Ruby's Rocks
Ruby is the name I have for my alter ego that does what she desires. She's been guiding me for a while, as I was flying free of rent, job and responsibilities. During my journeys, I collected many rocks to help me stay grounded and remind me of where I've been. But now that I've relocated, started a job, & found a loft space to build my nest, the rocks are sitting soundly on my alter, sharing stories of sex, music and morality...just like the mix. Ruby, of course, will never sit soundly, especially when her rocks are bangin' the Mackie 450. The beginning is my usual dykey dirtiness, but the second half of this mix goes gay at the end. I think Ruby might be a little bi...
http://www.jenwoolfe.com/audio/RubysRocks.mp3
(go down for playlist)
Mine Cry Goodbye
This is my first recorded downtempo set. I played it at my going away, er, Relocation Party at 2am, just after Knomus Kohonus threw down some sexy wax and before Shanghai Pearl and Miss Indigo Blue painted the Leschi Creme... Its also the first mix I've published using Ableton Live to mix. Its not super complicated mixing. Mostly I just started the intro to a new song before the last one ended. But the first-second mix is special because I created my own ending by looping the last two beats of the breakdown, overlaying an Ableton effect called Ping Pong (which creates the repeat sound) and then brought the new one in. For someone who is breaking into music composition, that's very exciting! Oh, and I did slow down Galang and By My Side to 110 to fit the tempo of the set. The music at the beginning of this mix was very influenced by my time in Hawaii when DJ Zoe introduced me to Ecstatic Dance. The last half is just me saying goodbye to my beloved friends.
http://www.jenwoolfe.com/audio/MineCryGoodbye.mp3
Playlists
Ruby's Rocks --------
All over your Face - Cazwell
Pussy feat. Princess Superstar Greenskeeper's Remix [Polo Club]
Alphabet Man (D's Robo Dub) - Greenskeepers
Footsack - Raymond Mather
Let it Go - Yogi & Huskey
Dangerfield - Patrick Turner
Luxurious - Nuno D'Lux & DJ Italiano
Electric Amsterdam - Jason Rivas
Evil Track (Jason Rivas Club Mix) - Creeperfunk
El Cielo (Jose M Duro Party Minimal Mix) - Jason Rivas w/ Elsa Del Mar
Take Me Back - Basement Jaxx
I Want Your Love (Jody Watley) - Angel Manuel's Dirty Mix
Mi Amor (Sweet Carolina Vox) - Raul Rincon
Zap Me Lovely - Trick vs Freemasons
Atlantic - Freemasons
Mine Cry Goodbye ----------
Little Ladies - Etostone [Epsilon]
All Eyes - Outersect [Caldera]
Galang (Remix) - M.I.A. [Galang]
By My Side - Thomas Belley [Heart Shaped Hole]
Shimmer - Bluetech [Sines and Singularities]
Spacebaby - Seiberg & Witten Mix [Backroom Beats 2]
Tracey Thorn - Easy [Out of the Woods]
Never-ending (fock it mix) - Esion Jim [Backroom Beats 2]
After Sandstorm - Izaak Hypnotizer [1 Freedom]
Need to Know (Bushmen freefall mix) - Hierophant [Backroom Beats 2]
Intro - Etostone [Epsilon]
Who is it - Bjork [One Little Indian]
All my Mixes
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
At Journal's End
I've kept a journal since I was 18. Maybe even younger. It usually takes me almost two years to complete a journal.
My current one has only two empty pages left.
I started it January 13th of this year.
Only 8 months ago.
That's how much life I've lived: 2 years of life squished into only 8 months.
That's how much emotion I've felt and processed: 2 years of emotion squished into only 8 months.
According to my journal, exactly 8 months ago I realized my 4-year relationship was over and started on a path of insanity.
I left our shared apartment with my backpack and my cat to live in the healing womb of the Leschi before heading off on a 5-month flight throughout the West Coast. I didn't know then that when my flight landed, I would call a completely new city: home.
I purged as many material items as I could without going insane. I charmed the Leschi ladies & gentleman into adopting my cat for the equivalent of 10 long kitty years.
I stashed anything I couldn't carry with me into three different homes around Seattle.
As soon as my stuff was scattered, so became my life.
I think I'm actually a scattered person. My brain jumps all over the place, in the midst of sentences and thirds of the way through stories. Its hard for me to catch up to my brain sometimes.
I think that in the past, as I grew and changed, I realized this about myself and so built structure in order to live a productive and happy life. Having that structure has allowed me to focus and accomplish things with amazing quality, even with a million things happening at once.
Without that structure, I'm not myself.
Or maybe I am my true self, undisciplined.
As my true self, undisciplined, I don't communicate well.
I was very selfish in the last 8 months.
I've been learning to be selfish.
I've learned that I am selfish.
