Peripatetic, Poetic & Chic

Trish DiFranco | Cleveland, OH

[trishwuzhere]

Life Lessons from Luigi’s Mansion

Sometimes I wonder, “what would I have done during this quarantine without the Nintendo Switch?” And a little voice answers, “actual productivity?” I mean, sure, I could have learned a new language or met fitness goals, but instead I’m flexing my thumbs! And every day I’m learning so much more about myself. In fact, every game brings a whole new layer of enlightenment!

Like these life lessons, from Luigi’s Mansion 3.

1) Stop overthinking it

You don’t always need to break out the Poltergust 3000 to open King Boo’s treasure box. Did you try just pushing it? Just push it, dammit. You wasted so much time with your fancy turns and tricks, and in the end, it was THE EASIEST WAY possible. Next time you’re wringing your thoughts for brilliant solutions, go back to square one and keep it simple, stupid.

2) It’s OK to ask for help

I know, I know. It feels super awkward to summon Gooigi when you feel entirely capable to conquer this on your own. Get this though — when you really get to know him, you’ll see he actually brings new skills to the table which means that, together, you can go so much further. Accept help, embrace help. Even when it’s covered in green goo.

3) And lastly, when you’re frustrated, take a damn walk

When you’ve tried the same X, Y, R combination sixteen times and you’re still not past the same dumb ghost, put down the controller and walk away. You’ll be amazed how easy it is overcome a challenge when you return with a fresh state of mind.

Reaching your goals takes time, patience and a whole lot of advice from E.Gadd in the lab. Being aware of how you learn and grow is part of the learning and growing. And one day, in a shocking turn of events, you’ll beat King Boo, using all the skills you’ve picked up along the way. And Mario will be there to witness it. All that time you spent doubting yourself will turn into a realization that you can do anything you put your mind to. And next time you’re faced with a challenge you think you can’t overcome, you’ll think of Luigi and his little ole mansion.

[trishwuzhere]

Congrats! It’s a period!

Every other month I wake up in groaning pain from my period. I usually alarm every being in the house as I tumble down the stairs for food so that I can down some Motrin.

This week, while I was writhing in my bed like a Mexican jumping bean, the thought crossed my mind, “this must be what childbirth feels like.” Just the endless tightening of your insides to where you don’t know if you’re going to blow chunks or pass out.

It usually goes like this for an hour until the meds kick in and I fall back asleep from exhaustion of the experience. But this time I thought about what it would be like, if after all this pain, wherein I felt nothing like myself or like I could even handle being alive, what if after all this someone came over and handed me a helpless crying baby and said, “You did it! Good job! Now make sure this thing stays alive for the next 18 years.”

I horrified myself just thinking of it. And counted my blessings that it’s just me I gotta look after. And that’s plenty.

[trishwuzhere]

Yellow Tulips in a Mason Jar

Since Sunday, I’ve been looking forward to the fresh flowers being delivered today. I’m fixated on it actually. Like an old Italian grandma who spends the whole week waiting for Luigi to bring by a fresh loaf of bread. 

Flowers may not seem essential in a time where so many are lacking so much. It’s not food or water or TP. But having something beautiful to look at every day that says, look! Life is beautiful! We can thrive! Well that feels just as necessary to my survival as a can of garbanzo beans. 

My brain can’t really process that the expected death toll is now at 100,000 Americans. So, call it glass-half-full thinking or call it living in a bubble, but we all gotta do what we all gotta do, to make it through.

And for me,

in this moment,

it’s yellow tulips in a mason jar.  

[trishwuzhere]

On Poultry and Politics

What chickens taught me about socialism

It’s day one of my quarantine and I’m waking up to tweets.

Not Tweets but … tweets … from our new chicken neighbors.

Waking up to chickens running around a sunny yard makes me feel akin to my father, who grew up on a farm in Italy, taking care of cows, pigs, and chickens as far back as he can remember. Leaning out my bedroom window, it warms my heart to think that I now get this experience for myself, from this day on, from my city home.

