beauty · courage · modeling · sex

LadyScaping

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

The very first monologue in The Vagina Monologues is “Hair.” It begins, You cannot love a vagina
unless you love hair. – This, is something of an outdated sentiment it seems
these days.
Why discuss this? Two reasons, firstly, reading some
articles yesterday on the effect of porn in our bedrooms, and secondly, because
I modeled nude yesterday.
The reality is that nowadays, having no hair down there is
very much a norm. Much of that is the proliferation of what it looks like in
porn, and long from men associating that look with an 11 year old girl, they
associate it with sexual maturity. From a woman’s point of view, this is often
not so. I’ve had a few conversations, and run the gamut myself from all kinds of
ladyscaping, including the nothing at all – for myself, not for my lovers,
though that plays in, of course. But for the majority, it’s like another
accessory we get to play with.
However, in art, in drawing and in painting, it’s a
different world. I’ve been in art classes where we’ve had live models, and
those with hair are much nicer to draw or paint. There’s a feeling of
femininity about the look, the fluff, and the mystery. It looks mature,
basically. There was the girl with nothing, clean as a baby’s bottom – but
really, is that the association you want to make when looking at a woman?
The associations have skewed and diverged somewhere along
the line. The artist yesterday made her own approving comments about the state
of my ladyscaping, and confirmed that many of the women she sees now don’t have
any hair, and it’s, again, nicer to draw this way. Let’s not say it’s the
Amazon. We have pride. But, I knew what my job was yesterday, so I “dressed”
accordingly.
To tangent from the above, yesterday, I did model nude. It was my first official drawing 3 hour
session. Recently, I’d modeled for a photographer friend of mine, but I was
very wary of that, considering the state of the interwebs, and the fact that
employers, my students’ parents, my students, all have access to it. But, I
trust this photographer a lot, and I knew his vision was not porn, but art, and
you wouldn’t really be seeing me, as much as shapes and crooks of arms and
legs, etc. That said, … nervous fun as it was, I don’t think photography is for
me. It’s just too close to life, and for whatever reason, for me, feels too
close to intrusive and the fuzzy edge of my own values about my body.
So, drawing. Much better. You get a real sense – she says
from her one day’s experience! – of what the artist wants – it becomes a
collaboration and a mutual exchange of artistry and creativity. I loved it. I
had a great time. It was physically
demanding, and I’m getting to learn my body and the limits of my body, but I
was also surprised at how well I could hold some of the poses.
And luckily, some were laying down. The artist is currently
working on a “death pose” series, so there were some gawky awkward, laying
down poses to do. We worked for 3 hours, we chatted, we listened to music, she
drew, I posed, it was lovely.
And at the end… she paid me. I got paid!! I wasn’t expecting
that at all, as I thought this was just a trial “let’s see if I have what it
takes” session, but she handed me a check at the end and was very pleased with
my work, and is going to forward my info to other artists, and she wants me back again in a month! How ‘bout them apples!
So, the female form, live, in the bedroom, in the studio –
stylized in the interwebs – who is to say what is beauty, what is reality? I
have nothing against porn – I’m known to visit on the occasion it strikes, but
ladyscaping is personal. And too, I do believe and hope it remains that
sex is personal – not virtual. 
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.” 
courage · fear · growth · loss · maturity

Tell the Truth, Tell the Truth, Tell the Truth.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

