When I got back from Gulf War I, I was having a hard time. Reality adjustment. It felt very amorphous at the time, and even more so now. I went to see a counselor at the VA. She was kind, but had not been in the military at all, and I found myself explaining all kinds of largely irrelevant details. Later, I found myself chatting with a counselor in a vet center where D was working as a work study. This went much better, felt more like swapping stories, fluid and easy. The language was there, so the distress I was having trouble defining, nonetheless communicating, hove into view. He talked with me for almost three hours, and at the end, I had the clarity to deal on my own. A tough old Vietnam Vet, with an understanding ear for a vaguely stressed National Guard weekender back from a footnote war. But he didn't see me that way, and I am deeply grateful.
Yesterday, I worked with a rep, and I assume he did some kind of military service. An offhand remark, a proper response. It's like I'm in some weird secret society, having done even my little bit of military service. Perhaps because I do not blow it up, never pretend more experience than I had, I am allowed in. I know how to talk to soldiers, even reluctant part time ones.
That kind of shorthand learned in similar circumstances gives a background of ease. I knew I would never marry anyone who had not done some kind of military service, needing to explain so many little reactions and in jokes would have been exhausting every moment of every day. Less so 15 years on, as other life changes have overlaid them. But I know why D removes his hat at the same moment I do when we go into a building. When a dish is heard to drop, we say Airborn. I straighten his collars, he adjusts my hat. The shirts in the closet face right. We see an actor in a movie and I say,
"Remember that guy?" Meaning Sgt. Hull, and D says,
"Yeah."
And we do. And probably a hundred other small actions germinated there, that we are no longer conscious of.
It came to me then, that the pervasive subtle racism, as opposed to the self conscious and overt bigotry, is in part, the same mechanism. It's just hard, all the time, to have to translate, never assume, never flow, in daily conversation. So much less work to interact with those for whom a look transmits a completely understood message- with all implications a thousand words would require to get the gist across for an outsider. I'm still dealing with Boston speech, where door and drawer are pronounced identically. I feel this overwhelming ache to be around others like myself, even though I have no idea who they would be. It's important, it's enriching, but tiring, and we are a lazy species.
And putting everyone through the Army is not the answer. To quote D,
"The Army is an Idiot."
I know what he means.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Undercurrent (Photo)
This is one of those photos that says a lot more than it seems to.
Sister-in-law, myself (birthday), Uncle M (father's brother) and his (second wife) Aunt A, Aunt E (mother's sister, standing) and her husband Uncle E(standing). My mom standing, hands on shoulders of her mum. Picture taken by (?) ( I may have cropped out my father and my brother (not the one married to SIL) took the picture. Picture of Last Supper and ubiquitous '70's sunburst clock on wall. White bread stack, potatoes, baked chicken, mayonaise, and ballerina cake on table.
I once made fun of my D's new very suburban and mormon in-laws for serving an entire meal that was orange. I think this kind of meal is why I noticed.
If you just love the kitsch of it all, try the Gallery of Regrettable Food.
Friday, April 07, 2006
Jacket (Photo)
This is what happens when we don't hang up fleece jackets. Not being tidy people, this is inevitable.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Here
I do not exactly know where my genetic material comes from. Oh, I know who my biological parents are, no doubt in my mind on that. I know the previous generation of my family, no big mystery there. Beyond them lie long and tangled lines of subsistence farmers and immigrants, unknown, and I suspect, unknowable. I never asked much when I was younger, and they were still alive. It was, and is, a family of 'not talking about it.' "It" being anything at all really. I do not even know the names to start to look, even if I were willing to look.
Which I am not. I worked at a local history/genealogical library, shelving material, for several years in college. Dusty old stuff, microfilm, maps, daguerreotypes and other early photographs, newspapers from the previous century, a whole wall of books about Lincoln. So many books on one (geographical) subject that the first two Dewey numbers were omitted, being redundant. All of which, honestly, I do find interesting. The majority of genealogists I wanted to hit with a large atlas. The handful of historians and a few amusing and pleasant genealogists could not defray the cost of the nasty ones. When the requests came down for more rolls of microfilm than could be looked at in a week, all urgently needed immediately, I yelled at them - from the safety of the sub-basement, "Who cares! They are all DEAD! And they were probably idiots just like you!"
I often wondered at the familiar names of strips of farms on a framed map near the always-breaking microfilm machines. But that was the side of the family I didn't much like anyway. It felt too hypocritical to look for family I would not have wanted to know. I don't care what their names are, what kinds of work they did. They were all poor, they are all dead. This is my inheritance. I take no blame, no credit, I have only my own life and I am satisfied.
On the local news last night was information on getting genetic testing, to map the path of my ancestors. I wanted it. Then felt guilty. I am not on speaking terms with my immediate family, but I want to know my ancestors? Yes, I do. I want to know if my meager evidence suggesting I have native genes as well as Old World ones is accurate. (The impressive family noses, the straight black-brown hair, the inability to handle alcohol, despite being Irish and French.) I have seen girls in French Impressionist paintings that are clearly cousins, Bouguereau painted my genes. I want to know the path taken, the streams flowing through, the obscure story. We all come from a handful of mothers many thousands of generations ago. The record of love and rape is mapped in our DNA, our mitochondria, expressed in our noses and appendices.
I have always liked maps. I want one that accurately says "You are here."
Which I am not. I worked at a local history/genealogical library, shelving material, for several years in college. Dusty old stuff, microfilm, maps, daguerreotypes and other early photographs, newspapers from the previous century, a whole wall of books about Lincoln. So many books on one (geographical) subject that the first two Dewey numbers were omitted, being redundant. All of which, honestly, I do find interesting. The majority of genealogists I wanted to hit with a large atlas. The handful of historians and a few amusing and pleasant genealogists could not defray the cost of the nasty ones. When the requests came down for more rolls of microfilm than could be looked at in a week, all urgently needed immediately, I yelled at them - from the safety of the sub-basement, "Who cares! They are all DEAD! And they were probably idiots just like you!"
