Category: authenticity

authenticity · beauty · confidence · sexuality

Your Beauty Speaks So You Don’t Have To.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

An audition monologue piece was suggested to me by the 25
y.o. He said it’s not the best character in the play, but the character is
supposed to be young and attractive, and it’s best to go with what the auditors
are already seeing.
In the piece I’m practicing for Monday’s audition, the woman
says, “You think my beauty gives me riches I didn’t earn.” “I used to feel that
way, too,” she says. So she became quiet, unseen, out of the way, meek, so as not seem … well, it’s hard to say exactly what – so as not to seem
like she’s bragging? It’s a hard quality to distill. But I get it, and I’ve written about it. (See: Cadillac Beauty. Actually, after writing the rest of today’s blog, I just reread that piece, and it’s nearly the same place I am with this 3 years later, and worth my rereading.)
The character in the play says she became quiet and instead used piano as her
voice when she was young, in order to have a self, but not an intrusive self,
more than her appearance already intruded. Which is what I did with writing.
The piece goes on to say she wishes she could meet her
younger self, and tell her to own it,
flaunt it if you have to, she says. Be anything other than afraid.
I stayed late after acting class on Thursday to talk with
the only other “trying to be an actress” person in the class – she’s in the
actor’s union and everything. She was giving me notes about my performance of
this piece. She said that I have to stop hiding, that this *insert curving shoulders inward here* doesn’t actually hide or pretend that I’m not who I am.
That, damnit Molly, you will always be a 6 foot tall beautiful woman. That
brushing it aside, pretending it’s not, doesn’t change it.
I argue-joked with her while pulling down my cheeks in “nothing lasts forever” agedness. I looked down, brushing away her words with my hand. No, it isn’t
something I’ve earned. It’s not
something I’ve “accomplished,” or built, or created. It just happens to be.
But, it’s not that important.
I told her that sometimes you just want to walk into a room
and not be noticed. How hard I tried
when I was young to be the wallflower. But, I am a 6 foot tall beautiful woman,
and I don’t get that anonymity all the time.
I realize now I would like to say something like, But I
don’t mean to play the “Poor Little Pretty Girl” card, that I don’t mean to
incite rancor or dismissiveness in you over what actually has created a very
uncertain way of being in the world, but I won’t say that.
I have apologized for a very long time to you for looking
how I do.
The two ways I sought to remedy this in the past was to try
to hide (see “shrinking shoulder” move) or to decide if what you wanted from
me, boys, was my body, then that’s all you shall have.
Neither of these take all of it into consideration – take all of me into consideration.
This feels like trepidatious ground to walk on, being honest
about this part of my experience. I don’t want to arouse negative feelings in
you. But, if part of what I do here is to be honest about everything, and
believe me, you know a LOT!, then this is part of it too.
Because I have changed, and am changing around it. I’ve
begun wearing heels again. Upgraded my jeans to be more form fitting, because I
have a body that wears clothing well. I don’t have to “flaunt it” as my
character says, I don’t need to, I just need to be honest with myself, and
therefore the world about what’s really going on.
I wonder if you’re still even reading 😉
It is a very hard line to walk (in heels) for me. How to own
how I look, but not have that overshadow my personality. My friend in acting
class said that I am a super model walking around in the world, who can
actually have a conversation.
That’s a large mantle to wear.
Like most assets of mine, I downplay and dismiss them. My
appearance is no exception. “Oh, it’s not really… No, don’t praise, it’s not… I’m
not…”
We’ve heard me write about this before, about jumping from
creative endeavor to creative endeavor so as not to get too good at anything,
and therefore have to admit (own) that I’m either good at it, or that it’s
important to me.
If you’ve met me in person, you do know that how I dress is important to me, most of the time. You know that my
style has evolved, is ever changing, and is sometimes more bold than I give
myself credit for.
But, honestly, it’s not bold enough. It’s not honest enough. It’s still hidden. It’s still “shh, don’t
tell, don’t look.” I think I’m getting better at it, but last night, as I was ushering
at the Fox theater, there was a photographer taking shots for the event. We
were making eyes at one another, and I found as I walked back and forth
helping patrons to their seats, I held myself differently than before we
noticed one another. I walked with a confidence and precision in my body that I
didn’t before. And, I also pretty much stopped breathing.
My breathing becomes shallow when I know you’re watching me.
When I take on the posture of the 6 foot tall model, I’m not fully embodied
anymore. There’s a retreat that happens. Still.
So. [Insert end-of-blog life lesson/challenge] (my blogs are as predictable
as an episode of Full House with it’s
cheesey last 10 minutes music overplaying while Danny Tanner talks to his oldest daughter D.J. about some “just be yourself” life lesson!)
Nonetheless. I know I have a switch from “just me” to “me in
heels” (read: me when I’m aware of my appearance). The “me in heels” is a
little distant, a little removed, and a little scared of not maintaining
composure. All of it is me, but it is not integrated. So, guess what today’s life
lesson/challenge will be?

authenticity · dating · finances · frustration · grief · relationships · romance · work