I've learned that its ok to be selfish, at times.
At times, you have to be.
I've learned that its ok, though rather uncomfortable, to be disorganized.
At times, things just are.
But the combination of the two, for me, are not a good match.
Disorganized and selfish, I make bad decisions;
or rather, I ignore good decisions.
My body has suffered,
My heart has suffered.
My cat and my friends have suffered.
My lovers have suffered.
My family has suffered.
All in the wake of my growth path.
There is no wrong or right. Only action and consequence.
And learning and growth can be very painful.
Are very painful.
If you've ever thought someone was an asshole, well,
maybe they are just growing.
Two days ago, I finally gathered the last of my few scattered material items into my new home.
I actually have a bed and a bed frame for good nights of sleep,
walls to hang my pictures,
windows to view the world through
and a kitchen to create food that will nourish me.
Hell, my bedroom even has surround sound.
I have structure.
(I breathe a sigh of relief, and feel the words flowing, not flooding, from mind to pen)
After filling the last two empty pages of the current one, I will begin a new journal,
Open the glowing door of a new life path.
What will I take with me?
What, of myself, will I leave behind?
My current one has only two empty pages left.
I started it January 13th of this year.
Only 8 months ago.
That's how much life I've lived: 2 years of life squished into only 8 months.
That's how much emotion I've felt and processed: 2 years of emotion squished into only 8 months.
According to my journal, exactly 8 months ago I realized my 4-year relationship was over and started on a path of insanity.
I left our shared apartment with my backpack and my cat to live in the healing womb of the Leschi before heading off on a 5-month flight throughout the West Coast. I didn't know then that when my flight landed, I would call a completely new city: home.
I purged as many material items as I could without going insane. I charmed the Leschi ladies & gentleman into adopting my cat for the equivalent of 10 long kitty years.
I stashed anything I couldn't carry with me into three different homes around Seattle.
As soon as my stuff was scattered, so became my life.
I think I'm actually a scattered person. My brain jumps all over the place, in the midst of sentences and thirds of the way through stories. Its hard for me to catch up to my brain sometimes.
I think that in the past, as I grew and changed, I realized this about myself and so built structure in order to live a productive and happy life. Having that structure has allowed me to focus and accomplish things with amazing quality, even with a million things happening at once.
Without that structure, I'm not myself.
Or maybe I am my true self, undisciplined.
As my true self, undisciplined, I don't communicate well.
I was very selfish in the last 8 months.
I've been learning to be selfish.
I've learned that I am selfish.
I've learned that its ok to be selfish, at times.
At times, you have to be.
I've learned that its ok, though rather uncomfortable, to be disorganized.
At times, things just are.
But the combination of the two, for me, are not a good match.
Disorganized and selfish, I make bad decisions;
or rather, I ignore good decisions.
My body has suffered,
My heart has suffered.
My cat and my friends have suffered.
My lovers have suffered.
My family has suffered.
All in the wake of my growth path.
There is no wrong or right. Only action and consequence.
And learning and growth can be very painful.
Are very painful.
If you've ever thought someone was an asshole, well,
maybe they are just growing.
Two days ago, I finally gathered the last of my few scattered material items into my new home.
I actually have a bed and a bed frame for good nights of sleep,
walls to hang my pictures,
windows to view the world through
and a kitchen to create food that will nourish me.
Hell, my bedroom even has surround sound.
I have structure.
(I breathe a sigh of relief, and feel the words flowing, not flooding, from mind to pen)
After filling the last two empty pages of the current one, I will begin a new journal,
Open the glowing door of a new life path.
What will I take with me?
What, of myself, will I leave behind?
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
NEXT GIG: Wed Sept 17 @ Qool SF
Wed Sept 17th
Qoöl
Qoöl just like a social networking website only with drinks, music and real people!
Guest DJs Jax, Jen Woolfe, with residents Silencefiction, Spesh, Gil, and Jondi.
5pm to 10pm at the 111 Minna Gallery, San Francisco CA
www.qoolsf.com
About Qoöl
Qoöl is the original clubbing happy hour in SF, if not the world. Every Wednesday evening, starting at 5pm, Jondi & Spesh host a five hour club night at 111 Minna in San Francisco. The music has a progressive theme, from prog house to breaks to techno and even drum 'n bass. Each dj plays a short 45 minute set, and the talent ranges from bedroom DJs to international supastars. Partygoers range from electronic music loving phreeks to unemployed dot-commers (not mutually exclusive), and the enthusiasm and dedication of Qoölios is world famous. In fact Qoöl is often pegged for its personal vibe and all out "Saturday at 3AM" feeling. The door is only $5 and a good chunk of the proceeds go to non-profit organizations, including The SETI Institute and the San Francisco Homeless Coalition.