I often wondered at the familiar names of strips of farms on a framed map near the always-breaking microfilm machines. But that was the side of the family I didn't much like anyway. It felt too hypocritical to look for family I would not have wanted to know. I don't care what their names are, what kinds of work they did. They were all poor, they are all dead. This is my inheritance. I take no blame, no credit, I have only my own life and I am satisfied.
On the local news last night was information on getting genetic testing, to map the path of my ancestors. I wanted it. Then felt guilty. I am not on speaking terms with my immediate family, but I want to know my ancestors? Yes, I do. I want to know if my meager evidence suggesting I have native genes as well as Old World ones is accurate. (The impressive family noses, the straight black-brown hair, the inability to handle alcohol, despite being Irish and French.) I have seen girls in French Impressionist paintings that are clearly cousins, Bouguereau painted my genes. I want to know the path taken, the streams flowing through, the obscure story. We all come from a handful of mothers many thousands of generations ago. The record of love and rape is mapped in our DNA, our mitochondria, expressed in our noses and appendices.
I have always liked maps. I want one that accurately says "You are here."
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Beer (Photo)
Sleep and muscle relaxant. Much better now, thanks for all the sympathy.
Slept through the night from infancy. Without sleep, I'm a flaming wreck.
Stroh's
Once, long ago, in fictional dystopia called The Narrows, I struggled up out of the mud of dark and dull urbanity. Neither Princess nor street Urchin, neither destitute nor middle class, I had neither the advantage of money, nor the charity of poverty. I ate sufficient, mediocre, malnourishing food, and had a creaking but not leaking roof over my head, and wore cheaply unfashionable clothing. I had a solid education, without sports or music, save for a nun playing a record of meaningful pop music, and expecting us to write profound responses to it. I drank the milk my mother wanted to have had in her childhood. And the City rumbled and belched around me.
But this sovereignty held a secret, since debased, long gone now. There were men toiling to create a beverage of such flavor, such subtle bitter undertow, and gentle magical properties, as to bring penitent tears to the unholy. I had come of age, and was found by an apprentice-master, She Who Taught Me About Stroh's. She thought she was teaching me about Tea, and I certainly love and know much of the properties of Tea. But the secret teaching, the real message inadvertently disclosed was that of the golden liquid, Beer. And not the tawdry, street corner whores of that juice of joy. No, this was meant not for shameful drunkenness and debauchery. This was ambrosia, food for gods. Gods not for the wretched poor, nor for the pretentious nobility - who needed the sweetness of wine, or the potent numbing of usquebaugh. No, for gods who knew neither luxury nor squalor. For the godless in between.
As I sadly foreshadowed, Stroh's is gone now, although the name lives on, a grotesque zombie, a degenerate bastard heir. But its spirit soared, escaped and scattered a thousand seeds to the winds of the universe, to grow in the bramble of arcane laws and unlikely cracks in the sidewalks. And heavenly brew flowed forth, foaming onto the happy and discerning tongues of acolytes of the Brewers Who Really Care.
Amen.
But this sovereignty held a secret, since debased, long gone now. There were men toiling to create a beverage of such flavor, such subtle bitter undertow, and gentle magical properties, as to bring penitent tears to the unholy. I had come of age, and was found by an apprentice-master, She Who Taught Me About Stroh's. She thought she was teaching me about Tea, and I certainly love and know much of the properties of Tea. But the secret teaching, the real message inadvertently disclosed was that of the golden liquid, Beer. And not the tawdry, street corner whores of that juice of joy. No, this was meant not for shameful drunkenness and debauchery. This was ambrosia, food for gods. Gods not for the wretched poor, nor for the pretentious nobility - who needed the sweetness of wine, or the potent numbing of usquebaugh. No, for gods who knew neither luxury nor squalor. For the godless in between.
As I sadly foreshadowed, Stroh's is gone now, although the name lives on, a grotesque zombie, a degenerate bastard heir. But its spirit soared, escaped and scattered a thousand seeds to the winds of the universe, to grow in the bramble of arcane laws and unlikely cracks in the sidewalks. And heavenly brew flowed forth, foaming onto the happy and discerning tongues of acolytes of the Brewers Who Really Care.
Amen.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Limerick
Or, why I don't write poetry, but my defences are all down the drain.
I was ordered to work a night shift,
like a bicycle off in a skiff
so I haven't much sleep
and my thoughts do they creep
in search of a comfortable drift.
I was ordered to work a night shift,
like a bicycle off in a skiff
so I haven't much sleep
and my thoughts do they creep
in search of a comfortable drift.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Friday, March 24, 2006
Muffin
Whew, I almost titled this Sp*m. Which might have drawn some unwelcome visitors. Udge (One of the best named blogs)
scattered a meme, and, since I am scrambling for easy blog material this week, here goes.
Who is the last person you high-fived?
A nurse who appreciated a snotty thing I said to a surgeon.
"And you effect the rotation of the earth, as well."
If you were drafted into a war would you survive?
Well, I did. And yes, even if I were in a more active role, I would. It's a disturbingly comforting bit of knowledge. I'm a survivor and a good shot.
Do you sleep with the tv on?
Have done. Often it keeps me awake, or I wake when it is still going. Mixed bag really.
Have you ever drunk milk out of the carton?
Yuck. I hate milk, would never drink it out of carton, nor the more up-to-date plastic bottle. But I have eaten peanut butter out of the jar, not even always with a spoon. Same for Nutella, which is part of why I don't share it.
