Tag Archives: san francisco

The Thought Monster

I am going to talk about the thought monster today.

thought monsterThe thought monster seems to have a special love for buggin’ inside the minds of artistic people.

Once a week, I make the pilgrimage out to Dharma Punx  in San Francisco on a Friday night during rush hour traffic for a half hour meditation and hour lecture on mindfulness. It seems to be helping with managing the insatiable thought monster who resides in my own brain.

A few weeks ago, the guy who was speaking, Vinnie I think, was talking about the voice (thought monster) in our heads, how it doesn’t ever want to shut up. He recommended we tell it to fuck off. But not in a way that we are engaging with it. It absolutely LOVES being engaged with, is waiting for a little debate. No, just a little, “That’s nice, now shut up.” Or, “Oh, hey, you’re talking again?”

He also said that the voice tends to pop up more whenever we try to challenge our own comfort zone. The voice is there to keep us from bucking the norm. It developed for healthy reasons over years of evolution, but can be an inhibitor to moving forward and growing outside of your self-created limits if you let it keep you down. Every time you try to challenge what is familiar, safe, notice that voice? Yep. Me too.

Lately, the voice in my head is relentless, likely because I am doing things I’ve never done before with my music. I’m challenging myself and going after what I’ve always dreamed of doing, in spite of the nut gallery going, “Nur, that’s dumb. You’ll never bla bla bla.”

While I’m sitting peacefully at the library or in the practice space or in my room or driving aimlessly somewhere, it crops up. “You should just give up.” It says. “Music is too hard. The band you’re in is too challenging, you can’t do the tasks required of you. They’re going to find out you totally suck and you’re an imposter. Quit while you’re ahead. You’re almost 32, you’re practically dead. Your looks will fade soon and nobody will care, it’s all about image, not talent. Music is for the young.”

It’s all bullshit. Mostly, I act as if that voice isn’t there and continue to practice my guitar, voice and keyboard in the spaces I’ve allotted to do these things regardless of what it says. Sometimes it gets a little bit of momentum when I take a few days off from practice. “You aren’t practicing enough. You suck. You’re gonna blow it. How can you even think you can do a show coming up? You’re such a pretender. Everyone else is better than you. Remember how much you used to practice as a teenager? Where did that get you when you stopped. Nowhere. That’s where you’re headed again.”

Sometimes, I consider what it says for a moment during those times. Think about moving to the woods, living a quiet life without any challenges, without ever changing what has become rote and easy. But that thought makes me want to explode. I am not leaving this life unless I know I’ve worked as hard as I can on what I seem to be meant to do, no matter what naysayers and the anxious nail-biting thought monster in my head that don’t want me to challenge societal norms want me to do. There’s enough room in this world for me to do what I love full-time. Or die trying.

think

Sharing Gritty Life Stories (That One Person, Part 2)

Credit: Lee Nachtigal

I recently went to a training for my part-time job. It was based on working with homeless and mentally ill people, both demographics I work with. The day before the training, I wrote a blog about how I write, even though it’s hard to put myself out there, because I want to help that one person.

I expected to get a lot out of the training, but I didn’t expect to get as much out of it as I got. Some of the employees from a public library in a major city nearby were behind it, and they shared about their experiences working with the homeless population that flocks to their library.

At one point, a woman who works in the library system as outreach for the homeless went up in front of all of us library workers–most very proper, analytical people: managers, librarians, deputies. She said she was nervous and that she hadn’t really talked in public like this before.

She shared that she had worked all of her life, but had lost her business in the bad economy of 2008 and had moved to San Francisco in her car, because she knew that it was easier to be homeless there. The car had broken down, and then she had become very sick. She also struggled with substance abuse issues as a child of the ’60s. Eventually, she found help through a homeless peer who directed her to outreach services and detox. Now she works in a public role in the library offering service to those in her old shoes.

Everyone, after she talked, gave her multiple rounds of very loud applause for sharing her story in this setting.

I didn’t think I would have a chance to talk to the woman afterwards. I had stayed to chat with some coworkers after the training was over. When I walked outside of the library the woman was standing outside, alone. There were coworkers I know were there but who I hadn’t even run into after it was over; over one hundred people who had been in that training and were now nowhere to be seen, just her, out on the curb, as if she were waiting for me.

I told her thank you.

While she had shared about some of the issues modern homeless are facing, I had remembered being homeless as a teenager for a number of reasons (not that I didn’t have a physical home and parents who loved me, but my home was an emotional land mine due to a number of things going on at the time), and seeking youth outreach services.