Every Wednesday from 5pm to 10pm at the 111 Minna Gallery, 111 Minna Street, San Francisco, Ca. [see event schedule for monthly Saturdays, one-off parties, and other well vibed events]
Qoöl
Qoöl just like a social networking website only with drinks, music and real people!
Guest DJs Jax, Jen Woolfe, with residents Silencefiction, Spesh, Gil, and Jondi.
5pm to 10pm at the 111 Minna Gallery, San Francisco CA
www.qoolsf.com
About Qoöl
Qoöl is the original clubbing happy hour in SF, if not the world. Every Wednesday evening, starting at 5pm, Jondi & Spesh host a five hour club night at 111 Minna in San Francisco. The music has a progressive theme, from prog house to breaks to techno and even drum 'n bass. Each dj plays a short 45 minute set, and the talent ranges from bedroom DJs to international supastars. Partygoers range from electronic music loving phreeks to unemployed dot-commers (not mutually exclusive), and the enthusiasm and dedication of Qoölios is world famous. In fact Qoöl is often pegged for its personal vibe and all out "Saturday at 3AM" feeling. The door is only $5 and a good chunk of the proceeds go to non-profit organizations, including The SETI Institute and the San Francisco Homeless Coalition.
Every Wednesday from 5pm to 10pm at the 111 Minna Gallery, 111 Minna Street, San Francisco, Ca. [see event schedule for monthly Saturdays, one-off parties, and other well vibed events]
Monday, September 01, 2008
Pondering Priority
I'm doing something that I've always wanted to do - ride first class. After my first three weeks of living in Berkeley, I'm on a flight back to Seattle to play Festival of the Babes and to retrieve my cat and my car from Leschi. The seats in first class are comfortable, but the looks I get from the passengers who had to wait in line to board with the hundred or so others riding coach are not. As we take off, I see the ocean, feeling at first that I am flying out of Seattle until I notice the blanket of fog rolling in from the West.
Today is the Friday of the burn. This is the first year since I began five years ago that I have not been able to make it out to the playa. This is due, of all things, to starting a job. Not just a job -- a dream job. A job worthy enough of missing my annual religious romp in the desert. Timely, too, as the theme for Burning Man this year is the American Dream. Here I am, fulfilling my own mini-version, flying first class, having entered back into the workforce after two wonderful years of skirting by as an artist, a feat that my journeys to Burning Man helped me find the courage to do.
I came upon my first class seat accidentally, or due to my own problem with paying attention to detail. Two weeks after I had patted myself on the back for finding a $100 one-way ticket, it came to my attention that I had booked the wrong date. With only 1 week left before the busy labor day weekend, the only seats available were a first-class upgrade. Still, regardless of whether it be gift from the Universe or my own folly, I was riding first class and I might as well make the most of it with a stiff (really stiff!) Bacardi and Coke from the flight attendant whose name was, consequently, DJ.
This week, I have missed the playa, even though I can feel it everywhere. I saw the Rockstar Orphans off from Reno last weekend as they headed out in caravan from the Keystone Plaza. I felt as if I were their parent, sending them off to school. I didn't feel envious of my friends. Instead, I felt my sadness of missing out. But I also felt their excitement. I feel their sheer joy and growth and know that next year will be so much more that I have not taken for granted. Imagine, an entire year here and past at the blink of an eye. And yet, what a blink, like falling into another world after slapping the snooze button and then snapping stunningly awake. How many sides of myself have I created from setting my alarm only 20 minutes earlier?
In first class, they refer to you by name. Mr, Mrs, or in my case, Miss (a title it takes a taxi driver only 3 questions to guess). I decide to address the attendant by her first name, to show her that we were equals because I found her to be a human being and not a servant, but in trying to remember what drink I wanted to order, I forget. Oops.
I was hoping for, or expecting, actually, a sandwich, but instead the attendant just hands me fancier snacks. As I dip my cracker in the brie I reach to the seat in front of me and pull out the Air Safety Card, the one that tells you what to do in case of a crash or water landing. To my surprise, it was lined in gold. Just Kidding. Still, I wonder if first class passengers get to die first, or more comfortably.
'What most signifies to me the American Dream?', I ponder to myself as sit back to enjoy seat 3A, stirring my Bacardi and Coke in hopes that shifting the nearly clear liquid around will stir some more of the dark mixer that might be hiding at the bottom. The answer is, as always, at my finger tips - Ice. An American marvel. When did Americans get so obsessed with Ice? Was it with the emergence of soda pop, a liquid so putrid that it has to be nearly frozen to consume? Or does it signify the privilege of space and power, two things that one must have to house not only a refrigerator but also an adjoining ice box?
Once again, I find it funny that the Friday of the burn I am flying first class, the best seat in the house besides the cockpit -- but who wants that kind of responsibility? And is it the responsibility itself that brings most to a seat so low in numbers but high in class? And what right do I even have of being snide?
