Slow Dance

I’ll cut right to the chase, because lately, the words come to me that way: it’s really scary when your dreams begin to come true. I hate that I’ve typed that. I hate that I feel that way. Shut up, I’m inclined to say to the whiner who complains about good things. Shut the hell up and be grateful. But I’m not whining. Honest. I’m astonished. Even though everything–everything!–makes me nervous on some level, I was unprepared for this bone-deep fear. Totally unprepared.

Here come all these amazing things. I can see them, rounding the corner. I’ve prayed and wished and focused and worked my ass off for them. It’s no real surprise they’re headed my way. But I’m still shocked somehow. Oh my God, now what?

Now I say, Yes, thank you.

And ignore the fear that says THIS IS UNLIKE ANYTHING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED. Because yeah, it is. And it’s exactly what I’ve always wanted.

Yes. Thank you.

You can edit this ad by going editing the index.php file or opening /images/exampleAd.gif

And why the sea is boiling hot — And whether pigs have wings.

My hope is that tomorrow morning this seems more “hilariously absurd” and less “my blood vessels are bursting.” And that, dear friend, is why I share it with you.

On Monday, I received an email from someone I don’t know; let’s call her Jane Doe. I was one of many people to receive her email, and it seemed to have something to do with local politics in a county about 300 miles north of where I live. I wondered how I’d received it, until I saw that one of my email addresses, ejgibsonATgmailDOTcom, was paired with a woman we’ll refer to as JC Gibson. So, I emailed Jane Doe to let her know that there had been an error. I then received an email from someone who had hit “reply all,” at which point I let the entire list know about the mix-up.

And hilarity ensued. And ensued. And ensued.

And ensued.

***

From: Emma Alvarez Gibson

To: [Everyone on list]

The email address ejgibsonATgmailDOTcom is listed here erroneously as belonging to someone named [JC] Gibson. Please remove that address from your lists and contact [JC] via telephone for her correct email address.

Thank you,

Emma Alvarez Gibson

***

From: Jane Doe

To: Emma Alvarez Gibson

We are not aquainted.  You are not on my email list and yet you get

sent my emails.  I have complained to Comcast and I will complain

again.

[Jane]

***

From: Emma Alvarez Gibson

To: [Jane Doe]

[Jane], my email address (ejgibsonATgmailDOTcom) is on your list, as [JC Gibson]. Please just get [JC]‘s email address and replace mine.

Thank you.

***

From: Jane Doe

To: Emma Alvarez Gibson

I am trying.  Comcast said they will get their most expert person on the

job to figure out how this happens.  I can assure you that at no time did

I put your name onto [JC]‘s email address. I am hoping they can solve

this problem.

***

From: Emma Alvarez Gibson

To: [Jane Doe]

Thanks, [Jane]. Just to clarify, it’s my email address (ejgibsonATgmailDOTcom) that’s paired with [JC Gibson]‘s name on your list, not the other way around, as you stated.

Thanks again!

***

From: [Jane Doe]

To: Emma Alvarez Gibson

[JC],

this woman is getting my email and I am wondering if you are

getting her email or if you are getting my email.

I don’t know this woman and comcast is trying to

figure it out.  Evidently she has a gmail account similar

to yours as well as this litmusstudio account.

Very confusing.

[Jane]

***

From: Emma Alvarez Gibson

To: [Jane Doe]

[Jane],  Once again, you have [JC]‘s name linked to my email address in your address book. It has nothing to do with Comcast. You have simply input the wrong email address into your email address book. Please, I am asking again, simply delete my email address and get Janet’s correct email address, preferably via telephone.

Thank you.

***

A couple of things here. First, I get the impression that Jane Doe believes email can be switched around like snail mail–”Whoops! Looks like the mailman dropped this off at the wrong house!” Second, did she read anything I had written to this point? Any of it?

Moving on. I decided to do a search for [JC Gibson]‘s email address. Three seconds later, I had it. What do you know? The one I found was very similar to mine, except for the ISP.

***

From: Emma Alvarez Gibson

To: [Everyone on the list]

A quick Google search shows that [JC Gibson]‘s email is ejgibsonATearthlink.net and NOT ATgmail.com.Please change this information in your address books, as I have no interest in continuing to receive email intended for [JC Gibson].

Thank you.

***

From: [Yet another woman I don't know, whose display name actually, comically, tragically says "Esq." after her last name. Really?]

To: Emma Alvarez Gibson

I am sorry you are getting unwanted email from someone.  But I do not think I am sending you anything.  You are simply replying “to all”.  So please quit sending me email. Delete me from your response and I will not send you any email.