Have you ever won a spelling bee?
Just the small ones in class, but those regularly.
Have you ever been stung by a bee?
No, but the idea terrifies me unreasonably. I thought I did once at a big 4th of July fireworks downtown, but it was just a lit cigarette I put my hand back on. Kept picking up ice dumped from coolers, to cool the burn.
How fast can you type?
Not too fast, but not bad. But I can't do any kind of accuracy. Doing Nanowrimo certainly improved it, but typos are rich for me.
Are you afraid of the dark?
I get spooked, still, occasionally. This was a huge fear for me, but I got over it after a sitting in the snow by a lake at night once. So beautiful, I could not continue the fear.
Have you ever made out at a drive in?
Never been to a drive in. Have made out in a few cars. And a bus.
When did you last chose a bath rather than a shower?
Last week. If I have time, and the room isn't too cold. I love hot baths.
Do you knock on wood?
No, strangely, because I used to. Not much wood around at work, and I hate the cliche of knocking on my own head.
Do you floss daily.
Well, every other day at least, yes. But then I also brush the cat's teeth, does that count?
Can you hula hoop?
Yeah, not great though. I bellydance.
Are you good at keeping secrets?
I am excellent with confidences. I resist even hearing 'secrets'.
What do you want for Christmas?
An MS or two behind D's name.
Do you know the muffin man?
Lived on Drury Lane? Died years ago.
Do you talk in your sleep?
Not for years, so I am told. I wouldn't know, I'm always asleep for it.
Who wrote the book of love?
John Gottman. Real research-based map of how real love works.
Have you ever flown a kite?
Many times. Seriously want to go fly our two kites as soon as the weather is tolerable.
Do you wish on fallen lashes?
No, that always seemed weird to me. I knew a woman who compulsively pulled hers out.
Do you consider yourself successful?
I love and am loved. Yes.
Have you ever asked for a pony?
Only as a metaphor for wanting something expensive and impractical.
Plans for tomorrow?
Sleeping in. Maybe the farmers' market. Vacuuming. Make a list for the move.
Can you juggle?
No, I've tried. I just can't get beyond two balls with one hand, about 4-5 catches and that is the absolute max. Can't play an instrument either. But I can dance, and sing a bit, so I call it good.
Missing someone now?
Oh, Moira, I would be there for her last trimester. More friends than I can list here that I would love to gather around, and just chat.
Last time you said "I love you"?
Just now.
Last time you meant it.
Every time. I am not shy about this, I love my friends and they know it.
How often do you drink?
About 4-5 times a week I have one beer. About once every six months, I have two beers in day. Seems to keep my chronic anxiety in check, with few side effects.
How are you feeling today?
Pretty good, if tired after shoving all 40 hours into 4 days in a row. Regaining my energy slowly. Did pretty good at work, which always makes me feel more positive.
What do you say too much?
"Sure."
Have you ever been expelled from school?
No, I am meticulous at not getting caught. I was a goody-goody right through to high school graduation. I knew how expensive parochial school was, and I valued it. I waited to be adventurous until I was in college, away from parental rules. And paying for it myself.
What are you looking forward to?
Being moved. Friends visiting this summer.
Have you ever crawled through a window?
Oh, sure. Parent's house when the keys were locked in. Going out on roofs.
Have you ever eaten dog food?
No, but I had pork patties and Vienna Sausage from MRE's, neither of which is as good as dog food.
Can you handle the truth?
Naked and unvarnished and ungarnished. I consider it my proof of courage, the test of my soul.
Do you like green eggs and ham?
I do not like green eggs and ham, but I have liked reconstituted eggs and spam.
Any cool scars?
Left shin, from moving a concrete downspout when I was about 4, with neighbor kids. Above my right clavicle, from an argument with a stainless steel door at work. Near that, one from a lipoma removal. Four tattoos. Oh, and my chicken pox scar over my eyebrow in exactly the same place D has his.
scattered a meme, and, since I am scrambling for easy blog material this week, here goes.
Who is the last person you high-fived?
A nurse who appreciated a snotty thing I said to a surgeon.
"And you effect the rotation of the earth, as well."
If you were drafted into a war would you survive?
Well, I did. And yes, even if I were in a more active role, I would. It's a disturbingly comforting bit of knowledge. I'm a survivor and a good shot.
Do you sleep with the tv on?
Have done. Often it keeps me awake, or I wake when it is still going. Mixed bag really.
Have you ever drunk milk out of the carton?
Yuck. I hate milk, would never drink it out of carton, nor the more up-to-date plastic bottle. But I have eaten peanut butter out of the jar, not even always with a spoon. Same for Nutella, which is part of why I don't share it.
Have you ever won a spelling bee?
Just the small ones in class, but those regularly.
Have you ever been stung by a bee?
No, but the idea terrifies me unreasonably. I thought I did once at a big 4th of July fireworks downtown, but it was just a lit cigarette I put my hand back on. Kept picking up ice dumped from coolers, to cool the burn.
How fast can you type?
Not too fast, but not bad. But I can't do any kind of accuracy. Doing Nanowrimo certainly improved it, but typos are rich for me.
Are you afraid of the dark?
I get spooked, still, occasionally. This was a huge fear for me, but I got over it after a sitting in the snow by a lake at night once. So beautiful, I could not continue the fear.
Have you ever made out at a drive in?
Never been to a drive in. Have made out in a few cars. And a bus.
When did you last chose a bath rather than a shower?
Last week. If I have time, and the room isn't too cold. I love hot baths.
Do you knock on wood?
No, strangely, because I used to. Not much wood around at work, and I hate the cliche of knocking on my own head.
Do you floss daily.
Well, every other day at least, yes. But then I also brush the cat's teeth, does that count?
