I seldom agree with Nancy Giles in the opinions she presents on CBS Sunday Morning. By "seldom," I should clarify, I really mean "once." I don't even remember what we agreed on, so stunned was I upon the fact that I didn't talk back to her, as I generally did every Sunday on which she presented a contribution to the show.
Her personal opinion "about this week's Supreme Court decision upholding a personal right to gun ownership" was not—probably needless to say—the subject upon which we agreed. But what struck me about the argument Ms. Giles presented in this case was not so much the points she made, but a slight, almost chance remark that was included, I believe, for comedic effect.
I took it rather poorly, considering its apparent intent, and that made me think.
As an owner of both a handgun and a shotgun—and as one who has hunted, with a rifle, for the explicit purpose of eating my prey—I have more than a considered opinion on the subject ... I have practical experience. This experience is not, however, something I wish to hold up at lofty height and demand BY ITS VIRTUE that others, such as Ms. Giles, cease to expound upon their own considered opinions. But, just as Ms. Giles relayed her experience in "playing a copy in a movie once" as a valid point of argument, I do wish to present my own relevant background, which I will readily admit involves actual firearms.
Have I posed with a gun? Why, yes I have, but not because I thought I was a badass, dressed in my second-hand camouflage and coated in dust and sweat at the end of an arduous day of pronghorn antelope hunting. I posed with my gun because I had successfully completed my hunt for a doe antelope, and as a late-comer to the arena of providing, first-hand, for my family's sustenance, I was proud of my accomplishment—a clean shot, a quick kill, and then to the evening's work of skinning, slicing, and packaging ... converting a once-living creature from "animal" to "meat."
I didn't do more than snort, though, as Nancy Giles proceeded with her thoughts on the subject of gun ownership. I didn't tell her screen-flattened visage that I thought handguns in a city deserved a totally separate treatment from hunting guns, and that I thought her link to Daniel Boone was tenuous as best, particularly when her objection to handguns seemed to be based more on how such weapons made her FEEL than how Daniel Boone might or might not have used them. If, you know, he even HAD a handgun—I confess I do not know, nor care enough to Google.
The thing is, when Ms. Giles said, "... I wonder why some still hunt when you can get meat already wrapped at the supermarket. I'd like to understand them better." (bolded emphasis mine) I went beyond my typical gun-ownership-argument ruminations to being flat-out appalled. Because, you see, I do not believe Nancy Giles has any interest whatsoever in the subject of hunting, and perhaps possesses even less interest regarding hunting for meat than I have about Daniel Boone's guns.
I have known someone who expressed an interest in understanding why people "still" hunt. And I know Surfer Grrrl meant it, because when I offered to loan her an excellent resource on the subject—A Hunter's Heart: Honest Essays on Blood Sport—she accepted my offer and read the book. So it's not that I don't believe that someone personally opposed to hunting for food cannot be interested in understanding those who believe differently ... I just did not find a speck of sincerity in the remark of Ms. Giles. (For the record, Surfer Grrrl has not changed HER opinion of hunting—what she has done is taken the time and made the effort to understand some of the motivations behind those of a different opinion than her own. Which is something that I respect and admire GREATLY about Surfer Grrrl in particular, and other thoughtful individuals like her in general.)
Getting back to my own, strongly-held opinions on the subject of hunting for meat—and my long-standing disagreements with Ms. Giles on, well, practically everything—I will confess I may not be being fair in my hasty judgment of her sincerity of interest. Certainly, a spot on a nationally-televised program has criteria that must be met to support its continued existence, and I can respect that writing for a brief blurb on CBS Sunday Morning leaves a lot less wiggle-room than, say, writing for a low-traffic blog of one's own design.
At the same time, with the resources of CBS at least somewhat at her disposal, I have to believe that Nancy Giles could certainly glean at least a modicum of understanding of "why some still hunt" if she really cared to. And I have to wonder why she is suggesting that this is just so darn perplexing when it's really nothing of the sort. And I personally know members of PETA who agree with me here: people who are going to consume meat really should have a full appreciation of where it comes from, and the sanitized, shrink-wrapped aisle of their local grocery store is NOWHERE NEAR the bleeding, still-warm carcass of an animal. It is extremely important to understand that what you choose to eat has a price that is greater than what's stamped on the sticker—if you can't pay that price, then perhaps you shouldn't be eating meat.
Understanding the opposite viewpoint isn't a difficult thing—or at least it doesn't have to be. But it does involve a certain degree of effort, and a willingness to step outside of the comfortable house from within which you've viewed the world though your favorite picture window. This—not the complexity or stupidity of the opposition—is often what stops us from understanding others. We don't want to accept the idea that how we see isn't the only way to see, or that the reason the argument is going on is that there ARE valid points of view on all sides. Difficult is not, however, the same thing as impossible, and with rare effort and rarer-still willingness to understand, maybe we really could.
After all, if a Wyoming-loving Libertarian like me can "get" that a city—one that contains in 68.3 square miles the entire population of Wyoming (and actually, Wyoming has 97,749.7 more square miles to contain 65,462 FEWER citizens than Washington D.C.)—just MIGHT have reason to insist that there shouldn't be quite so many gun liberties permitted within its city limits, well! Maybe Nancy Giles can understand, just a little, "why some still hunt."
Showing posts with label Blather. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blather. Show all posts
July 5, 2008
July 1, 2008
Time is a Gypsy Caravan
I was afraid to look and see how long it's been since I've truly worked on my novel. (I added "truly" there to distinguish my past, substantiative efforts to increase my novel's word count from the the three or four tiny edits I performed in the "most recent" chapter during my vacation.)
Ouch. And with good reason, as it appears the last time I truly wrote anything in the novel was in mid-April.
As it turns out, my beloved characters have been stuck—and in undeniably unpalatable places at that—for TWO MONTHS. I don't want to tell you exactly where, but I can tell you that if I were in their places, I'd be very upset with whatever Powers That Be for permitting such an abuse of the space-time continuum, rather than, say, having a two-month orgasm.
(Though, like the infamous medicated four-hour erection, a two-month orgasm might also be too much of a good thing. A bit, right?)
So you'd think I might be feeling badly, and oh, I don't know, doing something like THINKING of how these poor, lost souls might GET ON with things, and if you have reached that conclusion, you are correct in your reasoning. But it turns out that—as with most things in life—merely considering them, even with good intentions and deep sincerity, is largely irrelevant. I can sit and think and feel as charming as the ass end of a representative of the equine family until the bovines come home, but that won't get My People out of their stuckedness.
No, the only thing that will save my characters and my story is for me to quit listing mammalian species and gazing at my attractively bejeweled navel and pointless ponderings and WRITE. Just ... write. Right, well, at least I have to write SOME of the time—clearly I am too far gone to give up my obsessions like the proverbial shivering Thanksgiving fowl.
The thing is, when I started this entry, I didn't know what I know now about what's happening next ... I knew a little bit, sure, but yesterday, in the unexpectant and creativity-sterile waiting room at the car dealership—my Stealth Saturn was undergoing a long-overdue oil change and demystification of the Service Engine Soon light—bits of the far and near futures of my characters dumped over me like Noah's floodwaters and there I was, arkless and drowning.
There's some not-nice things that are going to happen, and I don't think they're prepared. I can't see how they could be, since I'm not, and I really should be, seeing as how they wouldn't even exist without me—a fact which, I should add, I certainly do not hold over their heads, or demand that they never forget, as I prefer to be an anonymous behind-the-curtains chess-player, and I have not admitted any Totos into this little alternate reality that will expose me otherwise.
But where I was two-months lagging for lack of understanding about what would happen next, I now find myself reluctant to continue for what WILL happen next. While it is, at its root, a matter of connecting to my characters in particular and tender-heartedness in general, it's oddly illusionary how little control I seem to have about these characters and what happens to them—you'd think I'd have ALL of the control. But I don't; I just don't.
Instead, all I can do is choose the words that describe the actions, rather than plot and replot the actions themselves. I can decide the way the story is revealed, but not so much the elements of that story. These most integral components of fictional reality come from somewhere else: somewhere subconsciousional, somewhere dreamtasmical. The point is not whether I can accurately name it, but instead that I whole-heartedly understand that it is determined not by me—the "me" sitting suddenly alert in the Saturn dealership's cookie-scented waiting room—but by some other part of me that has, indeed, already completed the task, unbeknownst to the "me" with which I am, by day, familiar.
(It's a bit disturbing how closely fiction mirrors reality, really, when you get right down to it. Control is mostly illusion, and the mirror doesn't show you the truth so much as it shows you what you expect to find ... albeit with left and right reversed.)
Mysterious and half-baked as it sounds, I am not interested in the potential for Scooby-Snacks nor the problem with the oven—all I want to know is when, or if, I'm going to get on with this writing thing. The path of my characters is set, I believe, but they won't know it until they start walking, and they can't do that until I start writing.
I guess only time will tell if I do.
Ouch. And with good reason, as it appears the last time I truly wrote anything in the novel was in mid-April.
As it turns out, my beloved characters have been stuck—and in undeniably unpalatable places at that—for TWO MONTHS. I don't want to tell you exactly where, but I can tell you that if I were in their places, I'd be very upset with whatever Powers That Be for permitting such an abuse of the space-time continuum, rather than, say, having a two-month orgasm.
(Though, like the infamous medicated four-hour erection, a two-month orgasm might also be too much of a good thing. A bit, right?)
So you'd think I might be feeling badly, and oh, I don't know, doing something like THINKING of how these poor, lost souls might GET ON with things, and if you have reached that conclusion, you are correct in your reasoning. But it turns out that—as with most things in life—merely considering them, even with good intentions and deep sincerity, is largely irrelevant. I can sit and think and feel as charming as the ass end of a representative of the equine family until the bovines come home, but that won't get My People out of their stuckedness.
No, the only thing that will save my characters and my story is for me to quit listing mammalian species and gazing at my attractively bejeweled navel and pointless ponderings and WRITE. Just ... write. Right, well, at least I have to write SOME of the time—clearly I am too far gone to give up my obsessions like the proverbial shivering Thanksgiving fowl.
The thing is, when I started this entry, I didn't know what I know now about what's happening next ... I knew a little bit, sure, but yesterday, in the unexpectant and creativity-sterile waiting room at the car dealership—my Stealth Saturn was undergoing a long-overdue oil change and demystification of the Service Engine Soon light—bits of the far and near futures of my characters dumped over me like Noah's floodwaters and there I was, arkless and drowning.
There's some not-nice things that are going to happen, and I don't think they're prepared. I can't see how they could be, since I'm not, and I really should be, seeing as how they wouldn't even exist without me—a fact which, I should add, I certainly do not hold over their heads, or demand that they never forget, as I prefer to be an anonymous behind-the-curtains chess-player, and I have not admitted any Totos into this little alternate reality that will expose me otherwise.
But where I was two-months lagging for lack of understanding about what would happen next, I now find myself reluctant to continue for what WILL happen next. While it is, at its root, a matter of connecting to my characters in particular and tender-heartedness in general, it's oddly illusionary how little control I seem to have about these characters and what happens to them—you'd think I'd have ALL of the control. But I don't; I just don't.
Instead, all I can do is choose the words that describe the actions, rather than plot and replot the actions themselves. I can decide the way the story is revealed, but not so much the elements of that story. These most integral components of fictional reality come from somewhere else: somewhere subconsciousional, somewhere dreamtasmical. The point is not whether I can accurately name it, but instead that I whole-heartedly understand that it is determined not by me—the "me" sitting suddenly alert in the Saturn dealership's cookie-scented waiting room—but by some other part of me that has, indeed, already completed the task, unbeknownst to the "me" with which I am, by day, familiar.
(It's a bit disturbing how closely fiction mirrors reality, really, when you get right down to it. Control is mostly illusion, and the mirror doesn't show you the truth so much as it shows you what you expect to find ... albeit with left and right reversed.)
Mysterious and half-baked as it sounds, I am not interested in the potential for Scooby-Snacks nor the problem with the oven—all I want to know is when, or if, I'm going to get on with this writing thing. The path of my characters is set, I believe, but they won't know it until they start walking, and they can't do that until I start writing.
I guess only time will tell if I do.
June 26, 2008
The Lush Report
Inspired by Bill Geist of CBS Sunday Morning, I decided that while not, strictly speaking, a "staycation," it would probably behoove me on my remote Wyoming cabin vacation to follow the old adage that he endorsed in his recent report on the subject: "drink early, and often."
Therefore, in addition to clothing and victuals, I packed on the four-mile hike in to the cabin a small—but robust—selection of alcohol, including 100 mL of Kahlúa, 50 mL of E&J Cask & Cream liqueur, 50 mL Baileys Irish Cream, 50 mL of DeKuyper Peachtree Schnapps, 50 mL of Cask & Cream Chocolate Temptation cream liqueur, and 200 mL of Smirnoff Vodka. These selections were based on what I had on hand (some actually dating back to the year that The ListMaker, Huggy Bear, and I dressed up for Halloween as an airline flight crew), what I thought might go well with coffee (the Peruvians won, hands down), and a donation from my dear Dad, who knew that his cabin whiskey supply was never in any danger whatsoever but would have cheerfully let me deplete it some if I had any interest in so doing.
For mixers, there was a cellar-stashed supply of water, a rain-supplied supplement of water, and then the coffee I brought (the aforementioned Columbian, Guatemalan, Nicaraguan, and Peruvian caffeinated varieties, and also a locally-blended decaf selection for evening imbibing), as well as three varieties of Crystal Light (lemonade, raspberry green tea, and raspberry ice—thanks to The Exotic Neurotic for those last two, too, even if I never do make it to taste-testing the scary green tea kind) and All-Bran™ pink lemonade drink mix.
Along with its stock supply of whiskey, the cabin also included a mixing reservoir of TANG®. Because, you know, what goes better with whiskey than TANG? At least when orange juice—and pretty much anything else—is not present. But I kid, truly, as who am I, with my many odd ingredients, to talk about proper alcoholic blends? Nobody, really, but at least I had fun with it!
While my notes are a little fuzzy, it's not, as you can tell from my comprehensive list, because I was drunk off my ass for the duration of my personal holiday. I tipped about 25 mL of alcohol into each 8 (or more) oz beverage, thereby rendering each drinky-poo about as powerful as a Care-bear at Sturgis. But it was nice, I tell you, very, very nice, and I enjoyed almost every drink I tried, with one notable exception: Baileys & decaf. I don't think it was the decaf, either, that ruined the beverage: I'm just not that fond of Baileys. Which is okay, really: I'm not Irish anyway.
