Normally I do not like fuss. I get my birthday off work, to avoid wanting and not getting greetings in equal measure with getting Happy Birthdays from everyone, and not wanting them. Or an obligatory card with a plethora of signatures from folks who don't know what to write down. So, I was not sure why I'd made the announcement here.
Then your messages flooded in, while I spent the actual day alone, my playlist going all day in order of song length. I danced, sang, cleaned, and heard the little bloop that let me know I was not alone. My humble/vain attempts at writing were being read, my photos made a blip in your day. I felt rich and blessed. You wrote poems, and made me laugh, and cry and feel connected to the larger world. An outside that was not icy cold everywhere. That wonderful shared energy flowed in when I brushed by death. It gushed over me in a celebration of birth.
You are warm, decent, generous and genuine souls.
You grace the world.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Monday, February 27, 2006
Warm (Photos)
It was very, very cold out there. I had no good reason to go out, so I didn't. A day to dither, enjoy the sunshine out of the wind and frigid air. And yes, that is my beloved D. Warm eyes.
Older
A tradition sprang up among our friends years ago. It was a combination of a Utah peculiarity and a song. Or two songs.
The peculiarity was the singing of Happy Birthday in restaurants, often, and loudly. Not by us. One Spaghetti Factory in particular was exceptionally egregious - where cheap food and large parties, often with multiple children, came together. It was close and cheap, and we often did in fact go with large groups, hungry single guys with no inclination to cook, and the occasional GF with same. The singing of the Birthday song, accompanied by flash photography, was an oft repeated irritation. D and I agreed that any singing to each other, of this song in public, with or without cake, candles, or flashbulbs, was grounds for instant divorce. Our bunch of friends agreed.
But then this other song came along. A dark and subversive song. For a long time not recorded, but only played at They Might Be Giants concerts. And Dave (his real name, but so what really?) and I would sing it when the other song at another table was over, and then on birthdays. D just grins at us.
I recommend you go to They's site and download it. Play it on your birthday. I'm singing it today. Makes me laugh.
Older
They Might Be Giants
John Flansburgh and John Linnell
You're older than you've ever been.
And now you're even older.
And now you're even older.
And now you're even older.
You're older than you've ever been.
And now you're even older.
And now you're older still.
TIME! Is marching on.
And time... is still marching on.
This day will soon be at an end and now it's even sooner.
And now it's even sooner.
And now it's even sooner.
This day will soon be at an end and now it's even sooner.
And now it's even sooner.
And now it's sooner still.
You're older than you've ever been.
And now you're even older.
And now you're even older.
And now you're even older.
You're older than you've ever been.
And now you're even older.
And now you're older still.
(I was going to write about my miserable 30th birthday spent alone midweek, the day after not getting into nursing school, when I walked to the grocery store, got Jiffy cake mix and frosting in a tub and icing and candles, and baked myself a small chocolate cake and ate it and felt better if a bit nauseated. But I couldn't remember many of the details accurately, and really it was a long time ago and I'm much better now.)
The peculiarity was the singing of Happy Birthday in restaurants, often, and loudly. Not by us. One Spaghetti Factory in particular was exceptionally egregious - where cheap food and large parties, often with multiple children, came together. It was close and cheap, and we often did in fact go with large groups, hungry single guys with no inclination to cook, and the occasional GF with same. The singing of the Birthday song, accompanied by flash photography, was an oft repeated irritation. D and I agreed that any singing to each other, of this song in public, with or without cake, candles, or flashbulbs, was grounds for instant divorce. Our bunch of friends agreed.
But then this other song came along. A dark and subversive song. For a long time not recorded, but only played at They Might Be Giants concerts. And Dave (his real name, but so what really?) and I would sing it when the other song at another table was over, and then on birthdays. D just grins at us.
I recommend you go to They's site and download it. Play it on your birthday. I'm singing it today. Makes me laugh.
Older
They Might Be Giants
John Flansburgh and John Linnell
You're older than you've ever been.
And now you're even older.
And now you're even older.
And now you're even older.
You're older than you've ever been.
And now you're even older.
And now you're older still.
TIME! Is marching on.
And time... is still marching on.
This day will soon be at an end and now it's even sooner.
And now it's even sooner.
And now it's even sooner.
This day will soon be at an end and now it's even sooner.
And now it's even sooner.
And now it's sooner still.
You're older than you've ever been.
And now you're even older.
And now you're even older.
And now you're even older.
You're older than you've ever been.
And now you're even older.
And now you're older still.
(I was going to write about my miserable 30th birthday spent alone midweek, the day after not getting into nursing school, when I walked to the grocery store, got Jiffy cake mix and frosting in a tub and icing and candles, and baked myself a small chocolate cake and ate it and felt better if a bit nauseated. But I couldn't remember many of the details accurately, and really it was a long time ago and I'm much better now.)
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Scarf (Photo)
This one.
Monday's my birthday
Haiku springs from real language.
A challenge for a gift.
Redemption
Some of you may remember that I had a little incident a few months ago. Five months exactly. I have not written about it much since. I have been busy, I've been working through it. I didn't eat well for a couple of weeks, mostly liquids and chips, nothing cohesive. I lost some weight. One of the potential side effects of the heimlich maneuver is ruptured stomach or esophagus. I believe it, my innards felt bruised enough.
Fall rushed in, the weather turned cold, and I could not find the gorgeous purple wool scarf D had given me last winter. I consoled myself that it was karmic payment for my life, and although I grieved the loss, I accepted it.
I had crippling neck pain at first, during my first week in the new job. Spending orientation listening to deadly dull but important information while having flashbacks and whiplash spasms was a special kind of purgatory. Ran around like a mad thing getting help, then getting caught in employee health red tape and I dotting/T crossing. Trying to to burst into tears while orienting to my new operating room, an old, huge, complex place at the best of times.
