ride the boogie.

musical sweet spot

2010-07-12T23:34:00.003-05:00

Like all the stereotypical birth plan clasping mommies-to-be, I also brought with me to the hospital an mp3 player filled with songs to provide a soundtrack to my birth. It is a near-perfect blend of songs, if I do say so myself. The nurses and doula liked it, too, for what that's worth. The plan didn't do me much good, but the same player is now perched in my son's room and the playlist has become the soundtrack to his good night routine.

I don't play it every night. Most times it's a book or three or four, my endearing (sugar coat code for "off-key, but with love") rendition of a few songs, then it's into the crib for mi calabaza. I usually cue up the music when he's especially squirmy. There are 80+ songs and he doesn't like them all. Some can make him cry, like Feist's The Water or Beth Nielsen Chapman's Ave Maria, so I skip those. (It's sweet, but a little heartbreaking that he's affected that way.)

After many many listenings, I've determined the sweet spot smack dab in the middle of the mix:
41. 9 Crimes by Damien Rice (and Lisa Hannigan)
42. I'll Fly Away performed by Alison Krauss and Gilian Welch
43. Empty by Ray Lamontagne

I think it's the stark piano in 9 Crimes that nabs him. Then the bounce and joy of I'll Fly Away. The roll and strum of Empty carry him off. The kid doesn't stand a chance.

2010-07-08T23:19:00.019-05:00

the grass is greener
smile is warmer
attraction stronger
patience boundless
kindness generous
attention whole
respect unwavering
favor unconditional
mercy ready
faith staunch
interest earnest
mind receptive
touch perceptive

the grass is greener
fertilized with bullshit.

library humor

2009-09-29T08:42:00.002-05:00

Yes, there is such a thing. [From here.]

point of contention

2009-09-08T17:33:00.006-05:00

"Certainly, not every woman who had a C-section is going to feel this way — and I’m glad of that, otherwise there would be at least 31.7% of women last year who were as traumatized in body and spirit as this apple was brutalized, which would be unconscionable. It’s horrific enough that even one woman feels this way, much less every woman. This can be a point of contention among post-C-section women — some women can’t understand why others feel victimized by the same surgery that they had no problems with, or were even grateful for. Perhaps this image will help everyone who does not have negative feelings about C-sections (or other birth trauma) understand those who do."
From here.

a return to boobies

2009-07-17T16:33:00.016-05:00

This post has been in my drafts for about a year and a half, but I couldn't post it without the accompanying video—how could a mere description do it justice? I'd searched online and couldn't find it anywhere. Only the sketch outline is listed on the SNL website—there it's titled, "Rick Cornman." Just minutes ago I thought to check out Hulu.com. I searched for "Alec Baldwin", scrolled through a few pages and voila!

I post it here and dedicate it to Cool Ranch Luke in honor of our introductory exchange (refereed by Leila) on types of men, booby shaking, and the dichotomy of id. Heady stuff.

Here it is, titled on Hulu as "Bossa Nova":

best laid plans

2009-07-16T23:45:00.012-05:00

My Pumpkin arrived two months ago this week. I haven't had enough time or energy to fully process my experience, but this is a start.

I planned. I researched. I attended classes. I read books. I hired a doula. I switched from one clinic and midwife to a different clinic and midwife within a month or two of the due date in order to avoid having my child in a hospital machine with the highest cesarean section rate (36%*) in the metro area.

I wanted a safe and natural child birth. I wanted my son to come into the world free of any medicated haze. I wanted the satisfaction and empowerment that comes from going through the most intense and miraculous feat the human body can perform—one that it is built to do...meant to do. The exhilaration. The experience. I wanted the experience.

Also: the majority of women in my life (relatives and close friends) of my generation have had c-sections, planned and unplanned, and while I don't judge their choice or circumstances, I so wanted to avoid the same fate.

But if you go in for organized health care you can only dodge the hospital machine so much.

I had switched from a good midwife to an awesome midwife, but the switch in hospitals wasn't quite as impressive: the new one had a c-section rate of 27%. And then there are the rules. In particular, if you go more than two weeks past your due date you can no longer work with the midwife and are assigned an OB doctor.

So I found myself at week 42 . My pregnancy had been very healthy, so when my midwife suggested that I come in to get things started, I agreed. I really liked (and still do) my midwife and preferred to keep her over working with an MD. But she is one of three midwives at the clinic affiliated with the hospital we chose, and I went in on a day that she was off. The midwife scheduled was one who had rubbed me wrong on the two occasions I'd met with her. Not a good start.

I had a birth plan and a realistic enough expectation that not everything might go as I wanted, but I never expected the whole thing to be pretty much scrapped. The first interventions (ripening and induction) rolled into other interventions—just as I'd learned that they typically do.

One of my requests that did pan out for the most part—and the most positive part of the experience—was that I was not offered pain medication. I'm proud to say that with the support and encouragement of my husband and doula, I labored through about 18 hours of increasingly intense chemically induced contractions. I won't say it wasn't painful, but it was surmountable...I could rise above it and move through it because they both kept me focused, did what they could to provide comfort, and coached me through position after position to help my little one come out on his own. We tried all but an inversion position; all the positions that my doula (and others she called) knew. The effort did pay off. Pumpkin did respond and shimmied down, but ultimately he just wasn't ready. We stalled out at 6 cm.

I was exhausted and suggestions of an epidural and possible c-section were made. An anesthesiologist was called in. A nurse suggested laboring a while longer with an epidural and the midwife, on consulting with an OB doctor over the phone, pressed for the c-section. Even though Pumpkin's heartbeat never once wavered, she maintained that going longer would put stress on him.

I hated hated hated making the decision, but in the end, a c-section it was.

I'm full to the top with woulda-shoulda-couldas. YES, I have a healthy son and YES I'm so thankful for that, but what if I'd held out a little longer...ignored the 42 week deadline? Could I have avoided all of this or would a new set of rationales and warnings steered me toward the same end?

The deed is done, but it doesn't end there. I'm not broken, but I do now have this thin, seemingly innocuos scar. With it I'll encounter new rules and cautionary warnings should I get pregnant again because despite any scary, skewed warnings, I will not want another c-section. I can say that I'm pissed and that I won't let myself be steered away from the birth that I want. I thought I had girded myself for this first birth. How will the next one be different?

*"Countries with some of the lowest perinatal mortality rates in the world have cesarean rates of less than 10%. There is no justification for any region to have a rate higher than 10-15%."

a good-size cabbage, 4 navel oranges, a large jicama...

2009-03-18T20:07:00.010-05:00

According to an e-newsletter I've signed up for, this is the progression over the past three weeks of the weight of the little human. This week, the 33rd, he (yes, he) is comparable to a pineapple.
I've tried to avoid delving into personal stuff here (though I've failed when it comes to work grumbles...which continue to linger), and since not much else but such stuff is occupying my mind—what with all the bulging and growing going on in my mid-section—I can't seem to pull together anything of interest or substance to post.

But I'm still reading around from time to time and may pop in for a comment. I miss it here and I hope to be back, but I'm certain I'll have no idea what hit me in a month or so.

In the interim, I have an average canteloupe, a honeydew melon, a crenshaw melon, a stalk of swiss chard (based on loftiness apparently), a leek (length), a mini watermelon, and the grand finale of a small pumpkin to look forward to.

primipara

2008-12-28T19:34:00.001-06:00

A glimpse of what the new year has in store:

off my chest

2008-11-23T09:49:00.019-06:00

I am a librarian, and I'm in love the very core of what the profession is: helping people find stuff.

The chasm between not knowing an answer or even exactly what the question is and the stuff (stories, poems, how-tos, information...) that answers questions, raises more questions, transports, passes time, uncovers a path, or opens another door can be unsettling and intimidating. Nothing tears at me more than someone paralyzed by that chasm—someone who feels they have a stupid question or that they are stupid because they don't know where to begin. Nothing satisfies me more than helping someone overcome the paralysis and gain the ability to approach the next unknown with more confidence and daring than before.

I took a gamble a couple years ago at the encouragement of an on-again, off-again mentor that landed me in (brace yourself) management. I had somehow gained a reputation of someone who could set things straight, bring order to chaos, in other words: a cleaner. I don't know that there was any real justification to my reputation. I tend to think, instead, that I was a convenient sucker.

I have not enjoyed management, and have tried to get out. I did the work and earned praise for an unwanted job well done. Recent budget conundrums resulted in cuts that, though uncomfortable and scary, oddly gave me hope (cursed hope!) that I might slip, demote, to a plain old librarian position where I would be in charge of no other messes but my own. But, nope to that hope. The supposed mess that I tidied is going away and a new managerial mess has sprouted elsewhere that I am ideally suited for, given my wealth of experience in such things. And the choice was simple: this job or no job. What a lovely, hard-earned reward.

I've been led to believe that the new year will bring me options, but I've been led to believe many things and am burned out on hope. We all know what hope is, right? That warm, lovely, plush designer rug you've curled up on that gets yanked out from under you.

Somewhere inside me is this silly belief that it is possible to land a position that allows me to at least get close enough to the core of what I think is good about my profession to make the other crap bearable. Battling with that whim is the belief that I'm merely cursed with chronic dissatisfaction that comes with the grass-is-always-greener syndrome.

For the time being, it's best to try as hard as possible to find some green grass where I stand.

playing dress up

2008-11-02T19:28:00.003-06:00

Dear gob,

I was forced to shop today for costumes to get me through the next two months. If I'm lucky it will only be two months. I really don't enjoy shopping, and the fruits of my labor are not terribly impressive. I know I'll have to do it again soon. Ugh.

Something positive...
My blood type is B positive.

Goodness, I hope these get better.

erin

oh me of little faith

2008-11-01T20:53:00.003-05:00

Dear gob,

Can I do this again? Do I have it in me?

I'll try. I make no promises about quality whatsoever. This post is indicator #1 of that.

erin

loves company

2008-10-10T19:22:00.003-05:00

I was in the waiting room at the doctor's office today. I was a little late and a little distraught with all that's been thrown at me the last couple weeks.

A mom walked in with her 4 year old daughter, and twin, 2 year old boys. She sat down in an open chair on the opposite side of the room. One of her sons, however, made eye contact with me and slowly made his way over. He stopped right in front of me, completely sober faced and still looking me in the eye, and put his hand on my knee. I chatted with him. A smile flickered, but he just stared, completely quiet. His eye lashes were wet, probably from a recent meltdown.

His mother called to him and asked her daughter to bring him over, but he came right back. Eventually his mom picked him up, and put him on her lap. A short while later, he was playing with his brother at the toy table.

I have no idea why he was drawn to me, but maybe somehow he could tell I was having a rough day, too.

in these crap economic times

2008-09-24T18:33:00.011-05:00

...who needs unhindered access to the public library most?

This brought back some unpleasant memories.

I discovered it while researching the pros and cons of fines on library materials—the impact on those in poverty. It showed up in search results because someone had commented that, "[b]eing poor is library fines."

But, you know, what's most important is that people know the rules, be good stewards, be responsible... Never mind the reality of unstable housing/jobs/family life and the fact that a young child has absolutely no control whatsoever over such things. Never mind that fines for an already financially strapped household will more likely result in a parent completeley banning his/her child from checking out any library books (now considered an unnecessary and avoidable cost) than any grandiose lesson of stewardship.

happy Independence Day!

2008-09-24T17:55:00.005-05:00

This is long overdue, but here's ma, again. She trekked all the way back from her red state to this blue one to rejoin her peace coalition group (of which she is a founding member) for the 4th of July parade. She was disappointed that I didn't join in (Stud and I showed up to provide vocal support, street side), but she also very much accepted that it would be completely out of character for me to willfully place myself in the center of any attention...much less for the entire length of a parade.

I was a very proud, very hoarse daughter.

"unless and until"

2008-09-24T17:43:00.005-05:00

Is this not the most useless and obnoxious phrase...or at least at the top of the list?

I first heard it used by Dr. Phil in one of his tough ultimatums. (Never mind why I was watching Dr. Phil...though this may have been the last straw because I haven't watched it since.) I don't know if it's increased in popularity due to his pseudo psycho clout or if I'm just hypersensitive to it now, but it seems to be cropping up more and more and it really grates on my nerves. Technically, "unless" and "until" are two different concepts, but one or the other is totally &^%(*#@ unnecessary.

There. I got it off my chest. I wouldn't feel better unless or until I accomplished that. (It hurts!)

logo has to go

2008-08-17T21:22:00.007-05:00

I'm not the first to notice or the first to say something, but it bears repeating. Sherwin Williams, you need a new logo.
I cringe every time I see it, and can't fathom how the image of dumping paint, blood red paint, no less, on the Earth signifies "quality, integrity and service".

the power of the nut cup

2008-07-20T19:51:00.003-05:00

About a year ago, my then seven-year-old nephew sent a thank you card to Stud and me. We didn't actually receive it until last week. The address was incorrect so it probably took a while to get back to my sister...who then probably took a while to correct it and send it out again. Doesn't matter, in fact it was a lovely reminder of said nephew's excitement about a very important first in his life (transcribed by my sister):

Note my nephew's rendering of Mr.Nut Cup. He told me on the phone once, at the time of this momentous acquisition, that he was "knocking on it right now."

the egg shell exception

2008-07-19T09:01:00.003-05:00

You're probably familiar with the reality that food scraps—onion peels, zucchini butts, unwanted meat bits—can make one's garbage smelly, and that summer temperatures quicken the stinkification.

It has been an exploratory process at my house to find the best way to avoid the funk. The man of the house, I'll call him "stud" (inspired by cool ranch luke's comment), has led the charge. He is, after all, a slightly better house keeper than I. Of course, I would never admit that to him. Instead, I argue the opposite because he regularly points out his superior domestic skills relative to mine. And because, after all, what is life without banter on the minutia?

And so sets the stage for the following conversation in my abode:

stud [yelling from downstairs]: Hey! How come you put egg shells in the garbage can?

erin [long, loud, exasperated groan]: Are you kidding me?

stud: We're trying to prevent the garbage from stinking so you're supposed to put food in that separate bag in the can.

erin: Egg shells don't get stinky, and I don't recall a decree on the Separate Bag.

stud: Yes, they could, and you're the one who put the Bag in there in the first place.

erin: I guess that makes me the Keeper of the Separate Bag, and therefore...

stud: Well you're not doing a very good job.

erin: I make the rules. Egg shells are an exception.

going with the phloem

2008-07-13T17:18:00.003-05:00

I am mesmerized by leafed trees in the wind.

We had the most perfect tree gazing weather today. I was lured outside by the breeze sweeping through the house. Decided I should make use of my new picnic table and read my first issue of The Sun (thanks to Leila for the good word). It wasn't long before I was distracted by the show, lying on the bench, magazine on my belly, staring upward, entranced.

Movement and fluidity—like yoga for trees after a long, cold, branch rattling winter. Here warrior. There triangle. Then child's pose. Inhale. Exhale. The wind relents, and a smooth return to mountain.

I wonder if this is more than passive movement. By catching wind and stretching limbs, does tree yoga facilitate circulation? I know about transpiration pulling water and nutrients up. Would motion help move the leaves' products down and about—similar to the lymphatic system or circulation in insects? There are other forces at play, I know, but you'd think it would contribute.

I probably knew the answer to that question at some point in my life.

diversion

2008-07-01T22:00:00.005-05:00

There's a whirlwind whipping around me. I'm trying to lay low and dodge the debris.

What occupied my mind for a happy period this evening is the fact that I've upgraded, ladies and gentlemen. I now own a snazzy laptop.