Can you hula hoop?
Yeah, not great though. I bellydance.
Are you good at keeping secrets?
I am excellent with confidences. I resist even hearing 'secrets'.
What do you want for Christmas?
An MS or two behind D's name.
Do you know the muffin man?
Lived on Drury Lane? Died years ago.
Do you talk in your sleep?
Not for years, so I am told. I wouldn't know, I'm always asleep for it.
Who wrote the book of love?
John Gottman. Real research-based map of how real love works.
Have you ever flown a kite?
Many times. Seriously want to go fly our two kites as soon as the weather is tolerable.
Do you wish on fallen lashes?
No, that always seemed weird to me. I knew a woman who compulsively pulled hers out.
Do you consider yourself successful?
I love and am loved. Yes.
Have you ever asked for a pony?
Only as a metaphor for wanting something expensive and impractical.
Plans for tomorrow?
Sleeping in. Maybe the farmers' market. Vacuuming. Make a list for the move.
Can you juggle?
No, I've tried. I just can't get beyond two balls with one hand, about 4-5 catches and that is the absolute max. Can't play an instrument either. But I can dance, and sing a bit, so I call it good.
Missing someone now?
Oh, Moira, I would be there for her last trimester. More friends than I can list here that I would love to gather around, and just chat.
Last time you said "I love you"?
Just now.
Last time you meant it.
Every time. I am not shy about this, I love my friends and they know it.
How often do you drink?
About 4-5 times a week I have one beer. About once every six months, I have two beers in day. Seems to keep my chronic anxiety in check, with few side effects.
How are you feeling today?
Pretty good, if tired after shoving all 40 hours into 4 days in a row. Regaining my energy slowly. Did pretty good at work, which always makes me feel more positive.
What do you say too much?
"Sure."
Have you ever been expelled from school?
No, I am meticulous at not getting caught. I was a goody-goody right through to high school graduation. I knew how expensive parochial school was, and I valued it. I waited to be adventurous until I was in college, away from parental rules. And paying for it myself.
What are you looking forward to?
Being moved. Friends visiting this summer.
Have you ever crawled through a window?
Oh, sure. Parent's house when the keys were locked in. Going out on roofs.
Have you ever eaten dog food?
No, but I had pork patties and Vienna Sausage from MRE's, neither of which is as good as dog food.
Can you handle the truth?
Naked and unvarnished and ungarnished. I consider it my proof of courage, the test of my soul.
Do you like green eggs and ham?
I do not like green eggs and ham, but I have liked reconstituted eggs and spam.
Any cool scars?
Left shin, from moving a concrete downspout when I was about 4, with neighbor kids. Above my right clavicle, from an argument with a stainless steel door at work. Near that, one from a lipoma removal. Four tattoos. Oh, and my chicken pox scar over my eyebrow in exactly the same place D has his.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Poop
We got a gift from our new apartment managers. Pretzels, a roll of toilet paper, soap. Very appropriate. It had a straw-like plastic ribbon, and I thought Moby would like to chase it. I wasn't going to just let him have it. But I tied it to the doorknob, and puttered in the kitchen. Moby came in rubbing my shins with his head. Then I noticed him at the ribbon. Not chasing. Eating. About 12-18 inches of it, gone. I was a bit worried. I got more worried. When D got home, he called the vet for advice. He was told this is not uncommon at this time of year, what with plastic Easter grass, in the feline diet, according to the MSPCA. Advised to watch for constipation over 24-48 hours. Diarrhea, blood, vomiting, protruding ribbon, what I would expect, as a nurse. Not that I have ever had to extract ribbon from a human rectum, I have seen other foreign objects, and understand the general rules. I once loved watching Emergency Vets.
I worked my usual ten hours today. I periodically email back and forth with D, my job being intermittent hurry-up, and wait. Well, D writes that Moby had been scratching in the litter box, and had not had a poop in the 24 hours since the ribbon ingestion. So he called the animal hospital, and they suggested he come in. He sent me an email, he was taking him in, while I was at work, and included the address. I figured out how to get there, picturing D in a waiting room while they did surgery to remove the obstruction. I ran out, I caught the train, worried and planned, tried to stay calm. Realized how responsible I feel for this small life, how much Moby means to us, and to me. I ran those last blocks, the light fading, still uncertain what I was going to find, or if D was already home, and worried that I was not home.
It's a beautiful old building, that reminded me of my ancient grade school. I was helped, frantic and fighting back tears. Kindly, helpfully, told D and Moby were finished with the vet. Finally, we figured out that they'd just left. And that Moby was fine, x-ray done, and D in a cab home with him. Some confusion calling me a cab, same name to same address within five minutes. I was so relieved, he was fine, Moby was fine, all that mattered. The cab driver was remarkably not terrifying, especially for a Boston cabbie. I hurried home, I ran in, to find D and Moby standing by the door in the hall. D lost his keys. He'd only been waiting about five minutes.
Says Moby kept looking up at him, as if to say "Well? Open the door. You are the one with the thumbs."
Let the boys in, made dinner, and all is well now.
I was cranky with D for going in so soon, for panicking, for the stress on Moby, for the expense right now. And instantly regretted it. He was the one on the ground. If Moby had gotten seriously ill, and he had not, we would be broken. He did the right thing. Moby is family. He is included in our love, has joined in. Just as I regret going to the ER after my choking, D does not. Because he could not have dealt with the perhaps, had he not insisted on my being checked. Same thing. I once sat for four hours while they pieced together his elbow, trying to comfort myself that it was his arm, and not, as it could so easily have been, his head. And it helped less than I hoped.
When those you love are in peril, normal, rational thought, is not entirely reliable. It does not cover all the unaskable questions.
