UNSPOKEN CODES OF "SO THIS IS HOW THIS IS NOW." ON THE LITTLE THINGS, INTIMATE THINGS, FROZEN PEA THINGS.
Also: when f*ckers return. Bring creamsicles and funnel cake (because we aren't going. to the fair) & also bring your most weird awkward self. Now, come and join our love gang of Proofers.
Happy Saturday,
Proofer reminds me how my dad used to call farts poofs. Now I can only see that. Come join our love gang of farters?
Some of this may feel like a repeat. It’s like how did I get here… again? Haven’t I been here? But what in life isn’t a repeat of sorts, really? It’s never quite the same, and yet, and yet. Here we are. Just bring frozen peas and creamsicles. I said a little of what’s in here yesterday, but you may missed by being distracted by the news that I am doing a retreat with Cheryl Strayed and Ann Lamott and more superstars in October (omg omg).
Let me know you’re here (hello? are you here? Are you there, God? It’s me, Margaret. I mean Jen.)
Let me know by leaving some comments in the community, would you? Let’s do this- let’s become a community of proofers- folks who know they ain’t got shit to prove; that being their magical weirdo unique selves is all the proof we ever need.
Say hello here and intro yourself. Tell us weird things, awkward things, beautiful things, mundane ones, share art or poems or vents and rants, epiphanies, where you live, where you left, who you love, what you want, what you no longer want, how you found your way here, your first job, what words always trip you up when either spelling or pronouncing or both, post a selfie- an awkward one, especially, what you’re afraid of, your fantasies (speaking of which, have you preordered my childhood besties’ book Dirty Diana, yes, based on the podcast they created with Demi Moore, which you can listen to here? holy smokes, fan yourselves, you sexy beasts.) Tell us if you have trouble sleeping, if you’re lonely, if you’re in love, if you’re dying for sex but afraid because it’s been so long. tell us your dark secrets, your light secrets, your dreams. Tell us anything and everything but tell us tell us tell us tell us tell us tell us-
I’ve made this free so y’all can comment. If you don’t, I fear I will have another sleepless night and do you want that on your conscious? No. You do not. You do not want to see me on two nights of no sleep. No Sirreee Bob as my daddy Mel would say. Bless that, Bob. Wherever he may be. Constantly being told no, that poor dear.
As you may have intimated, I couldn’t sleep last night. I mean, the sun came up and I was ready to pull my hair out. I started to have racy (not sexual eww) panicky thoughts as one does in the middle of the night when the devil crawls in bed with you. (How am I going to afford divorce and pay my ex and my mortgage and what if I die because my dad died when I was C’s exact age and what if I am alone and what if nothing works out and what if I grind my teeth until there is nothing but bone and what if I never sleep again and what if what if what if what if?)
I read all night. Speaking of which, in yesterday’s version of this ‘Stack (go back and check it if you missed it) I asked you for book recs because J Pastiloff is back on her A Game with reading. It’s been a hot minute, folks. Blame it on ADHD, the weather, my dead father, my kid, social media, who cares. All I know is I couldn’t seem to read and that made me feel… shame? Sigh. Anyway, I love love love
’s book recs, fyi. (I also like tv recs1 because after a year (!!) I will soon begin to exercise again on my elliptical and it’s where I get my best show watching done, kids. Notice how noncommittal I was in my soon I will begin to exercise” lolol. )I got up at 2 a.m. out of bed, starving like I’d been withheld food for weeks. (I had not. Not even hours.) I ate a bowl of frozen peas2. (I cooked them, nincompoop.) Then a creamsicle. In the bed, like a psycho. Then, back in the bed to read until sleep except sleep never came. Before I attempted to “go to bed” I posted this on my social media.
