crime” in block text. Yeah, well. God forbid we violate Zuckerberg’s definition of neo modern puritanism, where hacking the Democratic National Committee is “sticky,” but if you’ve got the ad dollars? Post away, comrade. And then? Some chick who’s way outside of the D-cup range and has the audacity? Hide your kids, hide your wife.

Basically, it was just a post about how I had recently commissioned a really talented artist (I can’t wait until the piece is done!) to do a faux album cover. Something that combines my love (and profound lack of skill) of the ukulele, but, at the suggestion of the artist, would come across in a metal aesthetic. I’ve never been the biggest fan of metal music, but I respect the genre. And considering how the ukulele is the least metal instrument in the history of musical instruments, well, how damned fun to play with the juxtaposition. I wanted tongue-in-cheek, and that’s what I got. I’m thinking it’ll make a hell of a T-shirt.

That’s the thing about metal music. Have you ever noticed, if you’ve ever had the opportunity to meet a metal musician, how, in real life, they are tremendously chill, kind, intelligent, and low-key? Shouting all night on the stage, but when you hang out with a beer, they are soft-spoken and reflective. It’s like they found some ostentatious, profoundly honest way to put all of the darkness into a microphone. I can’t help but think that, for some people, that’s where contentment comes from. In my own way, it has for me.

Have you ever met a person who is outrageously open about their sexuality, their experiences, their preferences, and their insecurities? Not to the point where they’re being crass and insecure (cynicism is most often a defense mechanism), but because they were asked, and they divulged in response. Why is it that these folks are never the people who are arrested for the most insidious of criminal acts? Nope. Instead, it’s that quiet neighbor, who always kept themselves, who never made any waves. Or, who, more often than not, was a paragon of decency in their community. I can’t help but think that offers a little bit of a commentary about hypocrisy. It reminds me of what Sydney Greenstreet said in one of those old Bogart noir flicks: “A man who is careful not to drink too much is a man who is not to be trusted when he does.” (Disclaimer: that quote is pretty dismissive about the nature of alcoholism. Not my intent. In this case, more of a parable about authenticity than booze.)

Marilyn Manson syndrome? The kind of dude your parents despise, but if you sat at a table with him for 30 minutes, you would be discussing Marcel Proust in no time. Primo son-in-law material right there, crazy makeup and contact lenses aside.

Below, the rough proof-of-concept, sketch-for-approval that inspired the above image, and that might better illustrate the silly, freewheeling idea cultivated between a couple of random denizens of Instagram who are frankly not too interested in the idea of censorship or inappropriateness. At the very least, I know I would wear the shirt (should night clubs ever open back up again before I’m simply too old for that shit).

As an aside, I’ve really been enjoying commissioning amazing artists I’ve stumbled across on Instagram. It began as a side project, where I was gathering some fun extras for this memoir I have in the works. But now, it’s become a bit of an addiction. “Here’s a broad notion, along with a few bucks in your pocket, and creative freedom. Let’s see what lovely version of irreverence we can create today.”

Part of my journey with the boobs (I just finished a memoir chapter about this very subject, as a matter of fact!), is that I’ve gotten to the point in my life where I’ve realized something that is, for me, pretty important: I am literally so done with allowing others to the arbiters of my own morality. I’m not going to be illicit, and I’m not gonna be unkind. I’m just going to stop living up to others expectations at my own expense. That’s my choice. I think that’s all of our choice. I think we all experience that in our own ways, from time to time.

How? I’m still figuring that out for myself. We all have our own modes of self-expression. In my experience so far, things generally tend to be better when we find out what those are.

Memoir Update - July 9

Hi, guys! It’s been a little while, so I just wanted to give y’all a bit of an update on this memoir.

First of all, the actual text itself is coming along really well. I’m gonna pick out a couple of excerpts that I’ll pull up here in the next week or so, but I’m sure, if you’re already signed up for this book, that you already like my writing style, have a pretty good idea of what to expect, and probably don’t want TOO many spoilers. Still, there is some text that falls into that “teaser“ category, so I’ll see if I can extract a couple of chunks that won’t give too much away. Otherwise, the story is fully outlined, and I have about half of the first draft done. My goal is been to hit anywhere from 1500 to 2000 words a day, and I’ve been doing a (decently, lol) good job at hitting those benchmarks. Currently, the goal is to have draft one completely finished before the end of July. Then, I’m going to put it on the shelf for a week, just to separate my brain from it (after a lifetime of being an editor, I can’t tell you how valuable of a trick that is). Then, I get to go back through and read it again with fresh eyes, and hone it as necessary. The last week of August will be unboxing some old InDesign skills (probably buffing off the rust with a couple of YouTube videos?) and putting it together. Fingers crossed, it’s still looking like I can hit the print button in the very beginning of September!

You also might be wondering about images. I do have quite a few fun ones locked away. 🙂 Let’s just say, if you enjoy my aesthetic, you will enjoy these. That being said, I was telling a friend of mine in Madrid about this project. She is a dynamite photographer, so she and I have been talking about her paying me a visit, or the other way around, and maybe doing something a bit more staged and professional. Things are a lot better here in Spain than they were a few months ago, but the country is still very much on the mend, and things like schedules and travel are still very uncertain. I hope we can make it happen!

As far as how you’re going to be receiving the book… I dove back in recently to see if there’s anyway I could get a hold of the copies myself, and then send them to you, directly from me. It just kind of seems fun that way, you know? So today, for the first time in a LONG time, I visited the post office. I brought along one of my own books, and asked them to tell me how much it would cost to mail this to, for example, the United States. The answer was surprising. It would be, like, 50 bucks — money that, honestly, will be much better spent elsewhere as it relates to this project. Not to mention the fact that, and I’m saying this from personal experience, the Spanish post is notoriously slow, and it’s totally not uncommon for packages to never arrive at all. I know the worlds been crazy lately, with coronavirus? But I kid you not. I sent a small parcel to a friend of mine back in the United States, and it literally took two months to get to her. Things like letters and postcards? They go through just fine. The parcels are a whole different ball of wax, are exposed to all sorts of customs bullshit when they leave the country, and I frankly don’t want you guys to have been so generous, only to have to wait until… November before the damn thing shows up.

So, it looks like we’ll be sticking with the original plan, where the book will be mailed to you, directly from the printer. In that case, you’ll have it in more like a week. (Plus, no waiting for the books to come to me, and then get re-shipped).

