what was going on after I said “yes” – through the lens of a half-hour sitcom

Dharma wants to know Greg’s fantasy girl. Greg tells his mother that he doesn’t want to go on the cruise with her. Dharma tracks down Greg’s fantasy girl and she makes a video. Dharma can’t understand why Greg is not thrilled. Dharma talks to her mother about Greg’s fantasy. Dharma’s mother says by shining a light on a man’s libido fantasy, you ruin the fantasy. My fingers are sticky from the popcorn I just ate. Dharma goes to her travel agent and tells her travel agent that she wants Greg to think about her (the travel agent) while Dharma and Greg are having sex. The travel agent can’t believe what she is hearing. I’ll be eating popcorn and pasta for the rest of the week. I hope I can keep my temper with my boss, he makes me crazy. I hope I know where the keys are for the storage space. I must write stories. I could write a story from the point of view of the neighbors who live across the street. They could be watching me watching TV from across the street. The travel agent thinks Dharma is creepy. Dharma tells the travel agent that she is a babe. The travel agent cries and says she wants people to take her seriously. Greg’s family is angry that Greg told the truth. Greg wants his family to be honest about each other. Greg finally tells Dharma he doesn’t need a fantasy girl.

-Found entry from September 24, 2003 – 14th Street, New York City

Coffe Shop 14th Street Holly Troy

Maggie and Jack

Been thinking about Jack Kerouac and Maggie Estep today.

Bad Day at the Beauty Salon

And Maggie’s classic: I’m An Emotional Idiot.

and: I’m Happy

sometimes you are helpless

Humid

Breath is pulled from my lungs.
My throat goes hollow
every time a howling
fire truck wails down the street.

My throat goes hollow,
I could swallow those anxious faces peering
from the fire truck wailing down the street.
It would be safer in my mouth—

I could swallow those anxious faces peering,
despite (my) pounding temples and blurred time.
It would be safer in my mouth—
I could shout a warning.

In spite of pounding temples and blurred time,
every time there’s a howling
it’s a warning
that’s been pulled from my lungs.

* * * * *

Yesterday, when I read the news that there was a gas leak explosion in the neighborhood that was my home of twenty years, New York’s East Village, I gasped. Three buildings caught fire and collapsed. This bullet point in the Daily Mail headline haunts me: Nicholas Figueroa, 23, who was on a date at a sushi restaurant and Moises Lucon, who worked there, have been reported missing.

east village coffee shop (c) 2009 Holly TroyFire was one of my greatest fears when I lived in the city. There is nothing like the sinking feeling of walking home and seeing firetrucks on your block, or a friend’s block. How quickly fire can spread on those tenement buildings pressed up against one another.

Of course, fire is a big issue here as well. I’ve experienced two forest fires, and both times, have had friends whose homes came close to being swallowed up. Last year, when I first started dating my boyfriend, I helped him evacuate his home. The landscape was eerie and strangely beautiful, overcome with the haze of smoke and (not so) distant glow of fire.

I wrote the poem above in response to 9/11. After the attack, walking by a fire station was like walking through a pocket of sorrow – the weight of sadness in the air was palpable. So much loss. Whenever I’d see a firetruck, I was overwhelmed  by the faces of the men inside. Just, oh – I wish 9/11 never happened.

It was . . . so real

Dreaming of my old neighborhood(s) in New York City. Rolling over the past in my sleep, unconsciously in(ter)jecting new thoughts and experiences. In my dreams there is less concrete and more wood. The decay is still abundant.

After all the haze and horror of the 80s, the 90s was a time of hope, even among the rubble. Music, art, creativity, yoga and spirituality merged and emerged from the grayness and dust of the city, of the darkest places. It was like swimming, like falling, in a deep pool of inspiration, so many ageless children diving down and willingly sharing, exchanging, the pearls we’d found at the murky bottom.

It was a time.

I remember Jeff Buckley surfacing.

riding the changes

This summer has been a wild journey. I’m exhausted – but mostly in a good way.

Helianthus annuus mark the peak and the ending of summer.

Helianthus annuus mark the peak and the ending of summer.

I’m assessing my life, love, career, home, and the next moves forward. I guess it’s natural this time of year. Life feels like it’s reflecting the season in transition. In Flagstaff the days are perfect right now, but they are getting shorter. The lobster mushrooms were bursting from beneath pine needles and stones on the sides of the trails I was riding this afternoon. (I ate some sauteed in butter today – delicious!) Fall is coming.

This week, High Mesa Yoga starts up. Tuesday and Thursday evenings are going to be full-on with yogic energy. I’m preparing the space. Smudging. Bringing in more good vibes. It’s a shift from using all available light to ride up the mountain. Turning-inward energy.

While going through my things, I found this poem. I wrote it in 2005 while living in New York City. I made a couple of edits. It’s a play off of a poem by John Ashbury.

Ride

He smelled good to me, so I wanted to taste,
put him in my mouth,
while light softly glowed through green curtains
then, his moss eyes. He didn’t know what I was thinking.
It was Sunday, so time was short.
Soon I would be thinking about Monday
and my lousy job.