This was the inscription in someone’s book I read once,
quoting someone else. I’ll have to look up who. But it occurs to me this
morning.
So, it is true that by vomiting out my thesis and the
actions therein that I have opened up lines to things that I didn’t have access
to before. This morning, I got to see one of them.
A while back, I’d written here about an “individuation meditation” I’d done regarding my mom. It was an exercise
out of that Calling in The One book, and
it was helpful and powerful and sad, but freeing, then.
This morning as I went in to meditation, I thought to go one
place, and instead was drawn to go elsewhere. So, I did. I ended up at Ocean
Beach, basically the end of the continent hemmed in and eroded and maleated by
the wide Pacific Ocean. There stood a large figure. It was my dad.
I’ve written some here about his ability to throw me off
course, with his demands that I live according to his ideas of what is right,
or with his pure denial of facts about his life and our mutual familial past.
Maybe I’ve even glanced at some of the violence that occurred when my brother
and I were young. But I don’t really talk about it. Hence, the title.
The truth is, it wasn’t nearly as bad as what I hear in others’ lives, and I
discount and play down the ability that man had to scare the … nearly scare the
life out of me. He is a large man, at 6’3”, with a larger voice, fiercer eyes,
and my brother and I would tense at the sound of his car pulling into
the driveway, as if getting ready for battle defenses.
There is a story that I’ve been told, that when I was about 7 or
so, in the middle of an altercation, I turned to my dad and said we were too old to be hit anymore. – No seven
year old should ever have to say or feel that. And my brother at 4, then, shouldn’t
either.
These are, granted, my own interpretations. But, my father,
abandoning physical violence, started in simply using his voice to holler. And
his hollering shook the foundation of the house. — Although there are some
poignant moments in my past when he took up that old tool of intimidation again. …
He was not a pleasant man – though you may not know that in public. You
probably sense you don’t want to cross him, but he’s like that Scorpion in that
legend – it’s in his nature to bite.
And then, too, it’s not in his nature to bite. He’s scared.
He never had proper fathering, never knew how, had his own shame about being a
bastard child, and then hated his step-father. He grew up in the army. Learned
how to make beds and keep time and everything in a row and in order.
Children are not on time or in a row or ever in order. This
frightened him. I know that now.
But, in my meditation, the phrase that I repeated several
times, as I sobbed a bit in real life, was, You don’t have the power to kill me
any more.
…
See, because, last night, I wrote a mini G-d letter, and
asked for some guidance on earning income, what I should do. And the letter
back asked, What do you want to do? I
cannot produce vagueness.
What a novel question: what do I want to do?
And so when I went in this morning in meditation to find
some answers within myself to this question, I found myself face to face with
my dad. My dad who has wanted me to live life to his rules for a very long
time, even though it’s years since I’m out of his house. I still feel the
stamping thumb of a demand for “normalcy” or whatever his idea of the “right”
kind of life is for me.
So, that’s what this morning was about. Of course I haven’t
really been able to consider what it is I
want to do in my life, if I’m continuing to struggle against what his ideas are for my life. My therapist has tried to
instill this in me over several years – Molly, this is your life. It hasn’t made sense to me. I haven’t known
what that’s meant. When I’m trying to struggle against the idea that I might be
swatted or, as the fear puts it, killed, of course I don’t have the time or
wherewithall to consider what I
want to do with my life. First things first, right? Survival.
To move from the stance of survival to the stance of growth
means to move out from under the fear of elimination. It’s a “fancied” fear at this point –
but it makes my heart flutter and tells me to stay hidden and to stay safe.
Which is what I’ve done for a while, and doesn’t fucking work for me.
I invited him to leave. I told him, as the exercise in the
book suggested, that I was sorry I couldn’t be what he wanted me to be, and
that I forgive him for not being what I want him to be. That without his anger,
he’s just a scared old man, and a scared little boy. I have compassion for the
little boy. And I need to learn some right-sizedness around the man. To begin
to step into my own britches is to believe that they belong to me. In the face
of anyone else – good or bad decision, right or wrong, lost or found — this is
my life.
I don’t know how to do that yet, but inviting him to stop
throttling me is a good start. 
gratitude · honesty · joy · love · poetry · school · time