Never mind that I still have dial up. As of about two months ago, the little local greasy spoon cafe changed owners, expanded hours, and added free WiFi. One burger (tomato, onion, and plenty of mustard), chips, pickles, and a soda for $6 and change, PLUS free access...all only about a block and a half away.

Yee haw.This may mean you hear more from me.Lord help my waistline.

i wish i may

2008-05-20T21:06:00.005-05:00

Listened to The Great Failure read by the author, Natalie Goldberg. I've been revisiting her a lot these days to very little avail in the way of writing—the glitch is mine, all mine. And so, instead of writing something of my own, I'll share one of the things in the book that has reverberated with me. Goldberg explains how she would want to be remembered:

…I wouldn’t want people to say of me only “She was a great teacher” or “I loved her writing.” I would like at least one person to come closer, to add, “She was also lonely, she suffered a lot. She was mixed up. She made some big mistakes.” Then tell those mistakes and sum up: “But she was important to me.” Then I would feel really honored, as though someone had seen and known me.

Who knows you? Do they give credit for failure? Who do you know?

sleep

2008-04-20T17:23:00.010-05:00

[I require prompts as of late. Write about sleep, she says. Ok, I say.]

sleep with bear
velvety nose, eyes glued askew
and matted hair
devotion true enough to surrender,
in its stead, the new markers
to the thief in dreams

sleep with mother
nesting, rubbing cold feet
tangling prickly legs
mid-night retelling of
of the dream cloud that
enveloped and with a shudder
carried troubles away

sleep with child
kicking pinwheel
claims real estate
evicts father
secret delight in having
the space and her alone
not to share

sleep with friend
years later when the life
between plants a woeful moan
and perception constrains consolation
armed only with wish to wash it away

sleep with love
and despite fairy tale advice
with mutual and stubborn ire
every turn and tug a slight
interpreted and intended
rogue caress escapes
only when consciousness slips

sleep with love
comfort so visceral
appendages are cursed
for getting in the way

sleep with trouble
crowning as knotted anguish
daunting mass of nothing discernible
pressing weight, wrenching grip
arresting breath
dissipated only by

sleep with love
gentle cloudy-headed nudge
wake up
it’s alright
only a dream

that one bit of geography i lack

2008-04-19T20:18:00.010-05:00

I'm not where it's at.

I own two Del Amitri albums: Twisted and Hatful of Rain. The first was purchased in cassette form, the second in CD. I had planned to buy the first in CD to replace the cassette, but discovered the second in the process and opted for the package deal of hits. Sadly, I was not aware before this that they had a large enough body of work from which to create such a culmination.

So, while I'm not one of those been a fan since the dawn of time people, I do love Del Amitri.

I saw Justin Currie perform on Thursday night. I have to say that I was a little taken aback by the age of the crowd. I wasn't expecting to see so many patches of gray hair. This is not at all a negative reaction, but more of a realization that my musical tastes—music that was current in my teens and 20s—plant me within a cohort that...is no longer in its teens and twenties. Alas, I am not a young pup.

The performance was great—just Justin and one accompanist on the keyboard and accordion who reminded me of a petite and slightly hip Dwight Schrute. They had an odd but entertaining dynamic. Justin is amazingly talented as a performer and songwriter. And he's cute. And Scottish. Best of all, though, he—with his skinny tie and pompadour—didn't seem to take himself too seriously.

He performed his new stuff which I loved. It's mellow and, I have to assume, the result of many a heart break given and received. He was also very generous with the number of Del Amitri songs he played. The crowd was happy. The two brothers sharing the table with us were long-time, die hard fans. One had been to eight of their shows in the 90s, and proposed to his wife at one of them. When Justin sang "Tell Her This", that same guy turned around to us and, beaming, said "If I had panties, I'd throw them on the stage!" I had no idea there was such a following.

But then, I've never quite had my finger on the pulse of my generation. I just got my hand on my heart, I know no better location. [again.]

Before leaving, I purchased the new CD. I don't know if that makes me a dinosaur. If it does, I'm at peace with that. I'll be in good company until we die off.

say hello to joe

2008-04-11T21:50:00.007-05:00

The first works I ever saw of R. Gregory Chrisitie's were the illustrations for The Palm of My Heart: Poetry by African American Children. He's illustrated many books (you can find Joe in Hot City). I only recently discovered his web site and that you can buy his "gregarious art" pieces.

Christie's lines and bold colors remind me of Jacob Lawrence's work, but where Lawrence spreads his attention across the canvas, Christie—at least in the paintings that appeal to me most—homes in on faces. I love his faces: squints, smirks, side cast glances, attitude, wisdom, resolve, and peace.

[There are some really phenomenal artists that illustrate books for children. I also really like Leo and Diane Dillon (regal, clean, surreal), David Diaz (angular, signature eyes and nose), Raul Colon (soft and scratched), and Vera B. Williams (bright and joyful).]

me, three weeks ago today

2008-04-09T20:13:00.005-05:00

Important items to note:

There, in the upper right hand corner: Green. Grass.
SUNglasses.
In those sunglasses: Blue sky. Palm trees.

Mooned my honey, and honeyed my moon in Hawaii.

Now I'm back, but a slacker. Looking for my misplaced motivation. Where the hell did I put it?

And I very well know that I'm in no position to make demands of you, my readers, but y'know, I would like to know where you're from.

In the meantime (it is unkind), I'll keep looking. If you have any ideas, any motivation mojo, don't hold back.

And what's with all this alliteration? I need help.

where i'm from

2008-04-06T20:52:00.028-05:00

[In honor of National Poetry Month, and because I can't stir up much else to write, I'm recycling an idea I spied over at Magnificent Octopus.]

Where I'm from

I am from album covers, RPM, and lyrics learned with skips
from a Hitachi AM/FM cassette tape recorder, and sound collecting expeditions.

I am from long journeys in the station wagon
(pitiless vinyl seats and late night destination disorientation)

I am from blackberry bush, white pine, lilac and live oak,
from shushing, swaying treetop domains.

I am from signature laughter, beer breath,
honey crosses on the forehead,
and sprinkled snippets of languages I'll never know
from Mary, Irene, Vernon, Henry, and Gene.

I am from short fuses, long lectures, and silent indignation
simple joys, splurges, vicarious living and charity
from keep a tight ship and hooka tooka my soda cracker.

I am from a non-denomination sampler, a Christian religious revue,
an abiding Catholic undercurrent, midnight mass, and tucking knees
to make way for the procession we couldn't join.

I am from semi truck, Cutlass Cruiser,
U-Haul, and the bus of many colors,
lefse and crumble-top apple pie,
pierogies, poppy, and garden cucumbers with salt.

From pen pal grandpa's squirrel watching tree
and lessons on igneous, metamorphic, and sedimentary
to tales of grandfather unknown and unstable
and the aftermath of his self-removal
to the eh-eh-eh! of my last remaining
who took her hand but didn't assume, just was. True blue.

Most evidence that survived the shuffle
has been dutifully stored, sorted, and finally dispersed
by the oldest and, by order, most responsible.
Packaged with care and meted.
Smaller portions that leave space, after all,
for evidence of where she and he
and theirs
and we
and ours
are from.

There, I've paid up. Now it's your turn.
Here is how it's done, though I fudged a bit.
Here is the source.

this post cost me 30¢ 60¢ 90¢

2008-02-27T19:02:00.014-06:00

Ok. Technically my procrastination is costing me such big money. For once in a long time, I actually finished reading a book before it was due back to the library, but since I feel the need to write something on this book, I haven't returned it yet. It was due three days ago.

So, here's something...
The book is A Madman Dreams of Turing Machines by Janna Levin. The author was interviewed on the radio show Speaking of Faith and it sounded interesting. It is a work of fiction, though the author is largely true to events that happened in the lives of Kurt Gödel and Alan Turing. I'd never heard of Gödel, but I was familiar with Turing (even before his mention in an infamous post by Nacho man).

Both are described in the book as "brilliantly original and outsiders," "loyal to reason and truth," and "besotted with mathematics." Gödel was also a paranoid schizophrenic and a hypochondriac. Turing was gay and possibly a high functioning autistic.

Levin ties Gödel's delicate hold on reality to how he believes he is esteemed by Moritz Schlick, "one of the real ones" who knew to reach out to Gödel through mathematics and had invited Gödel to join the meetings of the Vienna Circle. The struggle depicted for Turing is a tug of war between his materialism and his tentative faith in the soul, the human spirit, God. His love—first love—for a school mate, and the loss of this love, were the basis of and the undoing of his faith.

What Alan feared then, and what he now knows to be true, is that when Chris was gone, he was gone. When Chris died, so began the decline of Alan's faith. And when it was finally gone, it was gone.

I really have no firm understanding of Kurt Gödel's incompleteness theorems or Alan Turing's machines, but the passages that describe how each thinks and their personal convictions and the conflictions around these beliefs are beautiful.
Turing:

There are bolts of luminescence in the world. Hard, brilliant candies that crackle like jewels, fanning pointed rays of gold through an otherwise gray landscape. Sometimes Alan can see these splendors unaided... Sometimes he has to distill them.... Sometimes he discovers them with his mind like the inverse trigonometric function that he managed to express as an infinite series of simpler algebraic forms. These are the best, these dazzling gems of his brain's relentless, systematic expeditions.... To Alan, this is the world: luminous boulders, a string of precious stones. He jumps from one to the next just barely able to balance above the murky sea of fakes and phonies.

Gödel:

Kurt's thoughts touch upon several themes at once. When he is thinking most clearly he often sees things in big groups and not sequential steps. He can work backward and reconstruct a more linear formal logical argument, proving one step after the other for the purposes of a seminar or an article that is read from left to right one letter at a time staggered by a numbered list of equations. But this is not how the most beautiful ideas come to him. Sometimes they emerge whole without justification, like his theorem, which is not at all linear. It is self-referential, a tangled loop. A serpent swallowing its own tale. He wishes he could present this result to Moritz as it appears to him, that he could just open his mouth and have the fully formed shape stretch out.

I could go on, but I'd best return the book. Don't want to break the bank...and there are 22 people waiting for a copy!

[I found a nice write up on this book here. By total coincidence (I swear) she also catches fish.]

slow on the uptake

2008-02-17T19:52:00.012-06:00

A dear friend once said to me, "It's only when you actually try that you realize you are not succeeding." I don't recall the exact context of the conversation, but I recall that it was during a particularly rough period in her life. My friend has a knack for levity, so I laughed a little at how dire it sounded. I was also troubled by how dire it sounded. I wasn't sure how to respond to or process what seemed to me to be—right or wrong—a statement of defeat and hopelessness. It seemed like she was saying "You're not going to succeed, so why try?" It was unsettling. It made me uncomfortable.

So, I presented my friend's statement (sans name) to a teacher whose counsel I very much trust. I expected a validation of my perception, but instead I got this:

...the explanation is simple: before throwing in the towel you must try! In other words, fight the good fight no matter what the outcomes. If you don't, you can never say it was beyond your grip. In life, what is important is the process and not if you are going to come up as a winner. Growth only resides in the process.

This sounded lovely and, of course, I agreed with fighting the good fight, but I couldn't figure out how he'd pulled that out of what my friend had said. He must not have caught the nuances of resignation. And so I dismissed the whole thing.

Just days ago, and over ten years later, I was listening to When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chödrön. In the chapter "Hopelessness and Death" she says:

Without giving up hope—that there's somewhere better to be, that there's someone better to be—we will never relax with where we are or who we are....Hopelessness means that we no longer have the spirit for holding our trip together. We may still want to hold our trip together. We long to have some reliable, comfortable ground under our feet, but we've tried a thousand ways to hide and a thousand ways to tie up all the loose ends, and the ground just keeps moving under us. Trying to get lasting security teaches us a lot, because if we never try to do it, we never notice that it can't be done.

That last statement stunned me: "Trying to get lasting security teaches us a lot, because if we never try to do it, we never notice that it can't be done."

I honestly can't say whether or not my friend intended this meaning. All I know is that her words and my teacher's interpretation were first things that came to mind...and right now I'm feeling like maybe I'm the one who needed to crunch some foil on my nuance antenna. Or would it be more accurate to say that my antenna was dead on, but—because it's ingrained to believe that we can hold everything together—I just didn't know how to process the information? I think that might be the case.

Who wants to quit hoping? Shit. That's a tough one.

three high points

2008-02-14T17:00:00.007-06:00

Three conversations with preschoolers yesterday:

Me: Hey, I really dig your Pumas.
Kid1: My mom got them for me when I was eight.
Me: Really? How old are you now?
Kid1: Four...four and a half. I'm getting big.
Me: You are! You must have grown a foot since the last time I saw you!
Kid1: I eat vegetables.
Me: Ahhh. That'll do it.

========================

Kid2: Do you know my name?
Me: I'm so sorry, I don't! What is your name?
Kid2: Emma. E-m-m-a.
Me: Emma! Hey, my name starts with an 'E' too! See? [pointing to name tag]
Kid2: [toothy grin]
[Later, after choosing books...]
Me: Hi, Emma, wanna sit by me?
Kid2: Do you remember my name now?
Me: I do! It's Emma.
Kid2: [toothy grin]

=========================

Kid3: What's your name?
Me: My name is Erin.
Kid3: Erin, I love you.

Makes me wish I never had to deal with grownups.

ay, papi! it's umami.

2008-02-11T21:37:00.002-06:00

[This one's been in the hopper for a while. Time to smooth the edges and put it out there. Be forewarned: I'm feeling parenthetical today.]

There is a salad I love to eat that's made at a Neapolitan pizza place. The ingredients seem spare: mixed greens, pine nuts, Parmesan cheese, and prosciutto in a balsamic vinaigrette. Spare, yes. Delicious? Umami, yes.

Perhaps you've heard about umami. It is a Japanese word meaning "tastiness" or "deliciousness", and is the name that was given to the fifth taste—sweet, sour, bitter, and salty are, of course, the four other long-accepted tastes. Umami has only recently been given due attention, though it was singled out as L- glutamate and named "umami" by Japanese chemist Kikunae Ikeda, oh, about 100 years ago.

[Umami is a much more intriguing and sensory term than L-glutamate, don't you think? Unless, maybe, you pronounce it with a sassy Spanish accent: el gloot ah mah tay. But, I digest...]

So, I first learned of umami when reading The Zen of Fish by Trevor Carson (mentioned here...an interesting read—more for the historical kitsch and science-y stuff and much less for the over dramatized stories of the students learning to make sushi). Then I heard this, on National Public Radio. And now for some thoughts on umami.

First, it's great to finally have a name (and to be redundant—what an excellent name!) for the taste sensation formerly known as "yummmmmmmm..."

Second, it's disheartening, though not at all surprising, that with this second coming of umami madness, the taste is increasingly being cheapened, commodified, and utilized as a shortcut for the real deal. Sadly, Ikeda helped this along with his Frankenflavoring, MSG. Most, if not all, of those savory processed foods out there are impostors, masquerading as deliciousness. (There are interesting articles on this in the Guardian, the Science Creative Quarterly, and more recently the Wall Street Journal).

I'm teetering on feeling unknowingly seduced by that pizza place. Is this an "umami bomb" devised to lure me in again and again? Should I feel dirty? Should I care? Makes me think of that song: "If loving you is wrong, I don't want to be right." It is a salad, after all, and not some crappy McDonald's gut bomb. Sounds like I'm trying to rationalize an addiction, doesn't it?

