Onor & Igor & Sunny

Sigh. I just found out I didn't get a job i really wanted. I really wanted it. It paid almost half my regular rate and was in Van Nuys - who wouldn't want a winner like that?!

The eternal optimist (let's call her Sunny) is literally at this moment in a knock-down-drag-out fight with Igor, my wretched, ugly ego. It sounds like this:

IGOR: You've got no prospects now.
SUNNY (her hand slamming over Igor's chapped lips): You've got nothing but prospect now! You're freeee to find the PERFECT job!
IGOR (pries her hand off): Do you even know what you want to do?
SUNNY (rolls her eyes): Life is about discovery! How BORING to know everything all the time! The unknown is where you get creative!
IGOR (rolling his eyes so hard they pop out. He catches them, prepared.): Speaking of creative, what about that script revision? Why are you blogging? If you used your time wisely, we'd probably have a job by now.
SUNNY (stealing the eyes from his hands and playing keep away): She can do whatever she wants! She's freeee!
Sunny dances away, juggling Igor's eyes. Igor runs after her, arms outstretched. He pitches to and fro, dizzy from the spins his eyes take in the air. He curses, Sunny laughs.

I digest all this along with the huge Chinese pity-party I ate for lunch. ("It's not love, Bianca." Shut up, Dr. Suck.)

They're both right. Technically. In a second, I'll resurface from the half an hour I've allowed myself to wallow in my pain cave, where Igor is king, and get back to my script revision (which is pretty awesome. Thanks, Sunny.). But first, ONOR.

No BS, I just opened to Onor, rather than peruse a few demons until I felt the right one for the situation at hand (...I heard Jersey Shore was good last night. Shut up, Boo, later.) and he genuinely made me smile.

Onor is a demonic squire (not sure of the difference, but "squire" is such an awesome title) with powers of illusion. His claim to fame is he can conjure up an illusionary castle. That's HUGE! Because its a big deal, he refuses to do it unless he receives a proper offering of milk and honey. (Could I love Onor any more? Likely, not.) He works on the tenth night of the moon in remote and secret locations.

And with my Onor-inspired smile, I shake off the pain cave. "What a Wonderful World" lilts in from my neighbor's apartment (nice timing.) I give Igor a nice fat finger, and get back to my revision.

Because it really is pretty damn good...

*Thanks to "Dictionary of Demons: Names of the Damned" by Michelle Belanger. Llewellyn Publications, 2010

Sobel & The Overthink

Frequently I turn to my eternally damned pals in my Dictionary of Demons to lighten my own mood when I can't effing deal with my own effing demons- along the lines of "I'm freaking the fuck out and need unholy guidance." Then I pick a demon, find out what makes him such a baddie, and feel better that I don't have three heads (tee hee, head. I'm 14. And a boy.) or reek of death (usually) or command legions of lesser spirits (I'm a micromanager, my head would explode.)

Today is opposite day! I'm not freaking out! I've had a fantastic day doing fantastic things with fantastic people! I love my life!

This is not to say any of my circumstances have changed. I'm still unemployed, have a dwindling savings account, and only feel comfortable being in a committed relationship with my cat. However, tonight I taught an Intro to Pole class.

I'm teaching this class more often, which makes me blissfully happy because it's my most favorite thing to teach. The thing about Intro is you take a group of women who are nervous, excited, and terrified and introduce them to a way of life and expression that has the potential to change everything about their world. Am I still talking about pole dancing? You bet your ass.

(Isn't this supposed to be about demons?)

The bonus? We're confronting demons together. (Aaah, see what I did there?)

The most obvious and benign, albeit still a real dick, demon that I confront with my students is YOUR GODDAMN HEAD or, as I'll pinpoint, The Overthink. The Overthink curses eeeeeveryone in an Intro (to anything) class. It makes you sweat, dries your mouth, and strips your skin off leaving only meat and raw nerves. (Sorry, I saw 127 Hours today. BRILLIANT!) You fidget and do things at high speed, you obsess about what your body (or mouth because I'm picturing an Italian class for some reason. Maybe because of James Franco? Hmm...) is doing, but there are so many things to think about that your mind is mostly blank. That is, except for your ego's incessant chant of "That's wrrrong. You're doooooing it wrrrong."

The Overthink is conjured by a magic spell called "Stepping Out of Your Comfort Zone." The Overthink is combatted by teachers (like me!) who reassure you with love, sensitivity and terrible jokes. It's ultimately conquered by not giving a shit and having fun. It is actually worth experiencing The Overthink just for the rush of warm fuzzy accomplishment that comes when you've beat the bastard.

