A Manifesto of Sorts

Quote of the Day:
The greatest weapon against stress is our ability
to choose one thought over another.
~William James~

Current Local Weather:
Overcast but finally,
albeit after too long of a time,
hopeful for health.

Currently on my iPod:
"Takin It To the Streets"
Taylor Hicks
Do I Make You Proud

Dear Friends, Family and my Family of Friends,

I sat down at about 4am yesterday morning and wrote a letter to a friend, but really it was more for myself (yeah, yeah. narcissism...whatever) . I woke up and was extremely bothered by where I was, and not in reality (well, that would be a lie and you'll see why in the following post), but in my soul. I just HAD to get it out of me and I wasn't going to even attempt to give in to the sleep fairies hovering around my foggy glasses until it was on paper, or at the very least, electronic paper.

So, here it goes. FYI: As compared to my older posts, this post is decidedly sans kitschy photos and references to anything but the real, too-sick-to-care (both mentally and physically, and for good measure let's just add in emotionally, too) what others think of me, me.

Dear ____ (name has been changed to absolutely nothing to protect the innocent)

I guess this is going to be one of those nights where sleep teases me with fits of thought, restless writing streaks and the casual anxiety that has become commonplace in my life these days...

So, what happens when C doesn't sleep?
Someone ends up with a long letter in their inbox. Therapeutic for me, amusement for you, win-win all around.

The last month or so has lent me considerable perspective as a human being on what life means, at least in my opinion. I've been half-assed delving from time to time in the writing of my medically dramatic, not too serious memoir. But as I was laying in the bed at memorial that last afternoon, after the custody mediation, I thought to myself...why would anyone want to read shit about me?

Sure, I have a following of jazz fans, but in writing this, that's neither here nor there. I almost have to start over in my "Non-fiction book writing career" if I want to make anything of myself and in promotion of this hopeful-to-sell-before-the-second-coming kinda deal.

So I wondered and thought and thunk and kerplunked while staring at the beautiful rain, albeit cold rain, outside my window on floor 7-5 at Memorial Hospital and came up with this instead: (One of the very kind nursing assistants, a little numb in white/gray matter asked, why don't you watch TV, get your mind off things...to which I replied with a nice as I could be tone while feeling like I'm dying, I'm a writer sans pen, to get my mind off things, I decidedly place my mind on other things and write in my head for a later date...) A book about searching for life among the almost dead.

Of course my medical catastrophes will be enriched with literary license, and my critical and unfiltered potty mouth and sense of humor will also be present. But, this will largely be about my travels writing the jazz book, finding joy in cooking for dozens of people and seeing their careers blossom right in front of my eyes at the retreats and how writing and immersing myself feet first in the literary community and living through hell, has taught me to seek life among the living dead (I.e. the 9-5 cubicle, taco bell eating, pale skinned, illiterate, placated by mass media, plagued with papparazzi envy, celebrity lovin, if-it's-at-Michaels-it-MUST-be art society we're forced to live in.).

I'm so tired of professionals that live with their professionalism written on pseudo wood plaques on their little professional office desks, looking down on people like me, you and pretty much everyone in my little but loving circle of friends. As artists, we're not stupid, no matter how big or small our lives turn out to be. All art, even the bad shit, has a purpose, in turn, allowing purpose and a meaningful life to enrich the lives of those who create it.

Office professionals, salesmen, lawyers, truck drivers (a lot of them write...I could do that...drive around all day and think of things to write...) wait staff, nurses, doctors, HR administrators...they've all got potential to reach and find their purpose in life through their jobs too. However, when one allows their job to sequester them to a life where shopping at Wally World is the only activity they do and art means posters of rock bands and Debbie Gibson on their ceiling and American Idol is the only time music invades their brain, then they become, by no fault other than their own, the true outcasts of what our society should be.