I did manage to salvage the rest of the Baileys, thanks to The Exotic Neurotic, who reminded me that I could blend it with the chocolate soymilk that I'd packed in for Little Girl. Unbeknownst to me, you see, my mom had packed in REAL chocolate milk—did you know they make little snack-size milk now that does not NEED to be refrigerated? for up to THREE MONTHS? obviously, neither did I, which is why I was packing soymilk for Little Girl, and rice milk for me (because my daily All-Bran has to be softened by SOME kind of milk, cripes, the stuff is like little rocks otherwise!)—and Little Girl was saturated with the stuff, which, having packed four miles IN to the cabin, I was damned if I was going to pack another four miles OUT.
So, while Baileys and decaf was drinkable, it was only just, and Baileys and chocolate soymilk was one step up from only just drinkable. Which is perfectly acceptable, but hardly the nectar of the drunken gods for which I was remotely pilgrimaging.
TANG and vodka was a surprisingly tasty combination, one which Mom said was a decent facsimile of a Screwdriver. I wouldn't know, but I sucked my Wyoming Screw down without any difficulty whatsoever, although it totally would be better with ice. And we might plan that better next time, because there is a lovely little propane-powered refrigerator here—we just didn't get around to making ice cubes this trip. WHAT WERE WE THINKING? Well, we weren't thinking of the Wyoming screw, that's for sure.
There was another problem with the Wyoming Screw (yes, it certainly is fun to say!), and that was the TANG. The TANG has been here for something less than the decade or so that the cabin has been here, but it must have been here for some lengthy visit of its own, because the stuff remaining in the container was practically as petrified as the squid bit fossils that Little Girl continued to collect by the pound. In fact, while chipping loose a portion for Mom's Wyoming Screw (I'm sure Mom would like to point out that this is MY name for the beverage, and she might also like to object to my wording, but she doesn't want me to bring up the fact that I came by my twisted mind perfectly honestly: genetically), a rather large chunk flew out of the container and impacted the floor, forcing the evening's tippling preparations to come to a sudden halt—I had to clean up the mess right away, to avoid attracting ants.
The coffee blends, with the exception of Baileys that I already mentioned, were uniformly lovely. In lead gorgeousness was a decaf/Kahlúa/rice milk mix that I have no name for, but will definitely be repeating in future trips. Presuming I'm invited back, of course. It's a nice, light, creamy concoction, and certainly good on a chilly morning—all of our mornings were 50 degrees or less, with one stellarly charming dawn breaking in the 30s. And while we confirmed that number with a thermometer, we didn't really need to, what with CHUNKS OF ICE sliding right off the roof and all. Shoot. Should have saved some for the Wyoming Screws.
Chocolate soymilk, while tolerable when flavored with Baileys, was DELIGHTFUL when topped with Chocolate Temptation. I don't think I dare name a soy beverage after Wyoming—even if it was invented here—but I might dub it the Double-Chocolate Tofu drink just to be weird. And weird it certainly was, but tasty, too, and I would make that again, too, although only after noon because soy can interfere with absorption of levothyroxine. More's the pity, because what a nice morning drink THAT would make!
The vodka went down reasonably well with Crystal Light. Not only did it stir in smoothly to Raspberry Ice and Lemonade, but I thought it did even better when mixed with both. Yes, the Lemon-Raspberry Potato Drink was right nice, but it could not hold a candle to ... *drum roll, please* ...
The Wyoming Peach!
The pièce de résistance, which impressed even Mom—and she is notoriously difficult to impress, particularly with alcohol, of which she only very rarely partakes—was a blend of peach schnapps and Crystal Light Raspberry Ice. It was light, delicious, and went down very, very easily. It actually drove us to look for more peach schnapps when we went into town one day for an outing, but to no avail. Dad later joked that it was illegal to sell peach schnapps in Wyoming, and having lived in the state for many years myself, I'm surprised I forgot such things.
While there are two nights and one day remaining in our whirlwind Wyoming vacation, I don't think that there will be any stunning new concoctions derived in that time, and thus must conclude my Lush Report here. However, should vodka and All-Bran pink lemonade prove to be both colon-friendly AND a taste sensation, rest assured that there will be an asterisked update, detailing the merits of the Wyoming Cleanse.
*The Wyoming Cleanse is quite good! Mind you, it had no apparent affect on ME, but I think for a non-chronically constipated person, it would do quite nicely. It was a wee bit tart, so I would say a touch of sugar would be optional. It goes well with macaroni and cheese, too, in case you were wondering.
Therefore, in addition to clothing and victuals, I packed on the four-mile hike in to the cabin a small—but robust—selection of alcohol, including 100 mL of Kahlúa, 50 mL of E&J Cask & Cream liqueur, 50 mL Baileys Irish Cream, 50 mL of DeKuyper Peachtree Schnapps, 50 mL of Cask & Cream Chocolate Temptation cream liqueur, and 200 mL of Smirnoff Vodka. These selections were based on what I had on hand (some actually dating back to the year that The ListMaker, Huggy Bear, and I dressed up for Halloween as an airline flight crew), what I thought might go well with coffee (the Peruvians won, hands down), and a donation from my dear Dad, who knew that his cabin whiskey supply was never in any danger whatsoever but would have cheerfully let me deplete it some if I had any interest in so doing.
For mixers, there was a cellar-stashed supply of water, a rain-supplied supplement of water, and then the coffee I brought (the aforementioned Columbian, Guatemalan, Nicaraguan, and Peruvian caffeinated varieties, and also a locally-blended decaf selection for evening imbibing), as well as three varieties of Crystal Light (lemonade, raspberry green tea, and raspberry ice—thanks to The Exotic Neurotic for those last two, too, even if I never do make it to taste-testing the scary green tea kind) and All-Bran™ pink lemonade drink mix.
Along with its stock supply of whiskey, the cabin also included a mixing reservoir of TANG®. Because, you know, what goes better with whiskey than TANG? At least when orange juice—and pretty much anything else—is not present. But I kid, truly, as who am I, with my many odd ingredients, to talk about proper alcoholic blends? Nobody, really, but at least I had fun with it!
While my notes are a little fuzzy, it's not, as you can tell from my comprehensive list, because I was drunk off my ass for the duration of my personal holiday. I tipped about 25 mL of alcohol into each 8 (or more) oz beverage, thereby rendering each drinky-poo about as powerful as a Care-bear at Sturgis. But it was nice, I tell you, very, very nice, and I enjoyed almost every drink I tried, with one notable exception: Baileys & decaf. I don't think it was the decaf, either, that ruined the beverage: I'm just not that fond of Baileys. Which is okay, really: I'm not Irish anyway.
I did manage to salvage the rest of the Baileys, thanks to The Exotic Neurotic, who reminded me that I could blend it with the chocolate soymilk that I'd packed in for Little Girl. Unbeknownst to me, you see, my mom had packed in REAL chocolate milk—did you know they make little snack-size milk now that does not NEED to be refrigerated? for up to THREE MONTHS? obviously, neither did I, which is why I was packing soymilk for Little Girl, and rice milk for me (because my daily All-Bran has to be softened by SOME kind of milk, cripes, the stuff is like little rocks otherwise!)—and Little Girl was saturated with the stuff, which, having packed four miles IN to the cabin, I was damned if I was going to pack another four miles OUT.
So, while Baileys and decaf was drinkable, it was only just, and Baileys and chocolate soymilk was one step up from only just drinkable. Which is perfectly acceptable, but hardly the nectar of the drunken gods for which I was remotely pilgrimaging.
TANG and vodka was a surprisingly tasty combination, one which Mom said was a decent facsimile of a Screwdriver. I wouldn't know, but I sucked my Wyoming Screw down without any difficulty whatsoever, although it totally would be better with ice. And we might plan that better next time, because there is a lovely little propane-powered refrigerator here—we just didn't get around to making ice cubes this trip. WHAT WERE WE THINKING? Well, we weren't thinking of the Wyoming screw, that's for sure.
There was another problem with the Wyoming Screw (yes, it certainly is fun to say!), and that was the TANG. The TANG has been here for something less than the decade or so that the cabin has been here, but it must have been here for some lengthy visit of its own, because the stuff remaining in the container was practically as petrified as the squid bit fossils that Little Girl continued to collect by the pound. In fact, while chipping loose a portion for Mom's Wyoming Screw (I'm sure Mom would like to point out that this is MY name for the beverage, and she might also like to object to my wording, but she doesn't want me to bring up the fact that I came by my twisted mind perfectly honestly: genetically), a rather large chunk flew out of the container and impacted the floor, forcing the evening's tippling preparations to come to a sudden halt—I had to clean up the mess right away, to avoid attracting ants.
The coffee blends, with the exception of Baileys that I already mentioned, were uniformly lovely. In lead gorgeousness was a decaf/Kahlúa/rice milk mix that I have no name for, but will definitely be repeating in future trips. Presuming I'm invited back, of course. It's a nice, light, creamy concoction, and certainly good on a chilly morning—all of our mornings were 50 degrees or less, with one stellarly charming dawn breaking in the 30s. And while we confirmed that number with a thermometer, we didn't really need to, what with CHUNKS OF ICE sliding right off the roof and all. Shoot. Should have saved some for the Wyoming Screws.
Chocolate soymilk, while tolerable when flavored with Baileys, was DELIGHTFUL when topped with Chocolate Temptation. I don't think I dare name a soy beverage after Wyoming—even if it was invented here—but I might dub it the Double-Chocolate Tofu drink just to be weird. And weird it certainly was, but tasty, too, and I would make that again, too, although only after noon because soy can interfere with absorption of levothyroxine. More's the pity, because what a nice morning drink THAT would make!
The vodka went down reasonably well with Crystal Light. Not only did it stir in smoothly to Raspberry Ice and Lemonade, but I thought it did even better when mixed with both. Yes, the Lemon-Raspberry Potato Drink was right nice, but it could not hold a candle to ... *drum roll, please* ...
The Wyoming Peach!
The pièce de résistance, which impressed even Mom—and she is notoriously difficult to impress, particularly with alcohol, of which she only very rarely partakes—was a blend of peach schnapps and Crystal Light Raspberry Ice. It was light, delicious, and went down very, very easily. It actually drove us to look for more peach schnapps when we went into town one day for an outing, but to no avail. Dad later joked that it was illegal to sell peach schnapps in Wyoming, and having lived in the state for many years myself, I'm surprised I forgot such things.
While there are two nights and one day remaining in our whirlwind Wyoming vacation, I don't think that there will be any stunning new concoctions derived in that time, and thus must conclude my Lush Report here. However, should vodka and All-Bran pink lemonade prove to be both colon-friendly AND a taste sensation, rest assured that there will be an asterisked update, detailing the merits of the Wyoming Cleanse.
*The Wyoming Cleanse is quite good! Mind you, it had no apparent affect on ME, but I think for a non-chronically constipated person, it would do quite nicely. It was a wee bit tart, so I would say a touch of sugar would be optional. It goes well with macaroni and cheese, too, in case you were wondering.
June 25, 2008
Games People Play
For our trip, Mom brought Little Girl a folding frisbee that my sister and I had played with as children. While I remembered the frisbee well, I had no interest in playing with it now, a fact that I stewed over somewhat when Little Girl enlisted me to play with her for awhile one sunny afternoon at the cabin.
I was mentally frowning over the fact that I felt like a bad parent for not wishing to engage in the game in the first—or second or third—place, and likewise gloomily concluding that it certainly didn't make me a good parent for participating when I didn't wish to, because although I did not glower or growl, I hardly exuded sunshine and pixie dust.
I was sure I'd enjoyed the game as a child, but then again, I reflected that it was certainly not a top pick in my list of preferred activities. Actually, few of my favorite things to do qualified as things to DO—not to some people, anyway. It was at this point—still flinging the frisbee back and forth and occasionally taking a hit in the face (thank goodness it was a relatively soft specimen—that my mood lifted a bit.
My parenting capabilities aside, I observed that it's always been a strong part of my nature to observe: to view and to reflect. To engage has always been a lesser drive ... I like to be on the scene, as it were, but I do not find it comfortable or even desirable to be IN the scene. I am perfectly content taking pictures and writing descriptions of events, but orchestrating and directing, well. Not so much.
That I seem to do reasonably well at such things is beside the point. If I do them for worthy causes—such as a Little Girl's amusement in an isolated locale—then that I do not especially long to do them should not be a source of mental goulash (what? it can't ALWAYS be stew! at least, not in my world). We all have our preferences, our interests, and our favored activities, even if not everyone would classify them as activities.
It still would be nice, I suppose, if I liked playing frisbee a bit more now than I seem to. Although I can't specifically remember ever being all that enamored of it. The fact that this particular frisbee FOLDS, now, THAT I can get interested in.
I was mentally frowning over the fact that I felt like a bad parent for not wishing to engage in the game in the first—or second or third—place, and likewise gloomily concluding that it certainly didn't make me a good parent for participating when I didn't wish to, because although I did not glower or growl, I hardly exuded sunshine and pixie dust.
I was sure I'd enjoyed the game as a child, but then again, I reflected that it was certainly not a top pick in my list of preferred activities. Actually, few of my favorite things to do qualified as things to DO—not to some people, anyway. It was at this point—still flinging the frisbee back and forth and occasionally taking a hit in the face (thank goodness it was a relatively soft specimen—that my mood lifted a bit.
My parenting capabilities aside, I observed that it's always been a strong part of my nature to observe: to view and to reflect. To engage has always been a lesser drive ... I like to be on the scene, as it were, but I do not find it comfortable or even desirable to be IN the scene. I am perfectly content taking pictures and writing descriptions of events, but orchestrating and directing, well. Not so much.
That I seem to do reasonably well at such things is beside the point. If I do them for worthy causes—such as a Little Girl's amusement in an isolated locale—then that I do not especially long to do them should not be a source of mental goulash (what? it can't ALWAYS be stew! at least, not in my world). We all have our preferences, our interests, and our favored activities, even if not everyone would classify them as activities.
It still would be nice, I suppose, if I liked playing frisbee a bit more now than I seem to. Although I can't specifically remember ever being all that enamored of it. The fact that this particular frisbee FOLDS, now, THAT I can get interested in.
June 22, 2008
After Red
You can see storms coming in Wyoming, unless you're way up in the mountains, and then it's more of a sense of impending diaster. On the plains, though, or in the foothills, you can see storms coming from a long way off. The anticipation of their arrival when they are so obviously headed your way can be hard to take.
The clouds in Wyoming don't act like they do in other places that I've lived. Maybe it's the altitude, and I have a distorted sense of being closer to them, but they seem to have free will in Wyoming. Instead of streaming steadily east, as I have observed elsewhere, they frequently break from the accepted pattern and circle, cross paths, or billow in angry mob fashion, gathering strength in numbers and just looking for an excuse to open up a great big can of whoopass.
And because I can see them pouring buckets of rain—or hail, sleet, or snow, even this time of year—far from where I am, I am, there seems to be no escape. The clouds are capricious, though, even in their apparent intense rage, and sometimes after they collide and layer and irritably mingle, they dissipate without shedding a single tear, liquid or solid.