Coincidentally, it’s also the day I plan to send in my absentee ballot for the Ohio primary. Biden or Bernie, Bernie or Biden. I’m still not really sure who was second-best since losing my favorite candidate, Warren and I’m feeling pretty unresponsive to either candidate.

Bernie isn’t who I want in a leader. He’s yelly, far too left to beat T***p and I don’t think we’re in a place to burn our economy down and start over. And honestly, I kindof love capitalism. I like that it forces us to compete and produce our very best. I like working hard and reaping the rewards of that hard work. And at the same time, I know this isn’t a structure that suits the greater good and as a sensitive empath, I can’t just turn my back on social injustice.

Then there’s Biden. Who sounds to me like he’s staving off a stroke. But he’s the first to say he will choose a woman VP and he was Obama’s wingman when Obama was a nobody, and that still means a lot.

So I’m watching these lil’ cluckers peck around in the neighbor’s yard and deciding whether I’m a socialist or not, when suddenly, Fitz the German Shepard shows up from out of nowhere and grabs a chicken in one bite! I shrieked from my bedroom window, watching him tackle her to the ground again and again as she fought for her life.

I was still in pajamas when I rushed downstairs, jumped into snow boots and ran out to scare Fitz away. Not knowing my new neighbors, I didn’t want to be this nosy weirdo but I couldn’t help myself. I politely shouted at Fitz to leave this poor chicken alone.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t even hesitate.

The little chicken ran clear across the yard in a feathery fury and into a stack of wood where she thought she’d be safe. Fitz darted after her. I heard her moan and cry from the wood pile and I thought for certain I had just witnessed her murder.

That was enough.

I walked over to the neighbor’s front door and as sweetly as I could, I said “There’s no way your dog would murder your chicken, right?” He was surprised at the question and said, “Oh no, he barks at them once in a while but he’s harmless!” Big smiles, everyone’s happy.

And I don’t know what this says about me, but I was relieved and totally took his word for it. “Oh phew, just wanted to know because God forbid I could have helped and didn’t!” And we had a good laugh and he swiftly got in his car and drove off to work.

For an entire hour after this, I watched as Fitz terrorized this poor chicken. I couldn’t do anything. I was stuck. There was a fence between us and I already alerted the “authorities” who told me not to worry. It was heartbreaking. I wondered how I was going to watch this, day in and day out, and ever be able to focus on anything else.

When our neighbor got home that night, he came over to tell us that something had opened the coop in the night and he had no idea the chickens were outside. He was so grateful to my intervention and wished he would have understood the chickens were roaming free. I was so sad for our miscommunication but so relieved we had neighbors who cared.

I’m happy to report that after some nursing, the chicken came back to life with no real injury aside from the emotional trauma of the day. I’m happy to report the same for myself.

So.

In conclusion.

If socialism means a more equitable economy, where we all work together for the greater good, where we watch each other’s backs and advocate for the little guy, well … I guess I have some Bernie in me.

But while I’m not totally sold on a dog-eat-dog world, I’m also not totally sold on a populist left that feels so much like the populist right. Ragey, polarizing and intolerant.

Lucky for me, Ohio postponed its election until June so now I have three more months to figure out how to save the world from my couch.

Woof.

[trishwuzhere]