Which, is actually not a horrible setup. That brings me back to the package that I’m going to be sending to each of you. I need to change this information on the tier listing, but essentially, that thing has… Kind of grown like crazy. (hence that “money being better spent elsewhere“ comment from earlier.) 🤣

Recently, I revisited one of my favorite books. It’s a sort of mystery story called “S.” One of those stories-within-a-story type of things, but presented in a really cool way — as the reader, the whole book is designed to make you feel as if you found some obscure book on a library shelf, and are just the latest in a series of people trying to piece everything together. One of the funky highlights of the book is that it comes packed with all sorts of supplementary bits. Things like maps on cocktail napkins, newspaper clippings, old postcards… All of these clues that lend to the story. I love it when books do that. In our digital age, it’s kind of a treasure to have a book that literally could not be presented in a digital format. If you’re into things like that? Definitely check it out. You can find it on Amazon, but make sure to buy it brand new so all of those loose pieces are still there.

Which leads me back to that mailer. I thought… How can I try to kind of replicate that sort of feeling in this book? My book isn’t a mystery, so there’s no need for cryptic maps and decoder wheels. But, it is a story, and a personal one, so maybe these extras can have a bit of fun with reflecting different facets of my own personality.

Like a person who gets a tattoo, three months before they actually realize what that tattoo represents, I’ve been having a little fun. Over the past long while, I’ve developed some friendly relationships with an incredible variety of very talented upstart artists. Folks who might only have 1000 or so followers on Instagram (not that something as bullshit as how many followers you have being any indication of character, quality, or talent, because in so many ways, Instagram is pretty stupid), but naturally talented people who have a passion for what they do, and oodles of raw, natural insight.

The age of coronavirus has been really hard on everybody, and on independent creatives in particular. So, over the last couple of months, I’ve been steadily commissioning some of these artists for original Heather-centric works, and using some of your generous contributions, have been paying them fair market value (a win-win for everyone!). I don’t like to micromanage the creative processes of others, so I generally give them a basic idea, and let them run with it. So far, the results have been pretty fucking awesome.

I haven’t shared this artwork anywhere yet. Just in the form of a couple of tiny little teasers (One of them is the image for this post.). I can’t say they won’t end up online, for the world to see, at some point. But I want you guys to be the very first to see these things, in person, in your hands, so that’s kind of a fun, exclusive little perk for ya. 🙂

Here’s what you’re going to receive, in that mailer, all printed out (professionally, and on high-quality materials - no inkjet shit here) and ready to go, so far:

• A bookmark with a completely original design (what’s a book without a bookmark?);
• An approximately 5“ x 5“ diecut sticker;
• A completely originally illustrated and designed cover, both front AND back;
• Another sticker. When I design the book, I’m going to leave a space where the inscription would usually go. So with this sticker, I’m going to actually personalize it with a pen, sign it, and you can stick that inside the book. Is it as ideal as getting the book signed by the author at a Barnes & Noble? I guess not. But it is the next best thing, and a bit of a clever workaround? I think so.
• A postcard with a completely original illustration. No reason, really. I just like postcards.

And… A couple more things. No spoilers. But I currently have three ASTONISHING artists working on some ideas as we speak. I’m sure, that once I see these pieces in the flesh, I’ll find an “aha!” moment.

By the way, if there’s any sort of printed medium that you’d like to see something in, that I might not be thinking of, feel free to shoot me a direct message.

So, yeah! So far, it’s turning into a fun, hefty little package. There’s also gonna be a handwritten letter, and God willing, an original piece of art painted by yours truly (we will see if the image I have in my head of “self portrait“ can be adequately transferred to paper, given my somewhat limited visual art talents).

That’s all I can think of for now… In short, this whole process has been evolving very smoothly, and what’s even more fun, in a very organic way. It’s been pretty liberating, actually, a nice creative outlet during a time when it’s way too easy to become distracted by the shape of things.

I’ll continue to keep you in the loop, and thanks again. 🙂

Bay.

A few things. 

Ukulele is friend.

In one episode of The West Wing, President Bartlet tells one of his generals to teach his new daughter how to whistle, because her mother won't. This is true. I learned how to whistle from my grandad. We sucked on lemons together in the summer sun to get our mouths to pucker in just the right way. It was a fucking Norman Rockwell painting. I am not good at whistling, my grandad was (he wore suspenders and everything) but here you are. We can only carry memes so far.

This is a cover of San Francisco Bay Blues. (I think) originally recorded by a band called Mungo Jerry, but popularized by Clapton (the Unplugged album). This was the first song I learned on the ukulele, and I am still only mediocre at it. 

Any song, played well, will feature improvised riffs. This is not one of those songs. This was just me skipping ahead. But it sounded pure, and when I listened to it after, it didn't sound as horrid as I thought, so I stuck with it. Call it: my take!

Don't be afraid to bang that wood (har-har) while you're strumming. Professionals will say you're inexperienced; you can just tell them that they're just not hearing the notes that aren't being. Dude! It's wild, man! You un-hip cat!

Any song in the key of C can end with the Mario Bros. death song. At least in the key that I know how to play it. 

I am sorry.

On that note, I swear I feel like Israel Kamakawiwo'ole sometimes, since I kinda have to perch this instrument on top of me to play. But that's no excuse; that man was heaven. All I have to complain about is the boobies.

“Ya Lost Today, Kid. Doesn’t Mean You Have To Like It.”

That quote doesn’t really have anything to do with anything. It’s just from that first scene in “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.” That movie came out in 1989, when I was about five, and I can’t say that I saw it for the first time until a bit later. But, when I did, it was around that age where most of us start having sexual awakenings. I was an odd kid, and I’m not sure who did it for me: Harrison Ford, or Sean Connery (I never bought in to the teenybopper thing, so I couldn’t give hide nor hair about River Phoenix, rest in peace.)

But that movie taught a few fun lessons to a budding adolescent mind: A good story, told well, can change you; I wasn’t the only person who had a strained relationship with her father; Nazis suck; The ancient city of Petra looks like an absolutely gorgeous place (Hi, by the way — I promise I haven’t forgotten you!); the “No ticket” scene is arguably one of the funniest scenes ever committed to celluloid; and I have an irrational belief that random objects belong in a museum. Not too bad for a couple of hours.