Nights like this, he comes in to cuddle, falls asleep, his dad still mostly lives here because it’s complicated, life,
life is, we know this, we pretend other people’s lives aren’t as,
but we don’t know, what do we know besides our own particular pangs and hurts and (sometimes private) victories,
what do we know besides our own arm resting on a body we love while listening to ocean sounds on Spotify as the body under our arm falls into its own little rhythm with the ocean, the ebb and flow of breath- its own sweet wave, a candle burning, just about to die, as all things do eventually, I guess,
I don’t guess, I know, I know all things die eventually, that was passive aggressive or something,
as if that could unmake true things into maybes or possibilities or nevers,
and though it’s childlike to admit and feels pretty pathetic, I hate that,
that all things die eventually,
but right now, on a night like this,
he’ll stay in my bed all night probably, it’s MY room now, capital M Capital Y, his father is in his room while he’s here and that’s that,
and wouldn’t you know so many things in life are like this,
they just become unspoken codes of THIS IS HOW THIS IS NOW, and we accept the wordless contract, wordlessly,
and well that’s what happened in my marriage for a long long time, possibly since the beginning,
that’s what happens a lot in life,
maybe every once in a while check on what you’ve signed on to, or what you’ve signed up for,
in this case I’m glad because it’s my room and now I can read in bed because no one is complaining about the light keeping them awake and like they say, it’s the little things the little things the little things
like waves like babies in bed even though not so much a baby but still
like falling asleep reading because I can keep the light on if I want to
the little things aren’t so little so little so little.
I wrote it right there on my phone in three minutes but it feels to me like a poem. All things do, really. I’m weird like that. Or, not. I find my son’s 2nd grade schoolwork and I’m all Oh! There’s a poem. A paper read: “What makes a hero?” (Friends, so many answers I have, so many.) It was on a yellow sheet I was saving in a pile of papers and bills and in the shock of all shocks I cannot find it, but that one question I do remember.
So, I ask you: what makes a hero? Seriously, talk to me in the comments. Not talking about the sandwich either, freak. Besides, where I’m from we call it a hoagie. Philly, bitches! Philly all the way. Another page I found asks about the color of sound. I mean, come on! What? That. Is. A. Poem. A title, at the very least says the deaf lady poet. Speaking of, did you see my POETRY painting. Perfect for the poet on your life (or you, duh.)
ps- I reread his school paper and it says “Color The Sound.” Still: a poem. The sounds are all oi, oy, oi, oy- over an dover again and I just think of my dead Jewish grandmother, my Bubbe and may she rest in peace. Oye vey.
Here’s a poem of mine (scroll down a wee bit) that makes me want to ask you so many things.
So many things:
Do you struggle with intimacy? What does it mean to you?
Do you spill food all over yourself, like I do? (Okay fine, I don’t really care, love you regardless.)
What makes a poem, to you?
Was hardness how you too survived?
Did you (or do you) ever believe you were missing “a screw”- a part that other people had, something you felt maybe was broken or lacking?
What do you store in your places of tender gestures?
What/where are those places?
Are you bad at math, like me? But good with people? (Had to add that in to balance the self-deprecation.) But, it’s true. Mostly.
Also, I want to see, read, hear your work so please share. Like I said, I am hosting another ALLOW virtual workshop July 20 so mark your calendars and email to pre-reserve but feel free to share in comments.
The Math Of Intimacy
An equation best understood with a back facing you.
See how you when drop those cookie crumbs down
your boobs the body next to yours simply snores as
you pick peanut butter bits off your nipples and put them
in your mouth with ease, like you’ve been together years?
It’s not exactly equal, but similar to living with a deaf person.
How without their hearing aids in you can slam any drawer,
throw any can opener, and still they won’t stir.
His left hand clenches air and you wonder: what makes a poem?
And why, for so long, did you believe you were
missing the screw that allowed for softness?
You press fingers into a mattress, tucking each one in,
just like you did for your boy when he was little.
Oh! Those tiny fists- how can you forget
that hardness was how you survived?
That your son, he was a baby once.
Now there’s a sentence.
(A whole poem, if you ask me.)
You gently pry the poem loose, fingers too.
This is what makes a poem,
this quiet and exacting love
there may be no discernible memory of,
no proof you have the capacity to be this
delicate, except for what remains in the place
that stores tender gestures inside us.
