It’s interesting what a trip to the gym will bring.

My membership to Equinox in San Francisco is about to expire as I move out of SF and head up north.

I’m rather sad to be letting my gym go – I’ve come to love the overpriced, posh luxury of it… funny the things we become attached to.

In the locker room the other day, I stepped gently onto the scale to weigh myself. But the bar was stubborn and refused to balance.

That’s when I realized they had changed out the scale for a metric one.

Now, maybe I was absent the day they taught conversion rates, but forgive me that I don’t know how many pounds 57 kilograms is. My only thought was Is this supposed to make me feel skinnier somehow?

Because the truth is, a pound by any other name, is still a pound.

* * *

When in the process of moving, I decided to be very Zen-Golden-Monkey-Buddha and just get rid of nearly everything I own. It was test: Toss everything that is not
1) an overtly important sentimental item or gift (Grandma’s opal ring),
2) absolutely necessary for the next stage in life (glasses)
3) something I know I’ll instantly regret if it goes (favorite pair of tennis shoes) and
4) books (books have life-pass exemption from purging).

I figured I’ve been doing so well with all this good-bye and rejection and letting go of late that this would be easy.

Or so I thought.

Today I was carting off boxes and boxes of my funky fashionista thrift wardrobe and sassy city apartment accoutrements, feeling very Zen indeed, when I hit a snag – what is this? My punky black and white kitten heels? Why, I can’t get rid of those! What if I go to Spain this spring? They would be perfect for prancing around Barcelona…Oh! And this loose lime linen top. What if I’m back in Vietnam this summer? I’ll surely need something cool for ‘Nam.

And that was just the closet.

There were old pieces of writing, pictures, Post-it notes of faded brilliance, pathetic symbolic items like that half-chewed pencil I gnawed on — you remember that? I said to myself, Yeah, that was really something. I can’t throw that out. Gotta keep that pencil to remind me of how nervous I was that one time that one thing happened that one night right before that really special day…yeah.

…Yeah.

You get the picture: all the crap we keep around, the things we become attached to but don’t need. But not just things! We remain attached to people that no longer serve to teach us things, places we no longer occupy, ideas whose time have past, and images, like outgrown clothes, that no longer fit us.

As I‘ve been forced to realize how thick my attachment to all the silly material items I own, I’ve also come to see I’m mighty attached to some images as well: being defined as Sassy City Dweller, Corporate SmartAss, Jet Setter, Proficient Doer, Accomplished Daughter, Young Creative Type, Independent Fema-Bachelorette etc. They are easy roles for me to slip on, and I realize that I have become just as attached to these definitions of self as I have to my complete set of matching flatware.

But I have had to go through each one and think about what I really need for the next stage of my life – does it fit into one of the four categories above? Maybe Corporate SmartAss Shannon Edition™ has served her purpose and, like my 24 set of cocktail glasses, it’s time to leave her on the streets of San Francisco with a FREE sign.

I can always go back to IKEA if I need another.

Because we often define who we are by what we do. And in the past few weeks, do you know what I’ve done? Who I’ve been?

Well… I’m moving from SF (there goes Sassy City Dweller) and in with my parents (Accomplished Daughter? Oops…); I don’t work and have certainly not left the Bay Area (nix Corporate SmartAss and Jet Setter); I haven’t really written anything except for a couple of blog entries (Young Creative Type? Proficient Doer? Pah!); I’ve kinda, sorta, maybe, tangentially—er, um, depends on how you define it, begun casually kinda, kinda, kinda “dating” this guy (or, as I tell myself so I don’t have to take as many anxiety pills to get over the emotional intimacy fear: just “semi-regularly getting naked with the same person” – so there goes my self image as fiercely Independent Fema-Bachelorette) and I basically see friends and… “hang out.”

“Hang out”!?

Hanging out was not on my To Do list. And yet, neither was being content… and there both are.

I was very, very attached to something indeed. And it was an image of someone who would not, could not, let go of any of these images. It was someone who would always be ambitious, self-sufficient, strong, independent – and if that ran the risk of seeming aggressive, intimidating, loud, abrasive – so be it. Better than weak, needy, passive, stagnant, unaccomplished, boring.

But I’m finding that image unnecessary, and just like it doesn’t matter if you label in pounds or kilos, you still weigh the same amount, it doesn’t matter how we label ourselves, we’re still… ourselves.