Cacophonous Joy

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Yesterday, I finished my draft of my poetry thesis. It is
dark, and humorous, and sad, and scared, and thoughtful, and loving, and aimed
toward health. It represents a period in my life, which I’m glad to recognize
as not current, even though the feelings may arise as current.
This is a memoir of sorts. It chronicles a period of time
which, I see now, I do have a degree of distance from, in order to be able to
write about it so fully. I know too it leaves gaps and holes, but I don’t mind
– it’s show, don’t tell, right?
Yesterday, I sort of fell apart around 3pm, as I knew I
needed more time to edit it, little visual changes and some word sorting here
and there. But, I was also supposed to be at class from 4-6:30, and be at a
poetry reading/open mic at 5:30 – 9. How was I to be in so many places at once?
Well, I couldn’t. And the reality of that fell on me at
about 3pm. I made some phone calls; I was told that my main job right then was
to finish my thesis – perhaps you remember some of the craziness when I hadn’t
turned one in, and may not have been graduating in May? Yes, the thesis was my
main job – all other things were secondary.
I spoke briefly to a few friends, wrote emails of apology to
my class teacher and to the organizer of the open mic, and got back to work. I
was not to use the club of
self-flaggellation on myself, I was told. I was not to think that I’d done it
again and over-booked, and I’m a bad person, and here was this opportunity to
put my work out, and I’ve missed it.
I had one job. Thesis.
So, I left those internal critic voices at the door.
Strangely enough, when I did, something miraculous happened.
I finished my thesis. I sent it in multiple document formats
for maximum readability; I cc’d and bcc’d to ensure maximum accountability of
the documents. I sent it off. It was now out of my hands.
I called two friends, let them know that I had sent it, as
I’d told them 3 hours before that I would. And I felt relief. I felt relief as
though it were that cartoon image of someone getting hot, and the thermometer
level inside them fills up with red from the bottom all the way to the top and
bursts out their head. I felt swallowed with relief.
I told my friend, Now, I’m going to drink some water, make a
nice healthy meal, and watch a Disney movie. – That was going to be my celebration. She found that
hilarious: “I’m going to drink … some water.” How times have changed.
So, I did, but as I was cooking my chicken and broccoli and
yummy organic pasta, I had my iPod on shuffle, playing my joy into the kitchen.
And Metallica came on. And for why, who cares, it was that moment. I began to bob and jam and jump around
as I stirred that chicken. Then I abandoned the chicken to just rock out in my
kitchen to the raging flare of electric guitar and passion.
The song finished. But I wasn’t done. I placed my delicate,
hearty, thoughtful meal on a plate, and went into the main room of my studio apartment. I
proceeded to happy dance. That thermometer level radiated out of me and I
DANCED – I shimmied and kicked and ska danced and booty danced and jumped as
very high as I could. I waved my arms like a lunatic and smiled till all of my
teeth shone bright.
This was more than relief at finishing a project for school.
This was pride and gratitude incarnate. This was my joy at having released a
clog in my emotional arteries. I’d moved something. Something big. And I danced
until I couldn’t dance no mo’.
I have released something big here – truth, despair, hurt,
trauma – I’ve let it go. And I’ve opened it to you. I’ve let it have its own purpose outside of my
experience. I’ve given it, and myself, life. It feels like I’ve surrendered
something I’d been holding on to. The clogged artery metaphor feels pretty apt.
But more, it was my throat, my voice, constricted by these stories – and now
that they’re out, birthed, something new can be said, or seen, or felt.
I am humbled by the process of putting this out into the
world. I do hope people enjoy it, or get
something out of it, or find their own voice through reading it. But the
personal gift I have gotten, I could not have predicted: the grin of sheer
bliss as I tucked into my bed last night. … and woke up with again this morning. 