In my early twenties, I struggled with homelessness for almost a year, living off of other people’s kindness, going from couch to couch. A rehab I went to for 60 days ejected me after my time was up, even though I didn’t have a place to live, and I was able to get into a sober living house because a friend from rehab loaned me $800, the amount it cost per month for the room I would share with five other girls.

I remembered being sent to a Tenderloin detox in 2002, after being kicked out of the sober-living home for drinking. I had been living day by day, watching my housemates eat while trying to pretend I wasn’t hungry, so no one would be aware of the fact I didn’t have money for food. One  roommate was a postal worker, and let me use her change jar sometimes for coffee and food, thank god. Then I wasn’t even in the sober living house anymore.

I finally got a call-center job (just before I got ejected from the sober living house and had no place to live) through a person I met in a self-help group. I was trying to get my act together. I was 21 years old.

Often, when I wasn’t warm and safe at the job I was very grateful to have, I went to the library in San Francisco to use the internet, waiting until I got my first paycheck (I had to wait a month) so that I could afford to give someone money for a room. The library offered me a safety net, and a place to go. Often, I would sit there and read books, because it was warm and safe.

I also remembered around 2008, when I lost my job in publishing. We were renting an apartment in Berkeley for around $900. The landlady asked us to move out so her daughter could move in, right around that time. We couldn’t afford the normal rents in Berkeley or El Cerrito or Oakland. We were worried about survival, biting our nails. We had a car payment, a motorcycle payment, student loans, and now only one income.

My Uncle approached us and asked if we would like to take care of my grandparent’s house (empty, and it had it’s own issues, like black mold) until we got back on our feet. Without his offer, I don’t know what we would have done. We spent two years in that house, worried we were one paycheck away from being homeless. There were few jobs. I applied for them all. I was on unemployment, which was half of my previous income, and my husband wasn’t getting as much business at work. I was constantly sick from the mold. It was scary.

I think many Americans are one paycheck away from being homeless. I grew up with the same weight over my head–my parents always wondering where the next check would come from. They didn’t own property. I don’t own property. Even people who own property are at risk.

I knew where she was coming from. I’ve been there, too. She spoke to me.

She had said, while she was talking, that most homeless and mentally ill people walk into the library already thinking they’ve done something wrong. They’re already on edge. They feel like they don’t belong. Many times I felt that way, like someone was going to arrest me for being me. Like I didn’t belong.

She told me, “I didn’t even feel like sharing today. I was nervous, I was afraid, I didn’t want to do it. I thought of canceling.” Then she said, “But I thought, if I can just help one person…”

I’m so glad that in spite of her fear she had the courage to share how she turned her weakness into strength and how she has used her experiences and the serendipity of being asked to work in an outreach situation to give back what was given to her.

I told her that I write non-fiction stories and read them in public, and share personal stories on my blog, and I had just written yesterday about not wanting to share sometimes, feeling embarrassed about being open and putting myself out there. Then, my friend had said those exact words, “If I can just help one person,” and I’d used that as the title of my blog post. Usually, I said, I’m the one sharing personal details that are hard to share. “Wow,” I had thought when I heard her speak, “This is what it’s like to be on the receiving end of someone stretching themselves and speaking directly from the heart, even though it’s not comfortable or convenient or guaranteed to help a single soul.”

It seems like everyone in that training, most of whom likely had not directly experienced her reality, benefited from her personal experience. And because she’s been there she is at an added advantage of being able to do her job of outreach. It’s the same reason why your addicted niece or spouse or friend won’t listen to you when you try to give them advice if you’re not an addict, but will listen to someone who was an addict and has been through it. People know when we are speaking the truth, and it resonates with them. And mostly, it helps them, too.

Life lessons like this don’t always happen, not with such blatant obviousness, but when they do, it’s a trip.

Musicians and Depression

(photo credit: bleu man)

An article in the Guardian put it best: “Often, what makes an artist great is the fact that they’re born with a skin too few.” Many artistic people are born with too little protective barrier between them and the world. Depression, whether in passing or ongoing, is a problem for many.

When I was around 23, I had just gotten out of a dark period of my life. I stopped playing music, not knowing where to go with it anymore. I gave up for a few years, as I worked at a call center for a legal company, earning and spending money, getting through the days one at a time.