And in fact, those labels that we become attached to can become just as burdensome as any other kind of baggage – it’s hard to move through life when you’ve got boxes of emotional attachments to haul around. Purge, purge, purge, baby.

So as I move out of the TenderNobb and make my way on up to Sonoma County and into 2007, I’m working on stepping up onto a different scale, and checking for an easier kind of balance—same girl, just slightly different definitions, slightly different numbers.

All I’m having to do is let go of a few things I don’t need…

(Wishing everyone a balanced New Year! Happy 2007 ~)

-Shannon

Driving home with a belly full of Apple Sauce, Sparkling Cider, and Cherry Coke Jello Salad (am I Americana, or what?) I was thinking about my Top 5 Christmas presents, and then what I would get for my readers (that’s You) of Not Keeping Score

My Top 5 were presents were:
#5: A 15 lb. zip-up fleece, self-heating, vibrating, foot warmer with 12′ extension cord
#4: A plastic splatter guard to place over food in the microwave in place of a paper towel
#3: A murder mystery written by me, age 9 (found by my father, in an old bookshelf)
#2: A pack of fortune cookies

–I have to interject here. I feel guilty, because this year I didn’t give presents, unless you count poking my cousins in the ribs one by one and whispering that they smell bad (in my family, this is called “giving affection” — I am the only female cousin save one who lives in New York, and so exchanges among the cousins growing up have been limited to noogies, half nelsons, and crude jokes).

Selfish or not, I just didn’t feel like the purchasing of gifts would be appropriate; I’ve been in this “life transition” and, frankly, acting very “Shi-Shi-Zen,” (this is my personal coining for self-righteous Northern Cali types who “live simply,” but still live upscale. Think Berkeley Hills. Think Whole Foods Market. Think… someone who doesn’t buy Xmas presents on principle). And so I was acting a little anti-consumerism.

My normal gift recipients were stoked, I’m sure.

* * *

By nature, I’m a hoarder. Not necessarily of things, but of ideas. And under normal circumstances, it is this collection of abstractions from which I would give — “this idea reminds me of this person, so I’m inspired to give him/her a Whatever,” right?

What you give is a reflection of what is inside of you.

But I think amidst all of this change I felt a little paralyzed at the close of this year. I’ve been letting go of so much, I’m feeling a little blissfully empty — what do I possbily have to give? I feel almost idea-less, but in a good way — clean. I simply couldn’t bring myself to give anything worthy of what I’ve been getting. I’ve been receiving so much inspiration, guidance and insight lately, that I feel as if I’m stumbling through life with a stupid smile on my face; I’m a little drunk on life’s liquor, yet somehow remarkably sturdy, weaving around universal corners on which stand mumbling strangers who, when I sober up to listen, always seem to have something incredibly important to tell me, show me, teach me.

And always I want to cling on to these experiences and pin them down like butterflies to admire their beauty, to write about each one in florid details, to be able to analyze and study and understand every intricate detail and what each means – how lovely each gift!

But as soon as I think I have my hands on one, I open up my palms to have a look, there is nothing, and I am dumbfounded, and I feel as if I am left with nothing tangible. So on I go, my glasses askew, empty handed, that silly smile, a sideways step, some loopy whistle streaming from my lips…

…So I’m at a loss here. I wanted to write some really wonderful Christmas post for you, update the design a little, maybe even upload a cool holiday photo. But I don’t even have a cute little wrap up to this narrative. I have no sparkly red ribbon to tie in a perfect bow at the top of this gift. All I have to give is my Thanks to all of you who chose to follow along and read Not Keeping Score as I stumble on down the road.

And a Thank You, also, for my number one favorite Christmas present:

#1: An audience (that’s You) who continues to bear witness, beyond all good judgment, and for reasons still unfathomable, to the bumblings of one, silly, little writer girl

At a writing seminar I went to, on the topic of publication, one of the speakers commented:

“It takes the average writer 300 rejection letters before publishing something. It’s a numbers game. So consider every rejection one step closer to success. How can you be successful if you don’t put yourself out there? You have to get used to liking rejection.”

* * *

At this very moment, I have “Ce-le-brate good times, Come-on!” playing in my head — can you hear it? Can you hear it?

(Or, maybe I should be playing the theme song from Rocky?)