I worked my usual ten hours today. I periodically email back and forth with D, my job being intermittent hurry-up, and wait. Well, D writes that Moby had been scratching in the litter box, and had not had a poop in the 24 hours since the ribbon ingestion. So he called the animal hospital, and they suggested he come in. He sent me an email, he was taking him in, while I was at work, and included the address. I figured out how to get there, picturing D in a waiting room while they did surgery to remove the obstruction. I ran out, I caught the train, worried and planned, tried to stay calm. Realized how responsible I feel for this small life, how much Moby means to us, and to me. I ran those last blocks, the light fading, still uncertain what I was going to find, or if D was already home, and worried that I was not home.
It's a beautiful old building, that reminded me of my ancient grade school. I was helped, frantic and fighting back tears. Kindly, helpfully, told D and Moby were finished with the vet. Finally, we figured out that they'd just left. And that Moby was fine, x-ray done, and D in a cab home with him. Some confusion calling me a cab, same name to same address within five minutes. I was so relieved, he was fine, Moby was fine, all that mattered. The cab driver was remarkably not terrifying, especially for a Boston cabbie. I hurried home, I ran in, to find D and Moby standing by the door in the hall. D lost his keys. He'd only been waiting about five minutes.
Says Moby kept looking up at him, as if to say "Well? Open the door. You are the one with the thumbs."
Let the boys in, made dinner, and all is well now.
I was cranky with D for going in so soon, for panicking, for the stress on Moby, for the expense right now. And instantly regretted it. He was the one on the ground. If Moby had gotten seriously ill, and he had not, we would be broken. He did the right thing. Moby is family. He is included in our love, has joined in. Just as I regret going to the ER after my choking, D does not. Because he could not have dealt with the perhaps, had he not insisted on my being checked. Same thing. I once sat for four hours while they pieced together his elbow, trying to comfort myself that it was his arm, and not, as it could so easily have been, his head. And it helped less than I hoped.
When those you love are in peril, normal, rational thought, is not entirely reliable. It does not cover all the unaskable questions.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Goose (Photo)
"There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge."
Raymond Chandler, "Red Wind."
It was actually a cold, lake effect wind. I went out looking for an apartment, and found a near perfect one. While battling a lingering virus, hormones, and a rare migraine aura. (Very pretty with bright glowing pulsating lights in an inverted C in my lower right visual field.) My new friend, my rental agent, not only drove me to my place to get my meds, and would have gladly have put it off another day, she also dropped me back home, and picked up D to finish the process.
She and I took pictures of this over accessorized goose.
The owl is stone.
There were snow flurries. Hard, bitter, persistent winds.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
House (Photo)
The Dutch House at 20 Netherland Rd, Brookline. On the National Historic Register. We just happened upon it. Seems it was once a Pub, 1793(?) Now a private home.
Stumbling upon history.
I think I have moving on the brain, and it's a couple of months to go.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Dishes (Photo)
In honor of those who are moving, or will be moving soon, or who are moving two days early.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Body
I loved being carried as a small child. My brothers seemed to enjoy picking me up and moving me around, would go out of their way to pick me up and move me out of the way. They were often the ones to carry me in from the car at night, or swing me around before depositing me in bed. Their male presence, their strength and affection gave me the counter point to my difficult father.
My father was loved by my cousins, because he would get on the floor with the children and play with them. He happily became one of the boys wrestling. I suspect it is his version of affection as the youngest of six boys inadequately supervised by busy parents. He often hurt me in the roughhousing with my brothers. So when I went to sit on him while he was napping, he thought it affection. I was trying to hurt him back. When I hit him, it was to return the pain. Or get back at him for making my mother cry. I learned to be wary of touch, and to draw back. It bothered me that he could not tell the difference.
My most sensual memory of my mother is of her tucking me in bed. She would run her hand over my body, over the blankets. It felt protective and sexual and holy, and my tensions would melt, my mind quieten down, and I would sleep. I could not understand, though I knew enough not to ask, why she avoided certain areas, and this disturbed me.
My Aunt Evelyn was the one I found when I got tired at family gatherings. I would sit beside her and lean into her, rocked to sleep as she gestured and talked and laughed in the conversations around her. She would complain of her arm going to sleep or how heavy I was getting, but only later, only after I was awake again. I knew she took my trust as compliment, as painful honor. She died when I was living across the country, just starting my new job. My grief for her lasted acutely until I was able, years later, to stand at her grave. Not a ceremony common in my family. But once I was there, I was able to finally bestow tears on her, her beloved Ernie beside her. My pain began to lift that day, and the loss began to heal. I can still feel her arms around me when I am very tired.
D and I began our relationship in the context of an Army National Guard unit deployed to the Gulf in 1991. We would talk, a lot, in public areas. There were only public areas. We would lean together, shoulder to shoulder, or back to back. We walked discreetly holding pinkie fingers, because to walk hand in hand in uniform was PDA, an actionable offense against military decorum. But the need to touch was irresistible, a powerful physical attraction between us insisted. I hugged him as he stood at the postal counter (he was one of the postmen for the unit) by putting my chin on his shoulder, leaning in from behind him, my hands demurely by my side. Not like we felt we were fooling anybody, just keeping to the letter of the UCMJ.
Which is all not to say we didn't find privacy for more intimate contact, it just had to be carefully done. Our public conversations were wide ranging, a comedy act, and compared to most of those around us, terribly intellectual. Yes, we actually talked about books that we had actually read. One time, Sgt. Tina Somebodyorother commented that it was good that two smart people could spend all our time talking about Shakespeare and Science and such! We looked at each other in a kind of amazement that she would think that was what we did ALL THE TIME, when we both knew we'd indulged very, very, quietly in graphically sexual contact. We bit our respective lips and nodded and tried not to laugh out loud. Yup, yup, that is exactly what we were doing, talking about astronomy, uh huh.