Just to pair this with a demon friend, tonight I picked SOBEL. Sobel only exists because of written errors. In various manuscripts the name appears as Sobel, Cobel or Lobel. Lobel doesn't even have an entry in my demon guide, and all Cobel says is he serves the infernal ruler Magoth. Big woop.

Lots of bluster being A DEMON and all, and yet they can't even get his name set? Like The Overthink, a lot of noise for nothing.

So yes, teaching Intro is a fun way to share my passion for pole and expression; but moreover, helping students overcome their fears and watching their demons vanish in fits of laughter is the real magic.

*Thanks to "Dictionary of Demons: Names of the Damned" by Michelle Belanger. Llewellyn Publications, 2010
*Thanks to Heart & Pole for employing me

Super Sunday

I sat, rapt, and just absorbed. I made an eye contact/smile connection with one of them- thank you, 2nd row seats. I almost talked to him afterward, but I couldn't think of anything to say. They made me giddy, they inspired me, they made me forget about everything but what I love - writing.

I just got home from a panel of this year's Oscar nominated writers. Two hours of moderator-lead discussion about their inspiration, their challenges, their triumphs, and their art. Basically two hours of heaven for me.

Writing has moved from being a dream of mine to determining my life. If I write, it's a good day. If I don't write, I feel broken and wrong. It's actually not a comfortable space to inhabit; honestly its a pain in the ass- like a nagging itch I can't reach or that tapeworm feeling of being hungry all the time. The urge is impossible to satisfy unless I'm physically typing words. The feeling is so volatile I'm afraid it's just a crush. I remember how devoted I was to Kirk Cameron and the color lavender when I was in fifth grade, and now I wouldn't touch either with gloves on. The passion I felt for Kirk and pastels is similar to the way I feel about writing, except times a billion.

That's why it was especially magical to sit and listen to some of my present heros talk about their craft. Aaron Sorkin on how Mark Zuckerburg's original blog post propelled him. David Seidler on writing The King's Speech as a play because he was having trouble with his second act. I just rewatched Toy Story 3 last weekend and sobbed- Michael Arndt sat directly in front of me. I wanted to thank him for moving me to tears, but it seemed so trite and yet as I lingered after the panel I heard other audience members speak the words I was thinking. Why don't I speak up?, I thought. It's already been said, Igor informs me.

The best part of the evening was the proximity. Not just that we scored VIP seats (foreshadowing), but the feeling that the working writers in front of me weren't any different than I am. It's like that feeling you have when you're a high school freshman. You see the seniors with their letter jackets and their cars and their college applications and you know someday you'll be right where they are.

Demon Cat

Demon Cat could be my most favorite thing that's ever come up on Google for me. First, lemme back up a few hours...

Grandma's House. 24 hrs ago. I arrive to my grandma's house after a long day of uuuuggggghhhh. I needed a break from my life, and Gma's was just what the doctor ordered. I walk into the dark, silent house (Gma sleeping and deaf as dirt) to behold two shiny eyes glaring at me. I stop... It's Gypsy.

Gypsy is one of Gma's cats. Gypsy hates me, so I hate Gypsy. I mutter, "Gypsy..." ("Newmannn...") as I pass, and she scurries away like I'm wielding an ax. I roll my eyes.

Today, I wake up. Walk downstairs. Glare. "Gypsy..." Scurry. Eyeroll.

Every time I pass her its the same story. I decide she's a demon for no good reason, which brings me to Google, which brings me full circle to DEMON CAT. (Thank you, Wikipedia. I left my Book of Demons at home, but I'm certain Demon Cat is chilling there as well among all the vowel-heavy Romanian names.)

Demon Cat is American (Demon Sauce's first local demon!) and lives in basement crypt of the Capitol in Washington D.C. Yes, really. Demon Cat (let's petname her D.C. because that's just awesome- oh wait. The rest of the world beat me to it.) originates from back when they released cats into the basement tunnels of the Capitol buildings to exterminate rats. D.C. stayed long after the rats and other cats left or died. She appears before presidential elections and tragedies- reports of D.C. are rumored before the assassinations of both Abe Lincoln and JFK. D.C. appears as a simple black house cat at first- but as she gets closer she swells to the size of a tiger and her meows become roars! She leaps, claws outstretched, only to disappear in mid-air. I also read one report that claimed D.C. may explode. Not sure how they mean, other than in the most fantastic way possible (like a pinata!).