So, yeah, what can I say. I’ve got a serious jones for Indiana Jones. I’m just a human being with two eyes attached to a heart, after all. (For the record, when I was still a little kid, I loved the Temple of Doom, but I really can’t stand it right now, because it’s a little corny. And, as far as I’m concerned, Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is a movie I would try to protect any children I might one day have from ever seeing, in the same way some families try to protect their children from the idea that pornography or heavy-metal music exists.)

As much as I love Last Crusade, one of my top-five favorite movies (and I usually shy away from the question of “what’s your favorite movie,” because it’s a mood thing, you know?) is Raiders of the lost Ark. I think Spielberg has commented that, in his own opinion, it’s the only truly perfect movie he’s ever made, at least insomuch as he wouldn’t go back and change anything. I have to agree. It is perfect. From that first opening scene in that Peruvian jungle, The basket turning scene — complete with that frenetic soundtrack, and the faceoff with the large, machete-wielding man-in-black, that was originally going to be a prolonged fight scene, but Harrison Ford had dysentery, so they just had him shoot the guy, which was HYSTERICAL — to the truck chase, to that odd moment in my young brain when I found the dark comedy of that guy getting his face melted off, to ALSO having an interestingly constructed crush on Karen “I’m your god-damn partner!” Allen (Marion)... certain movies just hit you.

I’m going to post this image above to Instagram sometime next week, because it was born from fun, and why the hell not. But, I wanted to give you a sneak preview first. It was the end result of a fun little challenge I had with a friend of mine, who is a really talented tattoo artist, of all things. I threw him a few bucks, because I value the time and talent of creative people, and think that now, more than ever, it’s important that we support and nurture the creative spirit whenever, and in whatever small ways, we can. so, I told him to take creative freedom, completely, with only the following sentence as inspiration:

“To hell if I know... last I heard, Heather was off in some Peruvian jungle, hunting down a golden fertility idol; I mean, who even uses bullwhips anymore?”

Anyway, this is what he came back with. And I have to say, I positively adore it. Tongue-in-cheek, on point, dramatic and a little epic, but just a whole shit load of fun.

Plus, there’s a strong element of humor in it. In the movie, Indy replaced the statue with a bag of sand. That didn’t work out for him very well. In this case, my right boob seems to be doing the job just fine… But I can kind of tell, from the blank expression in this figure’s eyes, that she hasn’t quite thought through this whole process.

“Yes, got it! Now... ummm... what next...”

Perhaps somebody could warn her…If only she spoke Hovitos!

Bring Out the Broom

The last months of spring had come and gone, and still, the leaves and dust had to come in from somewhere, and eventually, a sweep would be necessary, when she finally got around to it. 

A line of jars, on the back wall. A place her eyes fell every day, but didn't linger. Just the place to stash a cleverly concealed camera... 

The motion sensor must have clicked to life when she walked into the room, only moments before she decided that she wanted to feel a bit more comfortable and free as she conducted her routine chores...

(Yeah, some of my recent posts have been a little weighty, so I thought a double feature might be in order, to show that, yes, I still know how to have a little bit of fun for the sake of fun, and that not everything's a damned manifesto. ;-) )

Waiting to Exhale

At some point in the not-too-distant past, we all took one breath that stayed inside of us. Usually, with the way breathing works, it's a pretty balanced thing. You breathe in, and then, you breathe out. It's a tradeoff. But, for each of us, we took a breath that stayed inside and kept us filled up in that way where you can't relax your shoulders, and where, try as you might, you just can't seem to get enough air in your lungs. Something else is already taking that new air's place. 

I wonder what happens to air like that when it stays inside of you for too long. Does it get stale? If it's in there for a little while, is it like an attic you haven't gone into for a few years, and didn't know there was a moisture problem, and now, all of the books in that box make you sneeze, but they're sentimental books, so you try to clean them because you promised your mom you would take care of them, because she never liked her grandmother anyway, so she gave them to you, and now you're stuck with them, but would still feel bad if something happened to them, even though your great-grandmother, from all accounts, wasn't a very pleasant person? 

Or, if it stays in there for longer, is it like one of Carter's tombs in Egypt, and when you crack it open, all the air rushes out, and mold that's been hanging out in there gets inside of you, and you don't really have as good a knack on germ theory as you do on Egyptology (bloody colonialist), so you just say "Agghhh, Curse of the Pharaohs!!1!!!" and then everybody starts dying, and the end result is that Hollywood Won't Hire Brendan Frasier Anymore (And Here's Why!)?

Maybe it's something where you didn't have the vocabulary to realize the bullshit. Like, that cousin was still invited over to your house because redemption without penitence just makes things more comfortable because this family is a family, and doesn't talk about uncomfortable things, because we just want everything to be nice and normal, even though you totally know that guy is still a huuuuge pedophile; 

Maybe it was inherited, from members of your family who have been around the block way more times than you've been, and it's just something that's always been there. Maybe some asshole put your ancestor on a boat in Ghana 400 years ago, and now, in lieu of reparations (or even a fucking apology), your inheritance is getting a lump in the pit of your stomach because the red and blue strobe lights are informing you that you had the audacity to do 33 in a 35.

Maybe you were born with it, and up until a couple of weeks ago, could have gotten fired from your job at the muffler shop because your boss found out you hit up the gay bar after work. 

Maybe your dad was a cheating sonuvabitch who drank himself to death at 60, and even though you never got to know the guy (and never liked him much in the first place, because he totally fucked your mom over), you still feel as if he took the coward's way out, and robbed you of the one thing he could have ever given you, which is being alive enough to still be able to punch in the face. 

Oh! Or maybe it was something tiny! Maybe, a few weeks ago, you were looking forward to getting a Polaroid in the mail (they still make them, you know! They're fun!), and the place you ordered it from (and you like to support local business) took your money before telling you they were sold out at the moment, but they didn't refund you for a couple of weeks, but that was money you put aside to buy the damn thing, because you wanted to treat yourself, and it's not like you've got the bucks to just order a whole other camera from somewhere else, so now you're in this limbo of having to wait for the cash to get back into your account. And you know, logically, in the front of your head, that this isn't a big-deal thing, but goddam it if it just doesn't piss you off a little bit every day, because that's not how things are supposed to work, and then you get this second pang of adrenaline in your gut because it hits you that nothing has been working the way it's supposed to work, lately, and that the whole fucking thing has just been turned into a big ol' pile of shit. 