What If

There is so much fear about COVID-19. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ And, what if… ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ If we subscribe to the philosophy that life is always working out for us, that there is an intelligence far greater than humans at work… ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ That all is interconnected. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ What if… ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ the virus is here to help us? ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ To reset. To remember. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ What is truly important. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Reconnecting with family and community. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Reducing travel so that the environment, the skies, the air, our lungs all get a break. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Parts of China are seeing blue sky and clouds for the first time in forever with the factories being shut down. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Working from home rather than commuting to work (less pollution, more personal time). ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Reconnecting with family as there is more time at home. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ An invitation to turn inwards – a deep meditation – rather than the usual extroverted going out to self-soothe. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ To reconnect with self – what is really important to me? ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ A reset economically. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ The working poor. The lack of healthcare access for over 30 million in the US. The need for paid sick leave. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ How hard does one need to work to be able to live, to have a life outside of work? ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ And, washing our hands – how did that become a “new” thing that we needed to remember. But, yes, we did. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ The presence of Grace for all. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ There is a shift underway in our society – what if it is one that is favorable for us? ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ What if this virus is an ally in our evolution? ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ In our remembrance of what it means to be connected, humane, living a simpler life, to be less impactful/ more kind to our environment. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ An offering from my heart this morning. Offered as another perspective. Another way of relating to this virus, this unfolding, this evolution. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ It was time for a change, we all knew that. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ And, change has arrived. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ What if… (Repost from @Kung_Acu on Instagram)

[trishwuzhere]

Leaning on @GilbertLiz

Dear Ones:

Good morning.

As Beyonce once sang, "We woke up in the kitchen, saying 'How the hell did this shit happen?'"

Oh baby.

I did not want this outcome. I did not expect this outcome. I did not in any universe imagine that this outcome ever could have occurred — and the fact that I did not imagine it as possible means that clearly I have been out of touch with the hearts and minds of millions of my fellow Americans. I cannot say that I understand them. I certainly don't agree with them. And yet this is the world we wake up to today.

OK.

Every single day, you must face whatever world you have woken up to — whatever that may be. That's the only world you get. You must start there.

Let me tell you what happened in our home last night.

I settled in with Rayya, to watch the returns — relaxed and certain that we were about to watch a historic and joyful moment: The election of the first woman to the presidency of the United States of America. Then it all started to slide. Then came the stress. Then came the growing anxiety. Then the panic started. Then: FLORIDA. (Always Florida. What are we gonna do with you, Florida?) Everyone I follow on Twitter was suddenly hysterical. Text messages of horror started flying around across the world. (Never have I seen so many "WTF's" fly across the screen of my phone.) The global financial markets began to collapse. Foreign leaders started losing their cool.

Around 11pm, I found myself in this state: Huddled on the couch in the fetal position, clutching a pillow, eyes wide, speechless, paralyzed with fear.

That's never good, right?

I've been there before, and that is NEVER good.

At that moment, I closed my eyes and asked myself to observe what was going on my physical body — my animal body. What I felt was a sickened stomach, shaking hands, a clenched chest, shallow breathing, a wild and uncontrolled mind, and an elevated heart rate. This is exactly what happens to an animal when it is being hunted.

At that moment, I asked myself, "Is this a helpful response, Liz?"

Nope.

If I believe that I am here to serve the world (and I DO believe that I am here to serve the world), then how does it help anyone if I am feeling and acting like a hunted animal? Answer: It doesn't help. Feeling hunted and trapped doesn't serve me, and it doesn't serve anyone.

This is when Rayya and I made a decision to turn off every single electrical device in the house and GET REAL. We stepped away from the television, from the social media, from the phones. Because we knew that RIGHT NOW, we needed to find calm. These are the moments when it's time to find out who you really are — and who you can really be.

We lit a candle, sat with each other in quiet prayer for a while, and then we each asked aloud the big question: "Who do I want to be in this situation?"

This is a question that we ask in our house a lot these days. This is a question Rayya has taught me over the years to always ask myself, when shit goes down, or when the world goes crazy, or when the panic starts to rise: "Who do I want to be in this situation?"

This is the question that Rayya and I asked of ourselves six months ago, when the doctors found signs of tumors on Rayya's pancreas and liver, and it didn't look good. I remember the day she went in for her CT scan, to confirm just how bad the situation really was. We woke up that day in a panic. We were both experiencing the standard human response to scary situations. We were undone. We both felt like: "We are terrified and anxious, and we will be terrified and anxious until we find out the results of this CT scan. We will not be at peace until we know what's going on. And if the results are horrible, we will totally fall apart."