friendship · gratitude · poetry · progress

Toodling Along

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

So, perhaps it’s the marked decrease in my caffeine intake,
but I feel pretty good. I’m about a 3 or 4 cup-a-day girl, and have been for a
very long time. But, since Monday, I’ve been trying to make… 1 cup a day. I’m
supplementing as much as I need with black tea – but that’s been not all that much. And although I was in bed at 8pm on Tuesday, and had a massive nap on
Monday, I’m wondering if the worst is over or not?
Partly, this is a health thing, partly this is a vanity
thing – I read a few message posts from people saying their skin cleared up
without caffeine, and as embarrassing as it is to say, I still have mild to
moderate bad skin on my back and shoulders, and have since I was a young
teenager. In fact, when I was about 13 and at summer camp, I was so embarrassed
to take of my shirt at the pool that I made up a story that my best friend had
recently drowned and now I had a fear of water. … I don’t think they bought it,
but I never had to go in. I will say, at this point in my life, I’ve given up the hiding – it is what it is, and I do my best, but c’est moi.
The health thing is pretty obvious. Despite the copious
amounts of water that I drink a day, it was recently suggested that I’m still not hydrated enough – Whaddya want me to do,
mainline it?? Caffeine is one of the main culprits in cancelling out my
hydration level.
And so, here we are. It’s an experiment, and we’ll see. But
I liked reading things like “I don’t crash at 3pm anymore” or “Once I was past
two weeks, I felt fine, like I had energy throughout the whole day.” I’ll let
you know.
Other things that may be contributing to my general sense of
calm or low brain activity may be:
I’m almost done with my poetry thesis draft, and will hand it in TONIGHT! It’s basically
a book, is what we have to turn in, and although there are some things that may
be objected to (“It’s not long enough”), I’ll take my chances with what I’ve
got. I actually -almost- like it. Although I’ve been washed overboard by some of the
emotions it arises in me at time, I’ve also found a few moments when I’ve
actually been able to look at it like an editor – with a mildly detached eye
from the content, and more to the flow, what works, what’s extraneous, etc.
That brings me a great amount of relief. And maybe was/is
what this whole project was about. To allow me to get to a place of detachment,
not rejection or dismissal, but of curious observation. Hm, that’s an
interesting poem. Or, yes, I remember that – I’m glad it makes a good piece of
work now. Sure, it’s still my experience, and at the moment it’s still got the
capacity to chuck me off my groundedness, but, I’m learning to dance with that
a little.
Coincidentally, I’m using the “20 minutes on – 5 minutes
off” technique I learned when I was training to be a live art model, although I
didn’t pursue that. But the technique works for writing for an hour (or an hour
and 15 minutes, to be exact). Enough time to get into the work, but not long enough to get mired by it.
And then, 5 minute break. Sometimes I’ve just sat and stared, glassy-eyed and
spun for the 5 minutes. Mostly, I get up, make tea, use the bathroom, move
around a bit. It’s been a useful technique.
And just to round us out, other things on my mind are pretty
positive: I am reading at a poetry/open mic on campus tonight – although what I’m reading I have NO idea, and I haven’t advertised
or invited people mainly because I’ve been so concerned about what on earth I’d
read – not sure if I want to read from my thesis or not, in a 3-5 minute slot, but I might. But I’ll
be happy to be up and out there again.
Also, today is the day that I perform my monologue for my
acting class. It’s Dennis Shepard’s speech from The Laramie Project, about Matthew Shepard’s murder in Laramie, WY back
in 1998. I still remember when it happened, a few folks in the class do, but
most are too young to know about it, being 10 years younger. But the teacher
chose this play, and we each chose a monologue, and I’ve actually, SURPRISE!,
been practicing and reading it over the last two weeks – as a marked difference
from previous auditions when I tried to cram the few days before.
And last, just to say, my very best friend, whom I’ve
written about here before, is coming out to visit from New Jersey in just two
weeks. I’m really excited. Also a bit nervous. 5 days in a studio apartment
with anyone is a lot, but I’m sure it’ll be alright. I’ve learned that
Enterprise Rent-a-Car is actually cheaper than Zipcar if you need it more than
4 hours, and it also takes a debit card, so we’ll be some mobile cats around this fair city.
So, that’s about it. Feeling generally good. A mite nervous
about what on earth I’ll read at tonight’s open mic, but I’m sure it’ll work
out just fine. (I’m even bringing my old chapbooks from last year’s Art Show to
sell – who knows!) 