The training portion of my job continued as the pain crept down my back, and I awkwardly navigated my way through my blessedly active new health insurance. Got to a chiropractor, who was less helpful than hoped, but still helped some. The visceral memories of waking up breathing, or going out not breathing, were becoming lesser. The back pain was getting frighteningly worse at times, then would change, becoming sacral. The physical nature of my job was painful, but probably kept me moving through it. I hobbled around. My usual stretches were unbearable, and I stopped even trying yoga. Ice, usually my friend, did nothing and felt worse.
I settled into my own section, ironically orthopedics, and had nightmares of needing back surgery. Had an appointment with a PCP, who sent a letter canceling, then called several times to remind me of the appointment I had, that they had notified me was no more. By then, I had, with great difficulty and much asking around, found a real GP, within walking distance. She saw me quickly, gave me good advice, and I spent two weeks taking ibuprofen, much to the dismay of my stomach, but the back did improve. My pain seemed to turn into hip bursitis. And then, gradually, seemed to resolve.
A few weeks of only mildly aching back, but no return of energy had me worried. All I wanted to do was sleep, weekends were about sleeping, not going out, not doing anything, resting. I found a place that does clinical massage, and since my birthday was coming up, I allowed the indulgence.
Tears leaked out the whole time she worked on me. I was dismayed at how much pain was in my back, everywhere hurt. At the end, she had me sit, and I burst into a vomit of tears. No discernible emotion, but an explosion of wracking sobs.
Thursday morning, I woke up well for the first time in many months. Perhaps five. Not without pain, but with a modicum of energy, not black fatigue. Perhaps grey-ish fatigue.
I went back yesterday for another massage. This was not indulgence, this was getting out the root of pain so deep I no longer felt it. Tears again, flashbacks again, good information, again. I've been guarding my belly, hunching over, pulling my back off until it has become a habit. I iced the sore spot, and it helped. I did a bit of yoga, and it felt good. I will go to the suggested and reasonably priced, yoga classes. I have four days off in a row. We cleaned yesterday, vacuumed, ran five loads of laundry and laundered the blankets, daubed bleach on the mold on the walls - moving the screen that has not been moved in our memory since moving in. I noticed some familiar fringe under the old sarong which covered the screen.
It was, inexplicably, miraculously, the lovely purple wool scarf.
Yes, I did say thank you, out loud.
Fall rushed in, the weather turned cold, and I could not find the gorgeous purple wool scarf D had given me last winter. I consoled myself that it was karmic payment for my life, and although I grieved the loss, I accepted it.
I had crippling neck pain at first, during my first week in the new job. Spending orientation listening to deadly dull but important information while having flashbacks and whiplash spasms was a special kind of purgatory. Ran around like a mad thing getting help, then getting caught in employee health red tape and I dotting/T crossing. Trying to to burst into tears while orienting to my new operating room, an old, huge, complex place at the best of times.
The training portion of my job continued as the pain crept down my back, and I awkwardly navigated my way through my blessedly active new health insurance. Got to a chiropractor, who was less helpful than hoped, but still helped some. The visceral memories of waking up breathing, or going out not breathing, were becoming lesser. The back pain was getting frighteningly worse at times, then would change, becoming sacral. The physical nature of my job was painful, but probably kept me moving through it. I hobbled around. My usual stretches were unbearable, and I stopped even trying yoga. Ice, usually my friend, did nothing and felt worse.
I settled into my own section, ironically orthopedics, and had nightmares of needing back surgery. Had an appointment with a PCP, who sent a letter canceling, then called several times to remind me of the appointment I had, that they had notified me was no more. By then, I had, with great difficulty and much asking around, found a real GP, within walking distance. She saw me quickly, gave me good advice, and I spent two weeks taking ibuprofen, much to the dismay of my stomach, but the back did improve. My pain seemed to turn into hip bursitis. And then, gradually, seemed to resolve.
A few weeks of only mildly aching back, but no return of energy had me worried. All I wanted to do was sleep, weekends were about sleeping, not going out, not doing anything, resting. I found a place that does clinical massage, and since my birthday was coming up, I allowed the indulgence.
Tears leaked out the whole time she worked on me. I was dismayed at how much pain was in my back, everywhere hurt. At the end, she had me sit, and I burst into a vomit of tears. No discernible emotion, but an explosion of wracking sobs.
Thursday morning, I woke up well for the first time in many months. Perhaps five. Not without pain, but with a modicum of energy, not black fatigue. Perhaps grey-ish fatigue.
I went back yesterday for another massage. This was not indulgence, this was getting out the root of pain so deep I no longer felt it. Tears again, flashbacks again, good information, again. I've been guarding my belly, hunching over, pulling my back off until it has become a habit. I iced the sore spot, and it helped. I did a bit of yoga, and it felt good. I will go to the suggested and reasonably priced, yoga classes. I have four days off in a row. We cleaned yesterday, vacuumed, ran five loads of laundry and laundered the blankets, daubed bleach on the mold on the walls - moving the screen that has not been moved in our memory since moving in. I noticed some familiar fringe under the old sarong which covered the screen.
It was, inexplicably, miraculously, the lovely purple wool scarf.
Yes, I did say thank you, out loud.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Gift
Gifts are wonderful fraught evidence of interaction.
My Aunt always knew who gave her anything, believed in thank-you notes, and knew exactly what she had given everyone else over the years. She could hold a quiet grudge if presents were given away or dismissed. I was never the object of her disdain, as growing out of clothes was no sin, otherwise, she gave me wonderful toys. Awful too small flowery flannel nightgowns were never an issue. The beloved Bell-hop was worn to a frazzle. (A plastic circle for one leg, rope to an encased bell, swing rope in circle, hop over it. Hours of coordination fun!)
My mother, who never felt like she gave good presents, and disliked shopping for anything for any reason, never minded if her gift to another was discarded. She taught me that once a present is given, it is given and forgotten. A mere proof on the day that the recipient is cared for and remembered.