Alas, this isn't the case. People like me, you...the ones that end up living under a bridge after poor sales of their first novel or book on jazz, are the outcasts in our own ways. After being told that the career that I've busted my ass on since 2006 is not a real career by a decidedly (at least in her own mind) important person in our little community known as the Springs, I felt defeated. Downtrodden. Cast among the homeless and almost-dead, invisible crowd with too much socially unacceptable hair and drool in ALL the wrong places. But I realize that this "professional" is right. I don't have a "job." Instead I took a long and winding road that is less traveled than it should be. I followed a dream and instead of it being a job (a word so deftly shared by that poor sap of a man in the bible...your friend and mine, Job) I have passion and life within me despite my situation...and this is something that shares a lion's share of hope that resides deep among my too often situational/circumstantial depression....I must...REPEAT...MUST allow this feeling to remain omnipresent in my life instead of that ho-hum complacency so many others have allowed their lives to embody.

Does this thought and subsequent thoughts that will reign upon my consciousness in the near days mean that I've fully realized my goal of becoming an arts snob? Hmmm...not so sure. But I worry. Hell, if I got paid to worry I could build adjoining cabins for all of my friends (so we never have to be too far or too close in our nonrelationships) in Telluride. These would be so grand that they'd make those celebrity dwellings look like a wanna-be architect/toddler with legos and blue prints, built them. Also, as a mother, I've learned that worrying often leads to nothing other than gray hair. (Good reminder to have my sharpie out so I can touch them up) Worry is my current major in the university of life. As a matter of fact, I'm a bonafide doctoral candidate in the subject waiting to present my dissertation any day now.

Hopefully my anxiety will allow me to graduate from worry to okay-ness with not just any life, but my life. (insert any Billy Joel song at this point in the blog and you'll have a great soundtrack)

Hopefully my imaginary paycheck forged by my worrying mind will turn into a real one. Ahhhh...one can dream, right?

So...I'm meeting with a web designer on Monday, for lunch. I've been talking with him for quite a while. Jim Lewis. (This makes the fourth, yeppers...FOURTH Jim Lewis I know.) Weird. But I spoke with him eons ago about my sites and he's never let me forget. A true salesman. He even called to check on me in the hospital. Hmmm...I hope he's not stalking me. But then again, if he is, does that make me a celebrity?

Time to put my money where my mouth is or whatever that saying is. I have friends on standby that are willing to advertise on their sites, my editorial services (1000.00/manuscript isn't unheard of, right? ...I suppose it's standard fare for someone of my stature...lol...in the literary community) and query writing services.

I'm going to fight for what I believe to be a real dream, not what anyone could quite call...a hobby. And also, fight to move up the ladder, more aggressively so, than the past. I had been quite aggressive (believe it or not) until my ass found a new home at Memorial during my preggo days w/ Miss Natty Poo. I'm going to break this ridiculous cycle of dependence/neediness/circumstantial everything that is so fucking far from my actual character that I don't even recognize who I am most days.

I suppose writing this book will help.

Writing letters like this certainly does and is more to my chagrin than yours, I'm sure.

On that note, Natty Poo is awake and in need of a bottle and changing. Ta-Ta my dearest reader...or two.

Yours in Manifestos, Magic Cups and Mostly Memorable Mommy Moments,

Cicily

The House is Burning

Quote of the Day:
Finishing second in the Olympics gets you silver.
Finishing second in politics gets you oblivion.
~Richard M. Nixon~

Current Local Weather:
Rain. Yeah right.
Whatever.
Currently on my iPod:
Whataya Want From Me
Adam Lambert

Dear Friends, Family and my Family of Friends,

Have you ever sat in a house, burning up in your own skin and wondering what the problem was? Has that house been yours? More often than not, it's been mine. I sit unaware that I'm the one with the floor burning beneath my feet, sweating, stinking up the whole town and waiting for rain or wind or the apocalypse/nuclear winter to cool things down. Where is my reality? Somewhere amongst the ashes, is my guess.

Yet these days the heat outside and in, is unbearable.

I've got issues with the following: (and who doesn't...)

Bills. (They just don't stop coming in, EVER.)



Love. (It was love at first sight, every time.)



Rest. (Break? Who? What? When? Do adults get breaks?)




There are some days I wonder if becoming an addict of some sort would help. I know it wouldn't help with a damn thing, but I do know that it might help strengthen my tolerance of such widespread feelings of impending doom.