It’ll take you everywhere, art. Anywhere. And art can be anything. Doing another virtual ALLOW writing/creativity day retreat July 20 that will be open this week and sells out fast so email if you would like to be on list. I always get you in, regardless of money.
I’d love to see any of your art; be it words, visual, jewelry, food, film, photography, whatever. Anything goes at my school, which is called TSOWW. short for: The School of Whatever Works.
My son turned 8 on May 19. Here’s the thing, the body does remember. Bessel van der Kolk was right! (He wrote The Body Keeps The Score.) I was 48 when my dad dropped dead at 38. So weird, right? Except, now that my son turned the age I was when my greatest trauma happened, I see he’s just a wee thing and OH MY FUCKING GOD I WAS ACTUALLY 8 YEARS OLD NOT A GROWN ASS ADULT WHO HAD TO DRIND HER JAW AND BECOME THE MAN OF THE HOUSE AND NEVER EVER SHARE HER FEELINGS OR ACT LIKE SHE EVEN HAD ANY FEELINGS.
Shit, I was 8, as it turns out. All of these memories and feelings I have NEVER let out- things I buried and threw away the key to (or so I thought haha hahahaha joke’s on me, silly human) have risen. Hello, we are here!
Me: Who invited you fuckers?
Fuckers: You did.
Me: No, I didn’t.
Fucker: Maybe not consciously, but yuh-huh, you did.
Me: Well, I am consciously un-inviting you so, bye.
Fuckers: Doesn’t work that way.
Me: That’s not fair!
Fuckers: There’s no such thing as fair. You know that by now.
Me: It’s not fair that there’s no fair.
Fuckers: We can eat funnel cake and find a roller coaster, and pretend?
I do love me some funnel cake. (But, if you come near me with cotton candy I will turn your ass into cotton candy.) So yea, Charlie turned 8 and the dam bursted.
Turns out, it wasn’t built for life, after all. I want my money back!
This summer on July 15 (my dad’s death anniversary) Char will be exactly the age I was. It was between 2nd and 3rd, bless my little heart. I said I hate you after he said that I was being bad and my god, I can’t imagine my baby carrying what I did. I walked through life with I am bad as my calling card and it was like a cheapo one from Wawa (7-11) for non tri-state area folk, that won’t let you call anyone for more than three minutes. And the three minutes you have all you can do is beg to turn back time and lament what a rotten human you are. (What fun!)
I could not predict this would happen. How could I? We have no map, no manual for our lives. Thank the lord of mapmaking for that. Can you imagine? We’d avoid leaving our houses? We’d avoid living.
Jesus, no. (Maybe we wouldn’t avoid Jesus, but I can’t say for sure. Being Jew-ish, and all. Big on the ish.)
When this July 15th rolls around, my boy will be away. Robert is taking him to London for a month. Wahhhh!!!
After yesterday 'Stack I got a bunch of requests to join the magic of my Tuscany retreat Sep 14-21, so if you are at all itching to come, please email me now. Things to know: it has a focus on creativity and connection. There are guest teachers, like the amazing artist/author Miriam Feldamn (Mimi) and Kirbee Miller. They teach art and writing and culinary heart experiences, that defy description so sorry-you’ll just have to come and see or stalk my old posts or talk to past attendees, but even they won’t be able to describe, just like with my workshops. Elizabeth (Ceri) Conway- my partner in crime (she is the more Zen semi- conservatively dressed tall perfectly hearing early rising lesbian to my semi-cynical potty mouthed short deaf ass oversleeper- and she teaches yoga and meditation daily and does sound baths (and every single damn thing is optional, weirdos. It is YOUR retreat.) It’s here to save you the trouble of asking where is it? HEAVEN. That is where it is.
There’s massages and a wine tasting in the 800 year old wine cellar at the villa (by the dashing Pietro) and two trips- one to Siena and one to San Gimignano. Again, all optional. There are people who drink and folks who don’t so do not worry which camp you fall into. Most folks come alone so that is also something to look forward to- the friendships you make (for life.) Ask any of my previous attendees (many who come again and again.) Mainly, there’s the most amazing food and so much down time to reset, There’s a pool. There’s a gym. There’s animals.