My favorite part of the pre-storm festivities is the lower level of clouds, the ones that are the fastest and defy the mainstream storm behavior the easiest. Last night, while the upper clouds were boiling up towards the East, the lower level was sliding in from the North, slipping with ease into the atmospheric mosh pit and looking like they'd be pleased to drop anyone who dared to dive in from above.
I took more than my fair share of pictures, but they never seem to capture the immensity of the sky, the way it breathes down like a dragon and pushes the voices of the pines from speech into bedlam shrieks, where individuals scarcely exist and all is controlled under the mind of the Borg cloud collective. It makes a person want to go into the lowest level of their home, to a room without windows, and when there is no such thing, to clutch the NOAA weather radio close, making sure that the storm warnings haven't morphed into something more serious, because there is no place to hide, not for miles.
We collected 7.5 gallons of rainwater overnight, but the bulk of the storm—including the bit that set off the NOAA tornado warning—went south of our location. We listened to the rain falling lush and fervent, but not rabid, on the roof, and in the morning, filtered it, boiled it, and drank it flavored with hot chocolate and coffee.
The clouds look quieter tonight, which is fortunate, because the land is soft and pungent with more moisture than it has known in many years. Wildflowers, while not garden-thick or generally brilliant and apparent to the unobservant passer-by, are abundant and beautiful, decorating the background of sage as if it were a Wyoming-sized birthday cake.
It looks good enough to eat.
The clouds in Wyoming don't act like they do in other places that I've lived. Maybe it's the altitude, and I have a distorted sense of being closer to them, but they seem to have free will in Wyoming. Instead of streaming steadily east, as I have observed elsewhere, they frequently break from the accepted pattern and circle, cross paths, or billow in angry mob fashion, gathering strength in numbers and just looking for an excuse to open up a great big can of whoopass.
And because I can see them pouring buckets of rain—or hail, sleet, or snow, even this time of year—far from where I am, I am, there seems to be no escape. The clouds are capricious, though, even in their apparent intense rage, and sometimes after they collide and layer and irritably mingle, they dissipate without shedding a single tear, liquid or solid.
My favorite part of the pre-storm festivities is the lower level of clouds, the ones that are the fastest and defy the mainstream storm behavior the easiest. Last night, while the upper clouds were boiling up towards the East, the lower level was sliding in from the North, slipping with ease into the atmospheric mosh pit and looking like they'd be pleased to drop anyone who dared to dive in from above.
I took more than my fair share of pictures, but they never seem to capture the immensity of the sky, the way it breathes down like a dragon and pushes the voices of the pines from speech into bedlam shrieks, where individuals scarcely exist and all is controlled under the mind of the Borg cloud collective. It makes a person want to go into the lowest level of their home, to a room without windows, and when there is no such thing, to clutch the NOAA weather radio close, making sure that the storm warnings haven't morphed into something more serious, because there is no place to hide, not for miles.
We collected 7.5 gallons of rainwater overnight, but the bulk of the storm—including the bit that set off the NOAA tornado warning—went south of our location. We listened to the rain falling lush and fervent, but not rabid, on the roof, and in the morning, filtered it, boiled it, and drank it flavored with hot chocolate and coffee.
The clouds look quieter tonight, which is fortunate, because the land is soft and pungent with more moisture than it has known in many years. Wildflowers, while not garden-thick or generally brilliant and apparent to the unobservant passer-by, are abundant and beautiful, decorating the background of sage as if it were a Wyoming-sized birthday cake.
It looks good enough to eat.
June 21, 2008
Red
Wyoming colors typically run to a muted palette of sage-toned greens and dusty browns. These are the paints most people see from the highways, as they set their jackrabbit-rapid pace across the state, viewing it as a step in the journey, but hardly one worth savoring.
There is red, too, though. Where the soil has been burned dry and hard by the sun and wind, or exposed—like bloody innards—by the wear and tear of years without number by rare rivers, then there is red. It's a rich, meaty red, setting off the paleness of the sage and olive with an obstinate level of contrast.
This morning, I awoke from under red to yet another red. One of the warm, flannel-lined red sleeping bags that I remember my parents using from my youngest childhood camping memories* was now blanketing my own sleep, as the other snuggled Little Girl, snoring ever-so-lightly in the bunk above me. And out the window, I saw even before I saw my mom pointing up at it and looking expectantly back at me, a sky mottled with blossoming red, and I was already shuffling the cozy protection of sleep from me and rushing for my fleece jacket and my camera.
The morning was brisk, as all but the heart of summer mornings are, but my toes were not cold, peeking out of my cabin-wear flip-flops. I staggered out into the open around the corner of the cabin and started taking pictures of the hot-blushing East immediately. The sky painting was a work in progress, and it just kept getting better.
When the rainbow emerged to the West—where the backdrop of sky had not been neglected with touches of red, either—I fought a losing battle to capture its subtle brilliance accurately. It was a full-on rainbow, but viewed as if through a red filter that left each rainbow hue slightly flushed. Above, a second rainbow fought hard to enter the picture, but only left the faintest traces in my memory.
Finally, the raindrops that were giving the red rainbow the opportunity to develop at all over the red morning sky started to pepper my lens, and I turned one last flip-flop piroutte, looking all the way around the horizon, from the start of the red bloom to the arc of the red rainbow. I wondered if the points of origin—one of sunrise still to come and two of rainbow starting to fade—formed an equilateral triangle from above, and then dismissed the idea when Mom explained that rainbows, like eclipses, need viewers in the right places to be seen. This notion would lead me down a path of quantum wanderings, and I was too tired to go there, even with the remarkable memory of the reddened sky to inspire me.
As I shifted and turned into hibernation position underneath the familiar red of the sleeping bag, though, I shivered a little more than the air temperature had dictated. Red skies in morning and rainbows, too, are said to precipitate storms, and Igor on the NOAA Weather Radio had been saying the same thing for days himself.
We decided to go walking before long that morning, lest the afternoon be less hospitable than the pre-dawn red skies had been.
*Later, I heard Mom telling Little Girl that the sleeping bags were even older than I knew. Her parents had ordered them out of the JC Penney catalog when she was Little Girl's age: one for her and one for her younger brother, The Artist. After summers and autumns of youthful family outings, Mom replaced The Artist's bag with a new one when she married, so that she and Dad could zip the red bags together. Quilted and soft, the sleeping bags were heavy as well, rendering them not so much the pick of the litter for backpacking. Thus, they'd ended up finding a permanent home here at the cabin, ready and warm.
There is red, too, though. Where the soil has been burned dry and hard by the sun and wind, or exposed—like bloody innards—by the wear and tear of years without number by rare rivers, then there is red. It's a rich, meaty red, setting off the paleness of the sage and olive with an obstinate level of contrast.
This morning, I awoke from under red to yet another red. One of the warm, flannel-lined red sleeping bags that I remember my parents using from my youngest childhood camping memories* was now blanketing my own sleep, as the other snuggled Little Girl, snoring ever-so-lightly in the bunk above me. And out the window, I saw even before I saw my mom pointing up at it and looking expectantly back at me, a sky mottled with blossoming red, and I was already shuffling the cozy protection of sleep from me and rushing for my fleece jacket and my camera.
The morning was brisk, as all but the heart of summer mornings are, but my toes were not cold, peeking out of my cabin-wear flip-flops. I staggered out into the open around the corner of the cabin and started taking pictures of the hot-blushing East immediately. The sky painting was a work in progress, and it just kept getting better.
When the rainbow emerged to the West—where the backdrop of sky had not been neglected with touches of red, either—I fought a losing battle to capture its subtle brilliance accurately. It was a full-on rainbow, but viewed as if through a red filter that left each rainbow hue slightly flushed. Above, a second rainbow fought hard to enter the picture, but only left the faintest traces in my memory.
Finally, the raindrops that were giving the red rainbow the opportunity to develop at all over the red morning sky started to pepper my lens, and I turned one last flip-flop piroutte, looking all the way around the horizon, from the start of the red bloom to the arc of the red rainbow. I wondered if the points of origin—one of sunrise still to come and two of rainbow starting to fade—formed an equilateral triangle from above, and then dismissed the idea when Mom explained that rainbows, like eclipses, need viewers in the right places to be seen. This notion would lead me down a path of quantum wanderings, and I was too tired to go there, even with the remarkable memory of the reddened sky to inspire me.
As I shifted and turned into hibernation position underneath the familiar red of the sleeping bag, though, I shivered a little more than the air temperature had dictated. Red skies in morning and rainbows, too, are said to precipitate storms, and Igor on the NOAA Weather Radio had been saying the same thing for days himself.
We decided to go walking before long that morning, lest the afternoon be less hospitable than the pre-dawn red skies had been.
*Later, I heard Mom telling Little Girl that the sleeping bags were even older than I knew. Her parents had ordered them out of the JC Penney catalog when she was Little Girl's age: one for her and one for her younger brother, The Artist. After summers and autumns of youthful family outings, Mom replaced The Artist's bag with a new one when she married, so that she and Dad could zip the red bags together. Quilted and soft, the sleeping bags were heavy as well, rendering them not so much the pick of the litter for backpacking. Thus, they'd ended up finding a permanent home here at the cabin, ready and warm.
June 19, 2008
Home
Our arrival in Wyoming was not especially auspicious—not for me. There was a dead kitten in the road not far from where we picnicked. Little Girl didn't see it, which was fortunate. But I did, and it cut at me.
As the additional miles passed on our way to our destination—a four-mile hike from where we would spend most of our time in Wyoming—I brooded over the kitten. S/he had been a soft, gray snippet of fluff, which I would have been more than happy to cart four miles into the wilderness—kitty litter and all—and then all the two-day drive home after vacation. Couldn't whatever powers that be have let THAT end come to pass, rather than the abrupt, harsh, WRONG ending that had?
Then I started thinking that I'd elevated this vacation too far in my mind. It had been too long—nearly a decade—since I had been home. Maybe this wasn't "home" more than anywhere else, and it was all just fancy in my mind. Little Girl's daddy never has understood what I see in Wyoming: to him, it is what he can do there. Since I did not "do" the things that it had to offer (at least not to the extent that he did), he couldn't wrap his mind around why I would like it at all.
"You can sit inside and read anywhere," he would gripe.
How, then, do I explain what it is when I start seeing more Wyoming plates on the highway than any other state? How do I describe the way the red dirt, covered erratically with monochrome sage green, pulls at heart strings that are directly attached to my tear ducts? The way the whispering pines—they were practically shouting at us when we walked in as clouds swooped overhead but miserly clutched every last raindrop to themselves—welcomed me, the way the landscape unfolded farther and crisper and more abundantly empty with every hard step we walked, the way the lichen-covered rocks on which we rested felt cushiony in their granite firmness ...
Imagination? I don't think so. There is something undefinable here. There is something closer to the concept of "God" here than anywhere else to me, and while it isn't the same, it isn't wishful thinking, either: it is HOME.
I'm not an idiot. Bad things happen everywhere, home or away, Holy Land or Heartland. Kittens die unloved and unmourned on a daily basis and yes, it IS all too easy to build up in your mind that which you look forward to so vehemently that even your overloaded backpack and your underconditioned body will NOT deter you from walking up the muddy, long-neglected county "road" to your destination.
In the end, no careful analysis can define love, no well-defined philosophy can balance loss, and no fanciful meanderings build a strong path. What you feel in your heart can convince your head, and sometimes it does overwhelm you.
It is then, if you have a place to call home at all—whether you are there now or have not been in a decade—you are simply lucky to have known it at all.
As the additional miles passed on our way to our destination—a four-mile hike from where we would spend most of our time in Wyoming—I brooded over the kitten. S/he had been a soft, gray snippet of fluff, which I would have been more than happy to cart four miles into the wilderness—kitty litter and all—and then all the two-day drive home after vacation. Couldn't whatever powers that be have let THAT end come to pass, rather than the abrupt, harsh, WRONG ending that had?
Then I started thinking that I'd elevated this vacation too far in my mind. It had been too long—nearly a decade—since I had been home. Maybe this wasn't "home" more than anywhere else, and it was all just fancy in my mind. Little Girl's daddy never has understood what I see in Wyoming: to him, it is what he can do there. Since I did not "do" the things that it had to offer (at least not to the extent that he did), he couldn't wrap his mind around why I would like it at all.
"You can sit inside and read anywhere," he would gripe.
How, then, do I explain what it is when I start seeing more Wyoming plates on the highway than any other state? How do I describe the way the red dirt, covered erratically with monochrome sage green, pulls at heart strings that are directly attached to my tear ducts? The way the whispering pines—they were practically shouting at us when we walked in as clouds swooped overhead but miserly clutched every last raindrop to themselves—welcomed me, the way the landscape unfolded farther and crisper and more abundantly empty with every hard step we walked, the way the lichen-covered rocks on which we rested felt cushiony in their granite firmness ...
Imagination? I don't think so. There is something undefinable here. There is something closer to the concept of "God" here than anywhere else to me, and while it isn't the same, it isn't wishful thinking, either: it is HOME.
I'm not an idiot. Bad things happen everywhere, home or away, Holy Land or Heartland. Kittens die unloved and unmourned on a daily basis and yes, it IS all too easy to build up in your mind that which you look forward to so vehemently that even your overloaded backpack and your underconditioned body will NOT deter you from walking up the muddy, long-neglected county "road" to your destination.
In the end, no careful analysis can define love, no well-defined philosophy can balance loss, and no fanciful meanderings build a strong path. What you feel in your heart can convince your head, and sometimes it does overwhelm you.
It is then, if you have a place to call home at all—whether you are there now or have not been in a decade—you are simply lucky to have known it at all.
June 18, 2008
En Route
We are now just about three hours into Summer Vacation 2008. Having liberated Little Girl from her school—which, strangely, had not notified us (or anyone else) of the fact that the last day had been extended from its traditional abbreviated duration to a FULL SCHOOL DAY until just three days ago (umm, plan ahead much? WELL, I DO!)—we got on the road right around noon, and are planning to put in as much daylight driving as possible. We'll get to Wyoming sometime tomorrow, unless I snap at seeing Mom's speedometer stuck there at 62.
(I know mileage is better that way, and goodness knows we need to worry about that with gas prices being what they are. Also, she's doing most—if not all, by her choice—of the driving. I HAVE NO RIGHT TO COMPLAIN. And yet, just under my epidermis, there is a seething, mosquito-esque ITCH every time I look over at the speedometer. I should be grateful. She TOLD me she would go 55 the WHOLE WAY.)
Anyway, we are quite techied up here. I'm typing away on Mom and Dad's very nice laptop, plugged into the car via a heavy-duty red POWER INVERTER box, preciariously balanced on top of Mom's pile o' stuff. Little Girl and I are snugly comfortable in the backseat, and she is somewhat glazedly listening to a book on CD. Holy shit, excuse me while I digress, but WE JUST PASSED SOMEONE! Yes, I think he was somewhat elderly. Mom's not, by the way ... she's just cheap, and THAT, my dears, is a virtue I only wish I had.