How much do I love D.C.?! A hell of a lot more than I love Gypsy, I'll tell you that.

*Thanks to Wikipedia, Monstropedia, Salon101.com and Al Tyas/The Atlantic Paranormal Society.

Katanikotael

I've got the Mondays. I'm doing everything in my power to lighten up, distract myself, but I can't get away from a particular uuuuggggggghhhhhhhh feeling. So I turn to KATANIKOTAEL.

Katanikotael (Let's shorten that to Kat, hmm?) is a spiteful bitch. He gets you in your home- strife, unrest, flaring tempers, and unease. He's a zodiac demon, lounging somewhere in the declans of the zodiac. While most zodiac demons have a specific angel assigned to them to drive them away (My head flashes to Ron Artest guarding Paul Pierce. Bad analogy for 32 reasons.), this doesn't apply to Kat. Instead, to drive Kat from your home you need a cure of laurel leaves, holy water, and meticulousness. I interpret this as the difference between having a reinforced termite-proof house foundation and having to call an exterminator to tent your termite-weakened home as it falls down around your head. Both ways deal with your pests, just one results in far less cost and destruction.

Of course I recognize as I keep trying to pre-empt my own personal uneasiness with diverting blog posts and plans to redo my bathroom, I am trying to cohabitate with my case of the Mondays instead of starting to holy some water for a damn cure. Oh, you effing Mondays...

The Mondays are the silliest and stupidest of the modern demons. They are a glorified hangover. They are only effective on Monday, unless Monday was a holiday. In that case, Mondays double their strength and descend on Tuesday. They make you eat lousy food to fill the yearning-shaped hole in your soul. The antidote to the Mondays is a good night's sleep. They are innocuous and nothing worse than kinda bratty. The only actual danger of the Mondays is their ability to mask a real problem.

I had an office job once, and the Mondays sucked the life from me so much I could barely keep upright at my desk. It's just Monday, I would reason. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow wasn't better. My Mondays grew to stretch from Sunday night to Friday at about 3pm. I realized the week-long Mondays were hiding a very real depression. I never had an office job again.

My challenge today is to determine: Do I really have a case of the Mondays or am I dealing with a Kat-sized demon? I guess I'll know for sure tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, where do you get laurel leaves?

*Thanks to "Dictionary of Demons: Names of the Damned" by Michelle Belanger. Llewellyn Publications, 2010

On the Other Side of a Saturday

I didn't post last night because... I was out! (GASP!... smattering of applause)

A bestie was in town to visit and nothing gets me out of the house like company. It was a magical weekend of laughing, incredible food, movies, and more laughing. Serendipitous timing at restaurants, minimal traffic, and decent parking contributed to make the weekend a quintessential LA Weekend Visit Miracle. (Seriously, I haven't had a better Saturday night out in too many months to count and not feel like a loser.)

And now? The blues.

For every Christmas morning there is crap-ass December 26. For every college Mardi Gras there is the hangover sponsored by Saltines and Pedia-lite. And for this weekend, I find the frigid quiet of a solitary Sunday night, giving way to the harsh glare of tomorrow's "reality."

I'm being dramatic. It's from all the estrogen. For three days I've been in the company of women. I spa'd. I talked about dreamy movie stars. I read girly magazines. I even watched 20 minutes of the movie "Valentine's Day"... and defended it. I choaked up several times during all 10 minutes I watched of the SAG awards. I'm not this girly in a full month. And now? It's over... (whine, lump, glisten)

It's hard for me to be girly. I hate shopping. HATE. I have minimal patience for children and cooking. I tolerate spa-type procedures like facials ONLY if I have a gift certificate I can't trade for something else. I hate (HATE!!!!!!!) chick lit and every chick flick made after Bridget Jones' Diary.

But when I'm around certain besties, I forget to judge- okay, that's a lie, but I'm game for the girly, and the 14 year-old boy inside me (Let's name him something... Boo?) partakes with open-minded curiosity. It's like we (Boo and I) get to hang out with the cool girls and we play along and get to learn and do all kinds of new stuff. They encourage us to try on the orange mini-dress.They read our horoscopes to us. They ask us about how we feel. Its the same reason, I imagine, that the boy who sat next to me all three years of middle school went through my purse on a weekly basis. It was tourquoise and had dancing bears on it, and it contained intimate secrets (read: period stuff). It's a different Purse World that he (and Boo and I) can only visit because it's not our nature.