***

And now we’ve reached the point in the evening where my brain broke. As you’ll be able to see from my response to Lady Pompous, Esquire.

***

From: Emma Alvarez Gibson

To: [Firstname Lastname] Esq

Dear [Firstname Lastname] Esq,

In point of fact, you did send me email, just now. However, I do understand that you have no desire to receive email from me; and this desire is mutual on my behalf.

Goodbye forever.

Yours,

Emma Gibson

***

Exactly five minutes later, this came in.

***

From: [Jane Doe]

To: Emma Alvarez Gibson

Well, you were right, I didn’t get the change correct.

It has been changed to:  [an incredible four first initials]gibsonATgmailDOTcom.  She has closed her

earthlink account.

Sorry about all this,

[Jane]

***

Jane, I regret to inform you that YOU FAIL INTERNET. And reading simple directions. And computers. Also, I hope you plan to call Comcast and apologize to them for having them put “their most expert person” on this hot case.

UPDATE!

Because just as I hit “publish,” this came in, I KID YOU NOT.

***

Dear Friends,

Gretchen forwarded this email to me.  Please allow me to correct the asterisked, quote below: My new Email address is: [an incredible four first initials]gibsonATgmailDOTcom. (I am discontinuing my former Earthlink address.)  Who is Emma Alvarez Gibson?

Thank you,   [JC]

***

It’s like that awful old practical joke, where a bunch of people call a business and all ask for the same nonexistent person, and then one last person calls, claiming to be said nonexistent person and wanting to know whether they have any messages.

Next up: is your refrigerator running? Oh, and PS, I received that last email twice, since it went to–yes, you guessed it–both that Gmail address and the Litmus Studio address.


Games Without Frontiers

Lawnmowers. Cars with open hoods, revving their guts out. Blow dryers. These things terrified me as a child. They were overwhelming; the sounds seemed to invade every cell in my being, producing a sort of blind panic, and the sense that I was eroding. The fact that these things didn’t seem to bother other people hinted to me that it was an issue best left unspoken.

Of course, it wasn’t just sounds that caused this reaction. It could be anything related to the senses. Certain words. Perfumes and colognes. Certain food smells. Some textures. Colors. The shower, even–water dropping loudly onto my head from high above? No way. I was bath-only for a long, long time. Very often it was simply someone’s presence. (Try explaining that as a child. Even as an adult, it doesn’t quite fly, for most audiences.)

Teacher’s notes on my report cards and comments from friends and foes alike only underlined the oddity of my little radar. She’s extremely sensitive… You take everything too seriously!… Why are you like that? God!

Being in a crowd or even just out running errands always required downtime, or I’d be a wreck, buzzing with words, images, fleeting ideas, attitudes, scents: information. Way too much information.

(The last time I visited my best friend in New York, the subway trip from airport to apartment filled me up with so much static that I went straight into her bedroom, closed the door, lay down on her bed, covered my head with a pillow and listened to Beethoven’s Sonata #21 on repeat for a good thirty minutes.)

I came up with ways to work around these massive triggers. You have to live, after all. But it probably took until I was thirty years old to really feel like it was seamless. The work-arounds are too numerous and too complicated to explain*. But I recently used the analogy that it’s a bit like wearing massive body armor–like wearing a robot, really–reading the data as it comes in and having the armor react accordingly. [*Also, then you end up saying crazy shit like "wearing a robot."]

Anyway, it was right around that time (isn’t it always?) that I stumbled across the concept of HSP, which stands for Highly Sensitive Person. A phrase which makes me squirm in my very soul. Mortified, I read the description. And then another. And I clicked on related links. And–you see where this is going, don’t you?–everything I read described me. I took this test and, well, aced it.  And while I highly resented the ’70s-flavored pop-psych feel of most of the sites on the topic, as well as the concept of yet another “thing” that we should all be “aware” of [quotes only semi-ironic], I also, no lie, cried with relief.

Because it put to rest the last bit of worry I had that maybe I was just a total fucking lunatic.

(I mean, I may well be one, but at least this particular issue isn’t what clinches it.)

Apparently HSP became an established concept sometime in the late 90s. And apparently I’m not alone in this. Havi talks about it quite a bit and does a stellar job of respecting that she needs to do things a certain way in order to be happy and whole. Ije is another of my people. As are more and more of the people I’m connecting with–but the key is this: they know they are this way, they’ve figured out how to work with it, and they take care of themselves. Because the alternative ain’t pretty. It’s a lot of beastly behavior that drives people and most living things away. I’ve known a few of them. I’ve been a few of them.