But I digress.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW? Come on, one imaginative guess from my darling imaginary friends? (Now I will find out if Mr. X is still reading this, as he always gets a little snippy when I refer to him as "imaginary.") Anyway, since this will be on a 10+ day time-delay, let me go ahead and tell you what I'm doing while I blather away at you, here on the wilds of Some Interstate or Other, en route to The Holy Land: I am listening to BRAND NEW, 5-Pepsi-Points-Each MP3s! And because I'd only saved enough Diet Pepsi caps to purchase 14 of those, I've got a bunch of classics along, too.
Oh yes, my dears, there is Amorphis and Arch Enemy. And I went off the deep end and got me some Otep and Dark Tranquility, too! And I got Sentenced, and Scar Symmetry, and Poisonblack and HOLY CRAP I CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER! Only one new song from each group, that was my rule, but when I'd blown all 70 Pepsi Points, then I went to my CD library and loaded up on whatever struck my fancy. It was all a bit on the TOTALLY TOXIC HEAVY METAL spectrum—with the possible exception of a little bit of relatively mild Dream Theater (along with some of their heavier stuff, too, but I HAD to have me some "Peruvian Skies" ... for the Coffee Challenge, don't you know).
Oh! But you don't know! Because Diet Pepsi is a bit on the heavy side for packing in to our remote location, I had to get a little innovative with my caffeine-delivery mechanism. What I did was find a batch of coffees from South American countries other than Columbia, which as you might know, is supposed to be ALL THAT in terms of awesome coffee. I wouldn't know, having always been a bit pedestrian in my taste for the beany beverage, which is to say, motor oil doesn't cut it for me.
But anyway, it's not so much about purity of flavor at this point, because I will be a RAVING, HEADACHEY BITCH without caffeine, and that's no way to enjoy a vacation, now is it? So coffee it is, people, and I will be pitting the Columbians against the Guatemalans, Hondurasans* (can I just say I cannot BELIEVE that I spelled that correctly on the first try? OR MAYBE I DIDN'T AND WORD JUST LOST ITS LITTLE PEA MIND!), and Peruvians. I really can't remember who's in at this point, but trust me, there's gonna be a rumble. And woohoo! Caffeine!
It's going to be a long drive, though. Yes, cruise control is keeping us steady at 62 mph and YES, that IS 7 mph faster than 55 (double-check my math for me, would you? NOTE TO THE LISTMAKER: don't take that personally; I didn't really mean it). But all in all, I have to say I think we're off to a really great start. Which, considering how Corporate was trying to BLEED ME DRY RIGHT DOWN TO THE WIRE YESTERDAY, is pretty damn wonderful.
* My congratulating of myself turned out to be premature. Because, you see, I had not even brought Hondurasan coffee along to the games: it was Nicaraguan. So, nice job spelling, lousy job remembering. It all evens out!
(I know mileage is better that way, and goodness knows we need to worry about that with gas prices being what they are. Also, she's doing most—if not all, by her choice—of the driving. I HAVE NO RIGHT TO COMPLAIN. And yet, just under my epidermis, there is a seething, mosquito-esque ITCH every time I look over at the speedometer. I should be grateful. She TOLD me she would go 55 the WHOLE WAY.)
Anyway, we are quite techied up here. I'm typing away on Mom and Dad's very nice laptop, plugged into the car via a heavy-duty red POWER INVERTER box, preciariously balanced on top of Mom's pile o' stuff. Little Girl and I are snugly comfortable in the backseat, and she is somewhat glazedly listening to a book on CD. Holy shit, excuse me while I digress, but WE JUST PASSED SOMEONE! Yes, I think he was somewhat elderly. Mom's not, by the way ... she's just cheap, and THAT, my dears, is a virtue I only wish I had.
But I digress.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW? Come on, one imaginative guess from my darling imaginary friends? (Now I will find out if Mr. X is still reading this, as he always gets a little snippy when I refer to him as "imaginary.") Anyway, since this will be on a 10+ day time-delay, let me go ahead and tell you what I'm doing while I blather away at you, here on the wilds of Some Interstate or Other, en route to The Holy Land: I am listening to BRAND NEW, 5-Pepsi-Points-Each MP3s! And because I'd only saved enough Diet Pepsi caps to purchase 14 of those, I've got a bunch of classics along, too.
Oh yes, my dears, there is Amorphis and Arch Enemy. And I went off the deep end and got me some Otep and Dark Tranquility, too! And I got Sentenced, and Scar Symmetry, and Poisonblack and HOLY CRAP I CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER! Only one new song from each group, that was my rule, but when I'd blown all 70 Pepsi Points, then I went to my CD library and loaded up on whatever struck my fancy. It was all a bit on the TOTALLY TOXIC HEAVY METAL spectrum—with the possible exception of a little bit of relatively mild Dream Theater (along with some of their heavier stuff, too, but I HAD to have me some "Peruvian Skies" ... for the Coffee Challenge, don't you know).
Oh! But you don't know! Because Diet Pepsi is a bit on the heavy side for packing in to our remote location, I had to get a little innovative with my caffeine-delivery mechanism. What I did was find a batch of coffees from South American countries other than Columbia, which as you might know, is supposed to be ALL THAT in terms of awesome coffee. I wouldn't know, having always been a bit pedestrian in my taste for the beany beverage, which is to say, motor oil doesn't cut it for me.
But anyway, it's not so much about purity of flavor at this point, because I will be a RAVING, HEADACHEY BITCH without caffeine, and that's no way to enjoy a vacation, now is it? So coffee it is, people, and I will be pitting the Columbians against the Guatemalans, Hondurasans* (can I just say I cannot BELIEVE that I spelled that correctly on the first try? OR MAYBE I DIDN'T AND WORD JUST LOST ITS LITTLE PEA MIND!), and Peruvians. I really can't remember who's in at this point, but trust me, there's gonna be a rumble. And woohoo! Caffeine!
It's going to be a long drive, though. Yes, cruise control is keeping us steady at 62 mph and YES, that IS 7 mph faster than 55 (double-check my math for me, would you? NOTE TO THE LISTMAKER: don't take that personally; I didn't really mean it). But all in all, I have to say I think we're off to a really great start. Which, considering how Corporate was trying to BLEED ME DRY RIGHT DOWN TO THE WIRE YESTERDAY, is pretty damn wonderful.
* My congratulating of myself turned out to be premature. Because, you see, I had not even brought Hondurasan coffee along to the games: it was Nicaraguan. So, nice job spelling, lousy job remembering. It all evens out!
June 7, 2008
Do Not Underestimate The Power of The Random Text
It was an all-too ordinary day. I was silently bemoaning the fact that I'd worked so hard in college only to become a glorified copy-paste monkey—and a Corporate glorified copy-paste monkey at that—and willfully wallowing in the twisted mire of overlying deadlines.
Loud Guy down the hall was carrying on as if the world were truly coming to an end, and I'd not only had to put my headphones on to counteract his jarring verbal spurts and spasms, but I'd had to turn it up to phone-jamming level as well.
(Not that anyone ever called me. At least, not that I'd really need to respond to promptly for some dramatic copy-paste emergency, anyway.)
In short, my imaginary friends, it was—as I said at the onset of this blather—an all-too ordinary day. And then the text message buzzed in, sending vibrations through my computer's docking station (atop which my cellphone rested), and breaching the audio moat that protected me from the interferences of the outside world.
I did not turn off my music, so I'm not really sure how loud my laugh was, or if it interrupted Loud Guy's rhythm for even a moment. But when I flipped open my phone and read this message from a dear friend:
The all-too ordinary day became delightful, original, and fun. And the moment—that tiny, silly, spur of a moment—returned to me at irregular intervals throughout the day, making me giggle when nothing was funny, and easing the sting of its predefined ordinariness.
And it's STILL doing that.
Loud Guy down the hall was carrying on as if the world were truly coming to an end, and I'd not only had to put my headphones on to counteract his jarring verbal spurts and spasms, but I'd had to turn it up to phone-jamming level as well.
(Not that anyone ever called me. At least, not that I'd really need to respond to promptly for some dramatic copy-paste emergency, anyway.)
In short, my imaginary friends, it was—as I said at the onset of this blather—an all-too ordinary day. And then the text message buzzed in, sending vibrations through my computer's docking station (atop which my cellphone rested), and breaching the audio moat that protected me from the interferences of the outside world.
I did not turn off my music, so I'm not really sure how loud my laugh was, or if it interrupted Loud Guy's rhythm for even a moment. But when I flipped open my phone and read this message from a dear friend:
Whenever im constipated, i think of u.Well!
The all-too ordinary day became delightful, original, and fun. And the moment—that tiny, silly, spur of a moment—returned to me at irregular intervals throughout the day, making me giggle when nothing was funny, and easing the sting of its predefined ordinariness.
And it's STILL doing that.
June 6, 2008
Remember The Denim!
In my prime, I possessed a number of jeans somewhere in the vicinity of the number of pounds I am now past my prime. Now, 40 pairs of jeans might sound excessive, but as fond as I remain to this day of the variety and comfort level of the humble denim pantaloons, it was nowhere near what I would have liked.
Just call me the Imelda Marcos of Denim.
Yes, some ladies like handbags, and some like shoes, and while I'm not at all opposed to either of these addictions, what came naturally to me was a craving for denim. Because this was—back in the skinny day—a need easily (and relatively cheaply) fed by the local Goodwill store, I didn't feel bad about it, either.
While certainly the fact that I've FAR surpassed the maximum capacity of my favorite jeans at this point has something to do with me not wearing them on a daily basis anymore, the fact that Corporate does NOT approve of denim is actually the main reason. Gone are my comfortable days of goes-with-everything denim, and instead I find myself in the weird world of pants that need to be IRONED before wearing.
*shudder*
Corporate is not entirely without a soul, however. At least at our local office, they rent a soul for ONE DAY—one very special day—every month, and on that day, all us tired, hungry-for-denim masses yearning to dress comfortably are thrown a tiny little Corporate Bone: we get to wear jeans! As you might well imagine, I committed that date to memory immediately upon discovering it in the comprehensive Corporate Dress Policy.
There's even a person in our working group who, a day or so before the hallowed Monthly Jeans Day, sends a mass e-mail reminding people of the event.
In the tradition of long-established tradition, there are several corollary traditions that have sprung up around Jeans Day. One of these appears to be an inside joke featuring a woman by the name of Jean, and another by another name, and we were all let in when the Jokester hit "Reply All" to the regular monthly "Jeans Day!" e-mail, "And next month, it's Other Names Day!"
Another case is that of a fairly new hire, who is purported to track his time to retirement in terms of Jeans Days. I think this is just about the only way I could find to degrade the concept of Jeans Day: if I had to think, each month as I donned my beloved denim, that there were now "only" 368 Jeans Days remaining until I could WEAR JEANS EVERY DAY LIKE NATURE INTENDED, I might not enjoy Jeans Days much at all.
My primary objection to the concept of Jeans Day, though, is in relation to those reminder e-mails. Honestly, if you don't care about jeans enough to remember the ONE DAY A MONTH you are permitted to wear them to an office that NO OUTSIDER CAN ENTER WITHOUT A SPECIAL PASS FROM SECURITY, then by golly, I contend that you don't deserve to wear jeans that day, either.
Just call me the Imelda Marcos of Denim.
Yes, some ladies like handbags, and some like shoes, and while I'm not at all opposed to either of these addictions, what came naturally to me was a craving for denim. Because this was—back in the skinny day—a need easily (and relatively cheaply) fed by the local Goodwill store, I didn't feel bad about it, either.
While certainly the fact that I've FAR surpassed the maximum capacity of my favorite jeans at this point has something to do with me not wearing them on a daily basis anymore, the fact that Corporate does NOT approve of denim is actually the main reason. Gone are my comfortable days of goes-with-everything denim, and instead I find myself in the weird world of pants that need to be IRONED before wearing.
*shudder*
Corporate is not entirely without a soul, however. At least at our local office, they rent a soul for ONE DAY—one very special day—every month, and on that day, all us tired, hungry-for-denim masses yearning to dress comfortably are thrown a tiny little Corporate Bone: we get to wear jeans! As you might well imagine, I committed that date to memory immediately upon discovering it in the comprehensive Corporate Dress Policy.
There's even a person in our working group who, a day or so before the hallowed Monthly Jeans Day, sends a mass e-mail reminding people of the event.
In the tradition of long-established tradition, there are several corollary traditions that have sprung up around Jeans Day. One of these appears to be an inside joke featuring a woman by the name of Jean, and another by another name, and we were all let in when the Jokester hit "Reply All" to the regular monthly "Jeans Day!" e-mail, "And next month, it's Other Names Day!"
Another case is that of a fairly new hire, who is purported to track his time to retirement in terms of Jeans Days. I think this is just about the only way I could find to degrade the concept of Jeans Day: if I had to think, each month as I donned my beloved denim, that there were now "only" 368 Jeans Days remaining until I could WEAR JEANS EVERY DAY LIKE NATURE INTENDED, I might not enjoy Jeans Days much at all.
My primary objection to the concept of Jeans Day, though, is in relation to those reminder e-mails. Honestly, if you don't care about jeans enough to remember the ONE DAY A MONTH you are permitted to wear them to an office that NO OUTSIDER CAN ENTER WITHOUT A SPECIAL PASS FROM SECURITY, then by golly, I contend that you don't deserve to wear jeans that day, either.
June 5, 2008
Of Vacations and Destinations
The cashier at Wal-Mart®, while not initially garrulous, was inspired the te obligatory miniature soap and lotion bottles that he was scanning to inquire, "Going on vacation?"
Typically excited by just the thought of our atypical destination, I smiled like a drunken crocodile and affirmed.
And then I waited for the cashier to ask—"Where?"—and imagined what his response to the one, unexpected—to him—word would be.
I didn't even have time to chastise myself for making ASSumptions, because it came down like a thundercloud opening up and the resulting drenching was anything but unexpected.
"Where to?"
"Wyoming!"
*brow quirk and slight neck-jerk backwards, followed by concentrated attention to scanned items for a moment, and then ...*
"Ah," he nodded, as if he'd fully anticipated hearing this, rather than "the shark-infested ocean" or "the money-sucking amusement park" or "the over-crowded national monument."
"Family?" He added next, in less of a questioning tone and more of a "Scooby-snack-winning" certainty.
"Yes," I said, my smirkish smile now extending into drunk-AND-stupid territory.