I will end with a tangent. After listening to the piece on public radio, I read Proust Was a Neuroscientist by Johah Lehrer. It's gotten mixed reviews, but before I'd read these I read the book and I liked it. It's an ambitious work that takes on the likes of Whitman, Woolf, Eliot, and Cézanne in the context of neuroscience. I can claim ignorance—the umami bit excepted—on most of the content, so my pass lacked the scrutiny a more knowledgeable person might lend. (And again, the panty line that is my lack of knowledge of many things literary and artistic is showing.) Even so, I liked the basic idea that science is not the be all and end all. Artists are not constrained by the scientific process and can sometimes get closer to the ins and outs of perception than conclusions drawn from watching rats in a lab...or fingering skull bumps.

raucous caucus

2008-02-06T19:24:00.000-06:00

I attended my first ever caucus last night. It was incredibly frustrating and incredibly inspiring all at once. I take that back. It was three parts frustrating, one part inspiring. Well worth the trouble.

This was one of the most chaotic and disorganized events I've ever witnessed. I live in a small city, and the turnout wasn't nearly as large as others that made the news, but still. The last presidential caucus yielded about 14 people. This go 'round? 98. That's what, a 600% increase? The folks running the thing were taken completely off guard. The small room in City Hall was crowded and loud--you could hardly hear a word that was said. Not that anyone speaking was particularly helpful.

No one seemed to know what was supposed to happen, or any details about positions that they were requesting volunteers to fill: caucus chair, tellers, secretary, convention delegates and alternates, precinct chair, associate chairs... When I, a born observer green to the process, am driven to direct the caucus chair to put the agenda on track, and to speak, for god's sake,...out loud...in a crowd, you have to know it was a mess. My need for order trumped my wallflower instinct.

But 600%! And I was in a room full of (mostly) like-minded individuals who were there to actively participate in the democratic process. What I also loved--I think even more--was that I had a chance to learn faces and begin to be part of a community that I only recently moved to and where I imagine most residents split their time between commuting to work, work, and sitting in front of one screen or another.

On my short walk home, I passed a woman who had put in a pitch during the caucus to promote her friend and fellow school bus driver who is running to be the district representative to the state house. "Have a good night," I said.
"You, too! What's your name, by the way?"
"Erin."
"Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you, too."

That is a beautiful thing.

timing

2008-01-31T19:41:00.000-06:00

This Tuesday past was looking to end in a train wreck. I arrived home in a foul, foul, foul mood, roiling and ready to take down anything and anyone in my path. An undercurrent of one particularly nasty happening peppered with several less serious but maddening happenings (por ejemplo: frigid weather, a demonic possession of Microsoft Word, and a monkey wrench boss) had made my mood thus.

But lo! upon entering the house, what did I see but a beautiful brown box addressed to little old me.

Shortly after, I was eating my humble, got-home-late-from-work-throw-something-together meal, contemplating holy toast (which would prove more holy: wheat or white?), thumbing through my Cloudspotter's Guide (the first official publication of The Cloud Appreciation Society...of which I am now a member), and looking forward to my thermochromic Silly Putty (and possible insight to answering Nacho man's question).

As I sipped hot cocoa, the foul faded away with van Gogh's ear.

Thank you, Liz (& Co). Very much. Perfect timing.
[This won't come as a surprise: the above named I hereby claim for myself. The lovely cups and saucers will be shared with my lovley.]

panning for gold

2008-01-06T21:28:00.000-06:00

The Atlantic published a really excellent article, "How Hollywood Saved God," on Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials, and the movie version of The Golden Compass.

It appears that Pullman has come to grips with what this Hollywood could do with his work, and is as satisfied as can be expected. Doesn't mean he doesn't wish for what it could have been:

I think if everything that is made explicit in the book or everything that is implied clearly in the book or everything that can be understood by a close reading of the book were present in the film, they’d have the biggest hit they’ve ever had in their lives. If they allowed the religious meaning of the book to be fully explicit, it would be a huge hit. Suddenly, they’d have letters of appreciation from people who felt this but never dared say it. They would be the heroes of liberal thought, of freedom of thought … And it would be the greatest pity if that didn’t happen.

I didn’t put that very well. What I mean is that I want this film to succeed in every possible way. And what I don’t want to do, you see, is talk the other two films out of existence. So I’ll stop there.

The truth is, the movie does heavily dilute the main thrust of Pullman's trilogy. Even so, as I've mentioned, I loved the movie. The excellent cast had a lot to do with it, but it probably had even more to do with the fact that I enjoyed the books so much and I liked what Pullman had to say.

Screenwriter and director Chris Weitz stated, "Those who will understand will understand."

I'm curious to know what those who haven't read the books will take from the movie. How much does the dilution impair the explicit, the implied, and the otherwise understood obtained from reading the books? Will glints of these be completely lost to anyone but the readers and the receptive?

small town news

2007-12-31T19:00:00.000-06:00

For Christmas, my aunt (my mom's sis) sent me, along with a card, copies of columns from the local newspaper of the small Texas town where my family lived in the early-mid 1980s. The clippings were sent to her back then by either my mom or dad. It's amazing what was published.Thought you might enjoy a small sampling. I've abbreviated names...don't know why. At least it eases my conscience, anyway.

From "Willow Springs" by Mattie C.

Mrs. Wade lives between us and Flood Greene's lake. She walks 3 miles a day and Wednesday it was kinda cold. Started out with a sweater on. Just before she got to where school lane runs into Clark's Ferry Road, she pulled her sweater off and laid it down beside the road with a stick on it, planned to get it on her way back home. But when she got back where she left it, the sweater was gone. Anyone who passed that way and thought they found a sweater, well they didn't. It belongs to Mrs. Wade. That's her walking sweater.

...Mattie D. called me tonight....asked if I remembered the old cistern that we got water out of to drink. Drew it out with a bucket and rope. One day dropped the bucket and rope in the cistern. Her brother Arvel S., climbed up on the cistern with a stick with a nail through the bottom to fish out the bucket. Well, he slipped, dropped the stick, it slid off and the nail stuck in his sister's eye, Mattie D. Stuck in her eye near her nose. After quite a lot of time found her mom, took Mattie to the doctor. Didn't lose her eye, just made her eye weak.

From "News of Interest" by A. Kennemer

We've lost so many friends since I wrote last. It makes me feel "blue". May C. has left us. She was dead in bed we were told. She has been with her son Joe Bob and wife Mary, many months, and Joe Bob has been sick also. The lord had to be with Mary or she couldn't have made it.

From "Pauline's News" by Pauline R.

[Mother] was much better off then than she is now. If they think they can come every other week and see about her business and check out her house and things, I would say they have another think. . . .I never took anything from mother. I can't do it and they can't either. Her doctors were there in Greenville and down there they will have to run all sorts of tests to see what is wrong with her. That knot on her neck is about 8 inches long and as much as two inches wide and stands out every bit of an inch. Another small on e has started under her chin by the big one, but no, she wouldn't go to her doctor while she was here. . . .Someone tell me just what can be done with a mother that you can't do anything with or change her mind. We have done all we can. We can't even think of one other thing to even try to do or to suggest to her--it has all been done.

We sure had a bad wind storm Tuesday night, or maybe early Wednesday morning. We didn't get but 1/2 inch of rain, but all together this week we got 2-1/2 inches. Not bad. There was also some frost in low places, but I didn't get out to see about any ice. Frost is ice, but I mean any on the water.

This last one is insanely long. Lots of info on who visited who, who's sick, who was in church, and what the weather has been like. The columns are an interesting bit of history of the time, but I can't imagine how some of this news reporting could not have come back to bite these women in the butt!

three out of four readers

2007-12-28T22:52:00.000-06:00

...suggest trying a new venture. Sadly, that new venture did not materialize.

born on this day

2007-12-25T21:24:00.000-06:00

Sir Isaac Newton
Clara Barton
Cab Calloway
Annie Lennox

Several interesting people. I've no beef with the holiday. A good man is celebrated, but he wasn't actually born today. I'm just saying.

WWJD?
He'd probably say, "happy birthday!"

Namaste.

taking the piss out of me

2007-12-25T20:52:00.000-06:00

While I was getting a kick out of my mom's melange (sometimes I wonder where these words come from) of birthday gifts, it turns out she was trying, quite literally, to take the piss out of me. I spoke to her on the phone for a bit and got the scoop on the G.O.U.T.

I've had some troubles with a joint on my right hand, and she believes it might be gout which is caused by high levels of uric acid in the blood. I'm not sure that the diagnosis is correct or that this supplement will do the trick, but that was the intent.

Ok, so it's still a little funny. At least now I know the reasoning.

what's cooler than being cool?

2007-12-17T22:16:00.000-06:00

ice cold!

Say what you will about hip hop, much of it is true. But this shit is booty-shake-a-rific. No need to ponder heady and serious lyrics. Just close your eyes and get ridiculously stupid. And shake it like a Polaroid picture. Check out Linus' mad moves!

Lend me some sugar. I am you neighbor.

[I saw this first posted elsewhere and cannot for the life of me find it again. Forgive me, blog gods.]

impasse, crossroads, quandry...

2007-12-14T20:03:00.001-06:00

Whatever you want to call it, I, um, have a friend who's smack dab in the middle of one. On behalf of this dear soul, I beseech your advice by way of a poll.

Hey, that rhymes. I like limes.

"No more rhymes now, I mean it."
"Anybody want a peanut?"

For the sake of my friend's future and (in)sanity, please find the poll in my side bar and vote, dagnabbit, VOTE!

one last birthday post

2007-12-12T22:01:00.001-06:00

This actually has less to do with my birthday and more with my parents.

I received my birthday package from my mom in the mail today. Couldn't help but be amused by the contrast between hers and my dad's package that I received (before my birthday, I believe).

From Pa:
- Four sheets of recipes that I'd asked for, compiled from memory. Each page with a colorful border, peppered with Slovak words, pronunciations, and translations. Without a doubt carefully thought out and worded.
The recipes:

Sour Mushroom Soup - a tradition at Christmas. One of my absolute favorites that Granny, my Slovakian great grandmother, used to make.
Caraway Soup - also one Granny made, but I don't remember it as well
Down-Home Chicken Dumpling Soup - sans the chicken's feet Granny used to throw in (no joke)
Egg Dumpling Batter and Potato Dumpling Batter (for Halushki)

- One 8 oz. (227 g) jar of Tone's Restaurant Black Pepper, touted as "the best brand on the market."
- One 1 lb (453 g) jar of Farmer Brother's Whole Caraway Seed
- One heartwarming birthday card professing faith in my abilities, and a short letter explaining the enclosures and several possible uses for the bounty of caraway.

From Ma:
- One bottle of Nutrapathic G.O.U.T. (Greater Overall Urinary Tract) dietary supplements. No explanation. Not requested. Just submitted for my intake. I don't have any problems with my urinary tract that I'm aware of.
- One winter hat—no doubt a stellar find from a local thrift store...unless ma has started shopping at J. Crew.
- One EARTH Theraputics Pedi-Care Kit, gooming essentials
- One heartwarming card wishing me happiness, restating the adage "when one door closes, another opens," and promising three (intentionally) forthcoming bags of organic popcorn.

Do you see why I love them so? Take half of him and half of her, mash them together—as disparate as they are—and you get little old me: fastidious and random.

moon-faced and fertile

2007-12-11T22:32:00.000-06:00

...according to this site, that describes female Monday babies—which I also am. Male Monday babies are "usually thick haired and a bit more vain about it." Much to infer from that (yeah, I don't know either).

Regardless, happy belated birthday, Nacho man! In deference to your seniority of eleven months and twenty-nine [?] days, I will oblige you your meme.

And so, I give you the Birthday List with the rules here regurgitated:
1. Go to Wikipedia.
2. In the search box, type your birth month and day but not the year.
3. List three events that happened on your birthday.
4. List two important birthdays and one death.
5. One holiday or observance (if any).

Three Events:
1911 - Many cities in the U.S. Midwest broke their record highs and lows on the same day as a strong cold front rolls through. (see The 11/11/11 cold wave).
1918 - World War I ends: Germany signs an armistice agreement with the Allies in a railroad car outside of Compiègne in France. The war officially stops at 11:00 (The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month).
1992 - The Church of England votes to allow women to become priests.

Two Births, One Death:
1922 - Kurt Vonnegut, American novelist (d. 2007) [Maybe I should read something by him...]
1974 - Leonardo DiCaprio, American actor [OK, so not a terribly important person, but we were born on the same day and year. I liked him in What's Eating Gilbert Grape: "I could go at any time."]
1993 - Erskine Hawkins, American trumpet player and big band leader (b. 1914) [Try a sampling.]
Honorable mention: 1938 - Typhoid Mary, carrier of the typhoid disease (b. 1869). [Died of pneumonia.]

Holiday:
South Korea - Pepero Day

I tag Ms. Liz. Write, dagnabbit, write! [If you don't, I may have to post a photo of you in a union suit in downtown Denver. Don't think I won't!]

speak of the devil

2007-12-11T20:33:00.000-06:00

I am ashamed.

It's no wonder that the many good people of my country go unnoticed.

i speak for the trees

2007-12-08T22:44:00.000-06:00

Have you heard the saying, "can't see the forest for the trees"? Well, forget about it for a minute. I'd like you to take a closer look at those trees. I'd like to make an argument in favor of occasional myopia.

To those who may revel in the idea of the downfall or a comeuppance for the US, I'm well aware that my government has done its share of evil. Even so, sometimes the big picture is a thin wash. Sometimes the angels are in the details.

Let's zoom in. Here's one focal point. See that lady with the improvised, green bucket drum and the drumsticks?

That's my mom. That's Washington, D.C. in the background. She took a break from picketing alongside the highway in her hometown to take a loooong bus trip out for this march. She also walked with others in the local 4th of July parade, protesting the war and was received by both hoots and heckling from the crowd. She has since moved from a blue state to a red state, into a small and very modest home—the first she's ever independently owned in her life. No doubt she'll be speaking her mind in her new neighborhood, too, but you'll not see that speck of blue on the map.

Or maybe cast your mind's eye on my pops who served in the Navy during the Vietnam War (Yes, I know. Another one we shouldn't have taken on.), and then spent many years advocating for veterans whose bodies and minds were ravaged by war and who were then left to pick up the pieces on their own. He researched their medical conditions and symptoms, and presented their cases in hopes of securing compensation and benefits from the government. Now my dad is getting older, has many health issues, and receives substandard medical attention from the local VA Medical Center.

Or my oldest, closest, and most lovely girlfriend. She joined the Army Reserve pre-conflict to get money for education, ended up in our current foolhardy war for over a year, and came back with a cocktail of service-related health issues—some ever present and others that drop in from time to time just to remind her that they're still in residence. For a living, she works with families in crisis, helping parents with developmental delays find ways to improve parenting skills so that they can keep their children. Needless to say, it's a job that regularly puts her heart through a wringer. She worries about her husband getting laid off from his job, and about her toddler, a little piece of her heart now out walking around in the world.

I understand that the bad rap comes from truth. This informs my weltanschauung. I'm guilty of dogging my country, too, but it is a country, after all, populated with many good people. Maybe you could root for them? Some of us are trying to do right.

"Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not."

All this aside, much love to my Canadian peeps. Peace out.

The Golden Compass

2007-12-08T22:25:00.000-06:00

Though my grandmother would look at me with concern and say an extra prayer for me (I'm sure I'm a fixture on the prayer list) for saying this (I'm also sure it will come up...and I will still say it because it's true): I loved this movie. I loved the books, and of course they outshine, but even so, I loved this movie.

Of course Ian McKellen
Of course Sam Elliott (with Kathy Bates, of course)
Of course Nicole Kidman
Eva Green? Perfect.
Dakota Blue Richards? Perfect.
Ben Walker? Perfect.
Jim Carter and Tom Courtenay? Perfect and perfect.
Daniel Craig? Meh.