But then we stopped, checked ourselves, and we asked, "REALLY?"

Was that true? Was it true that we could not be at peace RIGHT NOW — even if we didn't know the outcome, or even if the outcome promised to be horrible?

So we got really quiet that day, and we each asked: "Who do I want to be in this situation?"

The answers came, same as ever:

Calm.

Strong.

Open-hearted.

Curious.

Generous.

Wise.

Brave.

Humorous.

Patient.

Once we answered that question, we found our peace. Because THAT PART was up to us — who we would decide to be, regardless the outcome. And once we found our center again, we were able to walk into that hospital with relaxed breathing, clear eyes, steady hands, and resolute hearts. We were able to find peace BEFORE we even knew the results. And a few days later, the results came: CANCER. Not just any cancer, but terminal cancer! But by that time, we were were at peace. We were ready, because we knew who we were. And once again, facing this difficult situation, the only question on the table became, "Who do I want to be in this situation?"

That is the only question that EVER really matters.

I insist that we can learn — with practice — how to choose our emotional state in all situations. This has to be true. If this isn't true, then we are TRULY AND THOROUGHLY FUCKED — because our state of being is literally the only thing in this world that we can control.

This is not denial. This is not complacency. This not me cheerfully saying, "Oh well! I'm sure everything will be fine!" Sometimes things are not fine. Sometimes the diagnosis is terminal cancer. Sometimes the dark forces win. Sometimes the outcome is dreadful.

But all our practices in peace and grace and equanimity and courage are for TIMES LIKE THESE — for times when you do not get the outcome that you want. This is when it matters. When the shit goes down, and the shit goes wrong, and when the shit gets real — that's when the shit gets interesting. That's when the test comes: Who will you be now? Right now. Right this moment. Because that's the only part that is up to you.

So last night, Rayya and I decided to go to sleep without waiting up to find out who won the presidency. We decided to keep the phones off, and the TV off. We decided to step away from the burning vehicle of global panic. We decided that — when the world is trampling itself in a stampede of fear and anger — we will not join the stampede. In the same way that we decided six months ago to find peace in our hearts BEFORE we got the biopsy results, we decided last night to find peace in our hearts BEFORE we got the election results.

We prayed and mediated and coached each other through until our hearts and minds and bodies were at peace. Then we woke up to THIS world, and the same question as ever: "Who do I want to be in this situation?"

Calm.

Strong.

Open-hearted.

Curious.

Generous.

Wise.

Brave.

Humorous.

Patient.

Decide who you will be today, Dear Ones. RIght now. DECIDE. You can do this. This is what all your training and practice has led you to. Show the people around you what a calm and peaceful strong mind looks like. (Trust me, they need it. They already know what a panicked mind looks like; show them what a calm mind looks like.) Ask yourself again and again who you want to be, and believe that you can be it.

Nobody gets to take your emotional state away from you, unless you give it to them.

This is how you lead. This is who you are. This is how you BE.

Here we go.

ONWARD, LG

[trishwuzhere]

Black lives matter, blue lives matter.

When we let the crooked behavior of a few define the character of the whole, we inch further away from one another, from humanity, from peace.

More love, more love, more love, more love, more love.

[trishwuzhere]

When the violence gets to be too much, I like to imagine all the guns in the world being thrown into garbage bins, then those garbage bins feeding into Wonka factories that spit out love-based objects like park benches, swingsets and disco balls. That’s my peaceful little secret. 

[trishwuzhere]

“Charles Dickens would never have gotten his most famous sentence through the corporate communications specialist. The edited version would read like this: “It was the best and worst of times.” A savings of 4 words that makes sublime into subpar.” A word about editing words, by creative director Jim Sollisch.

A good editor makes a good writer’s writing very good. A bad editor gives your writing a haircut with a chain saw. You’re embarrassed to take it out in public.  