"Ah!" the cashier smiled back, his equilibrium restored, even though he never slowed down in his scanning duties. And then he proceeded to talk about HIS most recent vacation, to somewhere crowded, with known hazards—like any location—that, because he wanted to be there, he glossed over even as the very NAME of my destination raised his "known hazard" hackles.
It's funny how we become so inured to our chosen difficulties that those we do not choose seem so much grander than not. The dangers of the concrete jungle are no less deadly than those of the wild, and yet I would choose the possibility of rattlesnakes and pumas over thieves and muggers any day. Even though they are all (I hope) happily slim dangers.
Similarly, I am so enamored of the wonders of Wyoming—too many to name, but I'll take pictures ... LOTS OF PICTURES!—and so pleased to be able to share that with my daughter and my Mom, that these things seem impossibly above and beyond the marvels offered by any other vacation destination.
"Enjoy your vacation!" the cashier said, sounding perfectly sincere, as I loaded up the last of my purchases and started to push my cart away.
"Thank you! I will!" I replied, still smiling far too broadly for an introvert of such long, long standing. The cashier, already beginning to work on the next customer's waiting purchases, glanced back at me and produced a similar, wide grin. And I thought it's was so very nice that regardless of our distinct and different vacation preferences, we were united by the same, shared understanding of the broader base: vacation.
Besides, if more people regarded Wyoming as a destination rather than a stepping stone on the way to a destination, there would be less of it for me to enjoy. ;)
Typically excited by just the thought of our atypical destination, I smiled like a drunken crocodile and affirmed.
And then I waited for the cashier to ask—"Where?"—and imagined what his response to the one, unexpected—to him—word would be.
I didn't even have time to chastise myself for making ASSumptions, because it came down like a thundercloud opening up and the resulting drenching was anything but unexpected.
"Where to?"
"Wyoming!"
*brow quirk and slight neck-jerk backwards, followed by concentrated attention to scanned items for a moment, and then ...*
"Ah," he nodded, as if he'd fully anticipated hearing this, rather than "the shark-infested ocean" or "the money-sucking amusement park" or "the over-crowded national monument."
"Family?" He added next, in less of a questioning tone and more of a "Scooby-snack-winning" certainty.
"Yes," I said, my smirkish smile now extending into drunk-AND-stupid territory.
"Ah!" the cashier smiled back, his equilibrium restored, even though he never slowed down in his scanning duties. And then he proceeded to talk about HIS most recent vacation, to somewhere crowded, with known hazards—like any location—that, because he wanted to be there, he glossed over even as the very NAME of my destination raised his "known hazard" hackles.
It's funny how we become so inured to our chosen difficulties that those we do not choose seem so much grander than not. The dangers of the concrete jungle are no less deadly than those of the wild, and yet I would choose the possibility of rattlesnakes and pumas over thieves and muggers any day. Even though they are all (I hope) happily slim dangers.
Similarly, I am so enamored of the wonders of Wyoming—too many to name, but I'll take pictures ... LOTS OF PICTURES!—and so pleased to be able to share that with my daughter and my Mom, that these things seem impossibly above and beyond the marvels offered by any other vacation destination.
"Enjoy your vacation!" the cashier said, sounding perfectly sincere, as I loaded up the last of my purchases and started to push my cart away.
"Thank you! I will!" I replied, still smiling far too broadly for an introvert of such long, long standing. The cashier, already beginning to work on the next customer's waiting purchases, glanced back at me and produced a similar, wide grin. And I thought it's was so very nice that regardless of our distinct and different vacation preferences, we were united by the same, shared understanding of the broader base: vacation.
Besides, if more people regarded Wyoming as a destination rather than a stepping stone on the way to a destination, there would be less of it for me to enjoy. ;)
June 2, 2008
Goodbye, Bad Miss Dog
The pitter-patter of pet feet peaked in our house almost four years ago now. And then, Little Gray died, followed about two years later by Good Dog. By the time Old Lady Cat passed this February, the weight of the emptiness left in their absence was purely crushing ... these three fur-children were our family before Little Girl came so very marvelously into our lives.
Bad Dog, who arrived the very same year as Little Girl—whining all the way—was very much a part of our family, too. For all I have complained about her (and she's given me plenty to complain about; just check the Dogs archives), she's been far more than an obnoxious presence. She was the one who alerted us to even the most innocuous visitors (like the poor, lost pheasant who strolled onto our lawn), the one who pined at the window for us, and the one who taught Little Girl the responsibility of a pet long before her FRISKitty arrived.
Still, she has been enough trouble—and I have been enough of a whiner myself—that it would seem like there would be some, slight wave of relief when she finally left. I've joked about it myself, even as I've felt quiet guilt in so doing.
But when Bad Dog started, just a month ago, showing signs of the same, dreadful cancer that took Good Dog's life (incidentally common among female labrador retrievers), all there was in our house was sadness, overlaid with pained understanding. We knew far too well, and far too recently, how ugly things could get with this disease, and so I talked gently but frequently with Little Girl, and we spoiled Bad Dog like she'd been the best there'd ever been. She ate deli ham and roasted chicken skin, and she got (slow) bonus walks and if she had been interested in the refrigerator magnets any more, I'm sure we would have not chastened her for chewing them to bits.
However, it wasn't enough: not the medications that had bought Good Dog some extra time, and not the love that was always there, even if I never talked about it myself. And Bad Dog fell to the ravages of cancer even faster than Good Dog had, and just Friday rejoined her life-long friend, leaving us alone with FRISKitty in a house that now has only echoes of canine pitter-patters (FRISKitty makes a valiant effort to up the ante on the feline variety).
The house is so empty! And I tried so hard to talk to Little Girl, with the terrible shadow of Old Lady Cat still so dark over me, too, that I never did do much talking about it myself. I am one step behind reality, still surprised when I come home and the bedroom door is left ajar and there is no possibility that Bad Dog is there, but I still run to see what she's destroyed anyway, only to realize that she hasn't ... the ruin is left, instead, by the fact that she can't.
Nothing brought the emptiness to unbear like the sight of the neatly ordered living room that night after Bad Dog died, with no food bowl and no water bowl and all of her blankets removed. I found them in the basement, stacked neatly with her broken leash—tied and retied, and still serviceable after all of those walks, including the ones that had broken it—on top of the garbage can full of her food.
Goodbye,Bad Miss Dog. We miss you so much.
Bad Dog, who arrived the very same year as Little Girl—whining all the way—was very much a part of our family, too. For all I have complained about her (and she's given me plenty to complain about; just check the Dogs archives), she's been far more than an obnoxious presence. She was the one who alerted us to even the most innocuous visitors (like the poor, lost pheasant who strolled onto our lawn), the one who pined at the window for us, and the one who taught Little Girl the responsibility of a pet long before her FRISKitty arrived.
Still, she has been enough trouble—and I have been enough of a whiner myself—that it would seem like there would be some, slight wave of relief when she finally left. I've joked about it myself, even as I've felt quiet guilt in so doing.
But when Bad Dog started, just a month ago, showing signs of the same, dreadful cancer that took Good Dog's life (incidentally common among female labrador retrievers), all there was in our house was sadness, overlaid with pained understanding. We knew far too well, and far too recently, how ugly things could get with this disease, and so I talked gently but frequently with Little Girl, and we spoiled Bad Dog like she'd been the best there'd ever been. She ate deli ham and roasted chicken skin, and she got (slow) bonus walks and if she had been interested in the refrigerator magnets any more, I'm sure we would have not chastened her for chewing them to bits.
However, it wasn't enough: not the medications that had bought Good Dog some extra time, and not the love that was always there, even if I never talked about it myself. And Bad Dog fell to the ravages of cancer even faster than Good Dog had, and just Friday rejoined her life-long friend, leaving us alone with FRISKitty in a house that now has only echoes of canine pitter-patters (FRISKitty makes a valiant effort to up the ante on the feline variety).
The house is so empty! And I tried so hard to talk to Little Girl, with the terrible shadow of Old Lady Cat still so dark over me, too, that I never did do much talking about it myself. I am one step behind reality, still surprised when I come home and the bedroom door is left ajar and there is no possibility that Bad Dog is there, but I still run to see what she's destroyed anyway, only to realize that she hasn't ... the ruin is left, instead, by the fact that she can't.
Nothing brought the emptiness to unbear like the sight of the neatly ordered living room that night after Bad Dog died, with no food bowl and no water bowl and all of her blankets removed. I found them in the basement, stacked neatly with her broken leash—tied and retied, and still serviceable after all of those walks, including the ones that had broken it—on top of the garbage can full of her food.
Goodbye,
May 28, 2008
The Summer of My Not Understanding
Having done so relatively little writing over the past few months, and having such a sloppily replete pile o' writing notes from which to choose, it is irritating—like the niggling itch left behind a few days post-blood donation—that I would feel most drawn to a scrawled generated writing prompt. It's like going to a dessert buffet and selecting the vanilla pudding.
That being said (with apologies to The Righter for that horrid phrase), today's prompt—generated a long series of yesterdays ago—is this: Something nobody knows about me is ...
Now, it's difficult enough, when I've confided everything from how much I loved The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe to my (many) issues with hypothyroidism-induced constipation and some other disturbing and/or odd things in between, to think of something ELSE ... specifically, something else that NOBODY knows about me. Also, something else that nobody knows about me that I don't mind sharing with THE INTERNET. Sure, it's easy to do with stuff like the unexpected flight of a feminine hygiene disposal unit, because that JUST HAPPENED, but I did share that story with several people IRL before going relatively-anonymous-blogging with it.
And? To be something that NOBODY knows about me, wouldn't I have to think of something even I don't know about me, thereby disqualifying that thing as a criteria-meeting fact or incident at the very moment that I think of it?
(Overthinking it? Really? Huh. Well, you might be right.)
Anyway, if we do—for the sake of completing this post before the end of the month and the duration of any poor, lingering potential reader's last remaining nanosecond of patience—assume that by "something nobody knows about me," what is actually meant is "something nobody, excluding myself, knows about me," then I think I may, after a day and a half of on-and-off pondering, have a little something. And the only other thing I have to say is THANK GOODNESS the prompt didn't also include the word "interesting."
FINALLY, here it is: Something nobody knows about me is ... late one summer night, when I was sixteen or so, I snuck out into the kitchen, opened the knife drawer, and removed one of the sharpest knives from the drawer. I remember a light, cool breeze pushing in through the kitchen window, which was often open a bit during the summer, since we had no air conditioning, and the summer heat could be stifling.
I remember, too, the perfect stillness of the night—not windless, as I said, nor silent, either—but still, like a dream, where things are not quite real, but you know you're not dreaming, either. It was an offset, misplaced sort of stillness, with bugs chirping their odd symphonies and the scent of green life everywhere more pungently aromatic than fabric softener could ever wish to be.
And I remember the way the knife felt when I drew it across my upturned left arm—light, because I had no intention of harming myself, but heavy, because I had an intellectual understanding of how some people my age really could hear the dark, internal whisper that told them that hope was nothing more than a concept, and things would only get worse. So I skimmed the knife slowly across the very surface of my skin—hard enough to feel it, but not even close enough to the force required to break that fragile barrier—but even then, I could not fathom the depth of the ache that could propel the force required by the knife to slice through skin, much less cut into arteries.
The summer could be stifling, but I shivered when I put the knife away. It was, I think, the first time I understood how very fortunate one can be to not understand something.
That being said (with apologies to The Righter for that horrid phrase), today's prompt—generated a long series of yesterdays ago—is this: Something nobody knows about me is ...
Now, it's difficult enough, when I've confided everything from how much I loved The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe to my (many) issues with hypothyroidism-induced constipation and some other disturbing and/or odd things in between, to think of something ELSE ... specifically, something else that NOBODY knows about me. Also, something else that nobody knows about me that I don't mind sharing with THE INTERNET. Sure, it's easy to do with stuff like the unexpected flight of a feminine hygiene disposal unit, because that JUST HAPPENED, but I did share that story with several people IRL before going relatively-anonymous-blogging with it.
And? To be something that NOBODY knows about me, wouldn't I have to think of something even I don't know about me, thereby disqualifying that thing as a criteria-meeting fact or incident at the very moment that I think of it?
(Overthinking it? Really? Huh. Well, you might be right.)
Anyway, if we do—for the sake of completing this post before the end of the month and the duration of any poor, lingering potential reader's last remaining nanosecond of patience—assume that by "something nobody knows about me," what is actually meant is "something nobody, excluding myself, knows about me," then I think I may, after a day and a half of on-and-off pondering, have a little something. And the only other thing I have to say is THANK GOODNESS the prompt didn't also include the word "interesting."
FINALLY, here it is: Something nobody knows about me is ... late one summer night, when I was sixteen or so, I snuck out into the kitchen, opened the knife drawer, and removed one of the sharpest knives from the drawer. I remember a light, cool breeze pushing in through the kitchen window, which was often open a bit during the summer, since we had no air conditioning, and the summer heat could be stifling.
I remember, too, the perfect stillness of the night—not windless, as I said, nor silent, either—but still, like a dream, where things are not quite real, but you know you're not dreaming, either. It was an offset, misplaced sort of stillness, with bugs chirping their odd symphonies and the scent of green life everywhere more pungently aromatic than fabric softener could ever wish to be.
And I remember the way the knife felt when I drew it across my upturned left arm—light, because I had no intention of harming myself, but heavy, because I had an intellectual understanding of how some people my age really could hear the dark, internal whisper that told them that hope was nothing more than a concept, and things would only get worse. So I skimmed the knife slowly across the very surface of my skin—hard enough to feel it, but not even close enough to the force required to break that fragile barrier—but even then, I could not fathom the depth of the ache that could propel the force required by the knife to slice through skin, much less cut into arteries.
The summer could be stifling, but I shivered when I put the knife away. It was, I think, the first time I understood how very fortunate one can be to not understand something.
May 25, 2008
Meat Hunter
If you haven't heard the term "meat hunter" before—and even if you have, because I know how you people think, and it can be a wee bit warpy—it means simply this: a hunter who's purpose in partaking of the predator/prey process is, entirely or primarily, to consume the hunted. While the term doesn't carry an obligatory negative connotation, it's my opinion that those who consider themselves "true sportsmen" (regardless of gender), more often than not look down upon the lowly meat hunter.
I could get into the ethics and philosophy of the various factions of hunting fans—and I would have a good time doing that, too—and from my general and blather by-product-specific perspectives, I can understand virtually any hunting style—with the notable exception of trophy-hunting—but again, that's not exactly related to my point.
A "sportsman" will be the first to tell you that hunting is about more than meat. There is a spirituality to it, though it varies on just as many levels as any other spirituality, from the deep and devotional followers who live in constant anticipation of their next, profoundly sacred pilgrimage, to the casual, weekend-worshipper whose interest is evenly divided between getting out of routine household chores and the somewhat-droning sermon at hand.