growth · humilty · maturity

Judgy McJudgerson

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

or “Spiritual Arrogance”
Through some inventory work I’ve been doing lately, digging
out the past-prime labeled items in my psyche, and assessing what I’ve been
holding on to long past its due date, I’ve been getting to see that I am spiritually
arrogant.
Now, no one likes to admit this, certainly not me, but it’s
been coming up more lately, much more front and center, and I thought I’d try
to parse it out a little bit as I (hope to) come to a place of letting this
character defect go.
It takes one of two courses: I happen to know you’re not
doing the same arduous work that I’m doing, and therefore when you complain and
bemoan your troubles and your life, I get to sit in moral superiority, knowing
that if you were only doing what I was doing, you’d get better.
Yummy, isn’t it … More like sour, I tell you.
Or, it looks like well, no, basically, that’s it. It just
takes several more devious forms from that.
For example, you have success in your field, but I happen to
know that you’re not tending your spiritual garden with regularity. I feel
affronted. And self-pitying. Why do YOU get the goods without the work??
Or, Why
do YOU get to go on vacation to Barbados when you’re still so messed up in all
these other areas that you don’t even see how messed up you are??
Basically, it’s another form of jealousy. And laziness. I
want what you’re getting without doing the work. But when I don’t do the work, I get all kinds of cuckoo from
it. When I rest on my laurels, or feel, hey, you know what, I’ll keep my
internal stockroom filled with rotting fruit, I’ve got a good job now – well,
it usually turns out badly. The fruit turns nuclear.
The other side of this spiritual arrogance toward others is
the idea that I have any idea what the
path is for other people. When I sit in my head and judge others by their
continuous and bile-vomiting cycle of pain, it’s not doing them, or me, any
good. It’s none of my business if someone is attached to their pain cycle.
It’s my business that I
am.
It’s been said that anything negative we think or say or act toward
others, we are 10 times as harsh to ourselves. What we
say or feel toward others is just a reflection of the internal dialogue we
have.
So, when I’m sitting in judgment of others, I do know that I
use the same sword to bludgeon myself. Why aren’t
you doing better in your field? Why aren’t
you going to Barbados? What is so wrong with you
that you have to do this continuous daily work?
Sounds pretty shitty, doesn’t it?
It’s not always that vocal. It rarely is. Moreso, it’s the
undercurrent – the underground stream that runs with poison, and I drink from
that well.
Spiritual arrogance – the belief that I’m somehow better
because I do the work, but at the same time, must be worse because I need to do the work.
Perhaps … as I read yesterday: Humility makes us whole.
Perhaps, I am no greater or less than anyone around me. Perhaps I don’t have to
mark my situation against someone else’s like the height marks on a doorframe.
Perhaps I can simply keep my eyes on my own road, and let other people’s paths
be their paths. If I’m jealous, go do something about attaining what they have.
If I’m judgy, remember the times when I’ve been a screaming sobbing pile of
self-pity. If I’m arrogant, remember that, truly, we are all fucking equal, and
the lessons that I would have someone learn in this lifetime are not necessarily the lessons they’re here to learn.
So, for today, instead of wielding this double-edged sword,
perhaps I can have compassion for others, and a bit of action toward my own
lessons and goals.  

faith · fear · spirituality · surrender

G-d Letter.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Hi folks, I share this today with vulnerability, and the knowledge it may turn some people off. But, it’s the truth, so here goes.


There’s a spiritual tool I sometimes use called a “G-d letter.” In essence, I write a letter to G-d, all my fears and questions and … fears. Then I turn the page, take a breath, and write a letter back – from G-d. I was skeptical of this tool – *very* skeptical – and then I tried it. I’ve been using it at moments of extreme emotional distress since then. 


With the hope you may get something from it too, here’s today’s “letter back.”




Dear Child,

I’m glad you’re here with me. I see your despair and I have compassion. You are on your path. There is no other road to go or seek. I have dotted your path with synchronicity and it will make itself evident, if it hasn’t already — just look around. You are carried and cared for. You are loved and lovable. There is nowhere else to be. Can you trust me? Can you trust my angels here on earth?

Will you let them guide and chisel for you a path? What is the next footprint, Molly? The very next thing to do? Just do that.

I love you, and I cherish WHO YOU ARE, not just who you will become. Because you are already who you will become, you just need to see it. I am here. I am loving. I am listening and I am guiding.

Be still and know that I am G-d, and that joy is here, right here for your taking.