I'm riding first class, not only because of my missed detail, but because of my great grand-blah's of many generations who sacrificed their homes, pets, names, their loves, securities, religions and even lives, following an American Dream, so that I may shrug off a $120 mistake. And I give back the best I can, but I remain grateful that the door was even open and hope that the door remains open to the children of the woman who cleaned up after me in the bathroom.
It took three generations of dreaming to get to me. And because of my family's Dream and their fight to get there, their journey and their sacrifice, I have the comfort and freedom to look beyond and think of a new dream, one that does not rely on a hierarchy of the human race.
What I feel now is seat 3A, softening the ride to my home-not-home. I know now the mystery of a class one seat higher than the front, with a view of the cockpit and a seat-back with just slightly more space, bought by a set of green pages that mean nothing after passing a negative of 3 and three 000's. I know by this time next year, because of my power to dream, that I will find the opposite is also true.
Today is the Friday of the burn. This is the first year since I began five years ago that I have not been able to make it out to the playa. This is due, of all things, to starting a job. Not just a job -- a dream job. A job worthy enough of missing my annual religious romp in the desert. Timely, too, as the theme for Burning Man this year is the American Dream. Here I am, fulfilling my own mini-version, flying first class, having entered back into the workforce after two wonderful years of skirting by as an artist, a feat that my journeys to Burning Man helped me find the courage to do.
I came upon my first class seat accidentally, or due to my own problem with paying attention to detail. Two weeks after I had patted myself on the back for finding a $100 one-way ticket, it came to my attention that I had booked the wrong date. With only 1 week left before the busy labor day weekend, the only seats available were a first-class upgrade. Still, regardless of whether it be gift from the Universe or my own folly, I was riding first class and I might as well make the most of it with a stiff (really stiff!) Bacardi and Coke from the flight attendant whose name was, consequently, DJ.
This week, I have missed the playa, even though I can feel it everywhere. I saw the Rockstar Orphans off from Reno last weekend as they headed out in caravan from the Keystone Plaza. I felt as if I were their parent, sending them off to school. I didn't feel envious of my friends. Instead, I felt my sadness of missing out. But I also felt their excitement. I feel their sheer joy and growth and know that next year will be so much more that I have not taken for granted. Imagine, an entire year here and past at the blink of an eye. And yet, what a blink, like falling into another world after slapping the snooze button and then snapping stunningly awake. How many sides of myself have I created from setting my alarm only 20 minutes earlier?
In first class, they refer to you by name. Mr, Mrs, or in my case, Miss (a title it takes a taxi driver only 3 questions to guess). I decide to address the attendant by her first name, to show her that we were equals because I found her to be a human being and not a servant, but in trying to remember what drink I wanted to order, I forget. Oops.
I was hoping for, or expecting, actually, a sandwich, but instead the attendant just hands me fancier snacks. As I dip my cracker in the brie I reach to the seat in front of me and pull out the Air Safety Card, the one that tells you what to do in case of a crash or water landing. To my surprise, it was lined in gold. Just Kidding. Still, I wonder if first class passengers get to die first, or more comfortably.
'What most signifies to me the American Dream?', I ponder to myself as sit back to enjoy seat 3A, stirring my Bacardi and Coke in hopes that shifting the nearly clear liquid around will stir some more of the dark mixer that might be hiding at the bottom. The answer is, as always, at my finger tips - Ice. An American marvel. When did Americans get so obsessed with Ice? Was it with the emergence of soda pop, a liquid so putrid that it has to be nearly frozen to consume? Or does it signify the privilege of space and power, two things that one must have to house not only a refrigerator but also an adjoining ice box?
Once again, I find it funny that the Friday of the burn I am flying first class, the best seat in the house besides the cockpit -- but who wants that kind of responsibility? And is it the responsibility itself that brings most to a seat so low in numbers but high in class? And what right do I even have of being snide?
I'm riding first class, not only because of my missed detail, but because of my great grand-blah's of many generations who sacrificed their homes, pets, names, their loves, securities, religions and even lives, following an American Dream, so that I may shrug off a $120 mistake. And I give back the best I can, but I remain grateful that the door was even open and hope that the door remains open to the children of the woman who cleaned up after me in the bathroom.
It took three generations of dreaming to get to me. And because of my family's Dream and their fight to get there, their journey and their sacrifice, I have the comfort and freedom to look beyond and think of a new dream, one that does not rely on a hierarchy of the human race.
What I feel now is seat 3A, softening the ride to my home-not-home. I know now the mystery of a class one seat higher than the front, with a view of the cockpit and a seat-back with just slightly more space, bought by a set of green pages that mean nothing after passing a negative of 3 and three 000's. I know by this time next year, because of my power to dream, that I will find the opposite is also true.
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