Thus, the True Sportsmen tend to disdain—to some degree—the Meat Hunters. Even if the meat hunter might tremble with the same fervor that the true sportsmen experiences from time to time, they are not the same, for the meat hunters will not make an effort if to for the fact that they intend to eat what they kill ... they are less likely to seek new sites, pursue new game, or pass up on a Sure Thing for the chance at a Maybe Bigger.
As a (lapsed) meat hunter who lives with a true sportsman, I am very well aware of the distinct differences in our philosophies. I no longer choose to partake of the (often dubious) "thrill" of the hunt when faced with inclement weather, or an increased density of hunters in the field, or even an increased fee for a license. I do not have so great a need to hunt that I see a fair exchange in my comfort—and hours of sleep—for a chance to stalk wild game in the great outdoors, as opposed to Little Girl's daddy, who will happily make do on three hours of sleep during turkey season, for example. As for me, well, I no longer concede that wild turkey tastes THAT much better than an on-sale Butterball®.
Of course, neither does Little Girl's daddy, for the opportunity to put meat on the table was never his primary motivator in hunting. While we both enjoy the rawness of nature and the challenge of providing food in the very basic sense of such a venture, to me, it's more of a necessary evil than a way of life. I do not enjoy practicing the necessary techniques and calls, and I certainly do not savor the expense of time and energy involved.
No, when I hunted—mainly pheasant and pronghorn antelope, and all of it in Wyoming—I hunted for food: for the ability to take my necessary ingestion of calories all the way from the field to the dinner table, getting my own hands dirty and, in so doing, acquiring complete and total understanding of what it took to put a steak on my plate. There was no hiding behind a plastic tray, neatly wrapped in cellophane and presented with the clean, gloved hands of a grocery-store butcher ... not at all. There was sweat, there were tears, and there was blood—the sight of it, the scent of it, and the slowly-cooling warmth of it.
As it should be for everyone who chooses to eat meat, I think, but I was not going to go there, was I? :)
Musically, I make a more enthusiastic meat hunter than I did with respect to wild game—I don't mind investing my time at Amazon, listening to samples and comparing notes. I don't mind the discomfort (and the chair that sits before the computer can only dream of rivaling the lousier goose blinds I've had the distinct displeasure of crouching in, I'll have you know), or the effort of tracking down a snippet I've heard on the Internet or radio (ask me about the time I got enthralled with a defunct band called Shun). I do what I have to in order to procure music that moves me, and I do it with the single-minded focus of the dedicated religious zealot.
However, while I can wax poetic and go off and on and on and on about my favorite styles or qualities or songs, I cannot discuss it with knowledge so much as I can with instinct, and I cannot analyze it with surety born of intellect so much as heart.
In other words, dear musical sportsmen, I can savor the steak or the hamburger just as much as you can, but I can't tell you if the beast was corn or grass fed. I like what I like, but I don't like it because of the notes of flavor that are well-understood by the musically-literate ... I like it because it feeds me, fills me, and nourishes me. All of which are excellent reasons for liking music, but none of which will place me in the haloed spotlight streaming out of the clouds of expertdom and thus make me look and sound like I know what the heck I'm talking about.
I thought I'd mentioned it before, but as my search of the archives has not turned it up, perhaps I have not: I once attended a presentation by my old graduate school compatriot, The Professor (this professor, not this professor, whose excellent-metal acquaintance I made much later) that addressed, in very technically impressive terms, The Physics of Music. I was never so good at The Physics as I was at The Math (or even the Chemistry, which makes it all the more ridiculous that I went after The Physics in graduate school), but I may never have been so in love with The Physics as I was that day, when The Professor—a double-major in physics and music—dissected, with deep and adoring abandon, the conjugal relations of the two.
I don't remember the details, but I remember the surprised thrall in the room, and we were (the lot of us) rapt, which was particularly remarkable because we all hated the class—a torturous, required course that was intended to improve our largely limited instructing abilities—so that we might better serve as Graduate TeachingSlaves Assistants. When The Professor took his turn on the assignment that included a real, live presentation, though, we all forgot about the annoying course instructor—whose favored disturbing habit was quoting HIMSELF to us for our edification, or maybe just to piss us off—and we basically just tried to keep up.
The Physics, as it pertains to music, you see, is freaking AMAZING!
And when it was over, and The Professor's praises were being sung in off-key but ravingly-enthusiastic tones by He Who Quoteth HisSelf, I remember my own awed and congratulatory response. I also remember knowing that I would never really understand that which I had just heard ... I knew it with absolute and profound certainty, too, because I knew it with my HEART—yet another supporting fact behind the "never really understand" feeling, 'cause if my head HAD been capable of wrapping around it, I would have had at least a little glimmer of "a-HA!" to go with my embossed impression and glittery amazement.
The true sportsman—of game or music—may find it hard to imagine (and sometimes, to accept), but I think that there are those among us meat hunters who are able to nurture our spirits simultaneous to nourishing our bodies. But given the physical reaction that I have to certain songs and specific musical phrases, it's blatantly obvious to me that even though my taste may be deemed hamburger-chic by the musical elite, my soul's savoring it with the same worshipful reverence as if it were tenderloin.
Now if you'll excuse me, all this babbling has made me awfully hungry ...
I could get into the ethics and philosophy of the various factions of hunting fans—and I would have a good time doing that, too—and from my general and blather by-product-specific perspectives, I can understand virtually any hunting style—with the notable exception of trophy-hunting—but again, that's not exactly related to my point.
A "sportsman" will be the first to tell you that hunting is about more than meat. There is a spirituality to it, though it varies on just as many levels as any other spirituality, from the deep and devotional followers who live in constant anticipation of their next, profoundly sacred pilgrimage, to the casual, weekend-worshipper whose interest is evenly divided between getting out of routine household chores and the somewhat-droning sermon at hand.
Thus, the True Sportsmen tend to disdain—to some degree—the Meat Hunters. Even if the meat hunter might tremble with the same fervor that the true sportsmen experiences from time to time, they are not the same, for the meat hunters will not make an effort if to for the fact that they intend to eat what they kill ... they are less likely to seek new sites, pursue new game, or pass up on a Sure Thing for the chance at a Maybe Bigger.
As a (lapsed) meat hunter who lives with a true sportsman, I am very well aware of the distinct differences in our philosophies. I no longer choose to partake of the (often dubious) "thrill" of the hunt when faced with inclement weather, or an increased density of hunters in the field, or even an increased fee for a license. I do not have so great a need to hunt that I see a fair exchange in my comfort—and hours of sleep—for a chance to stalk wild game in the great outdoors, as opposed to Little Girl's daddy, who will happily make do on three hours of sleep during turkey season, for example. As for me, well, I no longer concede that wild turkey tastes THAT much better than an on-sale Butterball®.
Of course, neither does Little Girl's daddy, for the opportunity to put meat on the table was never his primary motivator in hunting. While we both enjoy the rawness of nature and the challenge of providing food in the very basic sense of such a venture, to me, it's more of a necessary evil than a way of life. I do not enjoy practicing the necessary techniques and calls, and I certainly do not savor the expense of time and energy involved.
No, when I hunted—mainly pheasant and pronghorn antelope, and all of it in Wyoming—I hunted for food: for the ability to take my necessary ingestion of calories all the way from the field to the dinner table, getting my own hands dirty and, in so doing, acquiring complete and total understanding of what it took to put a steak on my plate. There was no hiding behind a plastic tray, neatly wrapped in cellophane and presented with the clean, gloved hands of a grocery-store butcher ... not at all. There was sweat, there were tears, and there was blood—the sight of it, the scent of it, and the slowly-cooling warmth of it.
As it should be for everyone who chooses to eat meat, I think, but I was not going to go there, was I? :)
Musically, I make a more enthusiastic meat hunter than I did with respect to wild game—I don't mind investing my time at Amazon, listening to samples and comparing notes. I don't mind the discomfort (and the chair that sits before the computer can only dream of rivaling the lousier goose blinds I've had the distinct displeasure of crouching in, I'll have you know), or the effort of tracking down a snippet I've heard on the Internet or radio (ask me about the time I got enthralled with a defunct band called Shun). I do what I have to in order to procure music that moves me, and I do it with the single-minded focus of the dedicated religious zealot.
However, while I can wax poetic and go off and on and on and on about my favorite styles or qualities or songs, I cannot discuss it with knowledge so much as I can with instinct, and I cannot analyze it with surety born of intellect so much as heart.
In other words, dear musical sportsmen, I can savor the steak or the hamburger just as much as you can, but I can't tell you if the beast was corn or grass fed. I like what I like, but I don't like it because of the notes of flavor that are well-understood by the musically-literate ... I like it because it feeds me, fills me, and nourishes me. All of which are excellent reasons for liking music, but none of which will place me in the haloed spotlight streaming out of the clouds of expertdom and thus make me look and sound like I know what the heck I'm talking about.
I thought I'd mentioned it before, but as my search of the archives has not turned it up, perhaps I have not: I once attended a presentation by my old graduate school compatriot, The Professor (this professor, not this professor, whose excellent-metal acquaintance I made much later) that addressed, in very technically impressive terms, The Physics of Music. I was never so good at The Physics as I was at The Math (or even the Chemistry, which makes it all the more ridiculous that I went after The Physics in graduate school), but I may never have been so in love with The Physics as I was that day, when The Professor—a double-major in physics and music—dissected, with deep and adoring abandon, the conjugal relations of the two.
I don't remember the details, but I remember the surprised thrall in the room, and we were (the lot of us) rapt, which was particularly remarkable because we all hated the class—a torturous, required course that was intended to improve our largely limited instructing abilities—so that we might better serve as Graduate Teaching
The Physics, as it pertains to music, you see, is freaking AMAZING!
And when it was over, and The Professor's praises were being sung in off-key but ravingly-enthusiastic tones by He Who Quoteth HisSelf, I remember my own awed and congratulatory response. I also remember knowing that I would never really understand that which I had just heard ... I knew it with absolute and profound certainty, too, because I knew it with my HEART—yet another supporting fact behind the "never really understand" feeling, 'cause if my head HAD been capable of wrapping around it, I would have had at least a little glimmer of "a-HA!" to go with my embossed impression and glittery amazement.
The true sportsman—of game or music—may find it hard to imagine (and sometimes, to accept), but I think that there are those among us meat hunters who are able to nurture our spirits simultaneous to nourishing our bodies. But given the physical reaction that I have to certain songs and specific musical phrases, it's blatantly obvious to me that even though my taste may be deemed hamburger-chic by the musical elite, my soul's savoring it with the same worshipful reverence as if it were tenderloin.
Now if you'll excuse me, all this babbling has made me awfully hungry ...
April 24, 2008
An Utterly Uninteresting Hour And What I Learned From It
I just spent about an hour learning that it's really difficult to saw through chains. Now, it would be awesome if I were going to be able to take that statement and move on to some boring cliché—albeit one clad in highly descriptive and evocative clothing—but alas, I mean it quite literally.
Some time ago, my dad (the Professional Engineer) designed a pull-up bar for use in our basement. Shut up, I realize NOW that had I used this device with greater frequency and dedication, my recovery from my clutzy-stupid fall on the ice last month would be hastened, not to mention EASIER. Suffice it to say that I'm a lazy lump with good intentions, and I did not invest the same energy into using the pull-up bar as I did in requesting it.
Anyway, this pull-up bar is neatly designed for stability, portability, andstyle fiscal responsibility. It's a metal bar secured with screw-on thingies at either end, suspended from heavy-duty brackets by two lengths of chain. If you can, please get over my mechanical ineptitude and let's move on to the LENGTHS of chain, because that's the key here ... they were something like four feet longer than they needed to be.
The thing is, I had kind of blown the wad on getting the thing installed in the first place, as Little Girl's daddy wasn't into the project, and we work about as well together as car parts (what? I don't know the technical terms for those, either!) lubricated by tapioca pudding instead of motor oil. So once it was installed and I'd realized that I'd have to work my way up to ONE pull-up, the whole plan flat-out stalled.
Inasmuch as dangling chains ARE a nuisance in a house inhabited by tall people, the task of shortening them was so daunting that I spent months procrastinating. Besides, the chains could be wrapped around the bar repeatedly and then they were sort of out of the way! So the problem persisted, jingling occasionally, like when Little Girl's daddy would bash into them, but generally tolerable ... for me.
And then, I smashed my shoulder into ice-coated pavement and started a too-long healing road, and so TODAY, I decided, those chains were getting shortened. RIGHT. NOW. And so I adjusted the bar to a height under which Little Girl's daddy could (hopefully) walk without ducking, and proceeded to peruse the entirely disarranged tool collection for a saw that would cut metal.
While my vocabulary in the arena of things mechanical and/or engineering-related is sadly lacking, I am not without SOME modicum of common sense, and so I found a saw, and upon determining that a chain was damn hard to hold securely while wielding a finger-endangering implement, I found first a standard plier-thingie and later an extra-heavy-duty adjustable wrench-like-item and so I hung onto the chain more safely with one hand while I sawed like fury with the other.
And after ten minutes or so of that shit, I learned that chains are damn difficult to saw through. The End.
(Just kidding. Although, yeah, that's basically it.)
I sawed and sawed and sawed and realized, CRAP, now I have to saw through the OTHER side. Because, d'oh! You can't just bend chain that thick so that you can maneuver the rest of it through the half-sawed link. NO, you HAVE to saw through BOTH sides. So I did. And after I took a half-hour break to WRITE about this FREAKING BORING EPISODE ON MY BLOG, I sawed through the OTHER side. The End.
(Really. That's what happened. And that's what I learned.)
Some time ago, my dad (the Professional Engineer) designed a pull-up bar for use in our basement. Shut up, I realize NOW that had I used this device with greater frequency and dedication, my recovery from my clutzy-stupid fall on the ice last month would be hastened, not to mention EASIER. Suffice it to say that I'm a lazy lump with good intentions, and I did not invest the same energy into using the pull-up bar as I did in requesting it.
Anyway, this pull-up bar is neatly designed for stability, portability, and
The thing is, I had kind of blown the wad on getting the thing installed in the first place, as Little Girl's daddy wasn't into the project, and we work about as well together as car parts (what? I don't know the technical terms for those, either!) lubricated by tapioca pudding instead of motor oil. So once it was installed and I'd realized that I'd have to work my way up to ONE pull-up, the whole plan flat-out stalled.
Inasmuch as dangling chains ARE a nuisance in a house inhabited by tall people, the task of shortening them was so daunting that I spent months procrastinating. Besides, the chains could be wrapped around the bar repeatedly and then they were sort of out of the way! So the problem persisted, jingling occasionally, like when Little Girl's daddy would bash into them, but generally tolerable ... for me.
And then, I smashed my shoulder into ice-coated pavement and started a too-long healing road, and so TODAY, I decided, those chains were getting shortened. RIGHT. NOW. And so I adjusted the bar to a height under which Little Girl's daddy could (hopefully) walk without ducking, and proceeded to peruse the entirely disarranged tool collection for a saw that would cut metal.