But the bigger issue is how to really solve my other issues. I try. I try my very best to figure this out daily. But instead of resolution, I listen to music, write words in an orderly manner and allow the arts community to invade the very fiber of my being. I can't live without it. It's my life, my breath, my support, my family.

I recently had a woman of incredible power (albeit short lived...hopefully) in my life tell me to get a real job. (I could smell charred flesh all around me when she started in on her lecture, as I thought of my chosen profession as just that...a profession!) Hmmm..is it hot in here or is it just me?

But it turns out, the majority of the 9-5 world doesn't consider anything having to do within the arts as work. I know. I've asked most the people in the world for their opinion. (Not most, just most of those I care to hear from) Yet without the arts, writing, painting, dancing, Glee etc...we would be trapped in a burning house, oblivious to the colors the world has to truly offer. Most folks don't give a rat's butt as to how the arts get to where they currently are (youtube vs Julliard vs American Idol) they just know that they're always there for use and abuse.

A good friend of mine by the name of Bryan Pedas recently commented on my blog that he was blissfully happy writing 8 hours a day for no money now that he quit his "real" job. Bryan writes some of the best fiction I've ever read...so I have to ask this, if there weren't Bryan's and other folks that aspire to be the Rachel Berrys and Adam Shankmans of the world, where would we be? I have the feeling that we would be lifeless drones and clones of folks like this guy:


(I will be the first one to admit that I'd never like to have the ACTUAL job or be the ACTUAL person portrayed by Steve Carrell on The Office, I will gladly take on the roll of Mr. Carrell's ACTUAL wife.)

So before you criticize and condone another person's life or their chosen artsy-fartsy occupation, ask yourself this, where would you be without them and their art? You wouldn't be reading this. You wouldn't be listening to the Warblers sing "Somewhere Only We Know" because there wouldn't even be a group known as Keane. And you most certainly wouldn't be able to laugh at your cubical hell through shows like The Office. Some of us are perfectly happy with having little to no money or helping represent those with little to no money. Deal with it. It's our life, not yours.

For the artsy fartsy folks who read this, I think you should go ahead and let the house crumble around you, all the while making sure you've got a gaggle of survival supplies waiting just in case you too are found with your feet burning.



Yours in Work, Well-Done Flesh and Waking up,

Cicily

Quickie Thank You's and Shout Out

Quote of the Day:
It is not clear that intelligence
has any long-term survival rate.
~Stephen Hawking~

Current Local Weather:
Crap is falling straight from the sky
at an alarming rate and landing on my shoulders.

Currently on my iPod:
Blood Bank
~Bon Iver~

Dear Friends, Family and my Family of Friends,

This is a quickie post. I must say that my week or so on the road to promote my book taught me a lot. I know now why folks do this. As horrendous as it is to give birth to a book it is all worth it in the end. Despite the disappointments, the positives, the love, the hate...I've forgotten, already..., about the pain.

I wanted to thank the following people who have helped me survive these past few weeks and have made them actually enjoyable:

Natalie at Black Cat Books in Manitou Springs. You made my birthday and book release one of the best days of my life. I can not possibly thank you enough for all you've done. You're in my heart forever.

Mike and Ashton Cigars and all the dudes working and hanging at Cigars on 6th in Denver. What a fun time. You guys rock my world and I'm so very thrilled to have you support Ned and me.

Abby Murray and the CS Writers Reading Series: You inspire me beyond belief and I am so glad we're in eachother's circle of crazies. Thanks for having me...

Joni at the Book Lady Bookstore in Savannah, GA for hosting me and for providing love, feedback and a warm, friendly smile when I truly needed it.

Ellen and the crew at Foxtale Books in Woodstock, GA. You guys are so overly generous with your promotion and love that I am still feeling it all the way back in Colorado.

George at Eagle Eye Bookstore in Decatur, GA. Love the yellow hat and even more love the atmosphere you provided for me. Despite the lower turn out, meeting you made it all worth it.

I hope if you're a writer, especially one living anywhere near the vicinity of these fine independent book stores that you'll consider making them not only your regular shop for new and used books but also a place where you will hold your own book signings and events in the future.