As a copywriter at an ad agency, I pretty much work with really bad editors. It’s not fair to call them editors; they are my clients, often marketing managers or communication specialists. Many of these folks have MBAs and are brilliant at so many things, writing not included. They have had the English knocked out of them. They speak power point, a form of pidgin English that’s very hard on the ears.

And these are probably the best editors we copywriters get. Sometimes our work is edited or critiqued by the legal department or by committees.

Trust me, we copywriters aren’t precious little literati. We know we aren’t authors or artists. Most days we’re witty sales people. On our best days, we’re storytellers, craftsmen.

We do care deeply about language. We want our words to dance to a particular rhythm. One of the tools we use is repetition. Unfortunately, it’s the tool most despised by bad editors.    

Charles Dickens would never have gotten his most famous sentence through the corporate communications specialist. The edited version would read like this: “It was the best and worst of times.” A savings of 4 words that makes sublime into subpar.

At one point in his “I Have a Dream” speech, Martin Luther King Jr. starts eight sentences in a row with the words, “I have a dream.”

And then near the close of the most famous speech in American history, he starts six sentences with the words “Let freedom ring.”

My clients would sit Martin down and take out a big old Thesaurus. They’d help him see that “dream” could become “vision” in certain places. In others, “idea” might work. But mostly, they’d just insist that he find new ways to start sentences.    

How did we get to this point? I blame it on English teachers, those non-writers who are responsible for teaching us how to write. It begins when they circle a word that appears a few times in a single paragraph and ask for a replacement. Anyone can look in a Thesaurus and replace “small” with “tiny” or with a $10-word like “diminutive.” But they’re not the same words.  

The attack continues when Mr. or Mrs. English Teacher insists on a variety of sentence structures. You have a rhythm going—you have a dream—and out comes the red pen to insist that you vary your syntax. Would that approach have made Goodnight Moon a better book?  

Humans love repetition. It’s comforting. Without repetition there is no music—that’s why we call music without repetition experimental music. Most people just call it bad. Put English teachers in charge of songwriting, and there would be no choruses.  

English teachers who don’t practice the craft of writing—and that’s the vast majority—can’t ruin real writers. They can just give them bad grades.  Real writers know that writing has to be heard, not just read. They find a beat, a rhythm and they follow it. They can’t help it.  

But the rest of the class walks away with the false knowledge that good writing is something you can diagram; that it’s meant to be seen and not heard; that rhythm is a tool for poetry, not prose.

And thus, we arrive at the marketing manager, the communication specialist, the MBA clients who unwittingly revisit the sins of their English teachers upon the writers who toil for them, trying to turn messages into emotional arguments, trying to make facts sing.

I’ve got a couple of tricks I try to get my copy past the censors. I always read it out loud to them. All humans love to be read to. It’s funny, we can’t get enough of it and yet most of us have gotten all we’re going to get of being read aloud to by the time we’re six. I read it with feeling. I want them to hear the rhythm, to feel something because I know that when they see it in print, they are only scanning for key words, playing buzz-word bingo. Which is why I try to never let them see it in print until it’s in the final layout or digital prototype.  

As a last resort—and I only do this rarely—I pull rank. I might say, “Boy, you’re tough. A lot tougher than the editor at the New York Times who didn’t change a word in the last piece of mine they used.” It makes me feel better, but it never works. Because while some people will admit they’re not writers, everyone is an editor.  

[trishwuzhere]

Repost from @lenadunham, because it sums up all my feels. 

“Dear Bruce Jenner: Your words will have an incredible effect on so many... Not just people struggling with our culture's restrictive and binary concept of gender, but anyone experiencing shame around what they perceive as their "otherness." The bravery it takes to face an often unforgiving public and speak openly about your identity is stunning and to be celebrated. I hope we can all show you our best selves and meet your honesty with love and compassion. You are beautiful in whatever form you choose to inhabit. Congratulations. Love, Lena”

[trishwuzhere]

A letter from F. Scott Fitzgerald to his daughter, Scottie.