Maybe it's coming to the conclusion that if you were to poll assholes on Florida beaches (I was raised there, so I can say it), and you asked them how many of them have had someone they like die recently, the resulting chart would be a Venn Diagram that consisted of two separate circles. 

Maybe it's a Howard Beale kinda thing (Network, 1976, great flick if you haven't seen it, it's aged well), where you constantly vacillate between...

"We know things are bad – worse than bad. They’re crazy. It’s like everything everywhere is going crazy, so we don’t go out anymore. We sit in the house, and slowly the world we are living in is getting smaller, and all we say is: ‘Please, at least leave us alone in our living rooms. Let me have my toaster and my TV and my steel-belted radials and I won’t say anything. Just leave us alone."

...and...

"I’m a human being, god-dammit! My life has value! I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not gonna take this anymore!"

Yeah, that would probably dislodge the breath. 

Maybe, in the back of your mind, you want to keep that breath inside for as long as possible. Maybe life, and experience, have taught you that the moment you let it out, that's the moment when the other shoe is going to drop. And all of your pent up, paranoid, catastrophizing anxiety will (even if it wasn't what you expected it was going to be, because it never, ever is!) will have been all worth while, because at least you were right, when you said to yourself, 10,000 times, that something bad was gonna happen. 

Or, maybe you want to keep it inside, because there's some weird force in that breath that powers you, and moves you forward. Something bigger than oxygen, nitrogen, water vapor, argon, and carbon dioxide. Maybe, you think when you're lying awake at 4:00 a.m., that if you lost that breath, you'd lose your direction. Is the tenseness worth it? What would I give up if my shoulders could just relax for a second?

I've taken up meditating lately. I wasn't quite sure if it works. I like to think it does; it has a hell of a track record. But when it comes to sitting in a quite space and being alone with my own thoughts... Ehhh... They just kinda seem to re-circulate.

I read something a little while back that says that some of us literally have a "voice inside our heads:" an internal monologue that actually speaks to us, and narrates what's happening, in our own voice. "I am pouring coffee; now, I am sipping coffee." Things like that. And then, some of us don't. I don't. I was surprised when I started quizzing friends and some of them would tell me, "wait, you don't hear a voice? At all? What do you hear?" And I said... "Well... I guess it's nebulous gas clouds of thought that just kinda bump into each other to create new thoughts?" (I always envision them as multiple Farts of Rick and Morty fame.) And they're as befuddled as I am about them. 

In my case, I've found a way to make it more effective. At the risk of sounding incredibly douchy, I've found that Jazz fills the potholes in my brain when it comes to distracting myself just enough, but not being too methodic as to actually focus on the music. Longtime readers will know that Coltrane, Monk, Davis, and Parker have long been on my ancient iPod, but that's the damned thing about Jazz. If you hear the songs enough, you start to predict the notes that aren't gonna be played. And (I suppose) as any Jazz-person will tell you, that takes away part of the fun. 

Jazz is better when its live. It's an organic thing. Like life, and thoughts (the best and worst of them), and, well, like breathing. But in lieu of that, being far, far away from the nearest Jazz bar? I've found some solace in this dude. (Colbert fans already know him, but dig deeper on YouTube, and you'll be pleasantly surprised.) It's fun to hear a song you've loved your whole life, and laugh because you're so happy to hear it for the first time. 

I guess laughing is the best type of breathing. 

Memoir Update

Well, a tiny little one. I have plenty of goodies coming over the next week or so for you lovely folks who are helping me create this thing.

I’ve been a little quiet lately, for reasons that I sincerely appreciate you understanding. Interestingly enough, it’s actually been a somewhat beneficial time. Working through some family-related trauma has involved actually sitting down at the computer and hammering out what I refer to as “the two boring chapters.” That early-life stuff where I talk about the instances that arose to cause me to become the person who I am today. I call them boring, because they’re not really inherently boob related. But, what is a memoir if it does not include the origin story? Anyway. It’s been kind of cathartic during this time to work through that bit while still keeping some humor in tact.

In the very near future, I’m gonna give you some updates that I’m actually pretty excited about sharing. I don’t wanna give away too many surprises, but suffice it to say, it’s kind of fun to work on.

My next post for everybody to read, is going to be about how I’ve taken to finding, commissioning, and supporting some really talented artists. Social media can be such a damned burden, as we all know. But if you know where to look, you can find some really talented individuals from all across the world. I’ve actually connected with a few of these individuals, and have already been working with them to create some original material that will be available exclusively in the mailer you will be receiving along with your copy of the book.

I have one artist in The Czech Republic, who is making a really cool pinup-style bookmark. Another artist, based out of Argentina, she and I are in talks on the actual cover (!). She has such an incredible aesthetic for that American mid-century pulp fiction aesthetic? I think it could look really cool. And, as for the picture I posted here, this is by an artist based out of Brazil, who I commissioned to create a 6“ x 6“ sticker (this pic is low resolution, printed on paper; yours will be high resolution, and professionally printed on vinyl... and there will be two versions!). I’ve shown only a snippet of it above, because, as I said, surprises are fun.

I just wanted to circle around with you guys, and let you know that I am thoroughly aware it’s been a while since I touched in about this, and dammit, you deseeve an update. Again, your patience is legendary, and appreciated. But work is progressing, and I hope you’re looking forward to receiving updates as things are really getting into high gear.

(The outline is pretty much done, which is amazing. Oddly enough, outlining is the most time-consuming part for me. You like to make sure you don’t paint yourself into any corners, and that all the bases get covered. It’s a little like painting a wall... you spend more time putting down the tarp, and putting tape around all the seams, than you do actually painting! With that done, the actual WRITING should be pretty streamlined! [Oh, and dear God, are there some weird ass stories that I’ve never even come close to mentioning here…]).

More to come. 😉

Venus, Part 3

It occurred to me that y'all might be interested in seeing the finished products! If you'll recall, long story short, a friend of mine approached me with an idea. She'd been getting back into sculpting during this whole quarantine nonsense, and asked me if she could use my body as inspiration. To which I was like, heck yeah! Sounds like fun!

So, the finished pieces arrived, and I have to say, I'm positively thrilled. Not only was it very kind of her, but I've never been sculpted before, even in the abstract — her one caveat was that my body would be used for the main inspiration only, and that she would have whatever freedom she wanted to use her own instinct. I think that's the bee's knees. As a somewhat creative person myself, I appreciate it when folks "respect the vision;" when it comes to someone using their creativity, I tend to veer away from micromanaging as much as possible. 