Such strong characters and so well played. The initial scenes with Iorek and Lyra put a lump in my throat, and it just got better and better. Three syllable words kept popping in my head like triumphant and majestic. I typically have a very low tolerance for computer generated images, but even these didn't distract.

Phooey to all the nay sayers. Phooey, I say. I can't wait for the next one. How could there not be a next one?

I'm not certain how the movie will be received by those who haven't read the book. Hopefully, they will give it a try regardless. I initially chose to read The Golden Compass for a class assignment. I was a skeptical reader of fantasy/scifi, and had a tough time at the start, but about a quarter of the way into it, I was hooked through to the end of the trilogy. The audio book by Random House-Listening Library is phenomenal for anyone, and if you're not a big reader, it's a great way to go. Pullman reads along with a full cast:

I'm totally geeking out on this. Check out my kick ass dæmon:

thirty. Minnesota.

2007-11-30T18:44:00.001-06:00

Home again, home again. Jiggety-jig.

During my 30th year, I held three different jobs. The first was actually my first, honest-to-goodness job as madame librarian, Erin. It was at a small town library, was part time with no benefits, and was not terribly stimulating. No one sang to me. No singing, no synchronized dancing and stamping of books, and no men in high-waisted pants with surprisingly shapely hips, walking with their noses in books.

My next job was full time as a librarian in a state correctional facility ("prison") that housed about a thousand men at the second to the highest security level. The most curious part about this job was not the men, referred to as "offenders", but the environment. Movement was very controlled. Lots of writing passes to move from point A to B. It felt very much like middle school in that respect. I went through extensive training at the beginning on how to interact with the offenders. The overall atmosphere was very guarded and surficial. Any casual conversations I had with offenders never went beyond reading, television shows, or music interests. Who knows, maybe that was too much by some standards.

I always feel odd saying this, but with few exceptions, the offenders were good guys. I restricted my opinion of them to what my first hand experience was with them in the library. In the end I left because the commute was madness (an hour each direction...and that was after I moved closer), the hours sucked (noon to 9pm), and, yes, it was very isolating. Most other program or education staff went home at 3 or 4, and I was left to either not talk or talk guardedly with offenders, or, on a rare occasion, chat with a guard. One guard would call to chat while he was driving around the building perimeter, bored out of his mind. I never met him in person, and still have no idea what he looked like. I was also at my heaviest during this time since I too often relied on Burger King for lunch and the vending machine for supper.

Job number three was part time as librarian at a county corrections facility ("jail") for adult men and women, referred to as "residents". [The semantics of this business are both puzzling and hilarious.] My office was elsewhere, and I came to the jail once a week with another library employee to visit the different buildings. Movement of the residents was a lot more free flowing, so I was a little stunned at first. After the prison, this place was a total shocker. The visits were organized chaos. We worked madly each week to take and fill requests. I loved it, and was totally wiped out at the end of the day. I still guarded what I said about anything personal, but it was much more laid back. The residents really appreciated what we did and told us all the time.

One of the most rewarding parts of this job was the weekly book discussion group. It was frustrating a lot of the time, but when we hit on something good in a book it made it worthwhile. My absolute favorite, though, was in April when we discussed poetry. I compiled a ton of random verse from a wide range of authors—poets and songwriters—but didn't give out the author's names until the last day. The men told me which ones they read and what their reaction was. One guy chose to discuss this poem. He read it out loud, pausing to say that the guy that wrote it needed to quit smoking the pipe. I had to chuckle. I said, "You don't know it was written by a man," but he was adamant, claiming that a woman wouldn't spend her time on stuff like that.

The most noteworthy of all memories happened on my 30th birthday. The best man (who had caught my eye six years prior had stuck it out with me through all my meanderings and several chafing rough patches) proposed, and I said yes. Turns out long distance relationships do sometimes pan out.

And three years later, I'm 33 and freshly hitched.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now for some house cleaning...

**Loose end #1**:

The author is Robert Herrick.

HIS VERSION:

Upon Julia's Clothes

Whenas in silks my Julia goes
Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free;
O how that glittering taketh me!

MY RECOLLECTED VERSION:

Upon Julia's Clothes

Whenas in silks my Julia goes
Then, then methinks
How sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes

Next when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free
Oh how that glittering taketh me

[Not too damn bad, if I do say so myself.]

**Loose end #2**:

I did it + 3!

My brain (methinks) is experiencing liquefaction.

not quite a metal flunkie

2007-11-29T20:13:00.002-06:00

"Listen to this. Who is this? Can you guess who this is?"

A heavy metal song plays on the radio. Guitar wailing, screaming. Notes flying like an electric shiver up the spine. The insistent questioning means that I should know who it is. Crap. I don't. I listen hard, hoping I'll have a metal epiphany.

"Ummm. Metallica. Metallica?"

"No, just listen—right there! Do you hear that?"

Ahh. A characteristic effect. Whose, I do not know. I say so.

"It's Pantera. Do you hear that sound? That's Dimebag Darrell. That's his signature."

He's not put off, but I'm kicking myself. I should have guessed Pantera—though being able to guess one correctly out of the two most frequently noted bands by the fan in question would hardly lend any more to my credibility as a metal aficionado.

I do not have an ear for this. I wish I did, but I don't. Still, I try. Not to love it, but to better understand it.

What is the appeal? He explains how passionate it is. The feeling is aggression, but it's genuine. Pure. It shouldn't matter what kind of music is—those who do it well...you can feel the passion that they put into it.

This I get. Just as sometimes you need to wallow in self pity, sometimes anger and aggression are what you need to feel, confront, and get out of your system.

There's more to it than this, of course. Guitarists like Darrell Abbott and vocalists like Phil Anselmo and lyricists (and vocalists) like Maynard James Keenan are masters at what they do. I'm not going to like everything I hear, and it won't be my life's quest to stock my closet with black, skull-laden t-shirts, but as long as there's a willing guide, I'm game. I don't know that I would have otherwise given a second (or first) thought to Tool, A Perfect Circle, or System of a Down.

So, I'm not a hard core fan of heavy metal music, but I don't need to be to in order to respect the musicianship and the unfiltered emotion that goes into it. And, yes, it also helps to love the guy who loves the music.

careful, people!

2007-11-28T20:53:00.000-06:00

Now, this is not an attack on a holy text. This is a criticism of an interpretation of this text.

I paid $1 for this at a library book sale. Only after did I realize that someone had torn pages out of it. No matter. I bought it because the bad writing was hilarious, and plenty of good examples of that remained.

Here's one:

The contents list says that this is condensed from Matthew 13:1-3a; Mark 4:1-2; Luke 8:4. I did a comparison and, true enough, taken together, these verses are about people crowding around Jesus who then gets on a boat to tell his parable. What would seem more interesting and valuable would be to hear one of the wonderful stories.

In this case, the story that follows these verses is "The Parable of the Sower" (from my copy), which says, in essence, that the success of a seed depends on the quality of the soil. You could go many directions with that. I know that this 400+ page (!!) book is intended for toddlers, but they could absorb much more complexity than what is illustrated here. Never underestimate the power of their noggins.

But, I guess this depends what the goal is. Is it to show what a popular guy and a great storyteller the man was or is it to relay his stories and provide an opportunity to discuss them?
++++++++
12/17/07, ETA:
It must be said that the sections following this chapter actually do tell some parables, albeit in as high a quality of prose as this introduction.

twenty-seven. Wisconsin.

2007-11-27T21:52:00.000-06:00

[Fast forward: left Maine for Minnesota where I completed a year as a AmeriCorps volunteer, delivering on the promise. Worked in an elementary school to see if I would like teaching, and saw that I probably wouldn't. Went to South Korea for a month to work at an English language camp. Got accepted then enrolled at a university to become a master in library and information studies. A master, I say.]

Yes, so I finally figured out that maybe I should give librarianship a try. I started my first semester in the fall of 2001. Three classes stick out in my mind as the most valuable and interesting: a class on globalization (referred to here), a class on evaluating children's literature, and a class on geographic representations of information in communications and information studies (i.e. the fun and foibles of maps).

Two brief memories related to the events of 9/11:

One, my initial response as I watched the news reports was: "What did we do now?" (Of course, nothing can justify such an attack, but at the same time I'm not blind to the fact that the U.S. has done far more than its share of dirty deeds.)

Two, during an evening class, a loud siren went off outside. The class must have looked petrified because the professor calmly reassured us that it was only a siren to warn boats to come in off the lake after sundown. The threat was minimal, but the fear was real and instantaneous...and a drop in the bucket compared to the fear people live in every day all over the world.

Technically, I turned 27 exactly two months after 9/11, but, not surprisingly, the events of that day loomed large and colored my education in the two years that followed. It was quite an interesting time to be learning about implications of globalization, information access, and freedom of information.

I cannot believe that this was all six years ago.

a place to sing

2007-11-26T21:48:00.000-06:00

Can't think of a damn thing to say, but Shawn Colvin's "Trouble" is chugging, rumbling, thumping through my brain:

I go to the trouble and I like it
That's where I'll be
Trouble is just like love, if it's half the way
It's all I can see
And it's just what you need

This, in turn, tips me toward Jennifer Nettles' "Drag Me Down". (Yes, I'm a fan.) She, knowingly or not, borrows a line from Shawn Colvin's song, but takes it in a different direction:

No you don't have to drag me down
I am drawn to the bottom end
No you don't have to drag me down
After all I descend

They seem to me to be two perspectives on or possibly two phases in a shitty situation. The first acknowledges the funk, rolls round in it, and takes responsibility for it. The second also takes responsibility, but at the same time is sort of an "I may be going down in flames, but at least I'm trying, and, by the way, fuck off for your part in my demise" kind of reaction. I like to sing along to the latter. Loudly.

Ok, so maybe I did come up with something to say.
And if you've never listened to either of these women, well, snap to it.

bittersweets

2007-11-25T21:19:00.000-06:00

Or: "how I spent my Sunday afternoon"

Behold the bounty: cinnamon pinwheels, cappuccino love bites, pretzels in almond bark, pretzel turtles, half and half peanut butter chocolate thingies, and cranberry almond drop cookies. These are not the official names.

Our hostess also baked ahead of time a loaf of holiday bread for each of us (seen on the chair) and some savory peppery nutty cheesy disks (not pictured). Again, not the official names—especially that last one. I'm actually laughing aloud as I read that one.

For the second year now, I've been included in a small holiday baking gathering—there are three of us. I'm reasonably certain that this will be my last. I don't believe that my partners will shed any tears, either. A surrogate was even delicately mentioned (to my relief) in conversation toward the end.

I say this with no ill will. These are good, polite, and genial women. I'm just not cut out for the high stress world of holiday baking. I'm inexperienced, need far too much direction, and clearly do not grasp the importance of timing and not choosing sweets that require chilling after preparation. Oh, yeah, and I have nut allergies, so there's some amount of mutual guilt hanging in the air—theirs for choosing a recipe with nuts and mine for being the root of another's guilt. (I actually don't mind the nuts. Makes it all the more easy to avoid overindulgence.)

I was seriously tense and on edge the whole time. I had a glass of wine when I got home just to unwind and recuperate.

twenty-four. Colorado. Maine.

2007-11-24T22:38:00.000-06:00

I started as an English major, switched to Biology, then transferred schools to study Natural Resources Management and Latin American Studies. I was sincerely interested in all of these, but after five and a half years, I finally wrapped up the B.S.

So, what did I want to be when I grew up? Still didn't know.

Through about 99% of my college career I worked on campus in the library. The last library where I worked closed for a time due to flood damage. To help me maintain some income, I was very graciously given the job of working at an information booth to assist new students on campus. For as short a time as I spent doing that, I loved it.

Ahem. Did you hear that, me from nine years ago? Sought out and worked jobs at libraries. Loved work that involved helping people find information.

Despite what may seem to be whopper clues, my next venture was in Maine as a VISTA volunteer. The organization I worked with was a lemon. What was intended to be an organization led by a council of volunteers with input from members of surrounding communities was instead one little man doing what he wanted with input from himself with results to no one's benefit. I was there about 2-3 months.

Highlights from 24:

I went to a friend's wedding in MN and the best man caught my eye. We'd graduated high school together, but had never really talked much. We started writing to each other, using pen and paper for the most part. (Crazy, I know.) An extremely funny, intelligent, and, yes, nice looking man, but long distance relationships never last...and I still had miles to go.

I worked with two wonderful women at the library in Colorado, Sensible Karin and Spit-fire Betty—both were between 30 and 40 years or so older than me. They were complete opposites, but got along so well and were a blast to work with. Part of an exchange I still recall between them:
Karin: Well, curiosity killed the cat, you know.
Betty: Huh. Satisfaction brought him back.

Karin, Betty, and I went for a day trip to Rocky Mountain National Park. Karin was determined to get me there at least once before I left the state. It was absolutely breathtaking, and I couldn't have asked for better company.

That short stint in Maine? Happened during the most beautiful time of the year: late summer and early fall. Long enough to be invited to a cabin by a coworker for a lazy Labor Day: floating blissfully on a lake, later a lobster feed at her trailer (relatives were lobster fishermen), then a live performance by her heavy metal, teenage sons. Kick ass. Also, long enough to see the landscape turn neon as the leaves changed. I got out before any crazy ice storms. I was also flat broke from the move, but hey. The price of taking a chance.

a blogger's conscience

2007-11-23T20:28:00.000-06:00

I write and revise. I post.
Then I revise. I revise revisions. I tweak and tinker. I develop, refine, and reconstruct. Nothing you'll find here is off limits to my freakish editing compulsion. I just can't leave something alone if I notice it's not quite right for one reason or another, and this medium is, well, enabling.

Under typical circumstances, I do most of this before posting, leaving only minor touch-ups for post post. This post-a-day deadline is really putting the screws to me, though. I get down to the wire and have to post something skeletal and unsatisfactory. There's an awful lot of revamping going on after the fact.

I don't have many readers and certainly no one who checks in frequently enough to notice, but I do still wonder if I get away with it. And that's how I've realized I view my edits. I feel like I'm cheating or something.

Does anyone else feel this way? Am I reneging on a sacred blogger's compact hidden somewhere in the agreements I clicked through to create this thing? Is there some statute of limitations that dictates the point after which no editing is allowed?

thank you / gracias / merci

2007-11-22T07:43:00.000-06:00

I have no time to post and little or no access later today. Just want to say thank you to any and all who read and comment. Not to overload with cheese, but this blogging business has been one of the most rewarding things I've taken on in a long time and it wouldn't account for much if no one came by. So...

Thanks.

twenty-one. Colorado. Belize.

2007-11-21T19:30:00.000-06:00

And so began the erinera of Birkenstocks, hairy legs, and patchouli. After I'd completed my sophomore year in Georgia, I transferred to a university in Colorado and shortly after went to Belize for a few months to study its "natural and cultural history" with a small band of students. We covered nearly the whole country—plus a short trek into Guatemala to visit Tikal—by van and slept in tents. Not surprisingly, this is the most memorable period of my twenty first year. A selection from the many high points:

Kindness and a Rastafarian prophet in Caye Caulker. The photo on the left is of my friend, Jess, and I on the top of the I&I bar on Caye Caulker with two kind fellas we met from Mexico. The second was taken a little later that evening. Much laughter. Just looking at that second photo makes my cheeks hurt.

One of the guys who sailed the boat we traveled around on during our time on Caye Caulker said his name was Marcus Garvey. I didn't know any better than to believe him. I wonder how many of the others did and how many laughed their asses off at how gullible I was.

