Month: May 2011

I alluded a couple days ago to having attended the mother of all clothing swaps last weekend, where I scored brand new Nike shoes, TF.

The person hosting the swap, a friend of my pal the Ukulady, lives in a fancy-pants house on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. This was a girls-only event, save for several cabana boys keeping the glasses filled.

I wasn’t quite prepared for the onslaught. I didn’t even get in the door before the many, many grabbing hands of many, many fashionable ladies relieved me of my swap items. Whoosh and goodbye, burgundy leather jacket, beaded blue blouse, weird striped flamenco skirt. It was a frenzy.

It was also kind of a nude frenzy. I mean, not only just incidental, “I’m just trying on Becky’s beaded blue blouse” nudity, but lots of paradin’ around — plenty of flesh, save for masks and feathers and body paint. And various shades and flavors of impairment. Ukulady finally hipped me to the fact that this was a more, um, creative than usual crowd, lots of artists and performers and Burning Man enthusiasts.

Let’s just say it wasn’t really my scene but I enjoyed the visit. And, in addition to the running shoes, I scored a big giant pile of really good stuff. And I helped bag up the mountains of leftovers destined for donation to a woman’s shelter.

As much as some of you may be hoping, I cannot share any more anecdotes nor any pictures of the paradin’. I will show you the Ukulady trying on a shirt and a skirt:

And some chicks. What, they’re naked, right?:

And the view of Malibu from the house:

So all that’s left is to say: ta-ta.

I’ve told Paulie that this blogging every day thing is a valuable exercise for my ego; posting day after (relentless) day makes me let go (sort of) the worry about my readership and how many comments I’m getting and the love I’m perceiving to get — or not get, depending on who’s reading what.

But yeah. It can be hard. And weird. During my low-key birthday celebration I heard a small group of people talking about how they liked a recent post of mine. They were talking amongst themselves, not to me — so I’m eliminating the possibility of birthday pandering.

I was almost entirely gratified by this — oh yeah, people read my blog! And enjoy it! That’s so nice!

But of course it wouldn’t be me if I didn’t have the Bad Monkey Becky Brain chattering at me and making me insecure (“nobody wants to read your shit every day! no comments, no love! nobody loves you! ook! ook!”)

Apart from the ongoing battle with my feelings of unlovability, I think I’m struggling with a few real things:

• All this daily type-type-typing really underlines how solitary writing is. My love of the social aspect of the internet doesn’t jibe with what I’m actually doing, which is churning out words, lots and lots of words, in order to fulfill this Post-a-Day challenge. The fact that I’m putting it out there on the internet makes me put expectations on my blog posts — that there should be continual liking and commenting and interactivity between me, my posts, and my friends and/or readers. Silly me. I myself certainly do a hell of a lot more blog reading (and appreciating) than I do commenting on my reading and appreciating.
• I was not setting out on this Post-a-Day madness to become a better writer, specifically. But (as Paulie and many others often point out) getting to be a better writer involves just doing it, making clacking noises on the keyboard, just getting it the hell out and down. So that’s what I’m doing, but with a lack of academic (or logical) sense. I’m not challenging myself to make better or more interesting sentences; I’m not soliciting comments or feedback that critiques my work; I’m not working up to a novel. The dedication to the medium is not there for me. I’m much more into the idea of having written every day for a year than what I produced or what it did to me as a writer. Of course, it this all makes me a better writer, than hurrah!
• And thirdly: jeezus I feel married to this blog-posting schedule, and not in the good way that involves ready access to nookie.

Way back in January when I announced this Post-a-Day thing in a startlingly reluctant and lukewarm way, I added:

There’s going to be a time, probably around July, when I’ll need you to put the ice pack on my head and make me mojitos so I can keep going.

I think I’m ready for the ice pack and mojito now, dear reader. But no pity comments.