Also, if you're looking to read more about how I got to where I am...you can go here:

Guide To Literary Agents ( I was a guest columnist for the How I Got My Agent Section...thank you Chuck!)

You can also pick up a copy of September's Issue of Writer's Digest and see a nod in the Notable Debut section for the New Face of Jazz. If you're a writer, I highly suggest you pick this issue up as it has so much amazing advice for writers it's like getting an entire writing conference's worth of advice in the palm of your hands.




I have some more news I'll share with you sooner or later too. And for those who have emailed etc. I am doing fine and the baby is doing great too. I'm at 19 weeks now! Almost half way there...eeks!

Yours in Surviving, Staying Strong and Skittles,

Cicily

Catching Up With the Old and the New

Quote of the Day:

Most people would rather be certain they're miserable, than risk being happy.
~Robert Anthony

Current Local Weather:
Hotter than hell on it's hottest days. Humidity is
at 200% and chance of stroking out
is around 100%.

Currently on my iPod:
GG Train
Charles Mingus

Dear Friends, Family and my Family of Friends,

You may be asking yourself why it's hotter than hell in here or at least up in the local weather forecast. Well, I'm sitting in the Jacksonville, Florida airport waiting on my plane to take me back to a reasonable, cooler, less humidity and more friendly but weathered destination like DENVER or COLORADO SPRINGS! Colorado...my beloved Colorado...I shall never leave you again. I'm sorry for straying this far from home and believe me, because I know you're going to ask when I get there...it was worth it for the business, but it wasn't worth the physical discomfort. Please accept my apologies and take me back into your arms.

Moving on.

I was here (Jacksonville, FL) for a very good reason. It's my next book project and believe me, it was well worth the humidity and the thigh stickage to uber hot leather seats in the rental car. You can also say that I'm stimulating the economy by taking such trips and advancing my career and the amount of reading material in the world...yeah, that's it. I'm working WITH the government to advance our current economic climate.

Jacksonville, Florida, for those who know me, is no stranger in my life. I lived here for several years during college while attending The University of North Florida. U.N.F. (a.k.a. You Never Finish). I'm sure some folks graduate each year from the fine institute of learning it is, but not too many of us in the jazz department did, so it is what it is. I haven't been here since that fateful day in 1998 that I left the grounds and said I never would look back. Then again, I've said that about a lot of things in my life and had to suck on my own words a few years later. So traveling to the land of the Osprey's was bittersweet at best. I was most looking forward to meeting the folks I am working with on this book and catching up with the old folks who know that I'm not always the classy kinda gal I appear to be.

Catching up, in many ways, can be a blessing and a curse. Of course there's always the one man that got away that you WISH you would have had the opportunity to make a future with. There's the girlfriend/wife that now OWNS that man and then there are the friends who are more/less successful than you and you wonder, whether it is more/less, how in the hell they got where they are. There's the gossip, the rumors, the poking fun at yourself or each other, the back and forth that was once so integral to your existence. Catching up also, in one way or another, can force you to take a good look at how far you've digressed or progressed in your own goals in life. Goals, of course, change over time just as we all do both personally and professionally. My goals, and this is hard core fact, have changed drastically over the last few years, and even more so if you look back on my last fifteen years of life.

I used to want to be a professional trumpet player. I LIVED for the horn. I practiced day/night, worked on gigs I thought would forward me to the next level, took lessons from the VERY best folks, and even went to school to try my hand at making a living with it. Sure, it worked for a while but then I found that when you DO all the work you set out to do at a feverish pace from the time you're in middle school on into college, you learn first hand what the words BURN OUT mean.