Dancing the punta in Dangriga. We were at a bar/restaurant and where a live band was playing. I got into one of those transcendental, deep down in the music grooves. All that was there was that rhythm. A whole lotta booty shakin'. My thighs and gluteus were singing the next day.

Bare chests and a cougar in Mountain Pine Ridge. Suzi, Nate, and I—efficient students that we were—finished up early with the DBH measurements for our alloted section of pines and went for a walk. It was the strangest sensation to go from working in a moist, green broadleaf forest the day before to working amongst shushing pines and walking a dusty red clay dirt road the next. It was hot and Nate was shirtless. Why shouldn't Suzi whip off her shirt as well? Me? Not quite so free-spirited. It was all very surreal.

Another day during our stay here, Jess and I took off early toward the fire tower to see the sunrise and hopefully spot a tapir—our two professors had been out and seen one earlier that week. No such luck. Instead we were blessed by a cougar that come sauntering out of the forest to our right and onto the road ahead of us. It stopped, stared straight at us for a few beats—probably a few hundred since my heart was racing—then went back the way it came. Amazing and utterly petrifying. We continued on to the tower and I always wonder how closely we were being watched as we passed. (not my photo, by the way, it came from here.)

There's more. Much more. I could write for days on this. Instead, I'll leave you with two more photos.

Me. Tree.

Little mobile home in the forest.
[Note the very prickly tree right in front of the door.]

you're invited

2007-11-20T19:21:00.000-06:00

I'm throwing a Pity Party and, well, actually you've already been roped in so let's commence with the commiseration. Your responses don't necessarily need to be genuine—though I don't see how could you not agree that I suffer. Regardless, I wouldn't know. I'm really not aware of any unhappiness or discomfort you're feeling right now because I'm completely wrapped up in poor me, me, me. Let me tell you about how this person undermines me. And then there's that other person who totally annoys me by toot toot tooting that horn while playing the martyr. Then these other people are so obnoxious because I couldn't get a response from them to save my life. Sure, they're busy and don't have time. Even that much information would be helpful. I mean, it's not like I'm some irrational ogre! If there's a news flash about the department I'm supposed to be managing, I'm not the first or second or even third to know. Everyone else is told and eventually I find out...if I ask. Contact me directly? Whoever heard of such an idea? Got an issue? Someone else is told to to tell me so any effective problem solving can be completely evaded and we can all sit and fume about a situation that's been dreamed up. I work sooo hard to do well on something that's been asked of me and then BOOM! get the cease and desist because I'm creating work for others or they can't deal with that now or they just don't care any more. No one cares about what we're doing or what we need or whatever little drama we're living. Overworked? Join the club! And then come the bright and innovative and synergistic ideas. No matter that they have no clue how it translates to day to day reality, this is the new project with much cachet so I must hop to it!

Squashed! Disrespected! Disregarded! Marginalized! Wah! Wah! Waaaaah!

What's that you say? Couldn't hear a word of that? Just a prolonged, high-pitched cry?
Not enjoying yourself? Neither am I. The bitter hors d'œuvres are giving you indigestion? Y'know...I'm feeling a little nauseous, too.

Has any good come of this? No.
Have I made any progress? Nope.
Solved any problems? Nuh-uh.

Ok. Party's over. Time to get up off the floor where I've been flailing. Time to rein it in and hop down from the high horse I've been riding. Time to put my energy into something that results in something more than a pity party hangover.

shuffling my zen

2007-11-19T22:19:00.000-06:00

Moi?

I do not own a pod of any variety because the proprietary .m4p is buggin', because they cost more, and because I can't use them listen to ebooks from the library. Yes, I know that sounds crotchety. Love me or leave me.

I own a Creative Zen, so I've shuffled that. Here you go, the first ten at random*:

1. Ride a White Swan (T. Rex)
Lyrics are very odd, but you don't listen to this stuff for insight. Unless you're high. Or a Druid. Or both.

2. Regulate (Warren G feat. Nate Dogg)
Infectious groove and so smoooooth. He is a beautiful, beautiful man. And Nate Dogg? A voice like buttah.

3. Baby's Got Sauce (G. Love & Special Sauce)
I love that he just owns up to being whooped. This one's so so fun to sing along to.
A kiss for some of this / a smile and it's done.

4. Best of What's Around (Dave Matthews Band)
Optimism. I spent some time traveling, tenting, and studying with a group in Belize. Someone posted the lyrics to this in the outhouse near one of our encampments. It did make the experience a little more bearable.

5. Been Caught Stealing (Jane's Addiction)
A song to bounce to. Manic. The video used to crack me up.

6. If It Isn't Love (New Edition)
They were so sweet and talented (if you can manage to not let the present day Bobby Brown taint the image). I have a soft spot for well choreographed singing groups...if they predate the New Kids.

7. Notion (Barbara Kessler)
I plucked this from the CD Women's Work that I found at the library. An ambling song. Why complicate things right now? This is what I can do.
I'll give you an inkling / Spare you a notion / Nothing more. / You get what you pay for.

8. Roll 'Em Pete (Big Joe Turner / Pete Johnson)
Pure, unadulterated boogie.
Well, you're so beautiful, you've got to die someday
Well, you're so beautiful, you've got to die someday
All I want's a little loving, just before you pass away

9. Pleasure Principle (Janet Jackson)
Control was one kick-ass album.

10. Baker Baker (Tori Amos)
Bare bones beautiful.

*Disclaimers:
If I came across two songs from the same album, I skipped the second. [I also skipped a shuffled in chapter on Uranus (no kidding) from The Planets by Dava Sobel. Still haven't finished listening to that!] Songs were glommed from two (the only) music folders I created—one titled "Jenn & Co" (mostly mellow, chick songs) and the other "Up Beat". Odds were in favor of the latter.

All in all, quite a lovely snap shot. This was just the post I needed—a fly on the wall would have seen and heard my research: some mad dance moves and wicked off-key singing. Thank you, Haiku.

+ + + + + + + +
ETA:
If you are so moved to take on this meme, consider this a passing of the torch. Go forth and shuffle, gentle readers. If not, never mind.

eighteen. Minnesota.

2007-11-18T13:35:00.000-06:00

Senior year: the beginning of the end of my extended stay in Minnesota. Plans were in the works for the first of many self-instigated moves. I'd had my fill of potential, and needed kinesis. My reasoning sequence went something like this: Must get away from small town and small minds. The south was good. I must go south.

"College in Georgia, you say?"
"Yep."
[in hushed voice] "Do you know there are black people there?"
"Yes. Yes, I do."

That settled it.

While the class voted me "typical" and "best hairstyle" (I'd traded the spire-o-hair for a bounty of permed curls), I received the most important vote of confidence from my English teacher, Mr. Johnson. At the end of the year he returned my final paper (on Oscar Romero) to me with a short letter. I will be forever grateful for his words:

I don't make it a practice to give gratuitous praise, but in your case I want to make it clear that you have one of the best minds I have encountered in twenty-six years. . . .I hope that your intelligence and your sensitivity will bring you happiness and success.

He wasn't lying. He didn't give gratuitous praise. He hardly acknowledged me if we passed in the hallway. His comments in tight red script on my papers were concise, direct, and constructive—complimentary when needed, but equally critical when needed. It shouldn't be implied that he was uptight and reserved. In front of class he could be quite saucy. More importantly, though, he loved literature and loved writing and his enthusiasm was contagious. He made the dead live again. It was from him in his class that I first heard "Upon Julia's Clothes" recited from memory. Quite influential. Made me want to steal books.

And that letter from him did more for me than good grades and a diploma.

The Company of Strangers

2007-11-17T23:52:00.000-06:00

[for the yanks: Strangers in Good Company]

I first saw this film when it came out in video. I've lost count of how many times I've watched it since. It's the perfect blend of beautiful characters, beautiful scenery, and beautiful music.

It isn't actors portraying grumpy or cute or otherwise stereotypical older women. The situation is staged (8 women—7 older and one younger—are stranded when their bus breaks down), but their stories and and personalities are their own and are as varied as any you'd find in any group of any age. All of the women have endearing moments. Some more than others.

My favorite is Cissy Meddings. There she sits in the photo, leaning on the rock. There are a couple of shots in the movie of Cissy alone, looking off, paying attention to her surroundings. She gathers water from the lake and then stands to watch the birds swooping and skimming just above the water's surface. During a downpour she stands on the porch, looking out over the field. Her arm raises slightly and you wonder what may have moved through her thoughts at that moment. What was she following or gesturing toward?

The current cover photo shows Cissy holding on to Winnie's arm as they walk. I prefer to think of the opening shot in the film. Cissy leads the group. She walks independently and with purpose out of the fog. Despite challenges and losses she's experienced, there is such an uncomplicated joy about her and a resolve not to dwell on hardships, but to move forward and make the best of things. She is not helpless. When she speaks of recovering from a stroke she recalls lying in bed, counting window panes, and then suddenly deciding, "This won't do. I've got to get up." And she did.

This passage from In the Company of Strangers, written by fellow cast member, Mary Meigs, brought tears to my eyes. (Who am I kidding? I cried.):

At the wrap party that celebrated the end of filming, we were mesmerized by the vision of Cissy, dancing alone like a honeybee dancing directions, in the din and glare of flashing lights. She was wearing pink sneakers, white socks, a white cotton dress and a pink cardigan. The other dancers had left plenty of space around the circle where she shuffled her feet and spun slowly around in time to the beat. Her face, turned up, wore an expression of heavenly bliss. She held out her arms, elbows bent, fists clenched, moving to the beat, her pink sneakers shuffled and turned. She would be there till morning, it seemed, dancing her joy, while the others, a third her age, staggered exhausted off the dance floor.

I want to be a Cissy when I grow older, dancing my joy.

corto

2007-11-16T22:42:00.000-06:00

Not much to say today. Sorry to be a lame-o, but I'm tired.

Just spent a loooooong night waiting for a short bus.

Ok, ok. Here's a short poem from memory. I'll have to look up the who and when and maybe explain the why another day. And check to see if I got it right:

Upon Julia's Clothes

Whenas in silks my Julia goes
Then, then methinks
How sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes

Next when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free
Oh how that glittering taketh me

Can any of you guess correctly? No cheating.

fifteen. Minnesota.

2007-11-15T12:33:00.000-06:00

Freshwoman. Oh, the time and hairspray that were expended to get my bangs to stand up just so.

I ran with a wild bunch, though by today's standards we were probably pretty tame. I led a double life, really. At school, I was studious. On weekends, I either went to parties (either house or a keg in the woods/field) to drink and smoke with friends or slept over at a friend's house where we'd smoke, maybe drink, and stay up all night acting like idiots.

I used to smoke. I used to drink. I used to smoke, drink, and dance the hootchie-coo.

A major revelation for me happened during my government class. We each took a personal opinion quiz and I discovered that I was a closeted liberal. Quite a shock after all of the conservative cheer leading (Reagan/Bush '84!) that had gone on in my home. It's quite something to realize you have a mind and opinions of your own.

post script

2007-11-14T20:27:00.000-06:00

I meant to add this to this post, but didn't. From the chapter titled "Native Genius" in Ecology of a Cracker Childhood:

Daddy's was an amazing triad of traits—frugality, creativity, and mechanical ingenuity—so that as I grew, our estate grew. Junk bred junk.

I know now my father's occupation has an actual title; he is a bricoleur, a term given by French anthropologist Claude Levi-Strauss to folk recyclers, people of creativity, vision and skill who use castaways for purposes other than those originally intended, sometimes for art. Theirs is a native genius—as Joe Graham explains in his paper about milusos, meaning thousand uses, of Mexico—that goes beyond simply making do with what one has. Native geniuses are "able to take the materials and technology at hand and solve complex problems."

I like this idea. It appeals to my practical sensibilities. We're already producing enough new crap in the world. We need more new spins on what we already have.

post script of post script:
What do you believe in? Luck? Tao? Kismet? Karma? Blessings? Good ooga booga? Prayer? Positive thinking?

Whatever it is, send some positive stuff to me tomorrow. I'd appreciate it.

loving scare

2007-11-13T23:17:00.000-06:00

I spent a couple of hours tonight assisting with a program that enabled parents to digitally record themselves reading a book. The recordings will each be burned to a CD that their preschool child can listen to during the day as one of their chosen independent classroom activities.

Easily 95% of the parents were Spanish speakers and knew little or no English. It was emphasized to them (in their own language) that the closeness and connection that the child feels with their parent as he or she hears the story was hugely important in developing a positive attitude and love for reading. In addition to the story, parents were encouraged to include personal messages as well as little songs or rhymes. It was really a wonderful thing to see and hear. A couple of the parents actually cried when they were done because they were just so happy to be able to do this for their child. This was one of those glimmers that makes the yuck parts of my job fade to the background.

When all the parents had gone home, I was told about one of the moms who, after reading a book said, "Oh, I have to make up a song. I always make up a little song for him." She thought and thought and then sweetly sang a little song that went something like this:
Go to sleep / Go to sleep / Or the big cat will come and get you.

A little shocking at first, maybe, but I totally got it.

When my mom used to come in to say goodnight to us she always had some little ditty or rhyme that she'd sing or say. It might be a really lovely old hymn, like "In the Garden," which I remember fondly. But more often than not, she'd pull something completely unconventional from her noggin. And for all of the goodnight trips she made for four kids, who could blame her for wanting to make things a little interesting? We loved it—though we each had differing tastes and tolerances.

My older brother, my mom informed me, would beg her to stop if she sang "Loving You Has Made Me Bananas" à la Mrs. Elva Miller, but it flat out cracked me up.

Oh, your red scarf matches your eyes,
You closed your cover before striking,
Father had the shipfitter blues,
Loving you has made me bananas.

This was another odd song [for full effect "chaw" must be growled and tobacco pronounced "tabacca"] frequently performed:

Hooka tooka my soda cracker
Does your momma chaw tobacco?
If yer momma chaws tobacco sing
Hooka tooka my soda cracker

She also used to recite a portion of Little Orphant Annie, too, that scared the bejeezus out of me, but I never asked her not to recite it:

Wunst they wuz a little [girl] wouldn't say [her] prayers,--
An' when [she] went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
[Her] Mammy heerd [her] holler, an' [her] Daddy heerd [her] bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, [she] wuzn't there at all!

Beats the hell out of "The Wheels on the Bus Go 'Round and 'Round". No matter what the ditty was, I always felt safe and loved.

twelve. Minnesota.

2007-11-12T20:34:00.000-06:00

Ah, middle school. I was very fortunate to fly under the radar during these years. Didn't get kicked off of any lunch tables. Didn't get challenged to a rumble at the Busy Bee laundromat by a girl who'd sharpened her fingernails to points. (Both of these were realities for others.) I did have someone put tape in my hair, but I think it was 'cause he liked me. Dumb ass.

But I did tempt fate. I won the spelling bee. Brace yourself for the suspenseful play by play:

That's right. Champion speller. Big reader. Winner of gargantuan dictionary (which I still have, thank you very much). Why no one kicked my ass is a mystery. I did get gentle ribbing from my friends who christened me the Spelling Bee Queer (back when it just meant odd), a name that name actually stuck for a while. I didn't advance any further in the competition. "Savvy" did me in at the regionals. The next year I entered, but threw the match (threw the bee?). At least that's what I tell myself.

The funny thing about this is that until very recently I had remembered that Izzy had won and I was the runner up. I was actually surprised when I found this article. Suppressing my inner dork, I guess.

Oh, yeah, and my parents divorced sometime around my twelfth year. Not a happy incident, but also not terribly devastating. Theirs was not a match made in heaven. I may have even been relieved.