While my vocabulary in the arena of things mechanical and/or engineering-related is sadly lacking, I am not without SOME modicum of common sense, and so I found a saw, and upon determining that a chain was damn hard to hold securely while wielding a finger-endangering implement, I found first a standard plier-thingie and later an extra-heavy-duty adjustable wrench-like-item and so I hung onto the chain more safely with one hand while I sawed like fury with the other.
And after ten minutes or so of that shit, I learned that chains are damn difficult to saw through. The End.
(Just kidding. Although, yeah, that's basically it.)
I sawed and sawed and sawed and realized, CRAP, now I have to saw through the OTHER side. Because, d'oh! You can't just bend chain that thick so that you can maneuver the rest of it through the half-sawed link. NO, you HAVE to saw through BOTH sides. So I did. And after I took a half-hour break to WRITE about this FREAKING BORING EPISODE ON MY BLOG, I sawed through the OTHER side. The End.
(Really. That's what happened. And that's what I learned.)
January 17, 2008
Doubt
It's been a full week since I've written anything in novel or blog. That this unseemly lack of productivity was due more to physical than psychological inability does little for my morale, as the end result is the same: a glut of words in my brain, crowding my low-functioning synapses in their abruptly arrested stampede to escape.
They sit there, gibbering and cross-breeding in unnatural ways, their offspring happily sterile and sadly far less interesting than a liger. If I wasn't already feeling the effects of bitter cold January, dark and lingering and multiplicative with the sheer inelegance of a back rendered throbbingly sensitive by a wrongfully-directed sneeze—with an innocuous little SNEEZE, I caused myself this week-plus of posture-warping back pain ... a SNEEZE ... WTF?—then I should certainly be brought down by a clogged mental pipe of unraveling, unreleased thought.
As in most cases of depression, albethey minor and major, I found that stacking just a few less-than-ideal blocks upon one another resulted in a skyscraper of pointlessness. It wasn't just my back and midwinter that sucked, see, it was everything, and in the deep sea of craptasticness, I more-or-less willingly drowned, spending my heating-pad-relegated time in crushing despair, reiterating every little thing that is wrong in my life and berating myself for it, whether I was solely, mostly, minorly, or not at all responsible.
(Except for most of Saturday, where I was wrapped up in the warm thrall of The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass, the latter two books in the series that begins with The Golden Compass ... THAT time was deliciously and quickly spent, and not even the odd angle at which I was forced to extrude myself from my chair could warp my spirit during those lovely, escapist hours. DAMN, but I liked those books quite a lot!)
Anyway, you get the idea, my back is a giant wuss and my brain is into self-mutilation, and the past week without writing was largely unpleasant, like mental constipation with cramps. Or something. The one productive—if I may glamorize it by calling it such—thing I did was get to the root of my "I hate my job" issue. I can't say it was so much of a cheery "A-HA!" experience as it was a gloomy "Ohhh" moment, but at least I finally got out of that particular thought-circle and onto the downward spiral away from it and on to the next one.
What happened was this: I was getting ready for another day on the job, and the dread welled up like whines out of the most recently ousted team on The Amazing Race and I paced around my usual depressive loop while barely retaining sour tears. But then it occurred to me to consider—to really, deeply ponder—the WHY of the loathing, rather than simply flop around in my sweltering unhappiness like a fish voluntarily leaping from water.
It seems like an obvious thing to do, I'm sure, but remember the frozen January mire in which I am trapped, please, and top that dreary, sludgy sundae off with the great, big, maraschino-cherry nastiness of stabbing, labor-esque back pain. Mmmm, tastes just like ipecac!
So I finally dug to the root of my problem, and oddly enough, it wasn't just corporateness and having to dress like a grown-up and bland, day-after-day routine and repetitiveness. No, past all that and the mourning of faded on-the-job friendships and the griping of all-executives-are-really-backstabbing-bastards, under the doom and gloom and a thousand other surface complaints, what I found a tiny little pea of a problem that was the root cause of my discomfort under the lovely padded mattresses of regular paychecks and my very own cubicle just down the hall from a double-doored bathroom in which people feel comfortable enough to talk on the phone whilst relieving themselves. And HUM! Yesterday I heard someone HUMMING while she pooped!
But I digress—in an obvious procrastinatorial attempt to escape this self-dictated confessional—so here it is, the truth: I don't like to work hard.
Not satisfied with being a mere lazy slob, I went from the main root to the first branches of it, and there I found that I don't like being challenged. I don't mean because of my many mental impairments either, but rather because of being assigned tasks that are outside or even just hanging off the edges of my warm little ring o' comfort. I don't like having to work hard because I don't like trying to rise to a challenge, and all of that is, of course, because I am afraid that I won't be able to, which means, of course, that I'm as full of the title of this entry as a political debate is full of calculation and blather.
Ouch. The realization of the depths of my lack of personal fortitude struck me like a 2x4 between the eyes, and left a mark in the shape of an "L."
It shouldn't be a surprise, and it's certainly not unique. I don't know anyone who doesn't have their doubts, often about even their own most well-documented strengths. Even an elite marathoner realizes s/he might not finish any given race, and when one isn't a top-level competitor—say, in going on down to the grocery store to purchase a little Gerber® jar of pureed ham for one's much-loved, very ill Old Lady Cat who has refused to eat anything else—there is no guarantee of success. I could have broken my leg after slipping on the flurry of "Winter Storm Warning" flakes outside the store (I didn't), someone could have stolen my wallet (no), or the store might have been flat-fucking OUT of that one variety of sloppy goo (oh yes, they were).
(Thankfully, Old Lady Cat seems to like the fine-ground chicken just as well. And I think what she's got is just a cold, although when you're roughly 92 in people years, there's really no such thing as "just a cold.")
So. Doubt. It would appear that this crafty beast is actually worse than depression. It feeds on anything it can, of course, discriminating not between physical disabilities and mental ones, and it loads every worry with more than its own weight, making it more ferocious and intimidating—as in panic and anxiety—or more inflated and crushing—as in weakness and depression. That I'm no exception to the general rules of human existence should be encouraging, I expect, but with doubt as my monkey on my already-aching back, I cannot be expected to believe that which I so glibly spout into cyberspace.
Really. As if I could just get over it and find my grown-up panties, which I DON'T EVEN LIKE, much less put those things on.
Still, I remain of the opinion that knowledge—however apparently pointless—is intrinsically powerful, I must conclude that as hopeless as my work mood and my general attitude seem, the fact that I've glimpsed their awkward ass ends is, I think, a good thing. Now that I know the true extent of the problem, I have increased my chances—however slight—of putting these bloated issues on a crash diet, so that I can send them packing with one well-placed kick. Or maybe 40 or so of them, like at the end of that GOD-awful Tae Bo® video that I still dredge out on increasingly rare occasion.
Maybe.
They sit there, gibbering and cross-breeding in unnatural ways, their offspring happily sterile and sadly far less interesting than a liger. If I wasn't already feeling the effects of bitter cold January, dark and lingering and multiplicative with the sheer inelegance of a back rendered throbbingly sensitive by a wrongfully-directed sneeze—with an innocuous little SNEEZE, I caused myself this week-plus of posture-warping back pain ... a SNEEZE ... WTF?—then I should certainly be brought down by a clogged mental pipe of unraveling, unreleased thought.
As in most cases of depression, albethey minor and major, I found that stacking just a few less-than-ideal blocks upon one another resulted in a skyscraper of pointlessness. It wasn't just my back and midwinter that sucked, see, it was everything, and in the deep sea of craptasticness, I more-or-less willingly drowned, spending my heating-pad-relegated time in crushing despair, reiterating every little thing that is wrong in my life and berating myself for it, whether I was solely, mostly, minorly, or not at all responsible.
(Except for most of Saturday, where I was wrapped up in the warm thrall of The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass, the latter two books in the series that begins with The Golden Compass ... THAT time was deliciously and quickly spent, and not even the odd angle at which I was forced to extrude myself from my chair could warp my spirit during those lovely, escapist hours. DAMN, but I liked those books quite a lot!)
Anyway, you get the idea, my back is a giant wuss and my brain is into self-mutilation, and the past week without writing was largely unpleasant, like mental constipation with cramps. Or something. The one productive—if I may glamorize it by calling it such—thing I did was get to the root of my "I hate my job" issue. I can't say it was so much of a cheery "A-HA!" experience as it was a gloomy "Ohhh" moment, but at least I finally got out of that particular thought-circle and onto the downward spiral away from it and on to the next one.
What happened was this: I was getting ready for another day on the job, and the dread welled up like whines out of the most recently ousted team on The Amazing Race and I paced around my usual depressive loop while barely retaining sour tears. But then it occurred to me to consider—to really, deeply ponder—the WHY of the loathing, rather than simply flop around in my sweltering unhappiness like a fish voluntarily leaping from water.
It seems like an obvious thing to do, I'm sure, but remember the frozen January mire in which I am trapped, please, and top that dreary, sludgy sundae off with the great, big, maraschino-cherry nastiness of stabbing, labor-esque back pain. Mmmm, tastes just like ipecac!
So I finally dug to the root of my problem, and oddly enough, it wasn't just corporateness and having to dress like a grown-up and bland, day-after-day routine and repetitiveness. No, past all that and the mourning of faded on-the-job friendships and the griping of all-executives-are-really-backstabbing-bastards, under the doom and gloom and a thousand other surface complaints, what I found a tiny little pea of a problem that was the root cause of my discomfort under the lovely padded mattresses of regular paychecks and my very own cubicle just down the hall from a double-doored bathroom in which people feel comfortable enough to talk on the phone whilst relieving themselves. And HUM! Yesterday I heard someone HUMMING while she pooped!
But I digress—in an obvious procrastinatorial attempt to escape this self-dictated confessional—so here it is, the truth: I don't like to work hard.
Not satisfied with being a mere lazy slob, I went from the main root to the first branches of it, and there I found that I don't like being challenged. I don't mean because of my many mental impairments either, but rather because of being assigned tasks that are outside or even just hanging off the edges of my warm little ring o' comfort. I don't like having to work hard because I don't like trying to rise to a challenge, and all of that is, of course, because I am afraid that I won't be able to, which means, of course, that I'm as full of the title of this entry as a political debate is full of calculation and blather.
Ouch. The realization of the depths of my lack of personal fortitude struck me like a 2x4 between the eyes, and left a mark in the shape of an "L."
It shouldn't be a surprise, and it's certainly not unique. I don't know anyone who doesn't have their doubts, often about even their own most well-documented strengths. Even an elite marathoner realizes s/he might not finish any given race, and when one isn't a top-level competitor—say, in going on down to the grocery store to purchase a little Gerber® jar of pureed ham for one's much-loved, very ill Old Lady Cat who has refused to eat anything else—there is no guarantee of success. I could have broken my leg after slipping on the flurry of "Winter Storm Warning" flakes outside the store (I didn't), someone could have stolen my wallet (no), or the store might have been flat-fucking OUT of that one variety of sloppy goo (oh yes, they were).
(Thankfully, Old Lady Cat seems to like the fine-ground chicken just as well. And I think what she's got is just a cold, although when you're roughly 92 in people years, there's really no such thing as "just a cold.")
So. Doubt. It would appear that this crafty beast is actually worse than depression. It feeds on anything it can, of course, discriminating not between physical disabilities and mental ones, and it loads every worry with more than its own weight, making it more ferocious and intimidating—as in panic and anxiety—or more inflated and crushing—as in weakness and depression. That I'm no exception to the general rules of human existence should be encouraging, I expect, but with doubt as my monkey on my already-aching back, I cannot be expected to believe that which I so glibly spout into cyberspace.
Really. As if I could just get over it and find my grown-up panties, which I DON'T EVEN LIKE, much less put those things on.
Still, I remain of the opinion that knowledge—however apparently pointless—is intrinsically powerful, I must conclude that as hopeless as my work mood and my general attitude seem, the fact that I've glimpsed their awkward ass ends is, I think, a good thing. Now that I know the true extent of the problem, I have increased my chances—however slight—of putting these bloated issues on a crash diet, so that I can send them packing with one well-placed kick. Or maybe 40 or so of them, like at the end of that GOD-awful Tae Bo® video that I still dredge out on increasingly rare occasion.
Maybe.
January 8, 2008
Reading, My Alethiometer
As a child, I got into science fiction early and read it often. Some of my earliest and fondest memories are of the adventures I had while reading, absorbed into the splendid, thought-provoking and artfully described places of another person's imaginings.
No fancy pants or frilly dolls for me, oh no. And when my collection of largely genre-specific books outgrew its three-level shelf, I advanced it across the top, and into a second row on each of the three levels after that, aided by length-cut-to-fit 2x4s hidden behind the first rows. Once the reading bug has bitten you, it's hard to shake the stubborn beast loose, and that goes at least double for the robot insect of science fiction—it also has deep-embedding fangs rather than tiny little bug teeth.
In the beginning, I believe there may have been an odd fantasy tale or two betwixt the mostly hard science fiction stories that lined my shelves like double-walled reality insulation. But I soon disdained that related genre, finding such things generally difficult to read, or beyond my brain's ability to fully saturate within.
The dragons, ye see, more often than not, spoke in riddles, peppered with undefined terminology, and their worlds were often over-spiced with political intrigue that frustrated my ability to comprehend it, and prevented me from enjoying it.
The intervening years, of grown-uppedness and child-rearing and mundane concerns like eating and paying the mortgage, have been largely reading-free. There's even a few parenting books sitting straight, alone, and dusty where the shiny legion of science fiction once reigned—science fiction, with cracked bindings to attest to great and frequent use. Somewhere after college, I ran out of time or will or perhaps even need to drown myself in worlds where I was challenged in ways that were sure to make me happy, and make me more than I was—worlds that, unlike this one, didn't stand a chance of hurting me or making me withdraw further into myself.
But the controversy over The Golden Compass, and the strong endorsement of The Righter for the quality of the story behind the heated debate of its thematic and/or designed heresy, overrode the practice and practicality of those lean science fiction years. And not even my discovery that The Golden Compass was of the personally-trying fantasy genre would deter me, no! I bought it while Little Girl was cheerfully engaged in obliterating her first Christmas bookstore gift certificate and moving right over to tap into the second.
It took me three days to read it, and considering that I can't recall the last time I blazed through a book with such fervor, that's saying a lot about The Golden Compass right there. I suppose you could argue that I was starved for a fortifying fantasy, or dehydrated for want of a quenching draught of theme. If you didn't like the book yourself, you might say I'm just a reading-deprived idiot, and that's fine, too, because I had so much fun reading that damn book that I don't much care what you say, whoever you are, because you probably don't like melodic death metal, either!