That’s because I got my ass kicked last night. And I’m not talkin’ metaphorically here. Nor verbally. I’m talkin’ literally kicked — and not just my ass: I have a nice shiner right under my fat, swollen chin; my hand is bruised from where I fisted my opponent’s face; my left rib has seen better days; and the inside of my tongue feels like a serrated banana slug.

I was drinking bourbon with a very good/old friend of mine (who’s male, more than twice my size, and knows how to kung fu kick, apparently, like there’s no tomorrow) and the next moment I was spitting blood. I suppose that’s all that needs to be said.

Except that’s not all: We boxed for 20 minutes, no mercy, I came out needing an ice pack and aspirin. But I had a blast.

* * *

Weeks before this, I came to realize the boy I’ve ostensibly had feelings for, for over a year, who I thought was always just too busy, too scared, too new, too unsure, too unready, actually just… doesn’t like me enough, and probably never will.

…And I think I’m stoked. Rejection actually felt freeing; I found this thing called “reciprocity” feels much nicer.

* * *

And so, I’ve also just received my first rejection letter for a book review I sent out for publication. After not hearing back for months, I finally got the “Thanks, No Thanks” email. I sat there for a moment, staring at my screen, not sure what to make of it. My review was well-written; I had worked hard on it — fuck, I even knew the Managing Editor of the magazine.

As I’m making some changes in my life, Life is turing around and reminding me that good-bye’s are a two-way street, and one has to be ready to keep a “stiff upper lip” when it comes to rejection. And in fact, maybe even cause for celebration…

I printed the rejection letter out and pinned it on my wall. Then I wrote “Rejected!” with a big red smiley face on it. Only 299 to go I thought.

“HAPPINESS RUNS IN A CIRCULAR MOTION”

Such is the case tonight as rain’s fingernails scratch down my windowsill, customary wailings from lost sirens, strings of sighing traffic — a San Francisco swan song about to be sung.

There are globes of lights everywhere — glass orbs of water lit from the Party Store’s winking strobe, Christmas strings languid and loose, fractured spray spit against the sidewalk from car wheels, and one big glowing screen in front of me like always.
Like always.

And like always, the rain steps on the black streets with his tiny feet, but this time I am not alone with my city. We, two, in love, must share each other tonight, and make room.
Future tip-toes in.

Time moves in a circular motion, too.

Suddenly it is no longer night’s soft belly, but the cool breeze blowing in late afternoon. You are reading to me, in smooth lyrical whispers, like old satin ribbons, African creation stories — why death exists, where the world was born — when my old lover the city taps at my window. I turn to his familar coos, VIBRANT courtings, twisted banter, green lights! Doors
Open: pulsings, f r e e d o m s, frac tured, panting –

I stand up and leave you. Go the window. Sit down and write. You remain on the couch reading alone as the frenzy consumes me again. You’ll never love another but me, the city whispers, my writing whispers, my heart whispers, there is no room for another.

I write like the rain. The clicking of keys floods the room as I drown myself back into safety. You ask what I’ve written. Would I like to share? The cold breeze blows in harder. The city’s seductions louder: It’s me and you, babe. Me and you. Don’t leave me now, we’ve only begun… The sirens are back, and the traffic is haunting, pulling at old demons that shed long shadows, and deep. There is a sudden stiffness about the light, my toes have gone numb and I am certain I have to run to the store to buy… anything.

But you don’t say another word. You light up your cigarette, and watch time wobble in circles around our heads. My typing slows. My sentences shorten. I finish. I’m done. I look at you. You look back.

“It’s cold,” I say.

“Sure is,” you smile.

“Shut the window,” I ask. You do.

“Wanna hear what I’ve got?” I ask. “I’m ready to share.” You look at me and say:

“I do.”

[for I.G.]

I’ve been getting some anxious emails and comments (and even a phone call) about my last post.

First of all, let me assuage all fears: Not Keeping Score is not going away. As I mentioned, I’m only over-hauling my life, not my blog — see? No big deal.

Perhaps, Dear Readers, you are forgetting that good-bye means hello — as I say good-bye to some familiar settings, it only means saying hello to some brand new juicy fodder for Not Keeping Score.