So I changed my ground to nursing. Sure, say what you want. But this was "easy" for me to change to. I loved people (still do for the most part), I enjoy taking care of others, and I hate to see others in pain. Whammo, for ten years my goal was realized. I worked in a variety of areas in the nursing field but soon felt that I was unfulfilled as a creative soul. I began writing as a way of coping with this. Throughout all this time, I was a writer on the inside but never outwardly expressed it. Ryan soon went off to Basic Training to realize his goal of supporting his family as a musician and I strayed from the nursing world to write for a while. Soon enough, this writing "hobby" became a full-blown Glenn Close like obsession. Most writers will tell you this is true with their careers as well. Starts out safe, happy, and not fully realized. Soon enough, you find yourself wanting the career to leave it's current wife and kids and be YOURS. ONLY YOURS. OR YOU WILL KILL IT AND ALL OF ITS OFFSPRING!



I digress. Not that I would EVER do that...

Of course people thought, at first, that I was crazy when I went into nursing. No, not crazy, desperate. But I survived it and now have TONS of fodder for books I'll never write. Of course everyone I knew had a hard time accepting the fact that I was going to leave a well paying, respected job like nursing so I could pay more attention to the voices in my head. I shouldn't talk like these voices are bad things. After all, they changed my life in so many great ways. I have a career, albeit in its infancy, that is enviable and wonderful and ideal. I have so many great new friends and I have lots of that great new concept called: TIME. I spend lots of time with my kids, my loved ones, and supporting other writers in their quest to get published.

But catching up, back to the original premise of the blog, has helped me realize that I'm in a great place. I'm not so afraid of UNF or it's surroundings because it no longer has the same meaning or symbolism to me. It's not a place where I failed to realize one dream, it's a place that helped me get to where I needed to be to live amidst my new dream. One of those circular journeys in life, I suppose. I was first here as a young (17) college kid hoping that what I picked to follow in my education was what I was meant to do. And although many of my friends are still in that same dream they began years and years ago, I am not. But what I learned through catching up with myself and my friends, is that no matter where you go, where you stray off to, how much weight you gain or lose or where you intend to be in the next fifty years, change is always waiting for you around the corner.

I don't really feel the need to reminisce or worry about what has been or what is to be, from now on, and for the little one inside of me and the little ones and even the big ones I love that live with my cranky and sweaty butt on a daily basis, I'm living in the now.

Yours in Catching Up, Cooling Down, and Carrying On,

Cicily

Yep.

Quote of the Day:
Anything worth doing, is worth doing half-assed until
someone realizes what you're doing and yells at you...
~Me

Current Local Forecast:
Chance of expected prideful smiles, 90% with a 100%
chance of Postpartum Manuscript depression

Currently on my iPod:
Pretend I Don't Exist(bonus track)
"My One and Only Thrill"
Melody Gardot

It's about damn time...more later...

And yes, if you're guessing or thinking what I think you're thinking...then you're right.

Yours in achieving the seemingly impossible, actually losing my sanity(at least twice) and
asking for some time to sleep...

~Cicily

In Simple Reply

IN SIMPLE REPLY

***If I get another threat because of this post, your email will be sent to the police. Free speech is the essence of our country.***


This is in reply to a blog on Darcy James Argue's Secret Society Site:

...a little about me.
I’m a chick, under the age of 33, sleeveless shirts just aren’t my thing and I write about jazz in a very serious way. My last name does not end in Blumenthal, Yanow, or Ratliff.

I am a jazz writer, despite the opinion of others who share this title.
I have broken through this "glass ceiling," in a very big way.

My first book, the New Face of Jazz (www.newfaceofjazz.com) is due out in the summer of 2010. And I DID NOT get this by blowing an editor or my looks. I got here through doing honest hard work and I've done it in a little over a year. (over 400 interviews with musicians around the country, traveling over 4 of these months, compiling a manuscript of over 120K words and an appendix that makes jazz accessible to the layman in over a dozen cities around the U.S.) I’ve been working on writing for quite a while and this doesn’t mean I've only been a "fan or critic" of jazz for a year either. Hardly.

I stepped on the scene as a player in college. I was a jazz studies major at the University of North Florida I played trumpet, lead trumpet to be exact. Don't play much anymore, but that's fine with me. I love to write. Google my name and you’ll see. I grew up with jazz all around me. It's a part of my DNA. I'm also white. I am not a ball busting bitch nor do I dress butch.

