Phoebe Southwood's Page

I'm so heartsick for the Bay Area right now, it's pissing me off.

I fucking missed Pride in Portland by being a complete retard, and thinking that it would be this weekend. I missed Lady Miss Kier. And I'm going to miss the Dyke March in SF next weekend. Grrr.

AND! And, I'm going to be spending Tyler's birthday alone for the first time in our 14 years together because he's going to Seattle to take a very cool class. I'm glad for him, but sad I can't miss my own classes to go be with him on is 39th. :(

CRANKEGH

And homesick.

There was this illegal spot on the south side of the Golden Gate bridge I went to a few times...you can't get there anymore because the area is quarantined for lead poisoning issues, but there used to be a way up under the bridge via a ladder and catwalk.

Once you get there, you are shaded from the burning halogen on the bridge. The stars sprinkle down to the horizon on the Pacific...you can almost smell Japan. Turning around, the city is blazing at you with the unfolding stories of millions of people, all at once. There is something so delicious about the intensity of that dangerously sharp edge in that quiet, hidden place with the cacophony of stories at my back and the oblivion of wild space and endless ocean and different customs before me.

I guess it's not so bad. This is the first homesickness I've felt, and it's been about a year.

I miss the familiarity of things. I'm actually kind of sick of everything being a first time experience. I thought I'd be really into it, but I'm sort of just tired from it right now. I also miss the sense of infinite humanity surrounding me. I could never meet all the people there are in Portland, I know, but something about the Bay Area...all those amazing people in such a beautiful place.

I need to travel soon.

OK. I'll stop bitching now.

It's so rare that I find good jokes related to music.
This one comes via Lemur Katta. Enjoy!

I have been doing a search for a sexy song for an actor to undress to for the play my school is doing, and I found a forum about the best songs to get you laid.

I'm all too happy to share what I found.

This was the third post:

I'm home late. Again.

Four days in Seattle cramming music and dance and songwriting and ear learning technique into my brain, and then a way late night drive home yesterday, arriving to a cold bed and unstable felines at 3AM.

Back at school first thing today for a paper tech. Then working on sound cues. Then home for looking for more music, a quick nap with Flash, and back to school for Voice class, and more sound work.

In there somewhere I dropped a new earring down the bathroom sink drain. I plugged the drain and put an orange towel in the sink until I can figure out how to get it out.

I'm tired. I'm jealous of Liam's awesome blog entries, that are always so funny, and great to read. I feel behind, and I don't have ideas of my own.

So I've decided to officially plaguerize. Him and Ted Hughes. Enjoy.

Here's the poem I'm working on in Voice:

Crow's Theology
Ted Hughes

Crow realized God loved him --
Otherwise, he would have dropped dead.
So that was proved.
Crow reclined, marvelling, on his heartbeat.

And he realized that God spoke Crow --
Just existing was His revelation.

But what
Loved the stones and spoke stone?
They seemed to exist too.
And what spoke that strange silence
After his clamour of caws faded?

And what loved the shot-pellets
That dribbled from those strung-up mummifying crows?
What spoke the silence of lead?

Crow realized there were two Gods --

One of them much bigger than the other
Loving his enemies
And having all the weapons.

First impressions of Folk Life.

First day of Folklife. I forgot my camera, so I found myself trying to soak everything up so that I could memorize it.

I'm writing from the back of my pickup truck, half asleep, in a situation a bit like a Japanese coffin hotel.

Things I saw:

Hundreds of people moving in unison in a massive square dance, from above. The crowd moves and shifts chaotically at first, and then as the song continues, repeats, all the dancers get better, and the whole room writhes in perfect quilty patterns, people all clap and stomp at the same time. The beauty and the symmetry make me cry.

Young people - all in their dark and colorful finery, plumage precisely coifed, clothes picked with most careful disheveled intent. Each one different, like a beach full of every gem stone you can imagine - some polished, some jagged - shining, enthusiastic eyes, dancing, laughing, standing around smoking.

Pointy, angular, steel clad anarchists, attempting to annoyingly squirm their way into circles of frowsty, patient old hippie folks. The patient elders, men with long beards, women with long skirts, grey ponytails galore, are un-phased by punk. Everyone is relaxed. The anarchists give up for now, churlish pups off on their next adventure.

A dread-headed neo-Utopian of the green persuasion, with large clear round ear plugs, shaved eyebrows replaced with symmetrical circles tattooed over his pale, calm, grey eyes - in cheap blue tattoo ink.

Lots of flopping puppies on ropes, a big muffin of an old golden retriever, and a noble, calm pug in perfect posture and form. A smiling beagle mutt, excited by so many foodular smells.

Two women with long blond hair, looking deeply into each others eyes while frailing on their banjos, a beautiful wordless duet.

3 great story tellers, including Auntmama from the blue ridge mountains.

1 not too good ska band.

The monorail ride of terror - taking off from Battlestar Galactica. The feeling of falling. Tyler making a joke about shitting a massive log of concrete as we rode over it, the mono part. Then all the formally spruced up partying young women climbing aboard and the rough guy with ham hands and a big mustache who said "we went the wrong way!" and "I hate to see that!" as those lovely baubles rode away - 12 pillowy, perfect chests encased in a rainbow of synthetic fabrics.

And while we're on the subject, a young woman with henna tattoos of little bear claws on the tops of her pale white breasts.

Rhodies wearing frilly white and pink ruffles of their most ethereal flowers, the original blueprint for flouncing skirts, pastels, silk, and transparent cotton.

The smell of cold, wet asphalt and green grass, the savory sweet waftings of pot smoke, the fishy cheesy smell of the fat old folkie next to me, the smell of BBQ pork and chicken, french fries, funnel cakes, and kettle corn. Indian and Thai food. Elephant ears, and tart chamomile tea. Pounds of sauteeing onions, and pan seared salmon.

The violinist that busks the same tune over and over. The Chinese rebab player, followed by the hurdy gurdies.

Sad, jangling banjos, silver bright guitar string sounds, smooth warm fiddles of the blue grass circles every 5 steps, their grey haired men in little silver rimmed glasses, and earth colored baseball caps - all looking like Tyler's dad with their mustaches - tucked away in every corner. Making music - the droning, perfectly timed wordless sharing of an endless repertoire of songs.

Precious stones and metals forced into fine jewelry. Artisans all about selling blindingly sparkling wares - pots, hats, soaps, wooden bowls, glass mosaics. Endless schtuff.

The overwhelming, tear-jerking, heart-exploding sensation of being blessed with such richness and plenty. Music for ears, eyes, nose, mouth and skin. Thousands of gentle people, all different, yet agreeing to get along. I feel safe here.

It feels like finding enough love in one place.

I wish everywhere felt like this all the time.