When he wasn’t busy writing some of the most critically lauded and enduring novels of the 20th Century, The Great Gatsby author F. Scott Fitzgerald could often be found penning the most fascinating of letters to such famous characters as his good friend, Ernest Hemingway; editor extraordinaire,Maxwell Perkins; and his wife and fellow author, Zelda—to name but a few. However, no letters are more revealing, or indeed endearing, than those written to his daughter, Scottie, many of which see him imparting wisdom in a way only he could. This particular letter of advice, written to Scottie while she was away at camp and still just 11 years of age, is a perfect example.

August 8, 1933 Dear Pie: I feel very strongly about you doing duty. Would you give me a little more documentation about your reading in French? I am glad you are happy — but I never believe much in happiness. I never believe in misery either. Those are things you see on the stage or the screen or the printed pages, they never really happen to you in life. All I believe in in life is the rewards for virtue (according to your talents) and the punishments for not fulfilling your duties, which are doubly costly. If there is such a volume in the camp library, will you ask Mrs. Tyson to let you look up a sonnet of Shakespeare's in which the line occurs "Lillies that fester smell far worse than weeds." Have had no thoughts today, life seems composed of getting up aSaturday Evening Post story. I think of you, and always pleasantly; but if you call me "Pappy" again I am going to take the White Cat out and beat his bottom hard, six times for every time you are impertinent. Do you react to that? I will arrange the camp bill. Halfwit, I will conclude. Things to worry about: Worry about courage Worry about Cleanliness Worry about efficiency Worry about horsemanship Worry about. . . Things not to worry about: Don't worry about popular opinion Don't worry about dolls Don't worry about the past Don't worry about the future Don't worry about growing up Don't worry about anybody getting ahead of you Don't worry about triumph Don't worry about failure unless it comes through your own fault Don't worry about mosquitoes Don't worry about flies Don't worry about insects in general Don't worry about parents Don't worry about boys Don't worry about disappointments Don't worry about pleasures Don't worry about satisfactions Things to think about:  What am I really aiming at? How good am I really in comparison to my contemporaries in regard to: (a) Scholarship (b) Do I really understand about people and am I able to get along with them? (c) Am I trying to make my body a useful instrument or am I neglecting it? With dearest love, Daddy P.S. My come-back to your calling me Pappy is christening you by the word Egg, which implies that you belong to a very rudimentary state of life and that I could break you up and crack you open at my will and I think it would be a word that would hang on if I ever told it to your contemporaries. "Egg Fitzgerald." How would you like that to go through life with — "Eggie Fitzgerald" or "Bad Egg Fitzgerald" or any form that might occur to fertile minds? Try it once more and I swear to God I will hang it on you and it will be up to you to shake it off. Why borrow trouble? Love anyhow.

[trishwuzhere]

[trishwuzhere]

A great way to deal with unsolicited attention. http://www.cardsagainstharassment.com/

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Tomorrow is Earth Day. Last I checked, the earth is supporting 7 billion people. Every day we're losing a forest the size of New York City. And environmental scientists predict that if humans continue to consume at the rate we do, water will be a commodity like gold and oil. But rather than focus on my worry, help me focus on what we can do to turn this degradation around. Like cutting down your water waste. Composting. And biking or carpooling when you can. Because Earth needs more than one damn day. It needs all the days. Not just for our kittens. But for our kittens’ kittens.

Namaste. <3

[cassiatsura]

[animalsareothernations]

"If we’re destroying our trees and destroying our environment and hurting animals and hurting one another and all that stuff—there’s got to be a very powerful energy to fight that. I think we need more love in the world. We need more kindness, more compassion, more joy, more laughter. I definitely want to contribute to that.”

Ellen DeGeneres  (via animalsareothernations)