My everything, Your Creator,
G-d. ❤

action · authenticity · fear · growth · jealousy

Just Dessert.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

So I literally don’t know if I came up with this, or read or
heard it recently. I’ve tried going through the last few pages of the books I’m
reading, and can’t find it – but, no matter.
“It’s like putting our gifts up on a shelf, and then saying,
alright G-d, what’s your will for me?”
That’s what’s occurred to me. No no no, not those old things – they couldn’t possibly have anything to do with what I’m supposed to do
with my life. Those are just, well, hobbies, or qualities I have, or secret
things I like to do – they certainly aren’t Worth While. They certainly don’t
mean anything with regard to a Life Purpose.
Hmm. I like it – the simplicity of it. I’m a fan of
believing I can pause things till I get a handle on them. I’m also a fan of
half-finished projects, trouncing from one interest to another, so as to not
get too invested – and therefore (fear)
disappointed by the end result.
The problem with any of the things I consider as gifts or
interests is that I do abandon them, and
then have very plausible reason for saying I can’t pursue them, or that they’re
not a viable option. Of course I
can’t sing in a band – I quit taking voice lessons. Of course I can’t play in a band – I quit taking guitar
lessons. Of course I can’t use my
writing as a stream of income – I haven’t submitted anything.
Oh, clarity. How my fears hate the light of day. And,
granted, it’s just the light of today – likely, I’ll forget all this sometime
later today or tomorrow – until I’m once again presented with the pang of
jealousy toward people who are doing the
things I want to do.
You sing in a band? You edited a published book? You sold a
painting? You went on a vacation? You traveled in Europe? You live in a warm
climate? ;P
That last one – well, we’ll leave that alone for now. Although
I will tell you, my Magic 8 ball tells me that I won’t be here in the Bay Area
at the end of the year. … Truth be told.
One of the great things about some of the folks I’m now in
with is that I watch and hear how they turn jealousy into action. That’s the
thing about jealousy for me, at least. If I say to myself, “I could do that
[better, is implied],” then what I’m really saying is I want to do that.
I remember back in college, I would feel visceral pangs of
resentment and jealousy when I would walk into an open mic night to watch other people play. Sometimes I
had to in fact leave because I was so pissed that I (as I understand it now)
couldn’t let myself try.
So the phrase sparks something new – a new awareness of the
patterns of my dream abandonment. I have these nudges, but I discount them and the qualities they could bring to my life as not valid. I thereby stand at the
smorgasbord of life and say nothing looks good. Basically, I say that the cake
and cookies are for other people – not for me. I need the limp kale to get
along in life.
As a metaphor, I would like the cake and cookies. I would
like to understand that anything that I consider “play” is actually a way in
which I’m informing myself of where I’d like to go and what I’d like to do.
Instead of discounting my interests, maybe I should follow them. Instead of
turning back, or judging others, or dismissing my desire for the fun – maybe I
should let myself sink into the gifts and interests that I have.
After all, as they say: Life is short – Eat dessert first. 
authenticity · cool · courage · growth