Now, to address the anxiety:

“Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom”
-Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard

(Quote directly ripped off from Rob Breszney’s Free Will Astrology. Yes, my addiction has gone beyond fortune cookies and the Magic 8-Ball, I’m afraid)

I’m posting this not only for my own benefit (it is true, I have been known to be afflicted with this thing here known as “anxiety”) but because I think my readers are experiencing Sympathy Anxiety and I must say — that’s touching.

It’s true. I am a little anxious; I (shhhhhh) have no idea what I’m doing with my life. (Well, that’s not completely true, but it makes for dramatic posting and the suspensful unfurling of Projects to come)

But all this head-spinning severing of ties feels goooood. I’m getting a chance to wipe the slate clean, take a step back, re-evaluate, and re-build. And that’s not anxiety, baby, that’s adrenaline.

Actually, that’s peace.

So let me prove to you that I’m still here for the long haul!
That I’m not going away!
That I’m [gulp] committed to you and Not Keeping Score!
(That took a lot for me to say. I have commitment issues that I’m working out –yet again–in therapy, Thankyouverymuch):

1.The Projects Page has been updated, and we will be launching new projects in the new year
2. Not Keeping Score will (hopefully) be getting a clean-up & makeover (anyone with web design skills interested in helping?)
3. Continued posts will be forthcoming

Hello,
Shannon

(Not to be confused with “spot” — that’s for another day’s lesson, kids.)

Today at Not Keeping Score the word is “good-bye,” I’m afraid. Now, before you can drop a tear, put up a hand, and yell “don’t go!” — breathe. NKS isn’t going anywhere. It’s only, I, your devoted author that is letting go of a few things, and thought I’d humbly share in the process.

Even wrote you a little poem:
As we say Hello to December, there is G’Bye in the air,
Dear Readers, remember, one must let go with flair!
Change can be hard, but I mustn’t be ‘fraid
So down with my guard (this is how progress is made)
I plug up my nose, and jump into the Deep
The only way that one grows is by taking a leap
I say: “ta-ta!” at the door and take a last look
November 2006 is ne’er more; will exist only in my book

Eh? Whatta think? Okay, no. Moving on. My good-byes:

The end of November and NaNoWriMo felt like a strange good-bye to an intense love affair with a foreign exchange student who had to go back to his home country because his visa expired…and all I was left with were the memories of me and “Francísco” — oh, and these 50,000 words of sweet nothingness.

I’ve also mentioned on NKS that I’ve temporarily said good-bye to the corporate slings and arrows of a day job–and subsequently a paycheck (ouch).

But there is more [sniff]:

I’m moving out the TenderNobb, San Francisco. You heard right: No more poetry-inspiring trannie-prostitutes; no more Party Store; no more round-the-clock sirens; no more late night drunks; no more homeless, crackheads, one-legged pigeons, noisy neighbors, street traffic, car alarms — (why did I move here again?)

Riding this wave of change, I’ve decided to give up my studio in ‘The Nobb’, and am going to take a temporary stay up north in Sonoma County with the ‘rents.

Oh, yes: I’m unemployed and I’ll be living with my parents. If any of your single friends are interested in my phone number, tell them I’m codependent, too. (Guys dig that).

So, I’ve said good-bye to the job, good-bye to NaNoWriMo, good-bye to the studio, good-bye to the neighborhood, and good-bye to my “San Francisco glory.” And soon, we’ll be saying good-bye to 2006.

Sad? Anxiety-ridden? At first. I’ve lived in San Francisco for over 5 years, I’m a city girl to the bone (have an intense fear of failure, currently being worked on in therapy, Thankyouverymuch), and 2006 was a magical year of Project-mania. I’m not sure 20 dates in 20 days would go over the same way in Petaluma (then again – why not?)

But then I came to realize that change isn’t (as) scary when it’s right. Things are tilting in a new direction — and while it can be exhausting, my life feels nimble, agile, pregnant with possibility — vivid.

And yet strangely calm. (-er).

As I face uncertainty in many facets of life right now, the second I find myself fretting about them, I realize that, yes, it’s scary, but yes, it’s all okay. Why? (I have no fucking clue?) No! Wrong answer. It’s because it’s as exciting as fuck and I wouldn’t have it any other way! It’s because when one door closes 50 more open! It’s because you have to say “good-bye” in order to begin again; it’s because I am long winded and — do I have to explain? Haven’t you been paying attention to anything I’ve written all year? Or have you all said good-bye already? Hello? Hello? Anybody there? Hello?!

Good-bye,