Through some strange alchemy, I have turned into a decent gift chooser, who cares not a whit if the gift is re-gifted. The pair of sisters made me think about what gifts are, and how to feel about them. I prefer not to receive a gift from anyone who is anxious about giving presents. I detest getting them from anyone who does not know me well enough to give a thoughtful and useful gift. Or if it is an obligatory present.
On the flip, I love free stuff. I'm a scrounger and a picker. A friend moving and wanting to weed is a glory. I got wooden spoons, iron muffin pan, sweaters, books, Malaysian cats, and a wire cutter that way. Guilt free. Art should be more problematic, but so far we've been lucky in friends with talent. A steel penguin, several framed drawings, a black round tile. Unrefusable, delightfully so. I've even gotten some good corporate gifts, mostly luggage and polartec®. Free Blanket! Cool.
So, when I want to give a friend something, it takes a while, and I remember small incidents. I love giving an item I already own, and want to share. A camera. Army boots. Numerous books. Not so strangely, I honestly can't quite remember, as a matter of policy.
I love giving the unique, unusual, practical, beautiful, silly. I once sent a small pewter angel in a sympathy card, and heard back that it was just the right thing. A tiny pottery turtle from a box of Red Rose tea for a friend facing a long rehab hit the right note. One year, we gave all our friends spatulas. We were poor, they were useful and terribly silly. Went with the fortune cookies we made.
Not to say I've always got the right idea, but I don't care too much about each gift giving occasion. I keep trying, and figure the odds are on my side. I either give what I can because I want to, or I don't.
And I keep giving, because once in a while, it will be just right.
My Aunt always knew who gave her anything, believed in thank-you notes, and knew exactly what she had given everyone else over the years. She could hold a quiet grudge if presents were given away or dismissed. I was never the object of her disdain, as growing out of clothes was no sin, otherwise, she gave me wonderful toys. Awful too small flowery flannel nightgowns were never an issue. The beloved Bell-hop was worn to a frazzle. (A plastic circle for one leg, rope to an encased bell, swing rope in circle, hop over it. Hours of coordination fun!)
My mother, who never felt like she gave good presents, and disliked shopping for anything for any reason, never minded if her gift to another was discarded. She taught me that once a present is given, it is given and forgotten. A mere proof on the day that the recipient is cared for and remembered.
Through some strange alchemy, I have turned into a decent gift chooser, who cares not a whit if the gift is re-gifted. The pair of sisters made me think about what gifts are, and how to feel about them. I prefer not to receive a gift from anyone who is anxious about giving presents. I detest getting them from anyone who does not know me well enough to give a thoughtful and useful gift. Or if it is an obligatory present.
On the flip, I love free stuff. I'm a scrounger and a picker. A friend moving and wanting to weed is a glory. I got wooden spoons, iron muffin pan, sweaters, books, Malaysian cats, and a wire cutter that way. Guilt free. Art should be more problematic, but so far we've been lucky in friends with talent. A steel penguin, several framed drawings, a black round tile. Unrefusable, delightfully so. I've even gotten some good corporate gifts, mostly luggage and polartec®. Free Blanket! Cool.
So, when I want to give a friend something, it takes a while, and I remember small incidents. I love giving an item I already own, and want to share. A camera. Army boots. Numerous books. Not so strangely, I honestly can't quite remember, as a matter of policy.
I love giving the unique, unusual, practical, beautiful, silly. I once sent a small pewter angel in a sympathy card, and heard back that it was just the right thing. A tiny pottery turtle from a box of Red Rose tea for a friend facing a long rehab hit the right note. One year, we gave all our friends spatulas. We were poor, they were useful and terribly silly. Went with the fortune cookies we made.
Not to say I've always got the right idea, but I don't care too much about each gift giving occasion. I keep trying, and figure the odds are on my side. I either give what I can because I want to, or I don't.
And I keep giving, because once in a while, it will be just right.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Play
After that foray into my murky and embarrassed past, I suppose I must continue. Because I am not going to write a play, or compile a lyrical poetry slam. Because I know, know in my butterfly filled former actor stomach, that it's never as easy as it seems. I have seen plays soar, suck me in whole, haunt me, challenge me. More often have I experienced the gut wrench of an actor on stage three feet from me sweating nausea, waiting for the next line to enter her teflon brain. Or yawned as the story petered off into a morass of confusion and boredom. Or cringed as a missed moment of timing spun the performance into a wild and frightening wobble. I dread bad theater the way most reasonable people fear death by violence.
The thoughts of such nightmares visited me on the train into work this morning. I've seen two very different performances of All In The Timing, a David Ives masterpiece of writing. Playful, funny, touching, true and very complicated. I saw it handled masterfully, impeccable timing - light touch. I was laughing too hard to breathe. Or I was struck breathless at the juxtapositions.
Then. Later. A small liberal arts theater program tried one of the funnier chapters. (A program notorious for making a botch of another disremembered play.) It hurt. It was over the top, it was wrong, it was far worse than hearing a bagpipe band out of tune, off station on the radio, at full volume, on earphones. I felt they were trying to distract me. Subtlety be damned, this was COMEDY! I almost bit through my thumb. I was not amused.
Actors hate Our Town. I admit, I didn't hate it the first time I saw it. After repeated viewings, in my role as Always the Usher, Never the Ingenue, I began to detest it. It is too easy, too facile, too predictable, too complete. Too neat. Too pat. Actors no doubt are bored in it. I begin to wonder if it was secretly meant as parody. It is a play that is almost impossible to fuck up. Even done badly, it has a durable charm, for those who have not seen a lot of other plays. Nearly pandering to sentimentality. Maybe not nearly.