Stay Cool, Boy

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

“Cool.” It’s something I want. Something I want to be, but
it’s not an acquisition piece.
Cool and Brave were the two things that came up in some
writing yesterday – qualities that I want to be or have more of. Both require
similar levels of self-assurance and self-acceptance.
I went into the word “cool” for myself – what did I mean by
that? What does it mean to me? Well, cool, to me, means being calm, confident,
not boastful, involved in a variety of activities, engaged in the world, having
a sense of ease about oneself and place in the world. Cool means knowing you
have a right to be where you are. Cool means a lack of self-consciousness. And
a lack of worry or fear.
Similar to brave, I imagine.
A few months ago, I fell in desperate infatuation with a
black leather jacket. This is how I want
people to see me. This is how I want to see myself. This piece will make me cool.
See, but it doesn’t work that way. I didn’t buy the jacket
on the spot, and instead received it for half the store price from an online
site as holiday present from my dad. I got the jacket in the mail in December,
and it sat in my closet.
I was scared of this jacket.
What it would mean of me, or of what I projecting into the
world. Can I own this jacket? Not in the
possession way, but in the dominate way? Instead of the jacket wearing me, can
I wear it?
The jacket stayed in my closet until earlier this month. I
would take it out occassionally. Fawn over the delicateness of the leather; the
instant cool it gives. But was it me, or was it the jacket?
Finally, I wore it. I felt both impostor and proud. I felt
both seen and the desire to not be seen – can you see through me as I wear
this? Do you know that I don’t have many tattoos or a Ramones album?
Over the last month, I’ve worn this jacket a few more times.
And each time, it does for me what I hoped it would – it’s helped me to embody
the coolness that, somewhere, I do believe I have – if we define “cool” as I
have above – as a calm sense of self-assuredness and place in this world.
The jacket is becoming a tool, not a costume.
I struggle with my own feelings of worthiness around many
things in this world, including obviously a black leather jacket. But owning
this piece of clothing, this visible statement to the world, helps me to feel
like I’m approaching a different place in it.
No longer content to hide from it. No longer content to hide
who I am in it. Yes, I am that girl in the black leather jacket. And I might even
have heels on, too. 
change · courage · poetry · vulnerability

We have Lift-Off

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

So, on Wednesday, I called my girl friend from school, and
my first words on her voicemail were, “I need help.” She called me back immediately.
I asked her if I could just come over to work on my thesis
in her presence, just to have another human around as I was attempting
to compile and sort and order my poems into a cohesive whole.
I used to do this as a kid, have a parent just sit nearby –
I didn’t need their input or help, just needed a person there to help me feel
calm enough and supported enough to do the work. She said sure.
So I went over with snacks, like a good Jew, and actually,
she did begin to read it. Some are poems she’d seen before, some are
new. She really liked them. Moreover, one of my concerns is that because my
thesis is basically about me and my story, was it too “myopic,” too personal to
reach anyone else besides me? She said no – she said, in fact, reading my own
stuff helped her to think about her own – she said it was important, and that
she liked how it was written.
She had some good insights and points about how to make it a
cohesive whole, and although my innards scream, “REALLY?!?! YOU LIKE
IT???,” she did.
Yesterday, I went to a coffee shop with everything I’ve got
and began to edit some of them, and to look at the few edits my friend made. It
was interesting. She’d suggested that I consider, as I’m editing and working on
this, to remember that this isn’t “my” story, this is a work I’m giving to
others. That perhaps that could help to take some of the emotional charge and
swept-awayness out of it. Because it’s the same as most “selfish/self-less”
work – I get the benefits of sharing this and someone else gets the benefit
from hearing it.
I tried to keep some of that in mind yesterday. But mostly
what I was struck by was, indeed, how much my writing has changed over the last year. It was a year ago around
this time that my professor “accused” (she says still slightly burned) my
writing of being melodramatic and cliché.
So, I wrote in reaction to that comment, and began to write
in the most “non-emotional,” facts only way that I could.
Turns out – it’s good. My friend asked me this week if I
knew that my strength lay in minimalism – I said no, I had no idea! I had no
idea this writing, this style would come out of me or this master’s program.
But it has. And I like it. She said, she likes that it’s snarky. And indeed it
is. I like that that comes across. It’s quite tongue-in-cheek. Very “lay this out in front of you without any affect,” because the affect is
in how you are absorbing it, what it arises in you – When someone tells you something horrific in a
flat tone, you think serial killer. Well, it’s sort of something like that. The
non-emotionalism is allowing me to tell the story.
Perhaps, one day, if I choose to come back to this content,
I will flesh it out or approach it differently, but for now, this is the only
way I can let you know what happened without freaking out. And you don’t need to know how I felt. Your reaction is likely the same as mine – and that’s the
important part for this writing, or maybe any. To get the reader to feel
something.
So, as I sat, surrounded by other people, my safety blanket,
at the café yesterday and began to chop off whole parts of my earlier work, I began
to see that this body of work may actually work, and that perhaps my writing is
worth while.