It varies in size but let’s call it around 23 folks, give or take (many are my assistants and fellow teachers and my mommy, yay!) The ages vary from early twenties to 70’s and every variable of human being. It’s a wonder. There’s art! However you define it. Bad art, especially. I mean that: we take the pressure off of ourselves to be good. Because barf. Ok, enough. email if you want in but please share a little about you if we don’t know each other yet? That is important as it is so intimate, this week.
Things to note: if you’re like yea, I’m looking for a silent meditation week, this is NOT for you (although we do practice silent mornings.) If you’re all I want to detox and lose 100 pounds and work out for a week, not for you. If you’re like I hate all people (I had someone in 2011 say that- she came because the price was too good to pass up, which taught me NEVER UNDERSELL YOURSELF.) If you’re wanting power yoga or all yoga yoga yoga, nope. If you’re like I just wanted to see what all the fuss is about with you, I don’t think I’ll really like this and I’ll probably leave the third day, or even second (someone actually said this and yes, she stayed and yes, ( um, yay?) It was fucking weird and ick and people can just be so fascinating, huh?) If that is you, then please, no. Just no. If you want the deepest, most life-affirming, fun, grace-filled, creative, magical beyond words, delicious, weirdo filled, find your people kind of thing- then this is for you. And, you must have a sense of humor- even a bad one or a dad joke kind of one, and an open heart. I have a strict don’t be an asshole policy (mainly towards yourself3.) My personal email is jennifer@jenniferpastiloff.com. That’s goes to me. Don’t send me political forwards or chain letters though, k?
Lastly, I offer scholarships for all virual stuff, as that is easy peasy but Italy not so much. Yet, I still do. Your donations help me bring someone who can’t afford and mostly I choose a mother who has lost a child. I have a fund called THE ALEKSANDER FUND, named after baby Aleksander who passed away ion 2016 just after Charlie was born. It’s been going strong for 8 years! I am so proud— but I have no funds in there at the moment. If you have extra and a need to do a mitzvah or give back, please donate via Venmo or Paypal using subject of “Aleksander Fund.”
Conversely, if you know someone who fits the bill (a mom who has lost a child), let’s chat. Having said that, I need to raise at least $3,500. This is easy with so many of us. I have brought so many women over the years who have lost children to France, Italy and Ojai retreats, as well as Omega and Kripalu in NY and Mass. I use the fund money for Ojai retreats too as well as sometimes sending funds to folks in dore straits (like needing groceries etc.) My Venmo is jennifer-pastiloff (last digits are 0172) and Paypal is jenniferpastiloffinfo@gmail.com. I love you, my I got you people. With all the garbage happening in the world, it feels good to do good.
The reason for my radio silence was that I went underground to finish my book PROOF OF LIFE: Let Go, Let Love, and Stop Looking for Permission to Live the Life You Want and get it turned it. If you haven’t yet read my first book On Being Human, you can get it here or anywhere books are sold (or listen to me narrate it on Audible.
I have never, and I mean NEVER in my life, worked so hard and committed so ferociously. I cancelled a retreat that I absolutely needed the income from (so please consider becoming a paying subscriber or donating a subscription and yes, I am going to be consistent now that I got ‘er done) but which I absolutely could not do nor promote as it would take my focus away. I am so grateful to my subscribers because it supports me and my work and this community that I hold so so dear. I give endless scholarships and aid to those who could not normally afford it otherwise and your support makes that possible. Makes me teary. Fucking sap I am. Now that my stone cold heart cracked open, finally (those fuckers!)
I also give perks (not sexual ones, perv) for paid subscribers too so stay tuned for upcoming ones. I am also starting a podcast so… OMG? I am excited for that.