"Creativity lies in the limitations," as someone once said. "Draw me a picture" doesn't give a person a lot to go on; "Draw a loaf of bread?" That's a limitation where creativity can thrive. "Draw me a photo-realistic, 20-slice loaf of Wonder Bread on a gingham picnic table cover?" At that point, you're asking someone to be a human Xerox machine, and that's no fun. It's somewhere in the middle. 

In this case, she had her "limitation." It's been a while since we'd seen each other in person (and even then, I was all bra'd up), so when she asked me to send along a few easy reference shots, I was happy to oblige:

So, she got to work; a little while back, I showed you the pre-fired iterations. She DID have one question for me: what about the color? I thought about it. "Balanced Stillness," the top one, I thought would look nice in a cool, refreshing blue. The bottom one, "Dancing Queen," I thought would benefit from a fiery, deep red. 

So imagine that feeling of "Oh, fuck..." that she felt when she wrote a VERY apologetic letter to me, saying that she had accidentally swapped the colors. Which I thought was so sweet... First of all, this was something she was doing for me as a kindness, so where should she even have to apologize for anything? Second, as Bob Ross once said, "there are no mistakes — only happy accidents." And third? I'm glad it turned out the way it did! There was a reason, I like to think, that she was inclined to switch the colors up. That same creative instinct I was talking about earlier.

And the fun part? I really love how they turned out, even more. There's a deeper layer of meaning in the switched-up colors, and if I had it to do again, I would keep them as-is.

So yay! I have some eccentric decoration for my bookshelf, long until I'm an old lady. :-) 

And actually... this whole process has inspired me a bit, too... But that'll be the topic of my next post, which will be a video of me sweeping the floor, accompanied by an essay about the importance of supporting visual artists. Hizzah?!

Creative Context

When I recorded this video, I intended to insert a bit of a narrative, something in tune with this little series that I’ve been working on, on and off. But then, when I listened to the audio afterwards, something hit me about the YouTube video that was (and I swear, no staging) on in the background, where Trevor Noah was giving an interview at an event sponsored by the British newspaper The Guardian. I’ve been working on my memoir, as some of you know, and this passage just kind of happened to resonate. Kismet.

And, yes. And this feels like a very refreshing thing to say as I’m coming out of a bit of a lull. But you’re the people I’m writing it for. The ones who have helped me on my way so far. And? I think we all feel a certain way about our own stories.

So, no narrative for this one. I’ll just let the words of this wise man speak for a better sense of context.

And also, boobs. Because, why the hell not. Hope you dig the grandma robe. It’s a little chilly tonight, and though it doesn’t button all the way, it keeps me warm, and it haaaaas pockeetttsss.

Effing Polytropos Buttons.

When Donald Trump got elected, I was talking to some old friends of mine in Mexico. We talked about walls, and bloviation, and how Mexicans had already adopted the slang term trompear (which basically means to punch somebody in the face) and converted it into Trumpear (which colloquially means to be punched in the face by the President-elect’s words and character. Cute, huh? Isn’t etymology great?).

Disclaimer: I know I said only yesterday that I promise never to get political here. But... what better time in our history? For what it’s worth, I believe that government’s role should be to make beer colder, roads safer, kids smarter, and old people more comfortable. And, elephant in the corner, I think Donald Trump is The Most Cataclysmic of Goobers. If you disagree with me, that’s fine. Personally, I like to hold onto the memory of a world in which we didn’t hate each other based on who we prefer as a political candidate. My friends and I actually threw a pretty epic election party in 2008. Everybody, gun-toting hicks and libtard cuck-flakes alike (they were just called people back then, for my younger viewers), hugged and cheered after it was called, because we knew that two good men had debated what their personal perception of what a better America could be, and The People decided who they agreed with more, and that the transition of power would be a peaceful one. It was nice. I miss that.

Anyway. One of my friends lives in Merida, in the Yucatán Peninsula, and historically is a bit more exempt from all of that nasty hyper-political shit goes on elsewhere in that fine nation. Did you know that Mexico is one of the most dangerous countries in the world to be a journalist in?

Anyway, with Trump’s election confirmed, the Mexican media got around to figuring out certain translations to better inform their own electorate. Turns out, “Make America Great Again” is really difficult to translate into Spanish. First, you have to define exactly what you mean by the word “make.” Does it mean to create? Construct? Craft? And what about the end of the sentence, with the “again?” So is it re-create?

You can probably see the rabbit hole. “Hacer que Estados Unidos vuelva a ser grandioso” doesn’t exactly fit on a baseball cap, and it also doesn’t get the point across. Literally translated, that’s “Cause the United States to return to being great.” (I know some of you are Spanish speakers, and you know how frustratingly contextual your beautiful language is, so you know what I’m talking about. 💃🏻)

I’m not sure that the country of Mexico ever settled on a specific way to cite that catchphrase. (and for that matter, I’m not sure where Spain landed on it. Or Argentina, or El Salvador.) But it was a HUGE conversation that was taking place in journalistic circles at the time: How the fuck do we tell our readers what this guy is trying to say?

(Don’t worry. American journalists are trying to figure that out too... but in a far, far more depressing way.)

Which gets me around to book number 5 million of quarantine. Jesus, but my poor Kindle has been taxed. How much so you ask? I’m reading The Odyssey. The Odyssey. You know. That book we all read in high school, but we didn’t actually read it, because we only read the CliffsNotes, because it’s fucking boring as shit.

But, sometime last year, I downloaded it. There was a bit of a ruckus about how it had been translated into English, for the first time, by a chick. And since it’s such a manly tale, I thought… Well that seems kind of fun. I had just gotten off the tail end of a translation of Don Quijote into English by a woman, and as much as I never really cared for the book before, it was fucking great. I'm not saying that women are somehow, supernaturally, more gifted at translating ancient manly stories into something more relatable for the masses... but there's a freshness, you know? 

Anyway, Emily Wilson was her name. First person with ovaries to translate The Odyssey into English. And the first line of the book, a pretty famous one, has traditionally gone (in Fitzgeralds 1961 version, a.k.a. the one none of us read in high school) "Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story / of that man skilled in all ways of blah blah blah..." This new version by Wilson, she starts with "Tell me about a complicated man." Huh. Changes the meaning.