Peter Pan is much the same, and another yearly money maker for many a theatrical company. Hard to get a handle on why it's popular, and what is wrong with it. Christmas Carol has the same quality. These plays are straightforward, unchallenging, with simple morals, and pretty sets. Very forgiving to inexperienced actors. Filling in coloring books for artists.
I pondered the idea of really great play writing being not quite so accessible. Harder to do right, far worse when it goes wrong. And it takes great writing, great acting, decent production, and an attentive audience. It takes engaged actors in love with the words. All done right, it opens a door to elsewhere, with ambiguous lessons, indescribable humor, and transformed reality. Which is also why it can crash so fast, so hard. Never offers an easy way for poor-to-mediocre actors who don't understand what they are saying. The difference between playing the Kazoo and playing violin. No violinist would be tempted, but I would certainly choose kazoo, if asked to chose which to play. It wouldn't be good, but it wouldn't hurt so much, just the once.
And this is why I won't write plays, nor ever be an actor. I would be an Our Town writing kazoo player. Art doesn't need any more mediocrity.
The thoughts of such nightmares visited me on the train into work this morning. I've seen two very different performances of All In The Timing, a David Ives masterpiece of writing. Playful, funny, touching, true and very complicated. I saw it handled masterfully, impeccable timing - light touch. I was laughing too hard to breathe. Or I was struck breathless at the juxtapositions.
Then. Later. A small liberal arts theater program tried one of the funnier chapters. (A program notorious for making a botch of another disremembered play.) It hurt. It was over the top, it was wrong, it was far worse than hearing a bagpipe band out of tune, off station on the radio, at full volume, on earphones. I felt they were trying to distract me. Subtlety be damned, this was COMEDY! I almost bit through my thumb. I was not amused.
Actors hate Our Town. I admit, I didn't hate it the first time I saw it. After repeated viewings, in my role as Always the Usher, Never the Ingenue, I began to detest it. It is too easy, too facile, too predictable, too complete. Too neat. Too pat. Actors no doubt are bored in it. I begin to wonder if it was secretly meant as parody. It is a play that is almost impossible to fuck up. Even done badly, it has a durable charm, for those who have not seen a lot of other plays. Nearly pandering to sentimentality. Maybe not nearly.
Peter Pan is much the same, and another yearly money maker for many a theatrical company. Hard to get a handle on why it's popular, and what is wrong with it. Christmas Carol has the same quality. These plays are straightforward, unchallenging, with simple morals, and pretty sets. Very forgiving to inexperienced actors. Filling in coloring books for artists.
I pondered the idea of really great play writing being not quite so accessible. Harder to do right, far worse when it goes wrong. And it takes great writing, great acting, decent production, and an attentive audience. It takes engaged actors in love with the words. All done right, it opens a door to elsewhere, with ambiguous lessons, indescribable humor, and transformed reality. Which is also why it can crash so fast, so hard. Never offers an easy way for poor-to-mediocre actors who don't understand what they are saying. The difference between playing the Kazoo and playing violin. No violinist would be tempted, but I would certainly choose kazoo, if asked to chose which to play. It wouldn't be good, but it wouldn't hurt so much, just the once.
And this is why I won't write plays, nor ever be an actor. I would be an Our Town writing kazoo player. Art doesn't need any more mediocrity.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Lyric
I was once a theater student. I didn't get cast much. Barely at all. The last time finished me off, and I believe it was meant as a mercy casting. I do so love irony.
It was musical. One of the instructors, who ran the box office, where I worked my student job, conceived and Directed the hell out of It. It (don't ask me the name) was supposed to spotlight great lyrics, speak them, with just some added music. Flattering air brush painted body suits with appropriate costume pieces added. Sounds potentially good, right? I mean, for actors... sounds fun, right? Like it COULD be good? After all these years, I still chew on how bad the production was, how wrongly ambitious, how teeth grittingly embarrassing. And the why of the misery was largely a matter of execution.
It really could have been good. A Poetry Slam, with lyrics. Bob Dylan, The Who, Patsy Cline, old blues or Frank Zappa or Spike Jones. Whole lotta great variety of material there. Take it all out of context, no dippy pop or smarmy Broadway tunes or top 40 or Standards - nothing in fact recognizable as a song - at least at first. Actors wearing a raid on the costume shop and doing dramatic or funny or 'Philip Glass Buys A Loaf of Bread' (Ives) overlapping and meshing of several lyrics, balls to the wall aggressive performances. No fucking music or singing at all. Or only the songs presented, canned, played before and at intermission.
Instead. Oh, gods, instead. Pastel body suits, no airbrushing, no skirts or shirts or hats or anything. Bodies on a stage. Self conscious bodies on a bare stage. Dancing, too.
Lots of singing, as well as talking of songs. Talking. Songs. Think about saying the words to 'Ebony and Ivory' for instance. It is silly, creepy, peculiar. I work with a surgeon* who does this, and it's terribly funny to me, to him, and annoying to many, because he knows all the lyrics. He says them all in a dull monotone, including the "oooo baby baby"s right before the line is sung. It is not what anyone could call theatrical. Amusing as hell at work, but, not on a stage.
I was given the solo of that Lionel Ritchie tripe - "Hello." I sang it, out loud, on stage. I may still want to take a another bath just thinking about it.
Worse, far worse than the pop songs, the Broadway numbers. We did a choir version of Singin' in the Rain. Why? A question I still ask. He had the music? We were supposed to do a very strange "Pretty Women." Not the, rock, Pretty WomAn (Walking down the street.) A song I hate quite a lot. No, Pretty WomEn some bit of antiquated Broadway tripe with the most pretty boy in the cast crooning to all the women perched around the stage.
Pretty women sippin coffee**
Breathing lightly
screwing pool boys***
When we couldn't let him get all the way through the song without smirking, rolling our eyes or shaking with suppressed giggles, the Director gave up on the number.
Ultimately it just sucked time and energy. It was the last time I wanted to act on stage.