Bus Stop Boy

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Well now.
So, I guess I should tell you about Bus Stop Boy, now that
I’ve finally broken down and updated one of the people I have in my life whose
main relationship with me is about helping me work on relationships.
Over the summer, I began to see Bus Stop Boy, as you might
imagine… at the bus stop. I was temping in the city, and was sometimes taking
this bus, sometimes that. I’d just begun to pay attention to how I interact with
men, trying to focus less on if they’re noticing me or not, how I’m interpreting
or internalizing that information. And Bus Stop Boy was one of these people. I
was aware of him, and he was aware of me. There was nothing more or less than
that, but a definite vibe. Not even flirty, just aware.
One morning, a few months ago, I had come from meeting with
the aforementioned woman the previous day, highly aware now of how I was walking in the world, and I saw him at the bus
stop. Suddenly, I had no idea how to behave. I didn’t want to be all coy, I
didn’t know how to just stand there. I felt a wave of panic wash over me, and
as some of you may remember, I had to leave work as soon as I got there and come home and crawl into a fetal position. Everyone
on BART was standing too close. Whatever it was that my being aware of who and
how you were reacting to me – it had acted as a buffer somehow between us. And
suddenly, seeing Bus Stop Boy, … it was like seeing the Matrix. Suddenly I
could see that everywhere I looked and every move that I made, I was hyper
aware of it, and I was aware if you were aware of it. I felt stripped of some
defense mechanism – I felt utterly exposed, and completely unsure of how to
act.
A rather large reaction to simply seeing a dude at the bus
stop. But, that’s what happened. It took me days to get back to feeling right.
And, in fact, I stopped taking the bus, and opted to take carpool with a friend
of mine during the rest of my temp gig.
I’m still aware of how others react to me, and, duh, that’s
going to continue to happen. People interact. However, I am trying to pay less attention to if “he,” whoever “he”
is, saw me. Noticed. If you’re noticing how I’m holding myself or not. I’m
trying to keep myself to myself when I’m out and about. Not closing myself off,
but simply focusing more on me, and what I’m doing, not on you.
This said, things have progressed.
I ran into Bus Stop Boy when I was on the bus going into the
city for an interview about a month or more ago. I was aware, he was aware. We
both went for the one seat that was open, and he let me have it. When getting
off the bus, I got off in front of him, and turned around and thanked him for
the seat, held out my hand, and said I’m Molly, by the way. He took my hand, said his name, said he hadn’t
seen me on the bus for a while. I replied I hadn’t been on the bus for a while, we both smiled, said see you around.
In reporting this later to my friend, I talked about
“getting a hit” off it. I was nervous about this job interview, and I knew I
could get a little hit from talking to this guy. Sure, there’s the normality of
introducing yourself to someone you see nearly daily just for the sake of that,
and I could file this under that, but I know my underlying reasoning – I wanted
to feel better, and talking to an attractive guy who seems to think I’m
attractive too is a reliable way to do that. (I was about to write it’s a “good
way” to do that, but, this is where I run into trouble.) I felt more spring in my step on my way to my interview, now that I had gotten that burst of acknowledgment from this stranger.
A little while later, I am on my way to another interview,
and I see him on the street in plain clothes with a girl, walking a small dog. Girlfriend, I think, and keep walking. Well, I say to myself,
there’s that taken off the table. He’s got a girlfriend.
A little while later, about 3 weeks ago, I’m on my way home
finally for the evening, having had an awful day at work – feeling my feelings
of despair around administrative work, around having worked so hard for months
to get something so menial, I’d come home from work bawling on the phone with a friend, before I went back out to meet up with some folks for an hour. Suffice it to say that I was drained of
all emotional guile. Of all resistance. Of all pretense.
Funny, then, that I should walk into Peet’s coffee, and
there he is. Bus Stop Boy at 8pm on a Wednesday evening. My eye make-up long
cried off. My incognito hat. Glasses. This is not the look of a temptress. He’s on line
ahead of me, and so I say hello. We chat a bit; we’ve both started new jobs. We small talk, laugh a bit. I
say see you around.
And now, suddenly, we are seeing each other around a lot. I
next run into him unexpectedly on the shuttle from BART – again on a day when I’d sat at the bus stop from work in near-tears. Waiting – FORTY FIVE MINUTES – for a
bus from Berkeley. Taking me nearly two hours to get home from ONE TOWN AWAY.
And there he is. The second time in a row when I’d felt
depleted, and, perhaps, open. 
It hasn’t eluded me that these unusual times that I’ve seen him are at times when I could most use a nod from the universe, some semblance of, Molly – you’re not a worthless, aimless, trundling-along broke spinster. It has not escaped me that during my new days of data entry, receptionist calls, arguments with xerox machines, I’d begun to think of that morning’s conversation with Bus Stop Boy, and it takes me out of my vile existence. It reminds me that I am more than my job. It reminds me that I am something more than that. Simply by recalling the smile of a near stranger, my chest feels less constricted – I feel less trapped. Is this “meaningful”? Is a nudge from “THE UNIVERSE”? Is it just a coincidence? Is it simply pointing out to me the pleasure I take in fantasy rather than reality?
I moved my bags, and he sat down next to me.
After some chit chat, I said, I think I saw you with your girlfriend walking
your dog a few weeks ago (she says leadingly). He got a sudden look, and said, “Ex…” That was their goodbye. She
came to visit for two weeks. She’s been living in D.C. for the past year,
looking for work there and here, and she got a job there, and, as he told to
me, he wasn’t ready to move back East.
He seemed pretty bummed. Secretly, I thought two things.
One: emotionally unavailable. Two: Single. …
So, finally, friends, here’s the kicker. What I admitted to my girl friend earlier today: I have invited him to
come with me to a party my friend is having this Saturday. “As friends,” I
said. But as I spoke to my friend earlier today, … I have no interest,
really, in being this guy’s friend. Nor do I know that I want to be in a
relationship with him. I barely know anything about him. Do I want to get to
know him better? Yes. Am I dating right now? No. Is he? I should hope not! Long-term relationship break-up does not really equal available for a new one any
time soon.
So, what to do? Well, my friend and I spoke earlier about
some “bottom lines” I could set around this. The only thing I could come up
with, which she suggested, was not hanging out one-on-one.
She asked me at the end of our meeting how I felt. I said Stubborn. (She laughed.) I said, Disappointed. The addict part of me wants those hits. Those doses of feeling
something other than overwhelmed with money or lack thereof. With feeling lost
as to my life’s direction or purpose. With feeling lonely, mainly.
As I begin to get some “recovery” or sense of what is
healthy behavior around relationships, I realize that the majority of my recent women
friends are actively engaged in behavior that I just don’t
identify with anymore. I just don’t have anything to say to my friend who’s
texting an unavailable dude daily. Or who just bought sex toys for a threesome. Or who is in and out
of her relationship with the phases of the moon. Which means, and has meant
for me, that several close friendships I’ve had are being let go of — are fading.
Further to the “lonely” part, as I said to my friend this morning, I haven’t been
dating for a year. I haven’t had sex in a year. I am only human. And there’s only so much I can take.
She said she gets it. She felt the same when she was going
through this work. The truth is that I’m doing inventory on my relationship
past, and I don’t want to be involved with anyone while I’m going through this
emotionally raw stuff. I don’t (really) want to use someone else to band-aid the work that I’m doing. The truth is also that I’ve finally gotten paid, and much of my financial crisis is averted, so I finally have the chance to feel a
little less stressed out.
Yes, there is only so much I can take. Luckily, I feel a
modicum more freedom right now, yes, due to money, what-the-fuck-ever to people
who say it won’t make you happy – sorry, food in my fridge makes me fucking
happy, assholes. But that release from imminent worry creates a little more
ease. That little more ease means I won’t have to reach out to false idols for
solace, false idols like the green-fade-to-brown eyes of the Bus Stop Boy.
I can do things to help me bolster and support myself, now
that I’m not as “man the battleships!” Things which will provide more
sustainable relief and support – I can reconnect with friends who aren’t stuck
in unhealthy patterns. I can finally feel the room to write and paint again. 
Do I still absolutely want to just rest my head on his
shoulder and relax to the marrow of every organ in my body? YES.