When I started playing again in my apartment in the Inner Richmond of San Francisco, I literally played my guitar in the closet, so that the neighbors wouldn’t hear me. Sometimes I just played a little piece of a song I was writing over and over again, some three-chord progression coupled with a wistful lament.

As time went on, I got back to playing in much of my spare time, but I still didn’t play for many other people in person. I couldn’t stand sharing what I was writing about live, in front of someone who might judge me, or worse, talk over.

I kept thinking about sitting in the park with a group of ruffian friends when I was 15. I decided to break out my guitar. “I’m going to play a few songs,” I said. “She plays guitar?” they said. And when I played, they kept talking. It’s funny how a trivial event like this can become your excuse to not ever try. I did play for other people in the years up until I was 20, giving people demos and playing at house parties, coffee shops and in music classes at a college I attended. But at some point, I just gave up.

You can say I have a thin skin. Sometimes I think I’m just a bundle of raw nerves walking around.

Pretty soon, after starting to play in my closet, my husband came home from work and saw our neighbor sitting on the steps in the hallway, listening.

“I love your wife’s music,” he said. “What kind of music is she playing?” My husband was flummoxed. He hadn’t even known I wrote music. He knew my dad was a pianist, that I had dated some musician once. He knew I had a couple of guitars. We had been married for over a year, and I had simply excised one of the most important parts of who I was from my personality and failed to share it with him. Before the dark times, music had been my very modus operandi. Now it was something I did in the closet.

I still struggle with depression when it comes to music in the form of where am I going to go with it. The music industry is definitely changed, and something new is emerging, but I’m not sure where I fit in the scheme, or if I have to create something new myself.

I set up some studio time, for two weeks from now, and I’m going to record four songs I’ve been working on.

Mental Health counselor, Deborah Legge, PhD, said in Digital Music News, “Depression is not uncommon to those who are drawn to work in the arts, and then the lifestyle contributes to it.” When I think of all of the musicians who offed themselves because the lifestyle that came with the music (drugs, touring, sycophants, lack of money, too much money) was just too much, I get bummed too.

What I love is recording. I love to give my music to other people to listen to in their own quiet moments, on headphones or in the car. That’s where I listen to music. Alone.

I am also afraid of success. I don’t like putting myself out there, in person, in front of people, whether through my writing or through my music. I’m still getting used to this part. When I get up on stage these days, just me, no drugs, no barriers, I have these odd quirks that happen. Suddenly I can’t tune my guitar, though I’ve been doing it for 17 years. Then my leg starts twitching. My voice gets wonky. I mean, what the hell?

On the flip side, though, if there is anything that I feel like I am here to do with this life, music is one of those things. When I create music, I am in the moment. Everything else fades away and I feel like maybe I do have a purpose. It’s the semantics of getting my music out there that makes me balk. Collaborating with other musicians freaks me out, based on past experience.

In “Janis Joplin: Rise up Singing,” Sam Andrew of Big Brother and the Holding Company said, “Janis was one of the most powerful people I have ever known, and yet she was completely insecure at the same time. She was the Queen of the Scene and the chambermaid, simultaneously.”

He goes on to describe how she constantly questioned whether she was good or not after performances, wondered always if people liked her, if he liked her, even. “From a person as talented as Janis was, such questions could be unnerving. Her talent was so obvious, but often she couldn’t see it herself.”

And then he says what I feel is the most important part, “People discount what they do best, because they think, ‘Well hey, this is easy, anybody can do this, so what’s so special?’ Janis made me realize that what we do best, all of us, is natural to us, and easy to take for granted. This is completely understandable, and yet it is important for each of us to appreciate our natural gifts, and take pride in them.”

That inspires me. I think I’m alright. I like what I’m doing. I subscribe to a happiness-is-where-you-are mentality, knowing full well that the mountain I am climbing now is probably no better than the mountain I will be climbing later. Something else, something better, never really comes. Everyone, everywhere, is just where they are.

Said Brad Warner in his book “Hardcore Zen: “Every single human being in the world thinks that ‘if only’ this or that one of our conditions could be met than we’d be happy. ‘If only I had a girlfriend/boyfriend/million bucks, then I’d be happy,’ … An old Chinese Zen master once said, ‘From birth to death, it’s just like this!’ Wherever you go in the world, it’s pretty much the same. Only the details are different … We always want to believe that somewhere there’s a perfect situation, if only we weren’t barred from it. But that’s not the reality.”