Thanks, I've wanted to get that off my chest for a long long time. Now, of course, I may have to actually write the damn thing. Perhaps including a very sweet recitation of Sex Farm Woman.
* P. L., a skilled and talented orthopedic surgeon who, technically, I have not worked with for two years.
**(Just looked it up, it's in front of The Ladies Who Lunch, which at least puts an acid twist into the choice.)
***(Ok I made that line up)
It was musical. One of the instructors, who ran the box office, where I worked my student job, conceived and Directed the hell out of It. It (don't ask me the name) was supposed to spotlight great lyrics, speak them, with just some added music. Flattering air brush painted body suits with appropriate costume pieces added. Sounds potentially good, right? I mean, for actors... sounds fun, right? Like it COULD be good? After all these years, I still chew on how bad the production was, how wrongly ambitious, how teeth grittingly embarrassing. And the why of the misery was largely a matter of execution.
It really could have been good. A Poetry Slam, with lyrics. Bob Dylan, The Who, Patsy Cline, old blues or Frank Zappa or Spike Jones. Whole lotta great variety of material there. Take it all out of context, no dippy pop or smarmy Broadway tunes or top 40 or Standards - nothing in fact recognizable as a song - at least at first. Actors wearing a raid on the costume shop and doing dramatic or funny or 'Philip Glass Buys A Loaf of Bread' (Ives) overlapping and meshing of several lyrics, balls to the wall aggressive performances. No fucking music or singing at all. Or only the songs presented, canned, played before and at intermission.
Instead. Oh, gods, instead. Pastel body suits, no airbrushing, no skirts or shirts or hats or anything. Bodies on a stage. Self conscious bodies on a bare stage. Dancing, too.
Lots of singing, as well as talking of songs. Talking. Songs. Think about saying the words to 'Ebony and Ivory' for instance. It is silly, creepy, peculiar. I work with a surgeon* who does this, and it's terribly funny to me, to him, and annoying to many, because he knows all the lyrics. He says them all in a dull monotone, including the "oooo baby baby"s right before the line is sung. It is not what anyone could call theatrical. Amusing as hell at work, but, not on a stage.
I was given the solo of that Lionel Ritchie tripe - "Hello." I sang it, out loud, on stage. I may still want to take a another bath just thinking about it.
Worse, far worse than the pop songs, the Broadway numbers. We did a choir version of Singin' in the Rain. Why? A question I still ask. He had the music? We were supposed to do a very strange "Pretty Women." Not the, rock, Pretty WomAn (Walking down the street.) A song I hate quite a lot. No, Pretty WomEn some bit of antiquated Broadway tripe with the most pretty boy in the cast crooning to all the women perched around the stage.
Pretty women sippin coffee**
Breathing lightly
screwing pool boys***
When we couldn't let him get all the way through the song without smirking, rolling our eyes or shaking with suppressed giggles, the Director gave up on the number.
Ultimately it just sucked time and energy. It was the last time I wanted to act on stage.
Thanks, I've wanted to get that off my chest for a long long time. Now, of course, I may have to actually write the damn thing. Perhaps including a very sweet recitation of Sex Farm Woman.
* P. L., a skilled and talented orthopedic surgeon who, technically, I have not worked with for two years.
**(Just looked it up, it's in front of The Ladies Who Lunch, which at least puts an acid twist into the choice.)
***(Ok I made that line up)
Friday, February 17, 2006
Sun (Photo)
Moby is King Cat. What he most hated about the two months in the Exile of the shelter were all the other animals, since he is the only Cat, Benign Ruler of the Universe.
His job is to Chase Things, and Keep Chairs Warm, and Be Adored. He is kind to his subjects, and would never bite or claw them or their honored guests. He graciously greets and welcomes new friends. He also guards his Kingdom from Hallway Ghosts, a Sacred Duty.
He suffers the Indignity of the Clipping of the Nails and Brushing of the Teeth with Royal Disdain.
He accepts offerings of Fish and Chicken as his Just Tribute. Turkey and Ham are acceptable as well.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Romance
I heard one man ask another on the train today,
"So you give her a rose a year?"
"Yeah, that's about it."
Four vases of flowers at the front desk of surgery. In front of each a sign.
"No, this isn't yours either."
Stereotypical modern romance is twee and boring and soulless. It's not about love, but it is about not feeling loved. It's not about a warm home. It is about nostalgia, and like all nostalgia, is it yearning for a time that never was, for knights and princesses, for perfect dates, lush weddings and Hallmark moments.
Roses, dinner dates, champagne, heart shaped boxes, rings. A formulae. How to be Romantic in Five Easy Steps! Much harder to be a real romantic. To make up one's own gestures, and perform them every day, with a full heart and attentive humor. Worth it for the reality. And the stories.
Nothing wrong with adding traditional trappings to a deep growing affection, if that is to the taste of those involved. What is wrong is when it's paper mache, hollow and full of those icky candy hearts with stupid messages. Wrong when mandatory roses and candy at inflated prices are a litmus test, or a substitute for real affection. Insufficient when it demands no imagination.
Early on, on one of those mandatory gift giving occasions, I told D not to give me anything frivolous, and what I really needed was a good stainless steel mixing bowl. He was dubious, but he took me at my word, and got me a nice set of bowls. I was so touched at the underlying message. He listens to me, and he believes me. Now that is romantic.
He orders food for us when I get home too tired to think, or makes other phone calls for me when I just can't stand to talk to anyone. He will order for me in restaurants when I am stressed and stuttering. I point, he translates. He makes me tea. He gives me the Fortean Times to read first. He fixes my computer when I hit something wrong and can't figure out what. He watches Cops! with me. He thinks me romantic for watching Zatoichi and Bond with him, and rubbing his feet for no reason.
We use those bowls all the time.
He still thanks me for the fish balloon I brought him, the day he was caught in the tornado.
"So you give her a rose a year?"
"Yeah, that's about it."