authenticity · community · creativity · friendship · frustration · kindness · maturity · recovery · relationships · San Francisco · writing

Literati

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Yesterday was a day off from work, as they needed the room
I’ve been stationed in, the library, so I got to experience a lot of loll and
gag. Less gag, more loll.
I still did spend
time in a library, peeling myself from my couch to go sit in the local library
and email and submit applications for higher education jobs. Here, Southern
California, New York City … Northern Florida. Throwing out the seeds and seeing
what sprouts.
I also got another book out of the library, and began to
notice a trend of mine over the last few months. The latest books I’ve read
have been:
Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? by Jeanette Winterson
I’ll Never Be French (No Matter What I Do) by Mark Greenside
Man Seeks God: My Flirtations with the Divine by Eric Weiner
Seriously, I’m Kidding…
by Ellen Degeneres
Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail by Cheryl Strayed
and now
Bossypants by Tina
Fey
As I was checking Tina Fey’s book out, I was able to connect
a few dots through the above list. Firstly, there are the books that are
about redemption – about people searching, seeking, going insane, going sane.
Mark Greenside’s book is more of a bridge to the other category, not being a
redemption, but certainly a “coming of age” (at 40) kind of an adventure. The other
category, of course, being the comedienne’s books.
Something about this strikes the right balance with me.
That, yes, I want to read about your harrowing walks through dark nights of the
soul and wilderness and Vegas (see : Man Seeks God), but I also want to read the levity, candor, and
strength of women in showbiz who are being pioneers in a
different way.
I’d never been one for non-fiction, and all the above are.
They’re all “memoirs.” I was raised picking up the library copies of my mom’s
Stephen King novels, and for most of my junior high and high school years, I’d
sit on the couch in the downstairs living room, engrossed in the psychological
and physical mystery of King’s characters and plot. Everyone would eventually
go up to bed, but I was too page-turned, and soon, it was late. And I was by
myself, reading Stephen King in the middle of the night.
This, was not an altogether pleasant experience, so I’d read
further, because if I closed the book, I’d have to turn off all the downstairs
lights, and walk upstairs in the dark with visions of deranged clowns lurking
in my peripheries. So, I read on, and then it’d be 2 or 3 or 4 in the morning,
and my eyes scratchy from being open so long, and I’d finally give up, too
exhausted to care if there were a rabid dog perched somewhere in the stairwell.
I’d climb up to bed, and fall in, too tired to be awake enough to contemplate
the darkness.
There were the years when I didn’t read anything at all,
really. I call these college.
No, (!) just kidding. But after college, I read nothing much
at all, or nothing that stands out. And I don’t really remember what I picked
up next, but it wasn’t that many years ago.
I remember when I first got sober, within the first year, I
went to see a movie at an indie theater in San Francisco. I had befriended a
group of people who were wonderful and hilarious and lovely, but none of whom wanted to see anything like what I was seeing that day. I enjoyed
the movie immensely, and when I walked out, I began to panic.
I’ll never have the kind of friends who’ll want to see
anything like this with me. No one has the kind of taste I have. I’ll be
destined to watch things and do things that interest me alone forever.
Fatalism is not just a river in Egypt. Melodrama, the same.
I began to cry. Honestly.
I called the one woman I trusted, and sobbed to her on the
phone how alone I was, and that no one “got” me, and that I was too weird to
have friends.
She told me to come over to her house right then. I sobbed even
more that I didn’t know the San Francisco bus system, and I’d be stuck in Polk
Gulch forever.
So, she told me how to catch the Geary or the California
bus, and picked me up at a mutual spot, and fed me tea and calmed me down.
A few months later, I was outside my car with a group of
people. One of them I’d just met, and she looked into my backseat and saw a
book I had there (I honestly can’t remember what it was). She exclaimed with delight – she had been meaning to read
that book! How did I like it, what did I think? And I told her she could borrow
it when I was done.
It felt like a revelation, even though it was such a “small”
thing. I leant her the book. She leant me one. I began to form friendships with
people who had similar tastes and interests, and who would undoubtedly today
come with me to an indie movie theater.
It took time. It took
a lot of time. I have a friend now who is going through similar transitions and
longing for those kinds of connections, having been immersed in a relationship
involvement so that it’s been hard to make the kind of friends she wants. So, I
told her that story of the movie theater breakdown and the book-in-the-car new
friend.
At some point, I turned from the sci-fi, novel genre (though
The Illustrated Man sits on my shelf – moment of silence for Ray Bradbury, and his children’s room/lion story
that has never left my consciousness). Today, the books I read are not paths
into the mystery of the mind and the world, but out of them. (Though, someone once gave
me a copy of The Power of Now,
and each time I tried to read it, I a) threw up a little in my mouth, and b) twice —TWICE– simply threw the damn thing sputtering across the room – this
last time, just a few months ago. I’ve since given it away. Self-righteousness
in a “spiritual” teacher is an ugly characteristic.)
It’s just interesting to me to notice what I’ve been
attracted to lately. That it points to a change in course. I yoked a friend
of mine to driving up to Jeanette’s reading when she was in town a few months ago, and that
friend now has my copy – a friend of mine, wants to read something I’m
interested in too. A friend of mine is interested in the things I am too. And she’s not the only one. I’m
no longer bereft and alone on a street corner drowning in the electric whine of
MUNI wires and the stench of human misery.
Thank you, Brandie, for asking me about that book in my
car. 
authenticity · camping · community · confidence · hobby · honesty · laughter · music · responsibility · self-support