Those sounds still scare me. Too much data just freaks me out. But most of the time the safety assurances I’ve made for myself (“It’s okay, sweetie, I know it’s loud, but you are totally safe”) circumvent any actual bad feeling. And I’m learning to talk about these situations when the assurances don’t work. It’s been interesting telling my nearest and dearest about this. Usually there’s some disbelief. Which I totally get. But I’m finding that the more honest I am about all of this, the easier life gets. There’s a tremendous freedom in knowing what you’re working with, but none so startlingly sweet as when the what is you.

(It took me ages to write this post. I’ve been frankly terrified of doing it. But I’m glad I did. Thanks for reading.)

Holy cow.

So, wow. Delish seems to have struck a chord. And we are absurdly happy about it, my partners-in-crime and I.  The first five days have been really fantastic, and that’s because of you. Thank you, you! We’re so pleased that you’re digging our creation, and we can’t wait for you to see what’s coming up next. In the meantime, be sure to let us know what you want to see in Delish. You can leave me a comment here; you can leave a comment on the Delish blog; you can tweet your ideas to @delishmag; you can let us know on the Delish Facebook page.

You’re lovely! Yes, you!

It’s delightful, it’s de-lovely, it’s Delish.

Three women with husbands, kids and jobs. More than a few fascinating and talented writers, artists and photographers. Many, many late nights and delirious conversations (especially toward the end there…wow, did we get weird.).

One magazine unlike anything else on the market.

I’ve been working toward this for much of my life, and it’s terribly, terribly exciting and wonderful to see the first result of our efforts. If you haven’t already, check out Delish. I’d love to know what you think.

Pomp & Circumstance, Inc.

This photo encapsulates the aesthetics I most loved about the 80s.

(Yeah, there are only two of them. But it was–it is–a strong love.)

That New Romantic thing, considerably stripped down and made much hipper by Mr Cave here, on the left, and the unapologetic,  industrial-punk toughness of Mr Bargeld on the right–collectively, the best of those days.  (I was in grade school when this photo was taken, busily buying English music magazines and dressing like a freak, much to the concern of many a well-meaning adult.)

So go on, tell me: what were your favorite things about the 80s?

Me ‘n’ Breech

Meet my favorite local band ever: Breech. A million years ago I interviewed them for Heart of the Underground Radio*, and not too long ago I unearthed the recording. I’m not sure whether they’re still playing, though their MySpace page has seen recent activity, which I take as a good sign. In any case, this interview is (I think) super-fun, and their music is just fantastic.

Listen here.

(BIG UPS to the inimitable Warwick Merry for making, out of many mp3 files, one. Thanks, pal!)

*a now-defunct online station that played an amazing mix of music

The Early Show


I know why you were there
your blue shirt
and awkward graying hair
said almost as much
as the wall of silence
you wore, and
the waves of fear
that rippled out
away from you,
stony, careful.

I could hear you
preparing your reasons
for the leaders
of an inquisition
that would not come.

Leaning away
from my friends
I watched it unravel
my purple scarf
winding around
my neck,
wrapping around
my hands,
bandages.

Slumped down,
I wept as
each page turned,
snapshots: the phone call,
the confusion, the deliberate
look, the clumsy
weakness, the need
a gaping hole.

Someone’s
water bottle squeaked.
I turned and
cowered: thirsty strangers
were drinking me in,
ants wading through
discarded meat.

When it was over
you stood
on the steps,
staring at the picture
a look like no oxygen,
implosion,
that shame.

You struggled against
the tremendous gust
of nothing
that forced its way back
inside of you, as it had
not done with me.
I wanted to tell you I knew:
to scare you, or maybe
to comfort you.
I wanted to ask you
if he’s sorry.

2003

Subtext

There are people who do not say
I miss you; they listen
for smoke signals
in spaces others fill
with words. They recall
names and events,
they offer only
things you hadn’t the
courage to ask for.

I know when you’ve missed me:
you want to tell me
everything that’s happened
until you’re no longer
burdened
by the fence of
words between us.

2003

Downtime

I could subsist
on your breath alone;
unbeknownst
to you, I
devour it
late at night
or when
you are watching
television.
It is an entire
meal,
maybe two.
Violet’s gum has
nothing
on this
achingly perfect
concoction.

All of your ideas
pour in
like helium.
I rise and settle
more deeply.

2003