Four vases of flowers at the front desk of surgery. In front of each a sign.
"No, this isn't yours either."
Stereotypical modern romance is twee and boring and soulless. It's not about love, but it is about not feeling loved. It's not about a warm home. It is about nostalgia, and like all nostalgia, is it yearning for a time that never was, for knights and princesses, for perfect dates, lush weddings and Hallmark moments.
Roses, dinner dates, champagne, heart shaped boxes, rings. A formulae. How to be Romantic in Five Easy Steps! Much harder to be a real romantic. To make up one's own gestures, and perform them every day, with a full heart and attentive humor. Worth it for the reality. And the stories.
Nothing wrong with adding traditional trappings to a deep growing affection, if that is to the taste of those involved. What is wrong is when it's paper mache, hollow and full of those icky candy hearts with stupid messages. Wrong when mandatory roses and candy at inflated prices are a litmus test, or a substitute for real affection. Insufficient when it demands no imagination.
Early on, on one of those mandatory gift giving occasions, I told D not to give me anything frivolous, and what I really needed was a good stainless steel mixing bowl. He was dubious, but he took me at my word, and got me a nice set of bowls. I was so touched at the underlying message. He listens to me, and he believes me. Now that is romantic.
He orders food for us when I get home too tired to think, or makes other phone calls for me when I just can't stand to talk to anyone. He will order for me in restaurants when I am stressed and stuttering. I point, he translates. He makes me tea. He gives me the Fortean Times to read first. He fixes my computer when I hit something wrong and can't figure out what. He watches Cops! with me. He thinks me romantic for watching Zatoichi and Bond with him, and rubbing his feet for no reason.
We use those bowls all the time.
He still thanks me for the fish balloon I brought him, the day he was caught in the tornado.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Valentine
I was the kid who knew how to draw hearts. So when we had to make our own, I was suddenly a noticed person, and I would take the crayon, or the pencil, and lightly outline a heart for my small peers who brought me their pink and red construction paper. Or scissors, folding the paper in half to make a symmetrical heart.
When my mom took me to Kresge's Five and Dime to get a box of Valentines, I went for the comic ones, Peanuts, B.C., and Flintstones, the funnier the better.
I made decorations for Dances, so I could get and not have to pay. At one dance a nun insisted I pay anyway, and after several 'reminders' I simply lied to her, claimed that I had paid. I rarely got asked to dance, and only danced when a circle of friends hogged some of the space to ignore the couples on the fast songs. My senior year, a freshman named John Smith (really, not kidding) seemed to have a crush on me, and I had a regular dance partner for the first time. I hope I made his ninth grade social life a little easier, he certainly made my senior year better. The Valentine Day dances were only distinguishable by the decorations.
In high school, I sold carnations on Valentine's Day to raise money for... the dance? Huh, what was I raising money for? I certainly never got one, but I was glad to handle cash.
In that last year of Catholic school, I had to have one more religion class to graduate. I very reluctanly took the lamely named Growth as a Person. What I remember about it was playing games. Like the teacher reading out statements, while the whole class stood in the center of the room, desks pushed to the boards, and we each had to physically chose a side, fast.
Chocolate or Vanilla?
Shuffling, and standing, perhaps with friends, perhaps not.
Is there a God or not?
Shuffles, and Gretchen stood alone.
Republican or Democrat?
Shuffling and more or less evenly split.
Salt or Pepper?
No chosing neither, no undecideds. The exercise repeated every other class, and the choices cycled around, and a new choice could be made next time. But at that moment, each of us had to decide, and stand there, and choose. Out of admiration and baffled respect, I one day stood with Gretchen, and it was frightening to stand there, just the two of us, doubting God. The seed of my own late blooming courage.
I cannot shoot four rounds a minute, but I can stand.
The other consistent exercise in that class was having to write to every other student a note, a positive, anonymous, note. I could tell who was trying. The rest of the notes I received were "Nice" or "Nice smile," which spurred me on to more creative vocabulary, and at least some attempt at personalizing each one. Not always successful. It was concrete proof that my fellows didn't hate me, they barely saw me, as I barely saw them. It was much like Valentines. Nothing magic about it.
A group of friends, D and I, all men save myself, went to a favorite Vietnamese restaurant that handled large, odd-numbered groups with aplomb, and encountered an unexpected crowd. We waited a short while, were seated, and I was given a flower. Huh. We were all wondering WTF? And why was I the only one given a flower? We looked around, a lot of couples, but it was a Wednesday! The date floated into several consciousnesses at the same moment, February 14th. Oh. Duh. We all had a good meal, and a good story, and scoffed at the couples who had to have a sanctioned day to express romance.
A few years ago, D asked me if I wanted something for Valentine's Day. I said, no, thanks for checking in, but no. The next day, as a joke, I said.
"Well, you could get me chocolate today, since it is not a holiday and you are not commercially obliged."
And he did. Half-Price Chocolate Day was born. Half Price chocolate is better, because you get twice as much of it. February 14? Valentine's Day? Feh. Half-Price Chocolate Day Eve!
You are thinking, where is the usual tightly woven prose? What is she leading to, where is the lesson, the insight? What is the point of this essay?
This is what Valentine's Day means to me. It is pointless. It's funny. Lessons come in unlikely places, best to just stand and take it. And when you figure out it is all about chocolate, life gets much better, the day after.
When my mom took me to Kresge's Five and Dime to get a box of Valentines, I went for the comic ones, Peanuts, B.C., and Flintstones, the funnier the better.
I made decorations for Dances, so I could get and not have to pay. At one dance a nun insisted I pay anyway, and after several 'reminders' I simply lied to her, claimed that I had paid. I rarely got asked to dance, and only danced when a circle of friends hogged some of the space to ignore the couples on the fast songs. My senior year, a freshman named John Smith (really, not kidding) seemed to have a crush on me, and I had a regular dance partner for the first time. I hope I made his ninth grade social life a little easier, he certainly made my senior year better. The Valentine Day dances were only distinguishable by the decorations.