Chop Wood, Carry Water.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Two weeks ago, I wrote this in the Grownupness blog:
“I grasp at things I think I want, but I’m not willing to
firm the foundation to get there – to mix the mortar, lay the bricks. Chop
wood, carry sticks. That’s where I need to be at. Very simply, I need to lay
hold of qualities and actions that I have tried to avoid.”
And so, this weekend, I carried sticks.
The simplicity of camping, even in the complexity of “car
camping” the bastardized cousin of “real” camping, was so easy. It’s so easy
for me. What needs to be done next? Well, we’re heading out down the river for
the afternoon while others go river rafting (a luxury expense I couldn’t
afford), so what did I need to bring? Sunscreen, towel, book I didn’t crack,
hat, water. That’s it.
It’s turning darker, what do we need to do? Get more
firewood, build a fire, refill the water, not at the mercury-laden river’s
edge.
There are things that I know how to do, and this weekend, I
got to see that very clearly. I know how to build a fire, I know you need something
like paper or brush to catch under the kindling to catch under the wood blocks
that were neatly chopped for us in a bundle wrapped with plastic. I know that I
need to slather sunscreen on myself and wear a hat because I’m paranoid of skin
cancer since my encounter with the Australian sun – the sun won.
I know how to make coffee, and put up a tent and roll my
sleeping bag and to remember to bring earplugs and tarot cards 😉
I know how to camp. At least, I know how to car camp.
When I unfurled my sleeping bag, in it was a long-sleeved
shirt I hadn’t seen in two years, since I was in that tent, with someone else.
I played Ghosts of Camping Trips Past this weekend.
Remembering acutely who I’d been with and when. Each and every one of the even
mildly significant and more significant relationships I’ve been in over the last six
years, I’ve been camping with that person. I haven’t slept in that tent alone
in a long time.
This particular camp grounds, I’d been to maybe 3 or 4 years
ago, when I’d been newly dating someone. It’s a beautiful spot on the American
River, up past Sacramento, and almost to Tahoe. It’s amenitied out the
yin-yang, but that’s alright. I remember the photo of me and that person in
that very landscape, I remember the release I feel when I’m out there. Not with
the person, but out there, knowing and feeling confident that I know even that
little bit.
I haven’t roughed it. I haven’t hiked out into the woods and
set up camp since I was 19 and leading a camp group overnight with our packs
into the Appalachian Mountains. And even then, it wasn’t roughing it – That’s
alright. I know it’s something I still want to do.
I wondered why it was, as I went through my previous
camping trips over the last few years, that each had included a man I’ve been
involved with. Was this my test for them? For “us”? Was I only able to be there
with someone else?
No. The reason, I realized, is because I love camping. And I
happen to go and be invited, and then I happen to invite the guy I’m with.
That’s all. Turns out, camping is a hobby, I suppose. It’s likely the only same thing that has occurred with each relationship I’ve had over the last few
years. The only “adventure” or “event” or excursion that has happened in each involvement. It just points out to me
that this is an important thing for me. Something I love.
A way that I don’t feel I need to be any different than I
actually am.
I feel confident out there (yes, even with the general store
and port-o-potties nearby). But I feel like myself. I usually look like a
wreck, and I don’t care. My hair matted and loved by the sweat and dust and
river mist. Caked in various layers of SPF lotions and supportive sneakers. I don’t
look like Xena, I look like me. Like the me I am in private, with no one to
impress or stun or mesmerize. Like the me I am when it’s just me. Whole, and
unabashed, and unprotected. And capable. I usually feel like a leader, or at least like a competent
person when I’m out there. Something those of you who read this blog with
any consistency can attest is not my normal M.O. out in the “real world.”
I needed that. I needed to feel worthy and valuable simply
for who I was/am. Not for how I looked. Or for how much money I had. Or for what kind of job I worked. Or what cell phone I carried. Or degree I had. I could be valuable for my
contributions to the group, be it building a fire, or fetching the water, or
going off to sit and do my Morning Pages out on a rock in the middle of the
rushing river so that I could be more present and emptied of my junk when I
returned to the group. I could be valuable by bringing Madlibs to do by the
fire at night – which led to so much hilarity, and stupid good fun. I could
be valuable by making coffee the first morning when everyone was still asleep
or grumpy. I could be valuable by breaking out the guitar one of us brought for
a little while, and later, sing along harmonies with her, and remember that I
have a voice.
I felt purposeful. I didn’t question who I was or where I
was going or what I was doing with my life. I didn’t have any profound
judgments or insights. I simply “chopped wood, carried water” (no chopping this
trip, but you know what I mean). If I can take that simplicity, and that
confidence, and that sense of pleasure from being precisely who I was/am into
the world, I think I’ll be alright.
If I can dress nicely and put on makeup, and remember
that it’s just a lens through which to see the whole that I am.
If I can breathe in the fire smoke scent of my balled-up clothing and
recall what it feels like when I’m just me, then I think I’ll be alright. 
adulthood · authenticity · fear · honesty · progress · San Francisco · self-support · work