33

2007-11-11T23:17:00.000-06:00

Yep. Thirty-three years ago today, at 11:17 p.m., I greeted the scene—the third (I just blew your mind) of four children. And you're all thanking your lucky stars.

For your pleasure, I decided that for the remainder of the month, I will mark every third year of this occasion (on the date corresponding with the year of my life) with a tidbit of whatever I can recall from that year in my life. Ok, so this is not so much for your pleasure (though it pleases me if it pleases you), as it is for me think about where I've been and how I got to where I am. It will also give me something to write about for seven of the remaining nineteen days.

Because I'm launching this brainchild on the eleventh day, my birth date, I've got to get you up to speed, quick-like.

birth. Minnesota.
Don't recall a thing, though I have to say that my expression seems one of amused disbelief. I'm pretty sure ma told me that she had doubts about whether the nurses had accidentally swapped me with another baby because I looked like a little Eskimo.

three. Minnesota.
My very first memories are from this time. Some good: climbing everything. I loved to climb. We had these weird windows that had slates of glass that cranked open like blinds. Climbed up those. Climbed up to the top of a pine tree to rescue a stupid cat that then ran back up the damn tree. Some bad: mom and dad fighting. In a rage, Dad obliterated mom's tomato plant. Envision red splatted on the wall. Not good. Some portentous: (Actually, the last one could fall in this category, too.) An early testimony from my mother as to my stubbornness and demand for respect:

I remember distinctly an incident in the kitchen where you had pulled out all of the canned goods for the umteenth time and I lost my patience - you absolutely refused to help me put the cans back in the cupboard until I asked you nicely; scolding did not work, in fact scolding just made you dig in your heels and refuse to cooperate in any way. That was at age 3.

I remember this. I closed my eyes when she caught me. Thought that if I couldn't see her, she couldn't see me. No such luck.

six. Minnesota.
Self portrait with caption that reads, "Erin in her school uniform." Started kindergarten at a small, private Baptist school. I was painfully, debilitatingly shy. Embarrassing confession: the teacher took the class for a bathroom trip. I didn't want to go with them, but I had to pee so I found another receptacle: the container for little plastic toys for the classroom's sandbox.

nine. Texas.
Nothing in particular sticks out in my mind about this year. By this time, third grade, I had gone to four different elementary schools, but we'd been at this location since the middle of my second grade year. The start of the school year always brought anxiety. Loved school. Loved school supplies. Reuniting with or meeting new people scared the bejeezus out of me.

Stay tuned for twelve.

magic number

2007-11-11T21:51:00.000-06:00

Three is a magic number,
Yes it is, it's a magic number.
Somewhere in the ancient, mystic trinity
You get three as a magic number.

The past and the present and the future.
Faith and Hope and Charity,
The heart and the brain and the body
Give you three as a magic number.

...

A man and a woman had a little baby,
Yes, they did.

truce

2007-11-11T20:28:00.000-06:00

On Armistice Day
The Philharmonic will play
But the songs that we sing
Will be sad
Shufflin' brown tunes
Hanging around

No long drawn blown out excuses
Were made
When I needed a friend she was there
Just like an easy chair

Armistice Day
Armistice Day
That's all I really wanted to say

"That song mainly meant, let's have a truce. I chose the title 'Armistice Day' because it's not even called 'Armistice Day' anymore. . . . I didn't really mean it to be specifically about the war. I just meant that I'm worn out from all this fighting, from all the abuse that people are giving each other and creating for each other." - Paul Simon

[in The Rolling Stone Interviews]

she ain't heavy

2007-11-10T22:36:00.000-06:00

I'm sick of the weight given to weight. Tired of the social psychosis. I don't even know where I'm going with this really, so I'm just going to spew. If you are grounded in who you are, what the fuck does it matter? I wish that it didn't matter. I wish that all it took was a steely resolve, but it's hard to escape this crap without a dent. I was overweight. I never really let that define who I was, but that disconnect between how I viewed myself and how others viewed me and treated me was so unsettling. It was maddening to question my own value because of comments from idiots because I knew better. Juggling the two perceptions is exhausting.

Then I lost weight. I was glad I lost weight, but not because I thought, "Excellent. Now the world will see that I'm worthwhile." Sure, I was happy with the change in my appearance, but this was only one of the pros. I physically felt better. My heartbeat didn't skip around. My knees didn't hurt. I wasn't so tired all the time.

Nothing about the change in my appearance changed the way many comments made me feel. Telling me repeatedly how thin I am still amounts to dwelling on my outward appearance—the least important part of who I am. For good measure, add in asinine comments about "cheating" with what I might be eating or questions about what I am or am not allowed to eat.

And then there's this insane camaraderie that some feel with me. I was at a club with a friend of a friend and she commented to me about a woman on the dance floor who she felt was overweight. "I just want to go up to her and tell her, 'It's ok,'" she said. There was no indication that the girl needed consoling. She was dancing. She was enjoying herself.

A friend of mine is going through the tug of war with her self image and how others view her. She's gotten comments and is very unhappy with how she looks, but at the same time she confesses, "But I don't feel fat." She knows better. And she's right. She is not fat. She is absolutely phenomenal.

It just makes me want to scream.

The best reaction I've gotten from people about my weight loss is disbelief. Those people never saw my weight. They saw me.

go to the dump*

2007-11-09T18:52:00.000-06:00

A recent commentary on Marketplace by Mary Annette Pember made me think of that book I'd mentioned a short while back, The Shock of the Old: Technology and Global History Since 1900 by David Edgerton, and the one by Janisse Ray I mentioned just two shakes ago.

The first because of the differing views of technology. The current and predominant "innovation-centric" view that's heavily weighted toward *NEW*NEW*NEW* vs. a "use-centered" view that takes into account which technologies have had staying power and how and why they've stayed around. The first view would show that most developing countries sorely lack in technological prowess or contribution. The latter would recognize resourcefulness—the ability to take what we'd consider and outdated or out-of-fashion technology and maintain it and keep it relevant.

The second because Janisse Ray's father and his customers exemplified this ingenious ability.

All three recognize the value in technologies or items that get used again and again because they fill a need and do it well. They give due credit to the ingenuity of local populations that make these and other technologies work because there is no other accessible option.

Interesting that there's a movement that's striving for the same thing.

One person's trash is another's treasure. One person's choice is another's necessity.

[*This was a card game I played growing up and later learned that most other people call it "Go Fish":
"Do you have an Ace?"
"No. Go to the dump."]

i'm not a witch! i'm not a witch!

2007-11-08T19:28:00.000-06:00

I'm a neo-pagan. Totally different.
Well, at least according to this I'd qualify. I tried to deny it, but after three tries and 100% each time...? With each pass, I did become more compatible with Unitarian Universalists and New Agers, but less with Mahayana Buddhists. Here's the top 5 of the final rundown:

Neo-Pagan (100%)
Unitarian Universalism (99%)
New Age (94%)
Liberal Quakers (90%)
Mahayana Buddhism (78%)

The logic's not nearly as well reasoned as Sir Bedevere's, but worth contemplating nonetheless.

Neo-paganism seems to be a catch-all, and I can jive with that. I looked over the info on it, though, and I don't really relate with much else. I'm not in for ceremony...especially those that take place in circular formations and involve hand holding. I'm sure there's more to it than that, but that's enough for me to self-disqualify.

I think I have Alice Walker to blame for my pagan leanings. I've sampled different faiths, but nothing ever rang more true to me than Shug Avery's explanation of God:

God is inside you and inside everybody else. You come into the world with God. But only them that search for it inside find it. And sometimes it just manifest itself even if you not looking, or don't know what you looking for. Trouble do it for most folks, I think. Sorrow, lord. Feeling like shit.
. . .
It ain't something you can look at apart from anything else, including yourself. I believe God is everything. . . . Everything that is or ever was or ever will be. And when you can feel that, and be happy to feel that, you've found It.
. . .
Everything want to be loved. Us sing and dance, make faces and give flower bouquets, trying to be loved. You ever notice that the trees do everything to git attention we do, except walk?

To quote Celie, "Amen." If I needed a stand-in for the Bible, The Color Purple would be it.

Note the animism vein. Even so. I just don't wish to associate with things magickal. [The "k". Is it really necessary? All it conjures for me is obnoxious spellings like "kwik".]

Now for some levity (e.g. very small rocks):

[Thank you, Hillbilly, Please, for helping me uncover my pagan inclinations.]

as if a photo was needed

2007-11-07T22:17:00.000-06:00

Jeffrey Pippen, "Longleaf Pine Savannah at the Green Swamp, NC - 29 May 2003"

In a longleaf forest, miles of trees forever fade into a brilliant salmon sunset and reappear the next dawn as a battalion marching out of fog. The tip of each needle carries a single drop of silver. The trees are so well spaced that their limbs seldom touch and sunlight streams between and within them.

I'm just over half-way through rereading Janisse Ray's Ecology of a Cracker Childhood, about her childhood and the astonishing loss of longleaf pine forest in the southeast of the U.S.

This was not a loss I knew as a child. Longleaf was a word I never heard. But it is a loss that as an adult shadows every step I take. I am daily aghast at how much we have taken, since it does not belong to us, and how much as a people we have suffered in consequence.

Not long ago I dreamed of actually cradling a place, as if something so amorphous and vague as a region, existing mostly in imagination and idea, suddenly took form. I held its shrunken relief in my arms, a baby smelted from a plastic topography map, and when I gazed down into its face, as my father had gazed into mine, I saw the pine flatwoods of my homeland.

She is an amazing writer.

dysfunction junction

2007-11-06T18:47:00.000-06:00

The point at which feverish quest for prestige and upward mobility meets dwindling or otherwise anemic experiential knowledge. Commonly associated with a dissonant delusion of omniscience.

That one I made up. This one I did not.

Prestige:
1 : standing or estimation in the eyes of people : weight or credit in general opinion 2 : commanding position in people's minds

Etymology:
French, from Middle French, conjuror's trick, illusion, from Latin praestigiae, plural, conjuror's tricks, from praestringere to graze, blunt, constrict, from prae- + stringere to bind tight...

I love words. I could kiss that etymology.

spaghetti with mary and gene

2007-11-05T07:30:00.000-06:00

I've explained previously the heart and effort that my grandparents put into these fund raiser dinners. Never ceases to amaze. I decided I had to photo-document it.

This time it was hoppin', and so, as a consequence, were my grandparents. Someone (not them) had the brilliant idea of having a silent auction during the dinner. People wanted to get their bids in under the wire, and results were announced at the end, so the crowd never thinned and my grandmother never sat down to eat. 4 hours. She's a lean mean hostess machine.

There she is in white shirt and black pants, her young protégé walking behind. I was introduced to the mentee shortly after I arrived. Grandma was very happy to report that they've been getting more, younger volunteers. They even had two people vying for the plate scraping job. Unheard of.

My great aunt and uncle came this time, too. Very different personalities between sisters, but both endearing. When asked by a member of the congregation if we enjoyed the dinner, I provided the polite, "Yes, thank you." Marge said, "Well, it's not how I make spaghetti at home, but... Couldn't you put some spices in there?" I had to stifle a guffaw. Mary prays for souls; Marge provides comic relief.

Despite the hullabaloo and much to my grandma's chagrin, many of the silent auction items were left without a bid. The kitchen closed at 3 pm sharp, and so commenced the tear down. Within an hour of my arrival, it was as if nary a meatball had been served. There's Grandpa Gene: white head and black sweater vest.
In one of several trips to the car with my grandma and Marge to load the centerpieces (which my grandparents supplied once again), my great uncle commented to an on-looker, "Jeez, you don't think they're related, do ya?", and so prompted the last photo shot by him at my request. Yes, very related. Couldn't be prouder. (See? The boogie monster's not so scary.)

My grandparents do this—and many, many other things—for the church out of duty and devotion, not in hopes of heavenly reward. So, on their behalf, I hope that when they've passed to the great beyond someone else waits on them hand and foot. I'd be honored to do it...if I'm not caught and booted out, that is.

from "Return"

2007-11-04T20:28:00.001-06:00

by Carolyn Forché

Your problem is not your life as it is
in America, not that your hands, as you
tell me, are tied to do something. It is
that you were born to an island of greed
and grace where you have this sense
of yourself as apart from others. It is
not your right to feel powerless. Better
people than you were powerless.
You have not returned to your country,
but to a life you never left.

in The Country Between Us.

The full poem is long and striking. The whole collection will knock you off your feet.

straight jazz became hot

2007-11-03T10:35:00.000-05:00

Django Reinhardt and Stéphane Grappelli and the Quintette du Hot Club de France:

I love that grin.

go ahead. dance a jig.

2007-11-03T09:22:00.000-05:00

You won't be surprised at my praise for most anything Paul Simon. Most assuredly you won't be surprised that I love the instrumental "Hobo's Blues," a small but potent dose of bliss. I cannot sit still when it's playing. I found this version to share, and while it does fall short of greatness (she knows it too, note the closing interjection), it's a valiant effort, and it'll still make you boogie. Don't hold back—no one's looking.

I took a closer look at the credits for "Hobo's Blues," from the first solo album* released in the U.S., and spotted the name Stéphane Grappelli (see him smile when he plays). Those of you in the know will be saddened to know—I am saddened to know—that I had not heard of this man before. Believe me, I'm hot on the trail of correcting this mammoth oversight.

[*Thank you to Liz. I first heard this album when you purchased it for your parents.]

all overdone

2007-11-02T20:06:00.000-05:00

Found by way of this post, an excellent commentary on just where paranoia lands us:

If you ask amateurs to act as front-line security personnel, you shouldn't be surprised when you get amateur security.

...[S]top urging people to report their fears. People have always come forward to tell the police when they see something genuinely suspicious, and should continue to do so. But encouraging people to raise an alarm every time they're spooked only squanders our security resources and makes no one safer.

I agree, his examples are "attack[s] on the unique, the unorthodox, the unexpected," and when you're hypersensitive to lurking evil-doers, just about anything will qualify. At the same time, I have to wonder about another motive. Despite the exasperating mantra, "better to fight them here than here," it appears people are chomping at the bit to fight "them" here and are willing to fabricate "them" so they can do just that. Or maybe folks just want to see a good taserin'. Compensating for insecurity, real or imagined, personal or political.

Overreactions.
Overt.
Overdone.

And with that, I leave you, once more, with Paul:

Paranoia strikes deep in the heartland
But I think it's all overdone
Exaggerating this and exaggerating that
They don't have no fun

I don't believe what I read in the papers
They're just out to capture my dime
I ain't worrying
And I ain't scurrying
I'm having a good time

. . .

Maybe I'm laughing my way to disaster
Maybe my race has been run
Maybe I'm blind
To the fate of mankind
But what can be done?

hello and goodbye

2007-11-01T17:17:00.000-05:00

I saw my uncle in a dream just before I woke last Saturday. It was one of those dreams where I wake up with a taut lump in my throat—on the verge of tears, but not able to cry. He appeared out of the blue and out of context, and I was really happy to see him—could feel it in my heart. I gave him a hug. He looked content.

I saw him two months ago for the first time in years. A small contingent of my ma's side of the family converged with uncanny timing at a borrowed cabin up north. None of us knew exactly where we were going or when we should arrive. We followed different meandering paths—in state, out of state, north, south, east and west—yet more than half of us ended up at the same point within minutes of each other. That's about how the weekend went, too. Things just fell into place. It was impromptu, easy, and light, full of conversation and belly-aching laughter.

My uncle arrived a little later. His health was not good and he hadn't been sleeping well so he'd delayed a bit, hoping to get a little more rest before making the drive. He was low-key, chatted some and played cards with his granddaughters. When it was time for us to go, I hugged him and said hello and goodbye. We hadn't spoken much, but I was glad he was there. Gatherings like this are few and far between.