The reality is that we can always look back and say, “It was better then.” We can always look ahead and say, “It will be better when I’m more successful with my music/writing/relationships etc.” But in the end, what you do right now is probably the most important thing thing you’ll ever do, whether it’s cooking dinner or playing your guitar for your friends.

Whether depression comes with the turf or not, I’ll take it for what it is. It’s definitely not going to stop me from enjoying creating music and learning to share it more with others, even to the point of collaboration. It may just be part and parcel. With great blessings come greater responsibilities. Facing my giant bunny fears, one by one.

I Miss You Sweet San Francisco

I spend a lot of time walking around the hills in El Cerrito looking out at the city (when there’s no fog).

I miss the city and all it offered, from the sunset over the clusters of Victorian-style buildings to the ocean being on all three sides of me.

I loved the kitschy downtown area I always avoided. Coit Tower with all its stairs. The fact that the fog came through all summer, blanketing everything in a Gotham-style wonderland. That tourists always came to town in shorts in July, and we would laugh at them.

I miss long walks down Clement street with all the little bubble tea shops, markets, and vietnamese-style pork buns freshly made while you waited. I miss Green Apple books and their abundance of indie books, cd’s and movies. I miss being able to walk and walk until you hit the ocean less than 7 miles in most directions. I miss living on my own little self-made island away from family and all the stupid people I grew up with. I miss being completely independent, not reliant on anybody’s house or money. I miss how skinny all that walking made me. How people didn’t shove food down my throat and I could eat however I wanted and it was o.k.

I miss being able to come home to my Victorian apartment building and feel so safe and secure on the second-floor with the windows open overlooking the park and the street traffic below. That I could sit in the bay window and watch life go by while reading a book. The cool breeze any time of the year. The fact that we never really needed heat or air conditioning.

I miss that I could throw a rock and hit a good restaurant. The fact that there was a Burmese-Style restaurant right down the street along with Vietnamese Fusion, Japanese Sushi, a Russian Bakery, and a real cafe you could sit in with your computer all day long if you wanted.

I miss the sense of being a part of something bigger. Never feeling alone because I was surrounded by people all of the time. For once in my life not needing to run to somewhere else to get away from the redundancy of suburban neighborhoods and mind sets.

I miss the feeling of finally finding my people. Of running in the park and finding a buffalo reserve and a conservatory of flowers and a museum all in the same two mile-stretch along with a windmill and a beach.

I miss the laughing lady who used to be at the Cliff House. All of the seafood restaurants at Pier 39.

I loved that you could do anything from biking to running to hiking within an easy walk or drive. The roller skating dancers in the park. Kites everywhere on blustery spring days. The festivals and the street parades. Pride and Folsom Street Fairs. That most of my acquaintances had outgrown their native religions and closed-off mind sets of their youth. The kitschy bistros and boutiques. How there were so many different enclaves and neighborhoods with their own unique themes and energies.

I miss the safety in numbers. I miss the masses of musicians, artists and writers that clustered in every neighborhood. All the stupid Hipsters in the Mission District. The poetry slams and the open mics everywhere. That I always ran into old friends from all over the world.

I don’t know why I ever left. And I don’t know if I will ever be able to go back. Now I understand that saying, “I left my heart in San Francisco.” I will always miss the only place I ever really belonged.

Raised on Cement

Life’s been a little trippy lately. I’ve been real busy with work and extracurricular activities. Things are good. Ok, enough blogness.

(Born of revenge
Raised on cement
Chaos create a government)
-kmfdm)

I know I quoted this same song a few days ago. It inspires me to write. It’s like my little alarm clock. When it plays on Pandora a little alarm goes off in my head (speaking of which, I’ve managed to get up at 6:30am this week! Two times!!) to write in my online blog.

It reminds me of driving home from Auburn after Labor Day Weekend or some other such three day weekend. We had bbqed a chicken with a beer can stuck up it’s ass (which caught on fire) along with bloody ribs from the butcher down the street. We had relaxed. We had swung our feet in the cold water of the American River, even though it was a little green, and there was some guy with full-body scuba gear wading in shallow water. We (Hubby and me plus two no-longer friend friends) were full, rested and somewhat content, shoving marshmallow rice krispy treats into our mouths on the drive home. This song came on when we were nearing the onslaught of the immediate Bay Area. The dirty Bay and smell of fish was about to waft into the car, the buildings were rising up around us.

Gospel of rage
Faction of hate
Deviate from the absolute
Born of revenge
Raised on cement
Chaos created government

It seemed fitting. It soothed me. Lyrics here.