Sans Cape

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

For an unemployed person, I’m mighty busy, and double
booking, or booking right after another.
So, I was honest with the painter yesterday and simply
emailed her to tell her that I was feeling a little daunted at the thought of
modeling for 3 hours after working a full day – I’ve been so tired, guys,
normal people hours are weird – I almost
wrote “wired,” which I suppose they are too. My caffeine reduction experiment
tanked last week at the temp job with a return to 3 cups a day, but I’m trying
again, and yesterday was only two.
A friend of mine said, when I told her on Monday night that
I was thinking of canceling Tuesday’s modeling gig, that there was no way that
I could cancel with this woman, the artist, that I had made my commitment, and
that it was less than 24 hours notice, and that it would affect my
“reputation,” and that if I didn’t want to model ever again than it was fine for
me to cancel.
Whoa.
So, considering that this woman is someone I go to for
council in other matters, I took what she said, not to heart, but to left
ventricle maybe. But it didn’t sit well in my left ventricle. I am/was tired, and was not really going to be emotionally or
physically available to do what needed to be done. This date was set up over a
month ago, when I had no idea I’d be working 9-5 in SF. I went to sleep on
Monday night contemplating lying to the artist, and telling her that I had a
stomach issue, and couldn’t make it. Then, I let it go, and went to sleep.
I woke up, and decided to just be honest. So, I wrote the
artist an email, said obviously I made my commitment to her and would be there,
but was there another way.
You know what she said (of course you do), she said, NO
PROBLEM. “I’ll paint instead.” And we rescheduled for a weekend evening next
month. “No Problem.” Once again, I’m shown that when I’m 100% honest, it
usually goes better than I could have imagined. I tried my very best to let go of the results after I sent the email
yesterday morning – I brought all my modeling gear with me, and said to myself,
if I have to, I have to, and I will – … then I habitually, compulsively,
checked my inbox to see if there was a response. Then… I remembered that I was
“turning it over,” letting it go, and I was actually at another job that was
needing my attention.
And so it went for about 4 hours. I even left for
lunch. Ha! I even let myself take my little breaks and walk around downtown, to
relieve my poor spine of compression for a few non-sitting minutes. I let
myself take care of myself, basically, even though I didn’t know what “the
future held.” That’s sort of new. Usually, I’ll clamp down – I don’t know
what’s going on, what’s happening, what will happen, I better stay here, worry,
consume, agitate.
Nope. I took a walk. I wore a dress yesterday even, I think
I’ve worn it once since I bought it, and I looked nice. I looked presentable. I
looked Molly. Only nicer 😉
I come back from lunch, there’s an email from the artist,
and, I guess I spoiled the surprise already, but, NO PROBLEM. I can’t stress
enough what a relief that was. I was able to leave work and go to meet up with
some of my peeps for an hour, we even sat in some 15 minute meditation, which was
unexpected. I was able to come home, play with my cat, … attempt to get to bed
at a decent hour.
I haven’t told my friend who chastised me for considering
canceling that it all went well. I know that she’s human, and as another friend
said to me recently, We can only see as far for others as we can see for
ourselves. And, I “get” what she meant, that it’s not okay to cancel last
minute – or rather, it’s not ideal, but it had to be asked. So, I will have to
tell her – and maybe when I’m done with this set of work I’m doing with her,
I’ll move on – she is helpful in a lot of other ways, and again, she is human.
She has her own history, and beliefs and patterns. Whatever it meant to her to
arise such a virulent reaction, really doesn’t have much to do with me,
honestly. I’m glad I’m able to see what was mine, what was right for me, and do
what was right for “Human Molly,” not “Super Molly.” I may look good in tights,
but the cape is a little much.
One of the reasons I didn’t want to do the gig yesterday was
that I wanted to continue to apply for work in the evening. I didn’t do that yesterday – I sat
on my couch and read this book I’m reading. Man Seeks God. It’s actually hilarious, and informative. But one
thing that came up at my workshop on this past Saturday was my answer to my
question for the group – What, honestly, is your favorite creative block – or
put another way, what is your favorite thing to do instead of being creative?
In the past, I’ve written facebook, or t.v., but this time,
I think I got a little closer to the heart of it: Reading about other people’s
lives instead of living my own.
Yep, that pretty much fits about all the manifestations of
what I do instead of living my own – that’s what facebook provides, this book
I’m reading offers, it’s what t.v. or movies do. Let me witness someone else’s
life, instead of participating in mine.
Sure, there’s a time and place for it all – I’m not going
Luddite. But I’m glad to be more focusedly aware of what it is I’m doing when I
decide to read for 3 hours, instead of send out one resume.
That said, today, I commit to creating a teaching resume,
and sending out one job application.
I also commit to taking a spinal decompression walk. 😉 

adulthood · authenticity · band · compassion · courage · dance · discovery · letting go · life · maturity · music · performance · persistence · poetry · receiving · responsibility · self-care · singing · surrender

Pulling a Carmen: 2

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

When I began this blog-a-day back in November of last year,
my first post was called “Pulling a Carmen,” as I’d been reading and was encouraged by her own blog-a-day postings. In the time since, sometimes I
just find it hugely funny how parallel my path is to my fellow blogger and
friend.
For recent example:
  • I also just starting going back on to the internet dating
    scene. In fact, I have a coffee date today with someone I met on JDate
  • I too have said fuck it, and asked out a dude yesterday.
    Unfortunately, turns out he’s married, but it felt really good to do so.
  • Several of the books that are lining my desk and bedside
    table are travel books about Europe, underlining my intention to take a real
    freaking vacation some time this century.
  • And, I also rented a camera and video camera from the
    school’s A/V department to begin taking pictures again. 