About six weeks later, I was attending his funeral. At first, I wasn't sure if I should even be there. I felt incidental. I remembered him fondly, but as a subtle presence. When he and my aunt divorced the familial tie was stretched thin and...life went on. Maybe I felt a little guilty for that, and that I didn't really deserve to be there.

But I went, and I got to say hello and goodbye one more time. Old photos and stories introduced me to a man I'd never known, and revived memories of kindnesses that I had known. I learned what he meant to my cousins. How often does "My dad is a great dad because..." come up as a topic of discussion before something like this happens? He was a considerate and caring father. He wasn't ostentatious. He gained respect and obedience quietly. No one wanted to disappoint him.

After the service, we converged again, this time from one direction, following one path to the long-held family home. My cousins' children climbed the apple tree, polished and claimed stashes of apples as their own. Adults plucked and shined memories from the home and yard, some to share and some not. Remember playing Capture the Flag? Remember when your brother peed off the top of the haystack? Those woods...remember how we stayed gone for hours out there, just exploring and playing? Remember lip syncing to Roger Whittaker ("..and the first time that we said hello, began our last goodbye.")?

My family moved many times when I was growing up. On more than one occasion, my aunt and uncle opened their home to us as a port in the storm or an extended pit stop between ventures. As I wandered the house, I realized that I was also saying goodbye to their home, my last accessible hold of memories. It was the last place from my childhood that was still available to me. I could walk from room to room and point...I didn't have to close my eyes and imagine. My aunt sat over there in the living room to knit and crochet. I sat in that tub, playing until my fingers wrinkled with kitchen utensils—measuring cups, Tupperware containers, a funnel, an egg beater—as bath toys. We put on performances there, at the top of that stairwell, for our parents who lined the steps. We hid in these cavernous closets and cubbies during games of hide-and-seek. The house seemed so small now. I could hardly believe all of the memories it cradled.

Such a day of loss, but I hadn't felt so at peace in a long time. When I dreamed of my uncle, he asked, "Are you going to use...?" That was it, but I knew what he was asking. I knew that I needed to write this, remember this. Again and again, I come back to this concept of seeing the invisible and welcoming the unexpected. It is a true challenge for me and goes against nearly every learned inclination. But when it happens, when all else falls away and I have a bit of clarity? It's stunningly sweet and mollifying.

one last halloweenie-ish post

2007-10-31T16:55:00.001-05:00

If you haven't visited Jail Finds, it's worth a look.

hee-hee!

2007-10-30T20:53:00.001-05:00

From here via here.

who put a nickel in henry?

2007-10-25T22:07:00.000-05:00

Well, I guess I did. 400 or so, actually. I went to see Henry Rollins do his spoken word thing, "PROVOKED", and I do believe I got my money's worth. The man stood in one spot and spoke for three hours straight. No intermission.

I knew some about Henry, but not a whole lot. He's been in a band or two of the heavier variety. I'd heard "Liar", and know exactly 4 words of the lyrics: "'cause I'm a liar!" I'd also heard tell that he was politically outspoken, but I had no idea that he was doing a spoken word tour or that he had done more than one until it was mentioned here by Jagosaurus. She's a fan of Henry's. I'm a fan of hers. It followed that given a convenient opportunity, I would check out.

About ten minutes in, I was concerned—not about subject matter, but about style. He started out talking about the typically poorly written and unsigned hate mail he's received. One letter in particular was from someone who disapproved of his live-and-let-live stance on homosexuality. The writer asked something like, "What's next—men who marry horses?" Henry's point was funny enough: the phobe spoke as if homosexuality were a "gateway" orientation. Experiment once and there begins a progression through various animals that ends with an exchange of vows with a horse. Absurd.

What I didn't need to hear was the description of the progression. It was an all ages show, so I was surrounded by stinky college students (an observation, not a judgment—I, too, was once a stinky college student) who sniggered incredulously at HR's crude descriptions of seduction and sex with various animals. I could not suffer a whole show of dick humor. Luckily, it ended there. To his credit, if he was employing a hook to engage those in the audience who came based only on his musical resumé, he likely succeeded.

He covered a pretty broad range of topics, and was a genuinely good speaker: smart, funny, honest, bullshit free, and, while I have a hunch he was largely preaching to the choir (the thundering guttural "YEAHHHHs!" from the gent 5 ft behind me were an indication), he was respectful of other's opinions.

In short, Hillbilly, thanks. Great recommendation & well worth my nickels.

makes me rather tired

2007-10-17T21:00:00.000-05:00

Ma is famous for gifts of random miscellany. On a recent visit she left me this garage sale find:

A New Self-Teaching Course in
PRACTICAL ENGLISH
and Effective Speech

comprising
vocabulary development, grammar,
pronunciation, enunciation,
and the fundamental principles
of effective oral
expression

by
Estelle B. Hunter, Ph.B.

It's a box of 15 lesson booklets published in 1938 by the Better-Speech Institute of America. Apparently, they made quite a killing with these courses. In the "personal message to you from the author," Estelle states that while "[a]t first your efforts to avoid mistakes and slovenly speaking may cause you to speak with a somewhat studied expression," one should not be discouraged because "in due time your speech will be both fluent and correct."

Each booklet ends with exercises. Here's Exercise 9 from Lesson 2:

Correct all the mistakes in the following paragraph:
What kind of a time did you have at the club last night, or wasn't you there? I saw Jones, and he sez, "The new club don't seem homelike, but you can't blame it on me--I'm not the House Chairman." Those sort of remarks make me kind of tired. He most always complains, but he don't take a hold and help. He's dark-complected enough to be a Russian or Italian, but he sez he ain't.

Answer:
What kind of time did you have at the club last night, or weren't you there? I saw Jones, who said, "The new club doesn't seem homelike, but you can't blame me--I'm not the House Chairman." That sort of remark makes me rather tired. He almost always complains, but he doesn't take hold and help. He is dark-complected enough to be Russian or Italian, but he says he isn't.

What the...?!?
Never mind fluent and correct if your speech is daft and dull to begin with. What kind of non sequitur is that last statement?

I think I'd rather hang with Jonesy. But don't mind what I sez, I ain't the House Chairman.

chronic introspection, ca 1999

2007-10-14T07:03:00.000-05:00

[Embarrassing, yes, but I do like pieces of it.]

another pint-sized ton
again burdened by another
conflict or confrontation
friend or foe
so brash and bold
I shy away
retract, fold
into my cave of contemplation
my home
my traveling companion
blocking, locking out light that
might project through the
prison
prism
scatter the image some
more perspective
under the scope
examined at every scale
dissected and multiplied
compounded
crazy thinking, thinking
maybe too much
p.s. had it right
wise? in sight
can drive a gal
in sane

what did i do was it me
no of course
not sure
it was as always
mountains and valleys, ravines to
mole hills and furrows, creases
and back
dispense with the
discourse within
could I do without?
god please stop and
someone else start
do me that favor
but beware
I'm told
of those red angles
paradoxes perching, lurking
lurching from dark corners
and bright expanses
seek comfort from the wise
they are as confused as I
view scattered image fragments
through compound eyes
what am I to be?
stay strong or
bend or both
the hub and the spoke

I give up
you go ahead
take a snap shot
try to sum it up
this picture's worth
more than a thousand
million single words
phrases, cliches, ambiguities
run-ons
incompletes
sentences.
fragments
take a shot
if I can't do it
of course you can
of course you can
see so clearly
and me, sure
oh, me too
nice and neat
little package
me up of course
you can
Box me in
label sin
wash, rinse, repeat
again burdened by another
reflection on reflection
chronic introspection

qp

2007-10-13T21:03:00.000-05:00

Or, questionable provenance. My code for "stolen books". The dirty secret's out. I am an honest woman, a reformed woman (in that respect, anyway), but in my personal library thing, there exists a handful of books obtained through dishonest means.

These ill-gotten items are a remnant of a spell in my mid to late teens (I was a minor, for those of you thinking of calling the po-po or five-o...or homeland security for that matter). I have no justification for my thievery, but I've thought a lot about why I took the books. I used and loved libraries (a few of the books are from libraries) so it's not like I didn't understand the free borrow and return, reusable community resource concept.

Out of curiosity, I did some shallow digging about commonly stolen books. Common, of course, is relative. I'm unfamiliar with all but three of the authors commonly lifted from b&n. Public libraries commonly lose how-to books. Dictionaries and poetry books are the first to disappear in correctional facilities (followed by the how-to's). Folks steal "immoral" books to keep them out of the hands of others. How moral. I wonder if they have ties to the Bible nabbers--another hot title.

Some of my bibliobooty probably registered in my mind as "cool old books", but the majority fall in line with the how-to's and poetry. My motivation was hardly lofty or meant to impress. I see these books as mementos. Anchors. I know that life back then felt incredibly impermanent, and one thing that I felt semi-solid about was writing and appreciating those who did it well. I also had a great English teacher who loved literature and writing. His criticism was constructive, and his praise was hard won, but deserved. He had high praise for Sheridan Baker (RIP).

So, there you have it. Think of me what you will.

[Ha! There are two mentions of stealing in the Amazon customer reviews of The Practical Stylist! ]

why don't you stay?

2007-10-04T14:24:00.000-05:00

Wow. One could read into why this struck a nerve. I chalk it up to raw emotion. You don't have to live something to feel something. Not having experienced such a tragedy in my life, I easily well up just listening to La Momma Morta.
++++++++
12/8/07, ETA :
Blerg. This has been pulled from YouTube by the corporate empire. Here's a link and here's a link to sanctioned videos which I cannot embed. Yes, I do see the irony: "Ask the corporate music factory why."
++++++++

She wrote this pre-Sugarland--or at least at its very beginning stages. It's on this live recording (2003) and this live recording (2004) . She'd heard Reba McEntire's "Whoever's in New England" about a woman waiting faithfully for an unfaithful man and thought, "Screw that." This is her fresh twist on a tired story.

++++++++
For comic relief...here's one I could embed:

what bwings us togevah today

2007-09-26T19:58:00.001-05:00

...that bwessed awangement...that dweam wivin a dweam.

As of this Saturday past, I'm wiving the dweam.

elements of a successful fake camping excursion

2007-09-05T21:19:00.001-05:00

If one's fake camping trip is to be a success, I recommend (at minimum) the following items, pictured clockwise from top left:

These are recommendations. There is only one requirement: a first class girl posse.

Codspeed and good camping to you.

fusala erin

2007-09-05T19:52:00.000-05:00

Not really a shoe hound. Nor do I play soccer. But I love my new Pumas. The name reminds me of the Seinfeld episode. Trust that these babies will not meet the same fate as the pasta effigy.

[Is it Fusala or Futsala?]

This is not political. This is grammatical.

2007-08-24T22:29:00.000-05:00

"One person is not a troop." Thank you, William Saffire.

That individual soldiers are being referred to as "troops" has been secretly irking me for some time.

"...American presence of more than 160,000 troops in Iraq." New York Times
"...the addition of some 30,000 U.S. troops since February..." USA Today

Since finally vetting this, I'm relieved to know that my agitation is justified. (The scratched itch: what we all strive for in life. Am I right? Can I get a "Hells yeah!"?)

Troop, fighter, warrior, soldier...let's call the whole thing off.
Ok, that part was political.

This part, too:
An additional thank you to the Onion for its hard-hitting piece: "Bush Commits One Additional Troop To Afghanistan"

proud moment

2007-08-24T21:55:00.000-05:00

Last night, while watching a rerun of "Corporate Crush" on 30 Rock [one of the best shows in recent history along with Curb Your Enthusiasm & Arrested Development (RIP)], I heard the most beautiful words:

"Hey! She dances like you! You dance like Liz Lemon!"

Feather in my cap. Thank you very much.

holy mackerel, mac

2007-08-10T10:53:00.000-05:00

I'm in the middle of The Zen of Fish by Trevor Corson, and read this interesting snipit:

Sushi chefs divide all fish into three basic categories: red, white, and blue.
...Blue refers to fish that have silvery-blue skin, such as mackerel....Because the skin of these fish is silvery, sushi chefs also call them hikari mono, or "shiny things."
Sushi chefs began categorizing fish by color and shine in the early 1900s. Historians think that geishas in Tokyo's entertainment district may have been the first to popularize these categories by using them when dining with their clients. In Tokyo today, young people use a variation of the term "shiny fish" as a form of slang. They refer to girls who wear glitter and shiny clothes as "mackerel gals" because they look like shiny-skinned fish. In fact, mackerel have a reputation the world over for their ostentatious shine. In England, calling a man a "mackerel" meant he was a dandy; in France, it meant he was a pimp. It is from the latter usage that we get the term "mack daddy." (p. 154)

How could I not dig for more information?

From the Dictionary of American Slang:

mack n by 1887 A pimp; =mackman: …copped you a mack—Donald Goines [fr 15^th-century mackerel, “pimp,” fr Old French macquerel, perhaps related to Dutch makelaar, “trade, traffic,” hence ultimately to make, macher, etc]
See mac
mac¹ n by 1940s A mackintosh raincoat: His simple dream of naked girls in wet macs
See mack
mac² n by 1928 Man; fellow; =buster, jack ●Used in direct address, often with a mildly hostile intent: Take it easy, mac [fr the many surnames beginning with Mac or Mc]

mackerel See holy cats

mackman 1 n black by 1950s A pimp; =mack: …went back to…that young mackman?—C Cooper …a mere player masquerading as a mack-man—Village Voice 2 modifier: …for all his jackass mackman shit—Village Voice

From Urban Dictionary:

mack
mackerel
mac
Mack Daddy
mac daddy
mac daddy'n

via Bartleby.com:

Mawson, C.O.S., ed. (1870–1938). Roget’s International Thesaurus. 1922.
Class VI. Words Relating to the Sentient and Moral Powers
Section IV. Moral Affections
4. Moral Practice
962. Libertine.
procurer, pimp, pander or pandar, bawd, conciliatrix [L.], procuress, mackerel [archaic], wittol [obs.].

Who knew?

this may offend you

2007-08-06T19:38:00.000-05:00

As a favor to a friend, I wrote up a review of a street fiction title, Flip Side of the Game by Tu-Shonda Whitaker. Figured I might as well get some extra mileage out of it.

From the back of the book:

Look out...cause here she comes!

Stepping to the forefront, award-winning author, Tu-Shonda Whitaker, proudly presents Miz Thing herself, "Vera Wright-Turner!"

"Don't hate the playah, hate the game!" is the anthem of this gold diggin' queen. Miz Thing is funny, passionate, and shoots it straight from the soul, as she welcomes you into her life of trials, tribulations, and triumphs of love.

After all, when she first greeted the scene, she was a newborn found in a plastic bag, crying in a trash dump, addicted to crack with a note that read: "Please forgive me, my mother's only fifteen." Well, that must've been a joke because, Vera's mother, also known as Rowanda Wright, is a chicken head that Vera Wants no part of. That is, until she meets six feet tall and deliciously fine Dr. Taj Bennett, who takes Vera on a journey that is one to be reckoned with; and this is just the beginning!

So, sit back, relax, and get yourself a drink or two, 'cause Vera has some Spike Lee-Hollywood-Oprahfied shit for ya ass!

You will soon discover that Flip Side of the Game is the story that the literary world has been waiting on!

My review:

For Vera Wright-Turner, life and love have been nothing but a "ma' fuckah". The first eight years of her life were spent surviving the Lincoln Street Projects with her mother and grandmother, both drug addicts whose first priority was their next high. Vera has seen and been through a lot, so, as she puts it, she "was born grown". She has every reason to cut ties with her past and all the people in it—no matter how good their intentions may be.