This is a long digression from my post-party weekend blues, but I feel on the cusp of a personal discovery so bear with me.

These girly weekends free me somehow. Not like I'm free to be the girl I've always wanted to be, because I don't want to be different- I like me, Boo and all. It's more like, the love, sensitivity and thoughtfulness of my estrogen-heavy girly girlfriends encourages me to be more adventurous, tender, and accepting of myself. And I, in turn, stop analyzing and judging myself and the things around me and just enjoy living.

It just occured to me the above qualities have nothing to do with estrogen or sex but more to do with real friendship and intimacy. I just blew my own mind. (Heh.)

"Okay, so now what?" Boo wonders, growing increasingly impatient with all this emotion.

I don't know. I just know I have the best friends in the world to give me the gift of enjoying my life and my self. The next step is... what...? Being a better friend to myself so I don't have to wait for Girly Blowout Weekends to truly relax and have a time too fantastic to put into words?

Oh. I just blew my own mind again. (Heh, heh.)

Luciel vs The What-Ifs

Another blog, another "Awesome, Inc." template.  (I love you "Awesome, Inc." templaaate! xoxo!)

I'm still new-ish to blogging, therefore newish to what exactly the hell I'm doing, rules, minutia, blah, blah. Yes, I could continue to only write about my own BS, which I'm good at since I'm straight-up self-absorbed (you love me!), but since the only people who care would include the 2 people legally required to and maybe 15% of my facebook friends, I felt the need to branch out.

(For those of you who still want to read the pathetic meanderings of a girl at home on Saturday nights, I will continue airing dirty laundry on Uptempo Plum.)

This blog is about demons.

I love demons. From the broad psychological monsters that push us to drink, screw and squander to the nasty nasties that elevate mediocre horror films into legitimate creepshows with nothing more than crucifix creativity and some body contortions. Check this out:
DEMON, n.
1. An evil spirit
2. A persistently tormenting person, force, or passion
3. One who is extremely zealous, skillful, or diligent

What's not to like?! Evil? I love evil! And the "persistently tormenting... etc, etc"...? Are you trying to turn me on? Not to mention zealous/skillful/diligent is so totally me. So, yes. Demons.

I'll start with one of my personal least favorites: The What-Ifs. Tiny bastards that travel in packs of a billion. Though they look, feel, and sound real, they're not. Difficult to exorcise if entertained for too long, but ultimately a good night sleep and a nice sunny day are the best temporary cure, second only to a good dose of reality. A strong spiritual practice helps.

Today I started to fall down the slippery grease-slick slope of WHAT IF. Igor, my ego, pushed me down the shaft when I wasn't looking and suddenly thousands of What-Ifs started slapping me in the face. What if I never get a job? What if I run out of money? What if I can't feed my cat? Real concerns smacking the rose-tinted shades I love so much off my face, I froze in terror and impotence.

After 2 seconds of torture - because What-Ifs multiply like knats (inside joke, http://biancaarvin.blogspot.com/2011/01/knot-gnat-last-knight.html ) if you let them play for too long - I thought to distract myself. I opened my book of REAL demons (no home is complete without one) to a random page and read about LUCIEL.

Luciel appears as a serpent with a woman's head (ugh) and is one of twelve dukes who serve Hydriel. Luciel may seem middle management, but he's no small potato- he has 1,320 ministering spirits carry out his commands! Luciel's turn-ons are bogs and swamps, and despite his appearance, he's courteous and a nice guy.

Not the Match.com profile I would pick, but whaddayaknow- a nice evil spirit! I like!

As I pondered Luciel, a got a flash of perspective on my What-Ifs. As much as they torment me, a time or ten (or more) What-Ifs have saved my ass. ("Why are you walking through the French Quarter alone after 3am? WHAT IF YOU GET KIDNAPPED, RAPED, AND MURDERED? Hail a cab, you jackass!") Like Luciel, What-Ifs are evil by nature and origin, but don't necessarily mean any harm. They're just doing their job.

Everyone has demons. Most people spend life avoiding, placating, or indulging demons of their own design. I know I do. So, I figure, why not try a little perspective from some real demon friends? And so I begin, with "Demon Sauce"...

*Thanks to "Dictionary of Demons: Names of the Damned" by Michelle Belanger. Llewellyn Publications, 2010