Sometimes I feel awkward about our exceedingly similar
trajectories, as if I’m copying her, but the reality is that independently, we
come to these things, and then come here to write about them. It’s really
funny, and also somewhat comforting to know that there is someone who is
traveling a similar path toward “To thine own self be true.”
On that note, I went to see my friend’s band play in the city
last night, and then headed with my girlfriends to go out dancing in Oakland.
Prior to both these… we went to the Dharma Punx meditation – nothing says
spiritually fit like meditating for 40 minutes before downing coffee with an
add-shot. 😉
But to relate it to the ‘self be true’ part – each of these
are places where I want to feel more connection. I hadn’t been to see live
music in MUCH too long. It’s on my current list of “Serenity Moths” on my
refrigerator (a list of things that aren’t cataclysmic, but slowly and
subterraneaously eat away at my serenity and foundation). Yes, “Absence of live
music” is on there, and so should be “dancing.” I’m a white girl. I have no
ambition or goal to be anything but a mildly flailing Elaine Benice, but … i
love it. The absence of self, the absence of self criticism or posturing or
need to be anywhere or anything else. Lost in the music.
The band brought something else up for me. Like the
“dropping” of the whole acting bent at the beginning of this year, what I’ve dropped
more often than anything is the “being in a band” idea.
As you may know, I have 2 guitars, a bass, and a small USB plug
in keyboard. Each as dust-covered as the next. The bass amp sits as a monument
to abandoned dreams in my apartment.
Last night, watching my friend’s band, I remembered that this is
something I want to do. In fact, I’d emailed one of the guitarist’s wife about
6 or more months ago to talk to her about her own process of getting toward
singing in a band – embracing her inner teenage rock chick. If I had my … well, if I had my own back, I guess, I’d play
bass, and I’d sing. Talk about vulnerability.
This week, I stood practically naked in front of an audience
and spoke my poem into a microphone in a moderately full theater. That isn’t nearly as frightening to me as
standing in front of an audience, singing, or playing.
The truth is that for several years, I’ve been gathering information
about the whole bass playing thing. But, no, I haven’t been playing. A few
years ago, I asked a guy I knew for bass advice, and he sent me a long list of
places to start (which I didn’t pursue). About a year later, I contacted this other guy about bass
lessons (which I didn’t pursue). … And the guy I asked out yesterday is also a bass player. Apparently,
I have a thing.
Every few years, I’ll troll craigslist, and I’ll answer a
few ads for singers. I even recorded myself a little on my computer’s
Garageband to send as a sample. I got a “not a good fit, but thanks anyway” from one,
and no reply from another. And, hey, I don’t blame em. When I’m terrified, it
comes through. I don’t know. I’ve written here about it kind of frequently –
and dismissed it and been “embarrassed” by it just as often.
However, once again, the thing that occurred to me last night as I
watched my friend’s band was another case of “I want to do that” … followed by
“I can do that.” There is no one stopping me, obviously except for myself and
my fears, and that critic that says “Not good enough” and chops me off at the
knees before I start.
One thing I’m working on releasing at the moment, a pattern
and belief and behavior that is just not fucking serving me anymore, is my need
or habit to stay small.
When I was living in South Korea, my friend nicknamed me
“Ballsy Mollsy.” I had the absolute chutzpah and hubris to ask anyone anything,
go anywhere, and do pretty much whatever I felt like doing in the hedonistic
way most drunks do.
However, there is a quality of that Ballsy woman who still I am,
somewhere, and who I want to resurrect or reveal or uncover or let loose – or
even just let into the light a little tiny bit.
I find it’s happening in some ways. And I know to have
compassion for myself as I try to aim in this direction which has been a Siren
song for me (uh, no pun intended) for … oh, 15 years.
But compassion for slow progress, and acceptance of
stagnation are two different things. And I’d really like to move forward from
here.
So, for your reading pleasure, here’s a poem composed about
a year ago. Reading aloud is encouraged.  As is recalling the line “So let it be written, so let it be done.” Cheers. m.
Band Practice
Tnk tnkTNK thwap
Tnk tnkTNK thwap
Bzzzt FLARE feedback
TNK tnktnk THWAP
Tnktnk THWAP tnk tnktnk THWAP
TNK tnktnk THWAP
Tnktnk THWAP tnk tnktnk THWAP
Tnka tnka thwap
Tnka tnka tnka thwap
Tnka tnka thwap
Tnka tnka tnka thwap
Tnka tnka thwap
Tnka tnka tnka thwap
TNK TNK THWAP!
authenticity · friendship · integrity · self-care

Tourist Center

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Some of the things we’ve gotten to do: drive to Sonoma and
eat cheese samples at the Cheese Factory, and a coffee from Hot Shots, the
drive-through coffee joint. Walk part way across the Golden Gate Bridge from
the Marin county northern side. Stop by Crissy Field and take touristy pictures
of ourselves, and a few for the fellow tourists, looking out toward Angel
Island and Alcatraz, and of course the copper-crimson of the bridge itself.

We ate at Green Chili, the wonderful, all grass fed, all
hippie, sustainable Mexican restaurant. We ate at Fenton’s, the local ice
creamery here in Oakland, in a wonderful bout of yum. And last night, at
Mission Pie – my thanks to that guy I briefly dated for introducing me to it!
We’ve also been to an art opening at a gallery in Berkeley,
and last night, a weird white box studio in a factory in a not so hot part of
Oakland. We left before the performance began. It was a tiny room with a
modge-podge assortment of chairs, and an even more motley crew of people. It
was obvious that we didn’t really fit in with what was going on, and as we both
agreed prior to going that we’d leave if it were “weird,” and my friend also
felt a bit of Bay Area culture shock, we left. I wasn’t disappointed – but I
was glad we went, if only for the experience of being a sociologist in a
strange sub-culture of the Bay.
Truth is, I haven’t had much thought to much of anything, as
we’ve been driving hither and thither, and also then resting some, and
gossiping and catching up and laughing and eye rolling, and it’s been fun, and
I’ve been doing my best to take care of myself with bringing food with me so I
don’t have to buy any, and with getting up in time to do my morning pages and
this blog. But, I haven’t been meditating at all, and I do feel a bit off
center. I notice that my focus is pulled by the other person, and suddenly, or
slowly, my center is somewhere between us, instead of within myself.
This is codependent, but also our long history. We’ve been
this way for 3 decades, it won’t shift for me over night. But I’m aware of it.
I’m aware that I’ve been cursing more, and interrupting more, and adding in
bits of my own stories when hers aren’t complete, as if I validate myself or
her experience by adding in my own two cents. When, really, I can just listen.
I’m noticing that more this morning, and being attentive to letting the other
person finish. What I have to say isn’t important enough to interrupt another
person. And granted, it doesn’t “sound” interrupty – it sounds like a dovetail,
like I’m adding to the conversation – but it’s not a conversation when one
person is telling a story, and it sparks 8 thousand other thoughts you want to
get out immediately.
But I recognize too, that I’m also excited and happy to be
able to share all this stuff, that there is this manic sort of energy to catch
up, and share stories, and give opinions, and laugh about people we knew or
know, and just share about our families new events. We grew up basically living
in the other person’s house. We’re more like sisters than anyone I’ve been in a
relationship with – and family sometimes brings out the best, and sometimes the
worst in you.
I’m not going to beat myself up for not having taken a
breath in a few days, or not letting her finish her thoughts. I’m simply going
to rectify the situation, as they say, as soon as I am able.
This morning, I’ll go meet with some folks and have a few
minute meditation, and get recentered, and come back, I hope, with a renewed
sense of camaraderie and ownership of my center. I don’t need to be anything
more or less than I actually am. I don’t need to interrupt to make sure I’m
heard, or valid, or liked. I don’t need to curse to show that I’m hip or cool,
or get sweet dessert things to be hip or cool. I can be me, a woman who needs
to meditate, not eat sugar, and pack her lunch. Who has valid things to say
when the moment is appropriate, and can listen with an open ear, instead of my
own running dialogue – which is exhausting.
authenticity · healing · letting go · love · maturity · self-care