Now, life is good. Vera has a tight circle of girlfriends, her Aunt Cookie and Uncle Boy, and the education and beauty shop paid for with her tried and true gold diggin' ways. She's had enough hard times, she has learned the hustle, and has no intentions of getting played by love and "stuck on stupid". Vera comes to realize, though, that no matter what distance she puts between herself and life in the projects, it's never very far away. When she meets Dr. Taj Bennett, her ways and plays get called into question. She has to decide if she's willing and able to face her past, take a chance on love, and risk ending up on the flip side of a game she thinks she has mastered.

Some of the transitions and turns of phrase in the book are a little awkward, but Vera's humor and the descriptions of her exploits and experiences definitely make this worth reading. Tu-Shonda Whitaker delivers a great story line, dialogue, and characters with both wit and grit.

While not all street fiction books are the same, they are often very graphic and gritty depictions of street life: violence & crime; drug dealing & use; gold digging & hustling. Definitely not for the faint of heart. Also not for those who have low tolerance for shoddy grammar, misused or misspelled words, and mangled idioms. [These due in large part to the "big" publishers not signing street fiction authors...who then self-publish their work sans perusal by a careful editor. If their are never erors in you're writing, than throw the first rock.] In comparison to a couple other titles I've read, Flip Side is actually pretty tame on both fronts. Even so, I have to share just a couple gems from its pages:

"...he had my fat ass stretched out like the hum of a Negro spiritual." (pg. 13)

" 'What is wrong wit ya'll niggahs?' Aunt Cookie said, slightly drunk, but trying to maintain her composer.'" (pg. 166)

If you find these examples too repulsive or distracting, you won't likely enjoy this book. I enjoyed this book. Once I got settled into the vernacular, the spelling and grammar didn't phase me much. Think big picture.

The primary audience for this book and others in the genre is African American women, but in correctional facilities, street lit is a huge hit with just about anyone who can get their hands on it. Men who admittedly never picked up a book when they weren't incarcerated chew through several of these titles a week. I purchased Flip Side of the Game and its sequel, Game Over, was because I wanted to see what the frenzy was about. At the time, there was a huge waiting list of guys wanting to read them, and copies in the library's catalog had all been checked out and lost—no doubt still circulating, but from hand to hand, outside of the controlled checkout system.

With self-publication, then word of mouth, and now a change of heart by large publishers, this genre has exploded within the last few years. There's been some controversy about it within the black community. I've also heard varying opinions from librarians who work in corrections about whether or not incarcerated individuals should be allowed to read these books because they are believed to promote a negative lifestyle or because the books are checked out and never returned.

My opinions on the library stuff (because cause you know you want 'em):

First, people live their lives the way they do for reasons beyond any book's influence. As lives evolve, tastes and interests evolve.

Second, supply the material that people want to read and supply enough to reasonably keep up with demand. Create scarcity and you get hoarding. Provide enough of what people want, and they might actually think that you value them, might actually return books because there are enough to go around, and might actually feel like they have a place in libraries.

Have you read any street/urban/hip-hop fiction? No? Well, at least give it a try or Erin "will do a Rick James pimp slap summersault on yo' ass! Understand?" (p. 6)

good stuff

2007-08-05T22:51:00.000-05:00

I really dig Maynard from Tool and A Perfect Circle.

From an interview with the A.V. Club (Maynard's the fella in the high waters and bow tie):

AVC: You don't print lyrics, but you make them available online. Why not simply make them part of the package, like your artwork?

MJK: Reading is more of a left-brain process, and listening to music is a right-brain function. And the right-brain function is far more emotional and has softer edges, so when you first hear the album, you should hear it and feel it. When you start "reading" it, then you're thinking it, and you rob yourself of that initial impression of how the sounds affect you. [Laughs.] I'm going to burn some sage right now—I'm about to burn some incense for this conversation. But seriously, I believe that when you go into a gallery or a museum, the most powerful pieces are the ones that don't have the words in the corner that distract you from the larger piece. You know, if the Mona Lisa had "Eat At Joe's" in the corner, that's all you would remember.

If you're adventurous, try Aenima or Thirteenth Step. The melodies and phrasing are just...different and, well, good. Be warned: it ain't no James Taylor. Try just listening first without images and lyrics.

[It should be noted that Maynard cites Joni Mitchell as an influence. I think I can see (hear) that.]

sideways glance

2007-07-25T19:07:00.000-05:00

One of my oldest and closest friends told me a while back that had we not known each other since middle school—had we just met now—we probably wouldn't be friends. She had also said the same of another mutual friend—a shallow, right-leaning, money-loving, prestige-seeking mutual friend, mind you. She didn't mean any harm in saying this to me or to say that she didn't value our friendship. Neither was she implying that either of our lives was better than the other. Just different...and a bit incongruous. That stung a little.

I recently watched Sideways and the relationship between Miles and Jack got me thinking about this again.

My friend is probably right. Our lives are different, our priorities are different, many of our values are different...but different to the extent that as strangers we'd repel or at least not recognize something in each other's personality that we'd like to pursue? Probably not the former. Probably the latter.

If this is the case, then how do such unlikelihoods happen and what makes them stick?

The hodgepodge that is your cohort in middle and high school and college is definitely a factor, but the friendship incubation clinches it. The friendcubation. If you're lucky enough to stay in one place for a good chunk of time in your life from puberty on, and if you're lucky enough to have one or more people along with you to wade through that sludge, you've likely picked up one or more friends that got special consideration. A second glance and second chance. (And, in some rare cases such as the mutual friend mentioned previously, a third, fourth...or twenty-eighth chance.)

There has to be some measure of mutual appreciation, some glint of goodness recognized between you and another person in order for a friendship to have any odds of taking off. But for all the distractions and deflections of life, and individual perceptions and realities, you may not glean this from an occasional encounter.

In the midst of madness, though, with these individuals you discovered loveliness:
A brilliant mind.
A new perspective.
A kind, compassionate heart.
A good sense for nonsense (the importance of which can hardly be overstated).
A guaranteed, tell-it-like-it-is opinion.
Patience.
Resilience.
A penchant for mischief.
Good company for lounging.
Good company for cutting loose to play and explore.
An appreciation for good humor (more specifically, your humor).

Loveliness like this makes you want to be better or take a chance on something you might not otherwise try. It can also provide respite from feeling like you have to be anything other than who you are. It draws out your own loveliness.

For all of these and more reasons, these are friends to hang onto when you can--when distance or diverging life paths don't drive too much of a wedge between you and them. The best friendships are those that are unexpected. The ones that beat the odds.

Hi, Steve,

2007-07-15T21:48:00.000-05:00

[I've responded here instead of in the comments because I'm glad to hear back from you and I don't know how many would ever fish back that far to read this exchange.]

I didn’t realize until your reply that my “I hear you clucking, big chicken,” could be misconstrued as name calling, though I can see why it could be. I really didn’t intend that, so please read that as an unrefined “I concur”—so as to say that I agree with your basic premise. Also, I’m the first to admit that I can go whole hog after an issue, and in the process overlook the reality that another’s priority-of-the-moment may not necessarily jive with mine. I’m sure that you have a life off line. I’d also moved on, but I’m really glad you came by to talk after all.

Since starting this blog and sorting through my own motivations, I’m realizing that one means for the intelligent interaction that I’d been starving for is out here with you and others who are thinking and processing and sharing. So, to some degree, you’re right: “So what?” We’re all wending around, spinning wheels, trying to both find and impart meaning on and between lines. Sometimes we hit on something good; sometimes…not so much. I know I’ve written some stinkers.

At the same time, I’m a little surprised that you downplay your written “wanderings” when they’ve obviously either inspired or are inspired by enough conviction to creative generalism to coin the concept and spawn a lengthy manifesto. In my mind, it would seem that all of this pushes past hobby blogging and implies intent to...what? I don’t know. That was the cloud I was trying to pin down.

I could have been clearer about the intent of my rant.

My librarianship semantics example was more to illustrate the value of moving beyond philosophizing. So you clearly can move to action beyond philosophy in the off-line world. I can appreciate your accomplishments, and I’m sure you’re very successful and productive. I'd love to hear more about the nitty gritty of your efforts in publishing or other struggles or triumphs...and a lot less belaboring the legitimacy of creative generalism.

I lean more toward expression and discussion that present something raw or new or that rummages and plucks out gemstones to show them in a new light. The nonsensical is also very much appreciated. I prefer revelation to regurgitation.

CG is your baby. Go on and nurture it. If I was throwing stones, it was in the hopes of hitting upon something more of substance.

Exit Sign

2007-07-15T13:18:00.000-05:00

Another by Liz. I cannot read this out loud with out coming close to tears. Ok, sometimes they do sprout, depending on my frame of mind. It's just beautiful.

It's because so many want it.
Some small endings make hearts
beat like helicopter wings,
forgetting the sense of things
as wicked, devastating, heart-wrenching.

It's because so many see endings
as originating beginnings;
think they'll be survivors.

Lounging hopefuls in the hall;
faces blazing in the light of the exit sign.
Someone actually said it...
it would be a massive disease,
a modern plague, no cure.
She'd be a survivor, so said her dreams.
She'd rebuild society,
was looking forward to it.

These were her dreams.

And I dreamt of silence,
of pure and isolated ending.
I woke up, not a survivor,
not a savior,
but a cave of uselessness,
and the morning was red
and vacant.

Both this and the cow poem are ca. 1995, but she's still putting out great things. Not the least of which is a squash-banana-pistachio-green bean rhinoceros.

misfit dinner companion

2007-07-11T20:19:00.000-05:00

aka: me, a couple of weeks ago.
I attended the Caldecott/Newbery/Wilder awards banquet, and because a colleague graciously pulled some strings, I landed a seat at the dinner table with important people from a heavyweight imprint in children's book publishing. In the grand scheme of things, I honestly don't know how or why this happened for me, but considering my social skills in such situations, and a number of other factors, it was a bit of a blessing and a curse. Maybe the universe decided to all at once cash in a chunk each of my good and bad karma. Maybe someone up there likes to see me squirm.

Factors that did me in:
My career path is apparently either too enigmatic or unorthodox to entertain.
I suck at small talk and BS. (These are useful skills that I somehow cannot master.)
I know about children's literature, but the bulk of this knowledge is somewhat dated.
The seating arrangement was unfortunate.

For your entertainment, I will provide some of the lowlights of the evening.

Conversation with important publishing person (IPP)--the one whose strings were pulled:
IPP: So when did you know you wanted to be a children's librarian?
Me: [Long pause. How to spin? How to spin?!?] Well, the job I have now involves working with children and I enjoy it. It also has a lot to do with outreach which I really love. Before this job I worked with people in correctional facilities, and that was pretty interesting, too.
IPP: [Long pause coupled with blank expression.] But when did you know you wanted to be a children's librarian?
Me: I guess I'm interested in a lot of things, and don't see myself solely as a children's librarian.
IPP: ...
Me: [Losing ground...think of something!] I do enjoy my work, though, and I think that children's brain development is fascinating--especially how it ties in with early literacy.

I don't believe IPP even responded to that. I can't help but wonder what sort of preface IPP was given about me that she was so dumbfounded by my response to her acute questioning.

Anyway, soon after (mind reeling), I was introduced to an up-and-coming author seated next to IPP...an author I'd never heard of, of course. That conversation dead ended real quick.

My next foray into small talk was with the woman to my right. I scoped out her name tag which listed the imprint name, so I asked what she did for them. She replied, "I'm an author." I then apologized for not knowing...feeling at the same time that this could easily be construed as an insult. She was actually very gracious and continued to converse with me and learned that I hadn't been in this gig long. [I looked her up when I was back at work. She's written over twenty novels for children. I think I’ll check some of those out.]

Another wicked twist was that the one author I did know, whose books I had read, who I'd connected briefly with earlier that day, and who was by far the most chatty and friendly person at the table...was seated the farthest away from me.

Also, for good measure, though I was up close to the stage, I had to turn my back on my dinner companions for 80% of the evening in order to see the speakers. Not good for side conversation.

I don't know that anyone else at the table that evening has given a second thought to my ineptitude, but I left feeling both elated and deflated. A little more of the latter...but the last bits of this are finally shaking off.

It was far from a complete bust; there were highlights. It was incredible just being there. I did go over and talk to the outgoing author during a break and that went really well. She even invited me along to talk to and meet an eccentric editor of a review journal. Also, the brief acceptance speech given by James Marshall's partner was so simple and apt and lovely that I had to jot it down: "Thank you for indulging the triumph of his monumental silliness."

Oh, yeah, and I looked good that night. Every little bit helps.

It's all about cows.

2007-06-28T19:29:00.000-05:00

A recent article reminded me of a favorite poem written by my friend, Liz. It's sneaky good and smart and friggin' hilarious. I love the second stanza and, well, just the whole idea of a secret deception by cows, of all beasts. Genius.

Forget what you have heard
of all that's good and evil.
Forget what you learned
in King James...

It's all about cows.
Pretending to be innocuous
casually insisting by the nature
of their inertia that they are content
to chew cud and stare.

Facing in the same direction,
cows have their own Mecca....
stimulate their secret powers
at night--
with a collective concentration
so intense in its destruction
a cow itself will fall to the ground
with the force of one finger.

Cows are the source of depravity,
take over the minds of our children,
cows kill.
Some wear human suits,
pose as civil servants, smile
with their plastic lips closed.

And clandestine buildings
have been searched
to find the severed bodies,
isolated organs, hides...
of traitor cows, informant cows.

And central to their plan
for the final human massacre,
cows do plot to deplete the ozone.

[It's true. And she was wise to this years ago. Thanks for letting me post this, Liz!]

aloft somewhere between DC and home

2007-06-28T18:01:00.000-05:00

A herd of lumbering somethings from a foggy other world.

[Still taking pictures from planes. I'm like a kid up there.]

she likes to paint.

2007-06-19T17:45:00.000-05:00

I'm not much for people watching. It can be interesting, but I always feel a little guilty about it. Given the choice between that and tree or cloud watching, I'd take the latter two. No contest. Something about their quality of being defined or delineated (can't quite put my finger on the right word...) and fluid all at once, shaped at the wind's whim, calms my soul.

Makes me think of Lao Tzu's words (don't ask which translation) sent to me by Dr. Juan:

By yielding...
overcome.
By bending...
remain straight.
Softness overcomes hardness.
The formless is greater than form.

I stumbled on Caitlin Schwerin's web page a short while back and instantly felt like she captured that quality and conveyed the same sensation. Like she says, "If you think trees don't dance. Well, you're wrong."

I wrote and asked her if I could post a few of her pieces here and she agreed (Thanks, Caitlin!). It ended up being more than a few, but it was hard enough narrowing it to these. Take a tour of her work. She does much more than trees, clouds, and openness, and does it well.

yay or nay?

2007-06-17T13:25:00.000-05:00

[Most of this was copied, with permission, from the Snap Shots site. Saved myself some verbiage.]

I just installed a nice little tool on this site called Snap Shots that enhances links with visual previews of the destination site, excerpts of Wikipedia articles and IMDb profiles, inline videos, MP3s, stock charts and more.

Sometimes Snap Shots bring you the information you need, without your having to leave the site, while other times it lets you “look ahead,” before deciding if you want to follow a link or not.

Should you decide this is not for you, just click “Disable” in the upper right corner of the Snap Shots bubble and opt-out.

Let me know if it aggravates. I find it easier on the download for us dial-up dinosaurs.