HERETIC!
I would've read the book in one day, frankly, but I doubt my boss at corporate would have approved of me extending my half-hour luncheon to an all-day, fantasy affair, and so it was two days before the blessed weekend, and on Saturday, I devoured the remainder with ferocious joy. It was good! It was engaging! It was clever and elaborate and intricate and it turned a few facets of our too-real world around and examined them from the perspective of an alternate reality, largely unbound by our feeble constraints.
Whatever else it may be to those who have—and have not—read it, to me, it was sweet release from a place where the basic rules of time and space are a lot harder to break, and it was so far removed and so clearly defined in its fantasy-ness that I had no difficulty whatsoever distinguishing it from reality. Not for a moment, not even that long, blissful succession of moments that I was plucked out of reality and suspended somewhere else, somewhere that tested my ability to comprehend things I had failed to imagine for myself, and tried my skill to do so even as it was neatly spelled out before me.
So what I'm saying, my invisible friends, is that I LIKED The Golden Compass. I liked it a lot, and I bought the two books that complete the trilogy rather than groceries yesterday, because although the supplies are running down, there's still some dry pasta in the pantry, but what I need right now is some rich, saucy food for thought.
(I'll comment on the controversy after I finish feasting, although that may take some time, because I'm not going to binge, no matter how difficult the temptation—otherwise, that darn novel is never going to get done!)
No fancy pants or frilly dolls for me, oh no. And when my collection of largely genre-specific books outgrew its three-level shelf, I advanced it across the top, and into a second row on each of the three levels after that, aided by length-cut-to-fit 2x4s hidden behind the first rows. Once the reading bug has bitten you, it's hard to shake the stubborn beast loose, and that goes at least double for the robot insect of science fiction—it also has deep-embedding fangs rather than tiny little bug teeth.
In the beginning, I believe there may have been an odd fantasy tale or two betwixt the mostly hard science fiction stories that lined my shelves like double-walled reality insulation. But I soon disdained that related genre, finding such things generally difficult to read, or beyond my brain's ability to fully saturate within.
The dragons, ye see, more often than not, spoke in riddles, peppered with undefined terminology, and their worlds were often over-spiced with political intrigue that frustrated my ability to comprehend it, and prevented me from enjoying it.
The intervening years, of grown-uppedness and child-rearing and mundane concerns like eating and paying the mortgage, have been largely reading-free. There's even a few parenting books sitting straight, alone, and dusty where the shiny legion of science fiction once reigned—science fiction, with cracked bindings to attest to great and frequent use. Somewhere after college, I ran out of time or will or perhaps even need to drown myself in worlds where I was challenged in ways that were sure to make me happy, and make me more than I was—worlds that, unlike this one, didn't stand a chance of hurting me or making me withdraw further into myself.
But the controversy over The Golden Compass, and the strong endorsement of The Righter for the quality of the story behind the heated debate of its thematic and/or designed heresy, overrode the practice and practicality of those lean science fiction years. And not even my discovery that The Golden Compass was of the personally-trying fantasy genre would deter me, no! I bought it while Little Girl was cheerfully engaged in obliterating her first Christmas bookstore gift certificate and moving right over to tap into the second.
It took me three days to read it, and considering that I can't recall the last time I blazed through a book with such fervor, that's saying a lot about The Golden Compass right there. I suppose you could argue that I was starved for a fortifying fantasy, or dehydrated for want of a quenching draught of theme. If you didn't like the book yourself, you might say I'm just a reading-deprived idiot, and that's fine, too, because I had so much fun reading that damn book that I don't much care what you say, whoever you are, because you probably don't like melodic death metal, either!
HERETIC!
I would've read the book in one day, frankly, but I doubt my boss at corporate would have approved of me extending my half-hour luncheon to an all-day, fantasy affair, and so it was two days before the blessed weekend, and on Saturday, I devoured the remainder with ferocious joy. It was good! It was engaging! It was clever and elaborate and intricate and it turned a few facets of our too-real world around and examined them from the perspective of an alternate reality, largely unbound by our feeble constraints.
Whatever else it may be to those who have—and have not—read it, to me, it was sweet release from a place where the basic rules of time and space are a lot harder to break, and it was so far removed and so clearly defined in its fantasy-ness that I had no difficulty whatsoever distinguishing it from reality. Not for a moment, not even that long, blissful succession of moments that I was plucked out of reality and suspended somewhere else, somewhere that tested my ability to comprehend things I had failed to imagine for myself, and tried my skill to do so even as it was neatly spelled out before me.
So what I'm saying, my invisible friends, is that I LIKED The Golden Compass. I liked it a lot, and I bought the two books that complete the trilogy rather than groceries yesterday, because although the supplies are running down, there's still some dry pasta in the pantry, but what I need right now is some rich, saucy food for thought.
(I'll comment on the controversy after I finish feasting, although that may take some time, because I'm not going to binge, no matter how difficult the temptation—otherwise, that darn novel is never going to get done!)
January 6, 2008
Meeting The Other Me
Yesterday, I finally met the other me. I've known about her for some time now, but we'd kept missing each other at the pharmacy where we both get our mutually-exclusive prescriptions filled.
I first learned about the other me several years ago when I appeared to claim a new prescription, and Cheerful Pharmacist Chickie-Boo—believe me, it's appropriate—launched into a story about her.
"You've got the EXACTLY same first name," she said, "and your last names are very similar."
"That's odd," I said. I didn't really care at the time, being more concerned with the potential interactions of my new prescription with old ones.
"I had to check several times before I saw the difference," she went on, shaking her head as she shook a few pills out of the bottle for my inspection.
That wasn't, apparently, the first time our pharmacy tried to pass my meds to her—or mine to her—and it wouldn't be the last, either. Which puts on the board yet another point in favor of these annoying "consultations" with the pharmacy, and given my general paranoia, I'm surprised I didn't get a chill when the pharmacist so chipperly told me about the other me's fairly narrow miss with meds she didn't need.
After that first, casual fly-by of a non-meeting, I became occasionally accustomed to peripheral encounters with the other me, and her medications. It didn't happen every month, but it did happen often enough that I was not at all surprised by it.
"No, that's the other me," I'd say nonchalantly, although I'd say my first name instead of "me," and then spell out my last name again, more S-L-O-W-L-Y this time.
But yesterday, as I stood all spaced-out in line with a lot of other inattentive Friday-night prescription-picker-uppers, it so happened that the other me was in line right behind me. And she had such a hearty laugh that I'd swear now she had to have been snickering when I oh-so-routinely spurned her medication, but I didn't hear her, or even really look at her, until I was tucking my wallet back into my purse, and she stepped up beside me and I heard that laugh for the first time.
And she said, "I'M the other me."
I looked up in shock, and she smiled at me.
"Oh, HI!" I blurted, my self-unassurance inexplicably absent. "It's really nice to finally meet you!"
And it was nice, I thought, there in the mundane, unhealthy environment of the pharmacy, to be surprised by someone whose name—something that seems so unique, but isn't, really—was so close to mine, and yet I'd never know if I passed her on the street. It made me consider that similarities can be as superficial as differences, and yet, a good joke of fate can be easily recognized.
To judge by the goofy grin the other me shared with me before I turned, still smiling myself, to leave, she got it, too.
I first learned about the other me several years ago when I appeared to claim a new prescription, and Cheerful Pharmacist Chickie-Boo—believe me, it's appropriate—launched into a story about her.
"You've got the EXACTLY same first name," she said, "and your last names are very similar."
"That's odd," I said. I didn't really care at the time, being more concerned with the potential interactions of my new prescription with old ones.
"I had to check several times before I saw the difference," she went on, shaking her head as she shook a few pills out of the bottle for my inspection.
That wasn't, apparently, the first time our pharmacy tried to pass my meds to her—or mine to her—and it wouldn't be the last, either. Which puts on the board yet another point in favor of these annoying "consultations" with the pharmacy, and given my general paranoia, I'm surprised I didn't get a chill when the pharmacist so chipperly told me about the other me's fairly narrow miss with meds she didn't need.
After that first, casual fly-by of a non-meeting, I became occasionally accustomed to peripheral encounters with the other me, and her medications. It didn't happen every month, but it did happen often enough that I was not at all surprised by it.
"No, that's the other me," I'd say nonchalantly, although I'd say my first name instead of "me," and then spell out my last name again, more S-L-O-W-L-Y this time.
But yesterday, as I stood all spaced-out in line with a lot of other inattentive Friday-night prescription-picker-uppers, it so happened that the other me was in line right behind me. And she had such a hearty laugh that I'd swear now she had to have been snickering when I oh-so-routinely spurned her medication, but I didn't hear her, or even really look at her, until I was tucking my wallet back into my purse, and she stepped up beside me and I heard that laugh for the first time.
And she said, "I'M the other me."
I looked up in shock, and she smiled at me.
"Oh, HI!" I blurted, my self-unassurance inexplicably absent. "It's really nice to finally meet you!"
And it was nice, I thought, there in the mundane, unhealthy environment of the pharmacy, to be surprised by someone whose name—something that seems so unique, but isn't, really—was so close to mine, and yet I'd never know if I passed her on the street. It made me consider that similarities can be as superficial as differences, and yet, a good joke of fate can be easily recognized.
To judge by the goofy grin the other me shared with me before I turned, still smiling myself, to leave, she got it, too.
Post-War on Christmas
A few of my Christmas cards—and yes, even though I'm an unwashed heathen (at least until my shower, approximately 30 minutes from now, after which I will be a pristinely clean heathen), I do send unabashedly CHRISTMAS cards, among others—have yet to arrive at their destinations. Since it took me awhile to come up with the perfect Christmas card this year, I ran a bit late on the sending part, too. I figure it's okay, as long as they get there by Epiphany on January 6, which—barring any bad addresses in the bunch—they should. Except for the one that's going to my European physicist friend, and I don't think he'll mind.
Anyway, with the cards out the door and at least on their way, it finally seems like post-Christmas to me, and so, in an attempt to be somewhat timely, I'm going to conduct a short post-War on Christmas analysis. (You're lucky I got up late this morning, or it would be the usual, long-tailed beast of a blather that you have come to expect from my bad NC-17 self.)
Now. The "War on Christmas," as I understand it, is defined by a few, cranky Christians—not at all the norm—who take exception to the fact that their Lord and Savior shares His birthday with at least one other person (*waves to The ListMaker*). These rather vocal anti-"Happy Holidays!" folk, for whom even lawn signs carry a screaming, supporting role ("KEEP CHRIST IN CHRISTMAS!"), also tend to glower when they encounter signs of any December 25th-ish holiday other than Christmas itself. And they believe that those of us who celebrate anything other than Christmas are actually trying to do away with Christmas altogether.
*gasp*
Now. Aside from the fact that Christian scholars—who study the Bible at a level of detail that most of the rest of us would be hard-pressed to imagine, much less emulate ... and not just the popular translations, but ancient texts that are untranslated from the languages in which they were originally written—are pretty much in agreement regarding that Jesus was not actually born on December 25th, how would one celebration possibly negate another? I think we can all agree that Mr. William Donohue could not, even at under threat of Happy Naked Pagan Dance, would not waver from the CHRISTMAS celebration of his choice.
No, not even if he were surrounded by chanting Wiccans, and by the way, has he been thus harassed? NO, and can you guess why? YES! Because while he and others like him are bemoaning the fact that other things DARE to happen on December 25th—the day that was chosen for a celebration of Jesus's birth—other people are simply celebrating their chosen winter holidays, including Christmas and happily so. Gracious, some are even interested in other goings-on, because pretty much anything worth rejoicing in is also worth sharing, and every winter holiday that I've ever heard of involves renewal, family, and light. What's not to like?
I wonder, has the typical "War on Christmas" fighter not heard of sharing? Have they never postponed an event, such as a holiday celebration, due to another intervening event? A birthday? A school play? A concert? A—Heaven forbid—funeral? Is it not possible to celebrate the birth of Jesus while your neighbor celebrates a secular Christmas with her/his family? Or Yule? Or Kwanzaa? What is the mechanism, exactly, by which one person saying "Happy Holidays!" to another auto-black-magically detracts from the Christmas—CHRISTIAN—joy experienced by that other?
It seems to me that the only people who are losing the spirit of Christmas by virtue of recognizing that other people have other traditions are those who let it. There is no inherent devaluation in whatever
Anyway, with the cards out the door and at least on their way, it finally seems like post-Christmas to me, and so, in an attempt to be somewhat timely, I'm going to conduct a short post-War on Christmas analysis. (You're lucky I got up late this morning, or it would be the usual, long-tailed beast of a blather that you have come to expect from my bad NC-17 self.)
Now. The "War on Christmas," as I understand it, is defined by a few, cranky Christians—not at all the norm—who take exception to the fact that their Lord and Savior shares His birthday with at least one other person (*waves to The ListMaker*). These rather vocal anti-"Happy Holidays!" folk, for whom even lawn signs carry a screaming, supporting role ("KEEP CHRIST IN CHRISTMAS!"), also tend to glower when they encounter signs of any December 25th-ish holiday other than Christmas itself. And they believe that those of us who celebrate anything other than Christmas are actually trying to do away with Christmas altogether.
*gasp*
Now. Aside from the fact that Christian scholars—who study the Bible at a level of detail that most of the rest of us would be hard-pressed to imagine, much less emulate ... and not just the popular translations, but ancient texts that are untranslated from the languages in which they were originally written—are pretty much in agreement regarding that Jesus was not actually born on December 25th, how would one celebration possibly negate another? I think we can all agree that Mr. William Donohue could not, even at under threat of Happy Naked Pagan Dance, would not waver from the CHRISTMAS celebration of his choice.
No, not even if he were surrounded by chanting Wiccans, and by the way, has he been thus harassed? NO, and can you guess why? YES! Because while he and others like him are bemoaning the fact that other things DARE to happen on December 25th—the day that was chosen for a celebration of Jesus's birth—other people are simply celebrating their chosen winter holidays, including Christmas and happily so. Gracious, some are even interested in other goings-on, because pretty much anything worth rejoicing in is also worth sharing, and every winter holiday that I've ever heard of involves renewal, family, and light. What's not to like?
I wonder, has the typical "War on Christmas" fighter not heard of sharing? Have they never postponed an event, such as a holiday celebration, due to another intervening event? A birthday? A school play? A concert? A—Heaven forbid—funeral? Is it not possible to celebrate the birth of Jesus while your neighbor celebrates a secular Christmas with her/his family? Or Yule? Or Kwanzaa? What is the mechanism, exactly, by which one person saying "Happy Holidays!" to another auto-black-magically detracts from the Christmas—CHRISTIAN—joy experienced by that other?
It seems to me that the only people who are losing the spirit of Christmas by virtue of recognizing that other people have other traditions are those who let it. There is no inherent devaluation in whatever