BFF

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

My best friend from the east coast is coming in tomorrow to
visit for 5 days. I’m excited and nervous – and I think I’ve written this
before! I tried to write a blog this morning about real and fancied fears (that
i’ll end up pushing a shopping cart: fancied; skin cancer: realish), but I
couldn’t get it going, so I dug around for what’s really on my mind.

So, that’s happening, and part of my nerves are that she and
I haven’t spent such significant time with one another in Years. We’d had a
pretty bad falling out at the end of both our college years, almost 10 years
ago, and didn’t talk for about the next 5 or so. We both had some growing and
changing to do, but as Fate would have it, about 3 years after I moved to
San Francisco, we began to reconnect.
Like any friendship, and especially a reconciliation, it’s
been by degrees. The warming up, getting to know you again phase. And
particularly with reconciliation, the “what’s it going to be like this time”
friendship fear. Will it be the same? Likely not; we’ve both changed our lives & ourselves dramatically. Will it be based on nostalgia? That, is something that a few
of my friendships from New Jersey have faded into, and have thence faded
completely. A friendship based on nostalgia doesn’t really work. It’s great to
reminisce, but that can’t be all there is – if there’s no current common
ground, no interest in pursuing something forward, then there’s really nothing
to bond over. The bond was made, but it’s … in the past. 
Luckily, with my
friend coming out this week, we’ve been able to learn that we have more in
common now and more to talk about and bond over than we had then. We have the
wonderful ability and common shared history to be able to talk about that
ridiculous party in the sand pit – the “pit party” – or the terrible yet funny
nicknames we used to have for people in high school (Money, Teeth, Banana –
because he looked like a monkey… go teenage girls…!). But we’re also finding
now that our lives, despite our separate courses and coasts, have miraculously
similar trajectories.
It’s been a blessing of the highest sort to have this
friendship come back together. There were a few years when I didn’t know if it
would, and I was viciously saddened by that, but it was not my business or my
plan as to whether someone wanted to be in contact with me again. So, when I
would hear a song on the radio that we’d played 10,000 times at the local
diner, I got sad, but wished her well. When that movie we’d loved as children
came on, I felt a twinge, but sent her the blessings for her life that I wanted
for myself. I hope she’s happy.
And then, as luck would have it, we came back together.
Slowly, for sure. We’re still in the slowly part. This visit is part of the
solidification, but also, I have to take my expectations out of it. I want to
make it a “great” time, so that we are friends again. I want it not to rain, so
the weather doesn’t reflect something about myself or my life. I want us to not be awkward or have tension
so that I don’t lose this again. But, none of that is anything within my
control.
All I can chose to do is to be myself. If this is a person
she wants to befriend, then she will. As with romantic relationships, if it’s
meant to be I can’t screw it up, and if it’s not meant to be, then I can’t fix
it.
I had a conversation several years ago with a girl friend of
mine about the power of female friendships. The “best” friend friendships. How,
really, in many ways they are – we said, then – more important and more
complicated than romantic relationships. I still think some of that is true.
However, part of the difference today with me is that I recognize that people
are human (duh), and cannot, simply cannot, fulfill all the things a person I
wish ought to. One person cannot be someone’s all. One person cannot be my only
friend, or my only social connection, my only vessel of personal relations.
Like seeds, you’ve got to spread it around. Part of this is
self-protection, but part of it is simply being realistic. And that is the protective part. If I am realistic about my
expectations of other people, then I won’t be hurt if they don’t live up to my
demands about them. It is simply unfair to anyone to expect them to fulfill my
needs. Firstly and foremostly, I need to ensure that I’m taking care of them
for myself to the best of my ability. Then, I can look outside myself to other
people, and form relationships where my needs are met. Where my realistic needs
are met.
Sorry for the tangent on what I think friendships and
relationships are, but this writing is also a reminder to myself of this as my friend comes to
visit. For someone who’d been labelled your best friend since the age of 3,
that carries a lot of weight – and I’ve recognized, unfair weight. Part of the
reason for the separation all those years ago was that we each had massive
expectations and need put upon one another – or, I’ll speak for myself, I did
that on her. That wasn’t fair, and the friendship burned down painfully.
So, coming to this visit in a spirit of open-mindedness. And
a loose set of expectations and desires will help us both to have a better
time. The weather isn’t a reflection of me. She’ll have a good time if she’s
meant to or wants to. And I can take care of myself, so that I don’t put the
onus on her.
However, those two hot chicks you’ll see blaring STP down the
interstate? Yeah, that’s us. 
acting · authenticity · discovery · performance · poetry

