A Talisman for 2010, Philadelphia Style

There's something inherently redeemable about wild abandon.  And every year, the city of Philadelphia redeems - yes, redeems itself hosting the Mummer's parade on New Year's Day.

Officially in its 109th year, it offers the full spectrum:  breathtaking, intricate costumes, props and floats; skilled music, dance and acting performances; gleeful foolishness; warmhearted public ambassadorship; profuse public drunkeness and unbridled fuckery. 


In short, it offers the total package of art and entertainment. 
For no charge. 
On the street. 
I daresay, it's magnificent.


The Mummer's first divisions - the comics, the wenches - these folks solidly encompass the latter half of the things I listed above.  (Mostly) Men in garish theme dresses, painted beyond recognition, clutching Bud Lights and each other, dancing in hapazard circles down the street with parasols. 

When you see it, you forget if you've had an unremarkable year. You feel, despite yourself, that this is a good omen, a best possible start.  Woe as you are and jaded though you may be, who can possibly feel anything other than amusement when this guy's coming at you?

It is good not only because it's glee busking you in the face, or because a subset of the populace not especially trained to entertain you, is in fact, letting down their guard to entertain you....but because there's beauty in the tradition of it, in simply persisting. 

Mini-you's learning to walk the walk.

It's all the more delightful when the tradition is carried out not because of religious dogma, family dysfunction, social mores or self-importance, but instead is followed because it produces fellowship and joy (and gleeful foolishness, warmhearted public ambassadorship, public drunkeness and unbridled fuckery.)

So while I struggled this past week with prioritizing all the things I resolve not to do (take things too serious, arrive late, act like an asshat) and all the things I now resolve to start (being more brave, opening up emotionally, flossing regularly), I took a second to think about the unbroken things that I already do, the traditions, if you will ...the things that, net-net, are just fine already.  And for a shiny, cold, Broad Street moment, it was all right. 

Thanks, you's Mummers.

Axioms and Postulates

There's more to life than work.
There is more to life than errands.
Doing many things does not make you productive.
Letting go must get easier.
Relaxing in your house is good.
Remember how you used to relax?
Small spaces are better.
Less stuff is a lot better.
Your life will never be simple.
Life isn't supposed to be tidy.
Let it be.
Are you running down a road that has no end, tired?
When do impressions about others cease to matter?
When do you admit that you are the Mad Hatter?
Your life will never be easy.
Its not like you've been thinking of.
There's a whole spectrum between upset and medicated.
Namaste.
When will your heart float out of your chest and away?
Growing up feels like a soul-shellac.
I wouldn't mind getting my soul back.

I Know Why The Caged Bird is Caged -or- Why I'm Writing Here Now

"In the Spanish number the house was electrified.  Everybody sat on the edge of their seat - the drums woke them up.  I thought when drums started it would keep up forever.  I expected to see people fall out of the boxes or throw their hats away.  There was something heroic about it and he could have driven us stark mad, Ravel, if he had wanted to.  But that's not Ravel.  Suddenly, it all died down.  It was as if he remembered, in the midst of his antics, that he had on a cutaway suit.  He arrested himself.  A great mistake, in my humble opinion.  Art consists in going the full length.  If you start with the drums you have to end it with dynamite, or TNT.  Ravel sacrificed something for form, for a vegetable that people must digest before going to bed." - The Tropic Of Cancer, p.76-77.

Henry Miller hit a mark when he observed an error so many of us make - to arrest, to cease, to cut short our efforts.  I suggest this not only applies to making "art", as he wrote, but in life too. 

Behind the authentic, architecturally significant doors of houses on storybook lanes where I live, where housecleaners and nannies come and go, there's people prudently taking pills to rest, prudently taking pills to make them feel less manic, imprudently starting an early happy hour, squirrelling to a secret spot to take a forbidden toke, escaping to tony shopping destinations sizing each other up using a measurement system of the id.  Making shadow puppets of ourselves in our own sparkly sitcom.  Staring in the mirror at ourselves, wondering how we got here. While the heart's deepest wishes, for passion, for naturalness, for meaning, for connection, go hungry.  

This is my giant YAWP!! to the world (nod to Dead Poets Society). I can't promise anything other than honesty and weirdness here on this site.  Wring the same from yourself, dear reader.

If you're out there, if you dare, share your thoughts with me.  I would love to hear them.
What have you sacrificed for form?