In high school, I sold carnations on Valentine's Day to raise money for... the dance? Huh, what was I raising money for? I certainly never got one, but I was glad to handle cash.
In that last year of Catholic school, I had to have one more religion class to graduate. I very reluctanly took the lamely named Growth as a Person. What I remember about it was playing games. Like the teacher reading out statements, while the whole class stood in the center of the room, desks pushed to the boards, and we each had to physically chose a side, fast.
Chocolate or Vanilla?
Shuffling, and standing, perhaps with friends, perhaps not.
Is there a God or not?
Shuffles, and Gretchen stood alone.
Republican or Democrat?
Shuffling and more or less evenly split.
Salt or Pepper?
No chosing neither, no undecideds. The exercise repeated every other class, and the choices cycled around, and a new choice could be made next time. But at that moment, each of us had to decide, and stand there, and choose. Out of admiration and baffled respect, I one day stood with Gretchen, and it was frightening to stand there, just the two of us, doubting God. The seed of my own late blooming courage.
I cannot shoot four rounds a minute, but I can stand.
The other consistent exercise in that class was having to write to every other student a note, a positive, anonymous, note. I could tell who was trying. The rest of the notes I received were "Nice" or "Nice smile," which spurred me on to more creative vocabulary, and at least some attempt at personalizing each one. Not always successful. It was concrete proof that my fellows didn't hate me, they barely saw me, as I barely saw them. It was much like Valentines. Nothing magic about it.
A group of friends, D and I, all men save myself, went to a favorite Vietnamese restaurant that handled large, odd-numbered groups with aplomb, and encountered an unexpected crowd. We waited a short while, were seated, and I was given a flower. Huh. We were all wondering WTF? And why was I the only one given a flower? We looked around, a lot of couples, but it was a Wednesday! The date floated into several consciousnesses at the same moment, February 14th. Oh. Duh. We all had a good meal, and a good story, and scoffed at the couples who had to have a sanctioned day to express romance.
A few years ago, D asked me if I wanted something for Valentine's Day. I said, no, thanks for checking in, but no. The next day, as a joke, I said.
"Well, you could get me chocolate today, since it is not a holiday and you are not commercially obliged."
And he did. Half-Price Chocolate Day was born. Half Price chocolate is better, because you get twice as much of it. February 14? Valentine's Day? Feh. Half-Price Chocolate Day Eve!
You are thinking, where is the usual tightly woven prose? What is she leading to, where is the lesson, the insight? What is the point of this essay?
This is what Valentine's Day means to me. It is pointless. It's funny. Lessons come in unlikely places, best to just stand and take it. And when you figure out it is all about chocolate, life gets much better, the day after.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Sidebar
You may notice I have added some blogs to my sidebar. This took me a long time. Please do not feel left out if you are not there. Nor too smug if you are. It is a work in progress. I'm very slow about these things. I don't want there to be so many that those who might click on and find your site are lost in a long list, as I get lost sorting through other's blogrolls. I have quirky and devious and peculiar reasons for putting some on and leaving some off. Feeling my way around, creating new guidelines.
Plan? There ain't no plan!
Plan? There ain't no plan!
Muppet
I wanted to be a Muppet. A Muppeteer, to be precise. And I think I would have been rather good at it. I always had an old, modified sock on my hand, talking to people, or more often not talking, just looking and reacting. Very expressive, socks could be, on my hand.
Not puppets, but The Muppets. Jim Henson and his gang. Learn how to make the mouth move so it looked more like my hand movements actually talking. Moving felt arms with wires. And normal-feeling interactions with other beasts of extension. I was in love with the Muppet Show. As a fan, certainly, but more, for the technical and creative elements. I say without a trace of humility, I could have excelled with a Muppet on my hand.
Jim Henson's death was, from what I read, a blow to all who knew him. It sent ripples out as far as me, and my ancient dream. Like knowing I would have made the worlds best buggy-whips, it was wistful and hopeless.
Henson's Muppets were aimed at adults, and children could enjoy then. He didn't talk down to children, nor did his furry, feathered mouthpieces. They were decidedly eccentric, and proudly askew. They made sly adult references, like Rocky and Bullwinkle did. After Jim was gone, the respect and affection faded. The twinkle was gone.
I don't like that his son took over Kermit, who is a zombie frog to me now. I don't like how slickly commercial Muppets have become, nor their close association with Disney. The soul of Muppets died with Jim.
I have more friends with young children these days. I wonder where they will get their subtle view into the adult world, without having it shoved in their faces too soon, so blatantly. Or get truth from those who lie by ignoring the brutal realities, covering it all with a thick coating of sugar. They Might Be Giants can't do only children's records. DVDs of Rocky and Bullwinkle, and the old Muppet Show only go so far.
I have hope, though. There is always at least one crazy uncle or dotty aunt, syncopated drummer or off center wobbler to reach the kids with no interest in mediocre conformity and saccharine bubbles.
I just don't want to miss whoever does it right.
Not puppets, but The Muppets. Jim Henson and his gang. Learn how to make the mouth move so it looked more like my hand movements actually talking. Moving felt arms with wires. And normal-feeling interactions with other beasts of extension. I was in love with the Muppet Show. As a fan, certainly, but more, for the technical and creative elements. I say without a trace of humility, I could have excelled with a Muppet on my hand.
Jim Henson's death was, from what I read, a blow to all who knew him. It sent ripples out as far as me, and my ancient dream. Like knowing I would have made the worlds best buggy-whips, it was wistful and hopeless.
Henson's Muppets were aimed at adults, and children could enjoy then. He didn't talk down to children, nor did his furry, feathered mouthpieces. They were decidedly eccentric, and proudly askew. They made sly adult references, like Rocky and Bullwinkle did. After Jim was gone, the respect and affection faded. The twinkle was gone.