See, she got hung up on this word, polytropos. The ancient world's "hacer." Poly, meaning many, tropos, meaning like a "turn." The olden-times' "again." So, a "many-turned" man. A confused one. a... complicated person. Something that (and I swear I'm not a feminazi), Fitzgerald ignored, and was just like, "Ah, a dude. Good @ making sourdough. Dudes B dudes, right?" 

I don't know why I'm going on about this, but I hope that's part of the reason you lovely folks still like me.

So, today, when I put on real clothes for the first time in weeks, I saw how the seam cut right through the center of my boob-ridge, and how those three weird buttons just sort of stick out from my left tit. I think back, to when I ordered this dress online. What was I thinking? How did I think this would work? 

"Sing to me, oh muse, of a complicated Heather, so skilled in blah blah blah."

Even with re-reading it, and even with the scant memories of CliffsNotes, that the only line I can paraphrase. 

(I just ended up throwing on a tee shirt. It's not quite like slaying the Cyclops, but you take what you can get.)

Why, hello there.

Yeah, it got me.

Not the virus itself (at least, not that I know of). But... everything. All that "weight of the world" bullshit that you think you're going to stiff-upper-lip your way through until a combination of things just one-two-three punches you out. 

First thing's first. I have not been terribly active on here in the last few weeks (duh). So, I do have some catching up to do! You guys know how I am — I'm certainly not above posting a fun picture or something, but it feels kind of empty if it's not accompanied by one of my trademark eccentric HeatherRants. And lately? The words haven't been there. They're back, now. The muse has returned to my shoulder, and over the last few days, I've been conducting a series of diagnostic tests on my state of mind. Most of the lights are blinking green, so that's got to be a good sign. I promise you'll be hearing a lot more of me before the first of the month rolls around. In the meantime, I mean this — thank you all for being patient, for checking in, for hanging in there.

I can't help but think that a lot of you have been going through some iteration of the same thing. Some combination of boredom, frustration, anguish, ennui, helplessness. I don't get political on here, and I usually only try to write stuff that's gonna be, at the very least, a little fun and uplifting. Still, I do take heart in the fact that you guys hang around because you might be interested in hearing about my life. That being said, I'll be brief in giving you the rundown of what my May has been all about. Slough it off, put it out there, cleanse my spirit, purify my soul, hit the reset button so we can get back to talks of shoes, ships, sealing wax, cabbages, and boobies.

• My grandfather died. Covid. Man, it knocked him out, and fast. I miss him. We weren't horribly close in the last decade or so, so there's a little regret in not touching in more over the years. The memories of him that I do have are fond ones. He passed away in the States; even if I could have gotten out of Spain, it's not like I would have been able to attend the funeral in a way that would have been meaningful. I know that some of you have encountered something similar — a loss that this madness didn't even allow you to properly grieve. I did get to say goodbye to him, and I love you, and I do take some solace in the fact that death is always the most difficult for those who are left behind, and is worst on our sensibilities than on those of the deceased. I never try to prescribe my beliefs to anyone, but whenever I encounter a loss like this, I find some comfort in a wonderful essay written by the great Roger Ebert. I dunno. If you need a good read, check it out. :-)

• There's been other weird family stuff too, but that's probably not of any interest. I've been around enough to know that there's nothing more boring than to hear someone complain about people you've never even met. Anyway, suffice it to say, I was right, and they were wrong. Boom. Mic drop. 

• There's the isolation, too. I'm kind of a homebody, but... it's weird, you know? It's like, if I just spend, say, a month without really going out, it doesn't get to me. But knowing that you can't go out? That's freaking tricky. Lockdown. It's better here, now. The part of the country that I'm in is in "Phase 1" of de-escalation, which means that terraces are open at cafes, more businesses are resuming normal hours, things like that. Spain, as most of you will know, got hit HARD during all of this, so they've been taking it seriously. It's a slow thing, bringing everything back to normal. But? I'm proud of this country. They've been through a lot, and you can almost feel it in the air... 60 million people beginning to feel a bit more comfortable breathing. That tenseness is dissipating, at least a little. I'm going to a cafe tomorrow. I'm taking an abundance of precaution, of course (Pro-Tip: I'm gonna bring my own wine glass!), but SHIT. It's gonna feel nice to write in my journal, at a table, outside, like a normal person. 

• I've been trying to get a little more exercise. During the peak of lockdown, you were literally not allowed to leave your home unless you were going to the grocery, taking out the trash, letting your doggo poop, things like that. If you weren't going out for anything essential? €1,000 fine. I have a few friends who got slapped with that one. Oof. But, it's better now. I've been doing more walking, and even a little rock climbing on some crazy boulders not too far away from my place. Oh! I have an idea! I'll take you guys on a tour this week! There are actually some really cool Roman ruins not too far away that I think you'll get a kick out of (like, legit ruins, with old buildings, a bridge, and everything. Fascinating stuff.)

• Speaking of exercise, a bit of a hitch that ended up blindsiding me in a weird way. When we were allowed to go outside for exercise, I felt like I was spinning like a top — just needed to get OUT and DO something. So... I don't know what I was thinking. I laced up my shoes, put on some leggings, sturdy bra, three tight T-shirts, stretched a little, and... went for a run. I made it about... 50 feet? (In case y'all didn't know by now, I'm a little busty). Like, every time my foot hit the road, all 20 pounds of boob just wanted to pull me down, so then I tried to do more even strides, but that just kind of created this weird rhythm where they were performing CPR on me, forcing air out of my lungs as they submitted to gravity and wailed into my ribs. I don't know what it was... It just GOT to me. This huge, irrational frustration that I can't go for a fucking jog. It actually really... discouraged? Is that the right word? Anyway, discouraged me for a couple of days. It's like, here's this thing that I really wanted to do, and I just couldn't. I mean, I KNEW, in my logical head, that me + jogging = not gonna happen. I've known that for years. It was just a messed up reminder at the wrong moment in my head. Anyway. I'm over it, and I'm better. I'm getting back into yoga. If y'all are good, maybe I'll show you my Downward Dog. (Did that come across as an innuendo? I hope so.) (Oh, that's my yoga outfit, above. Part of it, anyway. I knew I was gonna tie that picture in!)

And this one?