Now, I'm not accusing you guys of saying this at all. BUT. I've been through the ringer with the boys club, and I have the feeling it's only getting started, seeing as my pub. date isn't even until next summer. (We're working on cover art now and edits)

So where do I begin?

Let's start with sarcasm, move to biting humor, you know, the kind that leads to bloodletting and end on a note we can probably all agree on.

The review...you can read my reply to his words, if you even want to call them that, are sitting online beneath him as comments. Was he drunk? Maybe he was being a self-righteous bastard who deserves to live in the bowels of writing hell. I’ve sent out an email to every woman in jazz I know and even those in the pop, hip-hop world and more that will hopefully strike against this asshole. Including Maria herself. She is someone I consider a gift to artists everywhere. I’ve spoken with her a few times and not once would I consider her anything less. Diversity? Yeah, whatever.

For the record, I've written better reviews (and I’m not one to go willy-nilly on bragging, but I think anyone with a writing skill level over the age of six or seven could qualify to say this too) and articles for certain jazz establishments and been told to rewrite or no thanks. Again and again and again. Then I’ve been ignored repeatedly when emailing the said person I was supposed to email and finally got a disgruntled, harried response basically saying nothing but we'll deal with you later. I've asked/queried, even with the recommend of a well known jazz writer for other established publications/circles etc and been blatantly ignored, dismissed, or told to direct my concerns regarding subscriptions elsewhere.

So where does that leave the “female jazz critic?” Bare armed and alone with her stiff movements.

My own take on Maria’s music, since a couple of you have addressed this, is this: She lends a deeply personal and spiritual level to even the most simple melodies thus making them relatable to almost anyone. Each musicians she pens reaches with an individual touch, turn or brush of the beat. She’s the one person that changed my mind about what jazz could be. She is also the person who taught me that I had a long way to go as far as my listening skills. Even if a musician or listener does not agree with her music, they can not deny the skill she demonstrates in her sustained and remarkable craft.

Issue at hand: A lot of the musicians I spoke with throughout my journey writing this book, and these were not fluff interviews, spoke of racism, financial issues, and the lack of respect among our culture at large. Not a single male spoke about the lack of females in the art. Not a single male musician I met in my early days as a musician, unless my gig bag was slung across my back, thought I was a horn player. I was obviously the singer. Right?

It hasn’t changed much. When I first started out as a jazz writer it seemed like it was going to be the same. I had a few believers. Marcus Printup, Doug Wamble, and Vince Gardner, whom I know very well, believed in me. They said sure, come on out to NY, we’ll talk. I relied on known contacts to get to those I didn’t know...I slowly was able to infiltrate inner circles. But what I got was not exactly friendly fire.

I heard everything from comments such as, hmm, imagine that, a white girl writing about jazz all the way to, what do you want, a picture with me? or had I known you smelled or looked like that we could have spoken a lot longer etc...So you ask, where are all the female jazz critics?

I’m still standing.
I’m sure there are others.
There’s got to be.

It took me MONTHS to get over this. Not personally, but professionally. When a certain jaded and tainted and manufactured presence is placed upon your shoulders, that weight begins to cause indentations that cut all the way down to your fucking bones. But my bones didn’t break. I had a support system of men and women, sitting on top of the world, waiting, marching in place, thank god.

The women I interviewed weren’t catty, snarky, or any of the other attributes many paint us as having. Many of them are mothers, some grandmothers, sisters, at the very least to eachother, and in ways beyond words, already connected to one another. They have the same common and dire need as the men I interviewed. One of connection, human connection, the need for respect and to get rid of that sense of futility the material world tends to shelter and harbor artists through and out of. It’s difficult enough to succeed in this world without other issues slapping you in the face. Being a woman shouldn’t be one of them. Sure, if you can’t play, regardless of your sex, hit the shed and work on your craft. Don’t sleep with the manager/director/CEO whatnot. Only thing that buys you is an STD and a plate of fertilized and over-easy eggs before the door hits your ass, if you’re lucky. It most certainly does not earn you a career and/or the respect of your peers.