Performance Persona

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

The first week in May, a few things will happen. On the
Tuesday, I will be performing some of my poetry with my creative writing class in an end-of-semester performance in the actual theater at school – for somewhere
between 3-7 minutes. And on the Wednesday, I will be performing a scene with a
partner for my acting class final performance, where people will be invited in to
come see us.
This reflects back to me something I sort of already know about myself and my passions – I have a
hankerin’ for perfomin.’ Some folks do; some don’t. – I do.
In my creative writing class, we’re supposed to, or invited
to, work on a “performance persona.” I’ve been marinating on this, and not to
use what’s apparently become my catch phrase – “Yeah, but…” – I have realized
that so much of the work I’m doing and have been leading up to is to drop the
persona.
Most of my life, I’ve walked with a persona on of some sort
– the shy girl, the drunk wild girl, the promiscuous girl, the “nice” one. I’d
like to come back to center for a moment. Or longer.
Basically, I think that my greatest performance persona will
actually be my authentic self – that seems to me, for myself, for now, to be
the bravest person I can show you on-stage. Now, of course, it is performance, so it’s a bit of an amplified version
of self, but it’s not obscured, which I think is how I’d been before.
So, I love the intention, and think it’ll be simply fun to
play with a persona, that’s, to me, what acting is about, not performance
poetry. In acting, I am someone else,
with a different history, mannerisms, inflection. I am shy or wild or
promiscuous or nice, and I call on those parts of me that understand that
experience, but it’s also acting.
An interesting distinction was made by my performance poetry
teacher on Tuesday between the two – he said that he likes to use the
microphone and the music stand still in his performances as opposed to without
it, as without it he thinks indicates theater, and with it indicates the
tradition of poetry and writing. I don’t know that I fully agree, but I
understand his point, and it was interesting to then ask myself what do I
consider the difference, if I’m using my own work?
What is performance poetry, and what is theater? Do I
consider them different if I’m speaking my own work? I actually think I don’t.
I think it’s, like I said, an amplified, perhaps more emphatic self, but I
don’t think it’s removed from the writerly tradition to not use pages and a stand. When I’ve performed…
there it is – I was intending to say “when I’ve performed my poetry in the
past,” and that’s what I consider it. I don’t really consider it “reading,”
unless, really, it’s reading.
Even when I stand with my papers in front of me, and a
podium and a mircophone at a poetry reading,
it’s still performance. This isn’t just “reading,” as I would read to you from
the phone book, or a text book. It’s enhanced, it’s intensified, it’s amped up
inflection and emphasis and meaning and pause. I want you to be moved to emotion. 
Seems like theater to me. 
Although, it’ll also be nice to let myself play with the
extremities of a performance persona, just to try it on and have fun with it (who doesn’t love a good wig) –
I still maintain that my boldest persona is just me, micced. 
authenticity · commitment · honesty · self-care

The Befogged Crystal Ball

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

You know that tired where you feel all dehydrated? Blech.
But, what must be done, must be done, and I have to head in
to SF in a little while to meet up with a lady friend/teacher of mine. After
that, this afternoon, I’m heading to North Beach to live model for a friend’s
friend. This is sort of a trial run, agreed upon in a safe environment – one
where I feel safe at least, not that the
modeling guild wasn’t, but this woman is a more known entity. I’m not getting
paid – as she’s basically agreed to see me and see if I ought to try to pursue
this more, and for me to see if I want to try to pursue this more.
I had a moment in February when I was still considering whether or not
to drop out of the modeling guild – before I’d been on any gigs – when we had
live models in our painting class. And it was just so cool. It’s just really cool. Here are these people, and
suddenly, they’re art. It’s fascinating and enticing to me, and I called a
friend and was like, I don’t know what to do – if I continue with the guild, I
have to rent a zipcar to get to the outlying gigs (as I’d lied on the
application and said I had a car – as I knew that’d be a requirement – but I
don’t, and that was coming around to bite me). Paying the cost of the rental
really cut in to any money I’d make modeling, and it was beginning to feel like
an exercise in self will, rather than the attendant “ease and flow” that can
come when things are a bit more “meant to be.”
So, I dropped out of the guild, having not been on a single
job, but having had a lot of good learning from doing the audition as well as
the training sessions. And my friend put me in touch with a painter friend of
hers, female, who uses live models and would be willing to see if this is a
good fit for me or not. Then if it does go well, so the line goes, she’ll let
her other painter/drawing friends know about me.
We’ll see. The nice thing about this one is that there isn’t
as much pressure. If I need to stop, then I will. If it’s too physically
grueling, I’ll learn that. It’s really f-ing hard to stand still for 20 minutes, and then do that for 3 hours in
increments. It’s not all standing hopefully – some is sitting. But the “good
ones” can do a lot of standing, I think. But what do I know. We’ll see.
I’m also in the process of learning how to pull my life-line tendrils out of San Francisco and root further into Oakland, in a “bloom
where I am planted” effort. So, I may or may not be going in to see my teacher-friend weekly any more. I don’t know yet. I’ve been seeing her for more than 3
years now, we’ve been through a lot, she’s seen me through a lot, and there’s
fear and sadness about changing the nature of our relationship.
I went over a friend’s for dinner last night – here in
Oakland, surprise! – and we were talking about how hard it is to end, or
change, relationships that aren’t “bad.” There’s nothing wrong. No one is to
blame. It’s just not working any more. My SF teacher and I have had the
conversation before, that soon enough, I might want to find someone to work
with over here in Oakland, but each time, I’ve said Nuh Uh, I still get so much
out of meeting with her. Which is true. I still, to this day, get so much out of meeting with her. But the commute is a killer
and it’s dragging me down. An hour and a half to get there, to meet for an
hour, and then an hour and a half back is … not an efficient use of my time,
and despite my trying to “make it work” and let it be “okay,” it’s just not.
And, I’m finally becoming willing to take action around this change.
It is weird to change
the nature of a relationship, from one that is more mentor/pupil to potentially
just peers/friends, without rancor or dishonesty or blame. There just isn’t
that, and so it gets to just be sad, but also freeing as I get to be honest
about my needs and what I’m available for.
I’m not sure if I’ll “pull the plug” today. I don’t know if
that’s the most nurturing thing for me to do today with the end of school coming, and this woman having
watched me go through all that it took to get to school at all. But, I’m approaching
the place of accepting that this is necessary, and that I’m willing to make the
change, though I’m scared of what happens then.
As someone said to me recently, “I have a crystal ball, but I just don’t know how to use it yet.”