So, in short, just kind of a weird collection of things that weakened my defenses, all occurring at just the right time, in this weird existential dread-inducing way. But, I'm doing better now. I hope you're all doing alright, too. Hit me up with a direct message if you'd like? I'm trying to get better at responding to those. :-) 

There's more to tell, but most of it is actually on the fun side of things. (I sculpted a penis the other day! Literally, with clay! I've never really sculpted anything before, and I have to say, it looks like a dick! Things like that.) But I'll save that stuff for later, now that the words are back, so I have something to say alongside the goofy pictures of me, Natalia and Olga. 

Tadpoles

I'm not sure if you saw it, but it was above the fold today in the NYTimes: here in Spain, we were allowed to go out for a walk.

Doesn't that seem weird? I don't know where you are in the world, reading this, but here in Spain, they've been taking this Covid stuff seriously, as they should. When things got out of control, they locked IT DOWN. No leaving your house unless you are going to directly visit some emporium of essential goodness. A grocery store, a pharmacy, a tobacconist, and dry cleaners, for some reason, as if any suits need pressing in the age of social distancing. 

But, today. Exercise time. Last week, it was the kiddos under 13 who got some free-range. One hour a day. Today, Saturday, we adults were allowed the same liberties and got some time to leave our front doors behind.

What did I do with my hour? I have a feeling you'll see the path I took, the roads less traveled (so to speak!) in great detail in the days and weeks to come. I can't tell you how much I've missed walking around. 

I live in a VERY rural area, so during my trek, I encountered not a soul (except for a shitload of sheep in a pasture and one very old Great Dane). And on my walk, I was reminded of many things... Flowers blooming like madness; disused fields, surrounded by Roman-era walls; a few new cutaways from the beaten road.

Aside from deliberate relocation, it has been illegal for me to leave where I live, until today. I'm a homebody. But the simple fact that even going outside my front door could incur a €1,000 fine has been impetus enough. 

Until today.

I missed it.

My hamstrings burned as I thought about new (in)sights that only come outside the door. That this whole time has been, no matter where you live as you're reading this, a sort of madness. What a terrible, revolutionary thing it is to be restricted the one thing that makes us most human: our social-ness?

So, without that, what do we have left? Those times left with our own thoughts? I know some of you are first responders. Some of you provide essential services. Some of you are easing your way back into work, in a perverse landscape. Some of you are gonna stay at home as long as you can. But you know what I'm talking about... This time. This, right now... 

This is the first time in all of our lifetimes where we've had the opportunity, at one revolutionary point or another, to actually sit down and take stock. The world moves so fast nowadays, doesn't it? 

But, this. It's a time where we're forced to sit in silence. The bars are shuttered up. 

I have a feeling, as sedentary as I've been, that I will look back on this time with a pang of regret... that I didn't DO enough with this Me Time. That I could have mastered something. That I could have emerged with a set of skills greater than my ability to boil dough, dabble in ink drawings, perfect squatty TicTok dances in the shower, or keep up with the Joneses, 

Don't worry about what you've done with your time... I'm only speaking of my own experiences. We don't talk enough, in a good and encouraging way, about mental health, a thing that I struggle with myself. So I don't want to make anyone feel bad. 

But, since we are still in the very middle of this in so many ways, it's something worth at least blurp-ing about.

So, today, I took a walk. God. It was nice. I actually forgot what grass and cow shit smelled like. There are flowers with bright, weird-shaped petals, and tomorrow, I'm gonna go out and press some between parchment paper in an old big encyclopedia book that I'll carry with me. 

And on my way back, today, at least, I found a puddle in the road. It'll be evaporated by tomorrow, what with the sun that pleasantly coincided with the lifting of restrictions. The critters around the edges of the puddle won't be very lucky. But the birds have already come along to pluck them up. You can tell by the footprints. Survival of the fittest. 

Nature operates outside of most viruses, and even more sanctions. And in this puddle, in the last couple of days, there must have been a frog — maybe Frank?! — who laid some eggs. Life, as the more gregarious of Attenborough brothers said, finds a way,

Venus, Part 2

A little while ago, I wrote about the idea of the Venus. It’s frequently amazing how, if you put something out there into the aether, it eventually comes back to say hello.

So, what an exceptional surprise. And, such a refreshing thing to discover how somebody channels quarantine time into an outlet.

Case in point, a good friend who has used this strange time to dive deep into her creative side. She’s a very capable sculptor in her own right, and has used her talents to create this incredible pair of Venuses inspired by my body. Each about 8 inches tall. The one on the left, from the front view, is called “Balanced Silence;” the one on the right is called “Dancing Queen.” Certainly two dichotomous sides of my personality!

Sculpting, I’ve been told, is very delicate process, and anything can go wrong at any time. Especially when it comes to putting the finished piece into the kiln. So keep your fingers crossed that these Two Versions of Heather can take the heat!

Also, kinda wish I had those hips. 🤤 And, I wish my boob could do that jumping trick without resulting in a back injury! 🤣

Girl in the High Tower — Live Writing Sessions

Yesterday, on one of my very rare trips out and about (only visiting the stores that provide essential services — God, quarantine sucks), I had an idea.

I was thinking about all the people conducting their professional lives on Zoom these days; I was thinking about my artistically inclined friends who have long been doing live drawing sessions that people can tune into at their leisure; I was thinking about how overjoyed I’m sure we all are, over the fact that this pandemic is taking place in 2020, and not the year 2000, when our Nokia 6100s limited our minutes and our text messages (silver linings?).

And one conversation, the other day, with a buddy of mine who does live drawing sessions. I asked him why he does them, and he said it was fun, and kind of created a camaraderie, but most of all, it “keeps him accountable.”

There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t think about the continuing saga of Nadya and Roger. But as long time supporters already know, and I’m sure are continually frustrated by, I just so happen to be one of those delightful Creatives who needs that swift kick in the pants to get anything done. Deadlines on another’s behalf? I can get it done… Self-imposed deadlines? Days can turn to weeks.

When I work for clients, I usually use Google Docs. Partially because it’s user-friendly, partially because it makes sharing finished work incredibly easy, and also… Because those who are looking at the document at the same time I am can see the edits take place, live, as they’re happening. They can insert comments in the margins as I’m writing, and generally, can see a block of text become fully formed, right in front of their eyes, from across the globe. The wonders of the modern age don’t really cease.

So accountability, doing something fun, and maybe adding a little extra bit of incentive for those of you who are kind enough to subscribe at this tier? PLUS getting more of this story written? Why the hell not!