But every woman also spoke of being assumed the less talented one in the group, the least likely one to get called for gigs, unless it involved little to no clothing, last to get called to solo, the inherit lack of mentorship and encouragement past a certain age of those that are considered masters and the disconnect that is going on with the community of artists at large.

Why are women not nurtured and taken under the wings of some of the greats as the younger men are in jazz or in writing or even in the business world? Would everyone really assume we’re sleeping with them or out to bust balls or whatever term? Would it be taboo or would the men’s wives be so insecure they couldn’t handle that closeness as artists? Who knows what the answer really is, but the way I see it, its the mindset that’s been beaten into us through the media, the mass-marketed self-help books, diet worlds and more as children, teenagers and adults that’s hurting us.

Women’s lib did a world of good for a little while, Martin Luther King did a world of good for a little while, Rosa Parks did a world of good for a small amount of time too. But as we’ve seen, these issues will ALWAYS creep up if we let them. Unless there are innovators that come along and say fuck you, I’m sick of waiting on you/the system/others to change like those mentioned above did, we’ll always be stuck in this position.

So you ask, and I’m not apologizing for my tirade, as it needed to be said, what is it that dissuades the females from entering the music field as a critic? Hmmm, nothing. Not a single thing. We’re out there, we’re writing our asses off and I’m just one hard working gal that happened to attract the attention of the kind editors at Random House with a high concept pitch that also happens to give a hell of a lot of myself in order to see the jazz world thrive. It’s up to the writer’s, artists etc, regardless of sex, race and age to become the most vibrant, tenacious and visible counterparts to those already succeeding in any field in order to obtain the most visible work. I don’t even think we have to work harder, we just have to figure how much shit, just like every other adult I know, we can live being full of, and then purge the rest.

Women need to appreciate themselves for their own traits and attributes and then, and only then, will others, including other women be able to move on. Will this keep me from dressing nice and smelling nice, taking pride in who I am and my womanly side and making sure nice images are up at all times in my place in the public eye, certainly not. I have a level of dignity that needs to be kept. If those that have and expect that same level of dignity to be held in honor of their own names would just follow the simple rule, even those that review others and critique others, we wouldn’t have a need for this discussion today.

The Worst Job in the World

Current mood: nauseated
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers

Currently on my IPOD: Waterfall : Griffin House

Good Evening,

How was your day? I spoke with a friend from NY this afternoon and she said it was hotter than H-E-double hockey sticks. It was hot here as well, with humidity higher than usual. So, I flipped on the AC and everything is beginning to feel right. My legs no longer seem as if they are their own shower.

I like my job. As a matter of fact, I liked it more than usual today. I had so much overtime that my boss let me have an extra day off. For the moment, my boss is my favorite person. I enjoyed my free time immensely, did some shopping early this morning and spent the rest of the day reading and writing.

What was I reading? Submissions...Very excited to be on board with Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens as an associate editor. Screening submissions is a lot more fun than I thought it would be. Maybe I have found a niche' for myself.

What else did I read today? Absolute Friends by John Le Carre. I am about three chapters into it and as usual want to stop my life and finish it, but I guess that will have to wait.

You know what I think the most horrible job would be, I know, tangent, but having the title of Bertie Bott's Jelly Belly Bean Taster would have to be the worst.

WTF does this person do? Hey Guys...Ya know, this vomit bean doesn't taste nearly like the vomit I have here on the plate in front of me. Maybe add a little more acid, or last weeks gunky green beans. Or, ya know, this booger one is pretty flavorless, when I pick my boogers they tend to bleed so maybe throw in a little blood with the next batch. Rotten eggs, had enough of those today, lets just test out the grass and earthworms, but don't fry the earthworms, they just lose all flavor when fried.

Gross. Double gross.

Ewww..Alright, talking about this will certainly help curb my appetite for the rest of the evening. Maybe this is the trick to dieting. Eat a half dozen of the Every Flavor Beans and then purge. Should be quite easy to lose weight doing this.

Hold on..I feel a vurp coming on.

Good night and sweet dreams. Oh, and go out and see the new HP movie. I saw it earlier this week and it is fabulous.

Yours in Beans, Belly-Aches and Busting Down the Door

Cicily