We still touch each other often, prefer to sit next to each other, hug enthusiastically when we come home, rub cheeks watching a movie. Like drops of water on a counter, our bodies reach out to each other.
My father was loved by my cousins, because he would get on the floor with the children and play with them. He happily became one of the boys wrestling. I suspect it is his version of affection as the youngest of six boys inadequately supervised by busy parents. He often hurt me in the roughhousing with my brothers. So when I went to sit on him while he was napping, he thought it affection. I was trying to hurt him back. When I hit him, it was to return the pain. Or get back at him for making my mother cry. I learned to be wary of touch, and to draw back. It bothered me that he could not tell the difference.
My most sensual memory of my mother is of her tucking me in bed. She would run her hand over my body, over the blankets. It felt protective and sexual and holy, and my tensions would melt, my mind quieten down, and I would sleep. I could not understand, though I knew enough not to ask, why she avoided certain areas, and this disturbed me.
My Aunt Evelyn was the one I found when I got tired at family gatherings. I would sit beside her and lean into her, rocked to sleep as she gestured and talked and laughed in the conversations around her. She would complain of her arm going to sleep or how heavy I was getting, but only later, only after I was awake again. I knew she took my trust as compliment, as painful honor. She died when I was living across the country, just starting my new job. My grief for her lasted acutely until I was able, years later, to stand at her grave. Not a ceremony common in my family. But once I was there, I was able to finally bestow tears on her, her beloved Ernie beside her. My pain began to lift that day, and the loss began to heal. I can still feel her arms around me when I am very tired.
D and I began our relationship in the context of an Army National Guard unit deployed to the Gulf in 1991. We would talk, a lot, in public areas. There were only public areas. We would lean together, shoulder to shoulder, or back to back. We walked discreetly holding pinkie fingers, because to walk hand in hand in uniform was PDA, an actionable offense against military decorum. But the need to touch was irresistible, a powerful physical attraction between us insisted. I hugged him as he stood at the postal counter (he was one of the postmen for the unit) by putting my chin on his shoulder, leaning in from behind him, my hands demurely by my side. Not like we felt we were fooling anybody, just keeping to the letter of the UCMJ.
Which is all not to say we didn't find privacy for more intimate contact, it just had to be carefully done. Our public conversations were wide ranging, a comedy act, and compared to most of those around us, terribly intellectual. Yes, we actually talked about books that we had actually read. One time, Sgt. Tina Somebodyorother commented that it was good that two smart people could spend all our time talking about Shakespeare and Science and such! We looked at each other in a kind of amazement that she would think that was what we did ALL THE TIME, when we both knew we'd indulged very, very, quietly in graphically sexual contact. We bit our respective lips and nodded and tried not to laugh out loud. Yup, yup, that is exactly what we were doing, talking about astronomy, uh huh.
We still touch each other often, prefer to sit next to each other, hug enthusiastically when we come home, rub cheeks watching a movie. Like drops of water on a counter, our bodies reach out to each other.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Sleep
I love sleep. I love that strange drifty feeling when falling asleep happens slowly, and the gravity increases, paralysis sets in warmly. Voices in conversation around fade to nothing, then become loud and crystal clear, but the meaning is indecipherable. Ideas prod at the edges, brilliant images and frightening CGI effects. Then that too fades into deeper, darker dreams and absence.
When I was very small, I slept under a slanted roof in a former bathroom on a small bed. The window was tiny, and high in the wall. I preferred the venetian blinds down and tight to keep the shadows away. The register was a black painted grate that puffed out waves of coal scented heat that seared my face, and light poked through the grill from my brothers' room if they were there studying. I listened to their muted chatter. Bad nights I overheard hateful arguments from downstairs through the conduit. That angry high pitched male voice, swearing and hectoring, the crying of my mother. Often interspersed with the neutral noises of repairs, hammers and thumps.
The fire in the furnace would die down, and the cold would lurk back and sit heavy on my shoulders. I would squidge down to the foot of the bed, bunching the covers around me, as well as Raggedy Anne and my brothers' abandoned bear, and any other stuffed toy I could find. I wanted them at my back as the terrors of the dark closed around me. Skulls and black fish all hid in the low corners. I sang sagas to myself, awake often long, long into the night, until everyone was in bed, and longer. Later I would wake cold and back at the top of the bed, a long puzzle. My mother once complained I had scratched her when she pulled me up, and my frustration was at her interfering with my method for staying warm. She ignored my explanation, it "wasn't right". I figured she deserved the scratch, certain that in my sleep I had fought her, trying to stay cozy. Then felt instantly guilty, as well as still angry.
Summers were oppressive for the heat and sweat, the roar of fans, the itch of mosquito bites and the grit of that pink lotion that helped not at all. I would lay awake and imagine black shadows biting my back and toes.
Much better were the nights at aunts and uncles homes, with lots of cousins. I would be laid in a bed not quite strange, and drift off to raucous laughter and the conversations of Euchre games, or Rummy, or 500.
I graduated nursing school over a decade ago, book-ended with several months of night and evening shifts. I was never any good at night. I'd never pulled an all-nighter. No one in their right mind wants to see me awake at two am. I cannot sleep during the day. When I did work at night, I would get a few hours sleep when I got home, and that was it. I was hallucinating. I lost my sense of humor. I was not safe to drive, nor take care of a patient. This was not going well. So I started to listen to NPR to keep my mind still, allowing me to sleep. Which worked a bit, but had to be turned off or I would wake and start listening to it.