I played lotto and lost again.
If I had money, I’d own my own parking spot,
a driveway. I didn’t think I could be so selfish
but I really like space.

I could just leave the city and look at the sky.
I could ride a red bicycle with recycled
plastic ribbons on the handlebars
and not think of people as I watch
treetops and clouds cutting through blue.

If I turned up at your door with a long
but true story
would you invite me in —
or would you notice I’d lost my childhood fat,
like our friendship, and block the threshold
thinking you know all about
my skin and bones?

© 2005

I have my bike today, and a place to park it!

Born on a Thursday #24 ~ All Shook Up

self-portrait with mom (c) 2013 Holly Troy

Mom and me trying to be serious.

I’ve been visiting my family these past few days. I love my mom, and, I haven’t been back east in three years —these trips take some adjusting.

I already miss my peeps from home. I can’t wait to hug them all—and to breathe air from the big sky—and to just be quiet and let love fill up the spaces.

I miss space.

I am going to a wedding this weekend, and seeing some old good friends, and, it is all happening in the Hudson Valley. Originally, I thought of going to New York City, but after watching the heatwave happen here last week, my NYC idea faded. Then, I thought about the beach, but I knew if I saw my family first and didn’t stay in NYC, that chances were big that the beach wouldn’t happen. (For some reason, whenever I am in the presence of family, my ability to move and make clear decisions slows way down, and the first two days I was here, it rained, and today, it was chilly – so, that also knocked out the beach idea).

Big mouth CIH.300dpi

Belting it!

What’s the best thing to do when you can barely think and the weather is crappy and you’re visiting your mom who is a smoker and you are not? Look through boxes of stuff to see what you can find. I’ve been looking for two things mainly — old vocal exercise tapes with my coach Don Lawrence and videos of my performances. I found neither of those things. I did find one box with artwork and journals that have moldered and mice have made nests of, LPs that Chewie the pet rabbit has been snacking on, and, (redemption!) photos that are in pristine condition of my band The Halfbreeds!

Scanning has commenced, along with laughter and a torrent of stories!

Also, today, after two-and-a-half days of no alone time or quiet, I managed to steal away and just listen to night animals. Magic! (More magic – cherries and tomatoes! They are so tasty out here!)

How come, when I need it the most, I forget to meditate? Tomorrow morning, just like I do every morning at home, I will meditate and write. And for the rest of my time here, I will meditate and write.

Listening to the night started this post and call-and-response between my friends Arnie Mostowy, Aaron Campbell, and me:

lightning bugs, birds, and bullfrogs.
Van Halen, a duelie, and me
sugar, spice, and everything nice!
two TVs, a guy yelling, and cigarette smoke
Shotgun, zerg and you
clink of ice, bag of dirt, and leather jacket
Two turntables and a microphone
Bag of ice, Budweiser and leather jacket (Not the cold ice either….lol)
where it’s at, glory box, and naked lightbulb
The Damned, Van Halen, and Molly Hatchet
ice skating alone, half shirt, and New Jersey
slowly unscrambling old data, Kryptonite, and tequila.
photographs, yellowed paper, and sun screen.
strawberries, cherries, and an angel’s kiss in spring . . .

I love collaboration!

The Halfbreeds - Francis DiDonato, Holly Troy, Sanford Santacroce, Jennifer Haskins, and Jamey Evans

The Halfbreeds – Francis DiDonato, Holly Troy, Sanford Santacroce, Jennifer Haskins, and Jamey Evans

Thanks for reading! Have an amazing week.

Connecting outside of internet/telephone technology

Born on a Thursday Number Thirteen

Part of why I am going back to New York, I want to communicate with people face-to-face, I want to have creative connection face-to-face, I want to really see my friends rather than seeing what they are doing on facebook. I want to be doing things with them!! I want to hear their music live, I want to make music with them live, to write, to dance, to laugh, to talk, to share – to really really share.

Is it a risk for me to go to New York? I don’t think it’s any more risky than me staying here where I have not been able to break out of isolation for over two years. I think sticking around much longer where I barely have any connection is a bigger risk.

Patti says it well. We need connection!! and – We need to get angry!

It’s funny, when I started doing Born on a Thursday I was so excited because I made a connection with the painter Charles Kurre at Pop-Up Gallery in Scottsdale. It was a Thursday night, too! I was walking past all the standard touristy western art when, like an oasis in a desert of false safety and conservative “taste”, an abstract painting enticed me to peer inside an off-to-the-side gallery. Charles was sitting right in the middle of his gallery at a little desk. On the desk were cards, a book, and a bottle of red wine. Charles immediately asked me if I wanted to know anything about his work – and I said that I wanted to just look first. Which I did. And then I wanted to know about his work.

I like Charles’ work. It’s frenetic. It vibrates. I got the idea for Born on a Thursday because of Charles’ It Happens Every Tuesday project (which you should check out).

I'm gonna miss this girl!

I’m gonna miss this girl!

As I was making the half hour drive home that night, I was thinking – I can do this. I can make this work. I can stay in Phoenix. I can do this. I can stay . . .

But it doesn’t look like I can.