I don't like that his son took over Kermit, who is a zombie frog to me now. I don't like how slickly commercial Muppets have become, nor their close association with Disney. The soul of Muppets died with Jim.
I have more friends with young children these days. I wonder where they will get their subtle view into the adult world, without having it shoved in their faces too soon, so blatantly. Or get truth from those who lie by ignoring the brutal realities, covering it all with a thick coating of sugar. They Might Be Giants can't do only children's records. DVDs of Rocky and Bullwinkle, and the old Muppet Show only go so far.
I have hope, though. There is always at least one crazy uncle or dotty aunt, syncopated drummer or off center wobbler to reach the kids with no interest in mediocre conformity and saccharine bubbles.
I just don't want to miss whoever does it right.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Collar (Photo)
Moby got a brand new bag.
Er, collar. The old one, the elastic was fraying. This one is more subtle. Just like him.
He has claimed the parka. Wonder how it wound up on the stool.
Loss
It just hit me. I have lost all your comments on the Pi of Pie. I planned to take the posts down, never for a moment considered that I would also be deleting all your fine words and generous encouragment. A Sudden Horrible Realization. And nothing whatsoever I can do about it now. Destroying my own pots, unraveling my own work, my own writing, is one act. Destroying yours, that is quite another kettle of fishiness.
I apologize. And I miss those words. I will treasure them, you may believe that.
Here, This may help .
I apologize. And I miss those words. I will treasure them, you may believe that.
Here, This may help .
Friday, February 10, 2006
Pants
A seat of the pants post. Not unique, but an experiment nevertheless. Not sure that I can, or want to, return to the formal sort of essays I started this site to practice. Not ready to start another novel. Nor with any good idea of what to do next. All at sea being essentially done editing the π. Perhaps I can dither at daily thoughts. Movie suggestions. Odd news. Feature other blogs. My stories feel far away, taking a long nap under the bed until the thunder is long gone. Continue to share my photographic view of my world, certainly.
I am empty and alone and cold. Drifting. It's not bad. Just not very juicy. Hibernating.
So, as when I want to contact friends, and cannot find words, I relate an Item of Interest.
Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable.
Rain.
To rain cats and dogs. In northern mythology the cat is supposed to have great influence on the weather, and English sailors still say, “The cat has a gale of wind in her tail,” when she is unusually frisky. Witches that rode upon the storms were said to assume the form of cats; and the stormy north-west wind is called the cat’s-nose in the Harz even at the present day. 1
The dog is a signal of wind, like the wolf, both which animals were attendants of Odin, the storm-god. In old German pictures the wind is figured as the “head of a dog or wolf,” from which blasts issue. 2
The cat therefore symbolises the downpouring rain, and the dog the strong gusts of wind which accompany a rainstorm; and a “rain of cats and dogs” is a heavy rain with wind. (See CAT AND DOG.) 3
The French catadoupe or catadupe means a waterfall.
I am empty and alone and cold. Drifting. It's not bad. Just not very juicy. Hibernating.
So, as when I want to contact friends, and cannot find words, I relate an Item of Interest.
Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable.
Rain.
To rain cats and dogs. In northern mythology the cat is supposed to have great influence on the weather, and English sailors still say, “The cat has a gale of wind in her tail,” when she is unusually frisky. Witches that rode upon the storms were said to assume the form of cats; and the stormy north-west wind is called the cat’s-nose in the Harz even at the present day. 1
The dog is a signal of wind, like the wolf, both which animals were attendants of Odin, the storm-god. In old German pictures the wind is figured as the “head of a dog or wolf,” from which blasts issue. 2
The cat therefore symbolises the downpouring rain, and the dog the strong gusts of wind which accompany a rainstorm; and a “rain of cats and dogs” is a heavy rain with wind. (See CAT AND DOG.) 3
The French catadoupe or catadupe means a waterfall.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Sunday, February 05, 2006
One Hundred Words.
One hundred nouns. No adverbs, no adjectives. Describing oneself.
ink
clay
hangnails
feet
sneakers
camera
blood
hands
book
bells
~
candles
cat
earrings
school
glasses
ragdoll
nightmares
bear
fish
shower
~
scarves
bruises
massage
zits
caves
pens
needles
tokens
brushes
hats
~
socks
knives
paper
skillet
tea
kettle
cup
pot
strainer
beer
~
chocolate
mouse
cayenne
watch
clock
mucous
shit
flesh
bone
titanium
~ *
sprain
shout
song
harmony
voice
brothers
uncles
cousins
aunts
lovers
~
television
movies
plays
stories
blog
ice
wind
thunder
blizzard
rain
~
springs
muppets
irony
sarcasm
nudges
otters
fire
elephants
ocean
mountain
~
letters
silk
tricot
fleece
velcro
bridge
mud
snow
dust
boots
~
glue
wood
desert
dessert
glaze
thread
train
tree
stream
rock
ink
clay
hangnails
feet
sneakers
camera
blood
hands
book
bells
~
candles
cat
earrings
school
glasses
ragdoll
nightmares
bear
fish
shower
~
scarves
bruises
massage
zits
caves
pens
needles
tokens
brushes
hats
~
socks
knives
paper
skillet
tea
kettle
cup
pot
strainer
beer
~
chocolate
mouse
cayenne
watch
clock
mucous
shit
flesh
bone
titanium
~ *
sprain
shout
song
harmony
voice
brothers
uncles
cousins
aunts
lovers
~
television
movies
plays
stories
blog
ice
wind
thunder
blizzard
rain
~
springs
muppets
irony
sarcasm
nudges
otters
fire
elephants
ocean
mountain
~
letters
silk
tricot
fleece
velcro
bridge
mud
snow
dust
boots
~
glue
wood
desert
dessert
glaze
thread
train
tree
stream
rock
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)