When I got into the OR, I went to day shift, and had to learn how to go to sleep at 9PM. D got several books on tape from the library. Shelby Foote and John LeCarre. Soothing voices, and as I heard them repeatedly, I lost interest in the story, and let the sounds wash over me, but they kept my own scurrying mind quiet. D found it helped him sleep better as well.
And that wonderful sensation of gently falling asleep, to my brain processing talk, returned reassuringly.
When I was very small, I slept under a slanted roof in a former bathroom on a small bed. The window was tiny, and high in the wall. I preferred the venetian blinds down and tight to keep the shadows away. The register was a black painted grate that puffed out waves of coal scented heat that seared my face, and light poked through the grill from my brothers' room if they were there studying. I listened to their muted chatter. Bad nights I overheard hateful arguments from downstairs through the conduit. That angry high pitched male voice, swearing and hectoring, the crying of my mother. Often interspersed with the neutral noises of repairs, hammers and thumps.
The fire in the furnace would die down, and the cold would lurk back and sit heavy on my shoulders. I would squidge down to the foot of the bed, bunching the covers around me, as well as Raggedy Anne and my brothers' abandoned bear, and any other stuffed toy I could find. I wanted them at my back as the terrors of the dark closed around me. Skulls and black fish all hid in the low corners. I sang sagas to myself, awake often long, long into the night, until everyone was in bed, and longer. Later I would wake cold and back at the top of the bed, a long puzzle. My mother once complained I had scratched her when she pulled me up, and my frustration was at her interfering with my method for staying warm. She ignored my explanation, it "wasn't right". I figured she deserved the scratch, certain that in my sleep I had fought her, trying to stay cozy. Then felt instantly guilty, as well as still angry.
Summers were oppressive for the heat and sweat, the roar of fans, the itch of mosquito bites and the grit of that pink lotion that helped not at all. I would lay awake and imagine black shadows biting my back and toes.
Much better were the nights at aunts and uncles homes, with lots of cousins. I would be laid in a bed not quite strange, and drift off to raucous laughter and the conversations of Euchre games, or Rummy, or 500.
I graduated nursing school over a decade ago, book-ended with several months of night and evening shifts. I was never any good at night. I'd never pulled an all-nighter. No one in their right mind wants to see me awake at two am. I cannot sleep during the day. When I did work at night, I would get a few hours sleep when I got home, and that was it. I was hallucinating. I lost my sense of humor. I was not safe to drive, nor take care of a patient. This was not going well. So I started to listen to NPR to keep my mind still, allowing me to sleep. Which worked a bit, but had to be turned off or I would wake and start listening to it.
When I got into the OR, I went to day shift, and had to learn how to go to sleep at 9PM. D got several books on tape from the library. Shelby Foote and John LeCarre. Soothing voices, and as I heard them repeatedly, I lost interest in the story, and let the sounds wash over me, but they kept my own scurrying mind quiet. D found it helped him sleep better as well.
And that wonderful sensation of gently falling asleep, to my brain processing talk, returned reassuringly.
Kung-fu
There are movies I have wanted to see, knowing, really knowing from the preview that I will love it. I can also tell when I need to avoid a movie, based on the preview. I've seen a lot of movies (4866 rated on Netflix to date). I have essentially seen way too many movies. Nothing like Kevin Murphy, of course, who miraculously manages to still love all films, to my admiration and amazement. It is a rare movie that can get through my wall of 'seen that' and 'so flawed'.
I was uncritical and omnivorous once, easily distracted by shiny things. I grew up not able to see any movie not G rated, or not on the Legion of Decency list of acceptable films. My tastes when given free reign tended toward the risque and foreign, anything not Disney, in essence. I spent my four years in college seeing an average of 4-5 movies a week - in theaters. I went to the movies at the Detroit Institute of Arts from one to three times a week. The WSU film society had noon shows for students for 50¢. The Punch and Judy showed art house and second run movies. The Ren Cen had Tuesday dollar night. The Unitarian Church down the street showed films in series. I saw French and Czech, Polish and Japanese and Russian films. I saw a string of Hitchcock, and Bertrand Blier movies. I saw two a week in my film classes from Professor Spaulding. He loved movies, with all their warts, which he enjoyed dissecting. I have never seen film the same way again.
My tastes and criteria for movies are quirky and unusual, a combination of my training, film and acting, overexposure, and deep attachment to characters. When I have tried to rate movies in online lists, compared to what others like, to get recommendations, it does not jibe. The more I rate, the more wrong the predictions become. I think I confuse the system.
Because I will refuse a movie because a director has betrayed my trust - especially if that director murders a character. I have no qualms about a character dying, or being murdered in a film. But when that character is simply offed for no plot advancing or character defining reason, just for the thrill of it, then I do not give that director another chance. My best example is in the shiny but soulless The English Patient. When the sergeant is gratuitously exploded to no end, at the end, I felt shamelessly manipulated, badly manipulated. I want to be skillfully manipulated when I see a movie.
I hated Ralph Fiennes in that movie, and will never see any movie with him in it again. In Quiz Show he irritated me, in English Patient, I came to loathe him. See, thing is, he ACTS! That showy, self conscious, easy ACTING! that I know to be an Oscar grubbing cheat. It looks like he is doing something grand, but there are no difficult choices made, no subtlety, no heart. It's Special Effects Acting -"See the 'Making of--Ralph Fiennes facial expressions!'"
Please, don't ever ask me to see a Ron Howard or Steven Speilberg movie. Just don't even ask.
I will not see a movie with Julia Roberts in it. I will give anything with Judy Dench, or done by Martin Scorcese, a chance, even if Julia Roberts were in it. I have not liked all Martin Scorcese films. Nor every one of John Sayles. But I will grant them another try. They have earned my trust, and we all make crap at times.