As I said yesterday but you probs didn’t read did you? You were probs out partying on a Friday night at the clubs, weren’t you? (ha, nothing sounds worse.) As I said, I went into Charlie’s 2nd grade class and spoke to the kids about what it means to be a writer, about having an invisible disability, about empathy and curiosity and imagination and kindness. I had them all do my signature exercise of giving themselves a medal and oh, my heart! It was so dear. “I give myself a medal for helping people.” That was my son’s. One kid said his was for being the BEST soccer player in the whole world. Others were for being kind, for loving pizza, for being a good friend.. (Kudos to pizza girl.)
What would you give yourself a medal for right now, today? This is not rhetorical. Go on and clock that cute little orange button and do the thing.
Me: I give myself a medal for turning my book in, for not letting myself be fear’s bitch (not yet today, anyway), for saying yes to big love even though I am scared and it’s complicated, for leaving my marriage, for getting back into reading, for going to the dentist to handle my crowns even though it is one of my greatest fears, for how I find beauty everywhere, for my moodiness, for my ability to alchemize pain and shit or whatever it may be into… well, something else, for championing others all the time as best as I am able, for not shutting down when I want to or feel I should because I am too much, for drinking more water lately, for not having any alcohol since last Sunday, for not attacking my face lately in the mirror, for telling people how I love them- incessantly, for moving to Ojai, for valuing my friendships so deeply- for making silliness, joy, affection, love and art a priority in my home, so much so that when you walk in, it feels like a cozy hug- for keeping my word to myself lately, for allowing for pleasure, for painting when I never knew it was in me and I never learned how (and still do not know how), for learning it’s safe to be tender and vulnerable and when I forget for letting myself off the hook and beginning again.
Then, I found a booklet my son did on 2nd grade and it said this:
My heart. Again! It can only handle so much. You trying to kill me????
Tell me how you are? What are you excited about? How are you going to invest in you? What promises will you keep? Especially to yourself?
I’m making this one free since it’s been awhile but if you can become a supporter, please do. It matters so much. It helps me keep the I Got You Effect going and helps me stay in my home (laugh cry laugh cry cry cry .) You matter. I read every response, every email. You matter.
Love, me
Time is wild. This was 5 years ago, at my Portland book launch with my wifey Lidia Yuknavitch at Powell’s. What a dream! Charlie used to take his Chase doll everywhere. from Paw Patrol. It was his best friend. Speaking of Lidia: read all her books an do all her things. You will be made better for it.
I want to share some of the gloriousness of my front yard. I just wish you could smell it. It’s beyond anything you can imagine. I can’t take how gorgeous it smells (and looks.)
Tid bits:
I have a new speaking agent and am booking up so if you want to hire me either in person or virtually, to give a keynote or lecture/speak, entertain, joke, make you cry, workshop, teach, dance (jk do not ask for that) please reach out to Debbie Clayman at debbie@lynnjohnstonlit.com. I have consolidated my team all into one place. Yay! I also do private events (like private retreats and corporate events.)
The next ALLOW is July 20th at 11 am to 2 pm pst and will be open this week to register. Email to get on pre-reg list.
I love you weirdos,
love, me- fellow weirdo forever
Henry and I just watched Eric on Netflix. Have you seen? thoughts? I thought it was weird and wonderful and dark and the acting, holy wow. Really dark though.
I literally never ate a frozen pea, nary a one, until my son was like 3. Who am I? I get weirdly obsessed with things, obviously. What are you “weirdly obsessed” with? Maybe it’s not weird? maybe weird is the best. IT IS!
How have you been an asshole to yourself lately? STOP IT!
I’m a fish out of water. Raised in the Midwest and spent adulthood on the West Coast. Recently, through a strange turn of events, I have moved to Palm Beach. It’s a difficult place to find community and I’m finding out how important having a community has been for me.
Hello oh hello. I fell down and broke my brain just as my memoir was coming out, and wasn't able to read for a year or so and then I could read but it felt like being seasick and now, four years on, sometimes reading doesn't make me seasick but if I read oh more than a paragraph or two it does. All to say I read your thing as much as I can, and then a little more, seasick or not, and thank you. I don't know if I'll ever ever again be a writer, but I'm learning to paint, because apparently the brain bonk made me feel colors in my mouth, and ain't that a kick?