So, let’s give it a test drive, and see how it works out. I will be online, for two hours, writing, from:

Today, April 30, 11:55 p.m., Madrid time. (That’s April 30, 5:55 p.m. New York; May 1, 9:55 a.m. Melbourne, etc.)

If you’re so inclined, and if this is any interest at all, you can tune in at this link…

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1QoIicqqSEvp1W3lihlKFCpSv6EEWmjS_vs_INQvpy8Q/edit

Hope to see you there? An advance notice to pardon any bugs, but what the heck. :)

Heavy Eyelids

By the way... this is what I see, most nights, before I go to sleep. Twinkle lights are the best.

I don’t know where you are right now. But wherever it is, I hope it’s in a place that is comfortable, and that brings you peace.

Tonight’s recipe!

Chile relleno with ground beef, chorizo, rice, roasted potatoes, grilled onions (in a high-pitched vinegar char), on a bed of lettuce. Topped with home-made sour cream on sliced avocado.

I gotta say! On a 10-scale, a 9! The key? Each ingredient is prepared as a separate componant, like instruments that each contribute to the way an orchestra sounds. The potatoes get garlic and oregano; the beef gets cumin and crushed chili; the rice gets paprika, cardamom pods and saffron; the avocado gets tossed in that strawberry balsamic stuff you made a week ago, and while it’s not ideal, it’s not offensive.

Pro-Tip: When in doubt, sprinkle parsley on top to make it fancy.

Sauce No. 3 - Potentially Untimely Name?

I’m a little vexed about coming up with a name for this one. On one hand, it’s suuuuuuper-spicy — nearly at spicy-just-for-the-sake-of-it levels on the Scoville scale, with no complementary flavors to back it up.

So, a part of me wants to give it a quarantine-inspired name, since it’s so dangerous… On the other hand, I don’t want to be all tacky and formally assign it a moniker like “Heather’s Quaran-Titty Sauce,” “Don’t Flatten These Curves,” or “PPE: Particularly Picante Elixer” (okay, that last one is a stretch, by why is it so easy to come up with names for this one?). Might be in poor taste. So, the jury is still out, though as always, I welcome submissions.

Anyway, the only hot sauce you can get here is good-old Tabasco, so lately, I’ve been keeping the bottles. They’re a bitch to refill, but not hard if you’ve got some patience and some wax paper. I thought it would be appropriate to have a recipe inspired by Tabasco, so I went with it. 

The last couple of sauces, I’ve mentioned cutting off the caps and pulling out the seed pods. I typically do this (WHILE WEARING GLOVES!) with a paring knife, cutting from the top, and into the pepper itself, around in a circle, until you can just pop the cap off, along with the little bundle of seeds clustered on a white cap. What you’re left with, for other sauces, is the orange flesh, with a few remnants of white ribs (the white parts of a pepper are called the placenta, technically) on the sides.

And that’s where we get down to pepper anatomy. See, a lot of folks seem to think that the bulk of a pepper’s spice is located in the seeds, but that just ain’t true. The reason seeds seem spicy is because they spend so much time hanging out next to the placenta (the white bit at the cap, and the “ribs” that go down the interior). But they only contain about 4-6% of a pepper’s capsaicin (the stuff that makes a pepper hot). Some of that heat is in the flesh, too, along with all of the flavor. But the vast majority of the spice? That’s in the placenta. And these caps you’ve been cutting out of the peppers, those white bits? They’re loaded with capsaicin.

Oh, and if you’re saying, “But Heather, you silly goose, I have a jar of those red pepper flakes I keep in my cupboard for sprinkling on top of pizza, and there are plenty of seeds in there, so it’s gotta be part of the spice?” I say to you, “oPeN yOuR eYeS sHeEpLe!!! That’s just what Big Red Pepper Flake WANTS YOU TO THINK, but it’s just FILLER, so they can SAVE MONEY and FUND THE ILLUMINATI! OPEN YOUR EYYYEESSS!!!11!!!”

Ahem. So, for this sauce, here’s what I did. I took all of the caps and seeds, and put them into a jar along with a water/salt mixture, and kept them in that thing for a month to ferment (the folks at Avery Island do this too, but they use oak barrels and keep it fermenting for years. But the idea is the same). Once they were done, I took the peppers out, strained them, and put them into a blender, along with the vinegar, and some salt, trying my best to replicate Tabasco’s 19% pepper ratio. You don’t have to ferment — it does mild-out the flavor a little bit, and cut down on the fresh-cut tang a little, which is cool, but if you’re not big into fermenting already, and aren’t looking for a new hobby, you can just skip that bit, and I won’t tell. 

Blend it up, on the stove, low boil for 20, and back into the blender. Blend again. Then… strain it through a fine mesh sieve. What you’re going to end up with is something that’s as liquidy as water, and spicy as shiiiiiit.

So yeah. Not a lot of flavor here, since it’s pretty much 80% vinegar (I use white wine vinegar myself, because there’s a bit of a floral quality to it, but distilled white is totally standard, so it’s all about taste. Plus I can’t find just regular white vinegar here, which is really weird to me?). Some people don’t like Tabasco because it’s so vinegary, but I love it, frankly. Especially for something like a soup, where you want to add some kick, but enhance the flavors with the vinegar, too. 

Here are the ratios I used: 19% peppers; 80% vinegar 1% salt (but you can play with that last one.)

Or, just steering away from the Covid trope altogether with… “Heather’s… Underboob Sweat?” Hmm. Eww. And ouch.

Frank

I named him after Danny Devito’s character on Always Sunny. Anyway, this little guy made it inside, so I picked him up and kicked him out. A few hours later, he came back, so I kicked him out again. A few hours later? Back again! I have a stalker. His name is Frank. He is a frog (or a toad?).

Everyone needs a quarantine buddy. Lickilly, it’s fly season, and there were a few I swatted. I put Frank on the floor and put him in front of one of the flies. And sure enough, he ate it.

Now, he’s sitting on the table. I pick him up, and he’s just kinda chill. I scratched his frog head, and he kinda closes his eyes a little, which might just be reflex? Or maybe he likes it?

So, I fed him, I named him, and he seems to like me, because he keeps coming back, and I’m worried that I’ll step on him if I kick him out and he comes back in again. (My feet view is a little obstructed...) Goddammit. Do I have a pet now?

Do I sound crazy? I don’t feel crazy. Everyone just goes through quarantine differently, right?

And, I like frogs.

Anyway, this is Frank. Picking up hoors.