On the other hand, I do not need a movie to be great. It does have to have heart. It does have to be fairly free of gaping plot holes. It has to have a sense of humor, the truth of drama, the point of comedy. That Thing You Do is one of those perfect small movies. Internally consistent, funny, true and with a warm chewy center. Tank Girl is not perfect, but Lori Petty is so charming, and the friendships that develop are genuine, ignoring the silly special effects and the swiss cheesy plot. Nor do I even need that, Plan 9 From Outer Space is utter crap, but done with such energy and wobbly imagination that, given a room full of loudmouths watching it, is a lot of fun, and the good guys win (I think, sorta). It's fine to like bad movies, as long as one is aware that it is bad, but likable anyway.
I just saw Kung Fu Hustle. I knew from the previews I wanted to see it. It has been on our Netflix list for a long time, but D was a bit dubious. We missed it in theaters when it came out, due to the move across country and my own disenchantment with sitting in a theater to see a film. I regret this.
I laughed, I cringed, it was amazing. Difficult to cope with the extreme Tex Avery extreme violence at first, but it was pointed. No one was quite what they seemed, and compassion wins. This was by far the best movie I have seen in years. It is the funniest modern comedy I have seen, with Pixar animation being in the same league. This is a movie that is concentrated movie. Much more than is obvious on first viewing. It is parody and homage and over the top moralizing, CGI and martial arts chorerography, disguising a solid story of courage and decency and responsibility. It is, as all great stories are, a love story.
We may need to own this one, and make friends watch it.
Yes, I do have IMDB bookmarked on my bookmarks bar, since you ask.
I was uncritical and omnivorous once, easily distracted by shiny things. I grew up not able to see any movie not G rated, or not on the Legion of Decency list of acceptable films. My tastes when given free reign tended toward the risque and foreign, anything not Disney, in essence. I spent my four years in college seeing an average of 4-5 movies a week - in theaters. I went to the movies at the Detroit Institute of Arts from one to three times a week. The WSU film society had noon shows for students for 50¢. The Punch and Judy showed art house and second run movies. The Ren Cen had Tuesday dollar night. The Unitarian Church down the street showed films in series. I saw French and Czech, Polish and Japanese and Russian films. I saw a string of Hitchcock, and Bertrand Blier movies. I saw two a week in my film classes from Professor Spaulding. He loved movies, with all their warts, which he enjoyed dissecting. I have never seen film the same way again.
My tastes and criteria for movies are quirky and unusual, a combination of my training, film and acting, overexposure, and deep attachment to characters. When I have tried to rate movies in online lists, compared to what others like, to get recommendations, it does not jibe. The more I rate, the more wrong the predictions become. I think I confuse the system.
Because I will refuse a movie because a director has betrayed my trust - especially if that director murders a character. I have no qualms about a character dying, or being murdered in a film. But when that character is simply offed for no plot advancing or character defining reason, just for the thrill of it, then I do not give that director another chance. My best example is in the shiny but soulless The English Patient. When the sergeant is gratuitously exploded to no end, at the end, I felt shamelessly manipulated, badly manipulated. I want to be skillfully manipulated when I see a movie.
I hated Ralph Fiennes in that movie, and will never see any movie with him in it again. In Quiz Show he irritated me, in English Patient, I came to loathe him. See, thing is, he ACTS! That showy, self conscious, easy ACTING! that I know to be an Oscar grubbing cheat. It looks like he is doing something grand, but there are no difficult choices made, no subtlety, no heart. It's Special Effects Acting -"See the 'Making of--Ralph Fiennes facial expressions!'"
Please, don't ever ask me to see a Ron Howard or Steven Speilberg movie. Just don't even ask.
I will not see a movie with Julia Roberts in it. I will give anything with Judy Dench, or done by Martin Scorcese, a chance, even if Julia Roberts were in it. I have not liked all Martin Scorcese films. Nor every one of John Sayles. But I will grant them another try. They have earned my trust, and we all make crap at times.
On the other hand, I do not need a movie to be great. It does have to have heart. It does have to be fairly free of gaping plot holes. It has to have a sense of humor, the truth of drama, the point of comedy. That Thing You Do is one of those perfect small movies. Internally consistent, funny, true and with a warm chewy center. Tank Girl is not perfect, but Lori Petty is so charming, and the friendships that develop are genuine, ignoring the silly special effects and the swiss cheesy plot. Nor do I even need that, Plan 9 From Outer Space is utter crap, but done with such energy and wobbly imagination that, given a room full of loudmouths watching it, is a lot of fun, and the good guys win (I think, sorta). It's fine to like bad movies, as long as one is aware that it is bad, but likable anyway.
I just saw Kung Fu Hustle. I knew from the previews I wanted to see it. It has been on our Netflix list for a long time, but D was a bit dubious. We missed it in theaters when it came out, due to the move across country and my own disenchantment with sitting in a theater to see a film. I regret this.
I laughed, I cringed, it was amazing. Difficult to cope with the extreme Tex Avery extreme violence at first, but it was pointed. No one was quite what they seemed, and compassion wins. This was by far the best movie I have seen in years. It is the funniest modern comedy I have seen, with Pixar animation being in the same league. This is a movie that is concentrated movie. Much more than is obvious on first viewing. It is parody and homage and over the top moralizing, CGI and martial arts chorerography, disguising a solid story of courage and decency and responsibility. It is, as all great stories are, a love story.
We may need to own this one, and make friends watch it.
Yes, I do have IMDB bookmarked on my bookmarks bar, since you ask.
Famous (Photo)
Oh, he's a gracious celebrity. Will send you a paw print anytime.
He was famous before, he also made
Calling All Pets.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Juicer (Photo)
This is my lemon juicer. Works really well. Unless I have paper cuts. As with all photos here, click for a larger view.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Thanks
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.
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.
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.
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