Landmark

The Fool's Cap Map of the World

This is my one-thousand-and-first post.  The landmark event slipped up on me without my realizing it.  I feel that I should have done something to mark the occasion, swept up the dust in the corners, polished the brass a bit, should have put on my dress motley and my good cap at least.  For six years and a thousand posts now, I've been using this little corner of the electronic universe as a safeguard for my admittedly dubious sanity.  For everyone who comes along on this wild and whirling tour, even if it's only to see what happens when all the wheels finally do come off, I can but say thank you.  It's been a good place to dance.

Buy Your Own Diamonds

When we long for life without difficulties, remind us that oaks grow strong in contrary winds and diamonds are made under pressure.  ~Peter Marshall

I approach thirty-five on dainty winged feet.  

Actually, I just wanted to write that.  I don't do anything on dainty winged feet.  I stumble toward thirty-five like somebody running an endurance race who, in full stride, hung a toe on a root they should have seen and avoided....


Got that picture of grace in your head now?  Good, good....


A few years ago, I got tired of waiting for marriage to bring me a KitchenAid mixer, and, so, when February rolled around, I took myself and my pitiful bank account to a local mercantile and I brought home the lovely bright red beast that gleams quietly on my kitchen cabinet, maker of pound cake batter thick enough to use as a mortar for brick.  

That was the same birthday I got tired of waiting for Fiestaware, the dishes I had always wanted, and so I began to collect sets of them on each payday.  I now eat my breakfasts, rare lunches at home, and dinners off the same type of dishes my Nana had, cheerful, sturdy, bright pops of color.  Just opening the cabinet or emptying the dishwasher makes me happy.


This year, I stop waiting for diamonds.


This year, thirty-four fades into thirty-five.  There are no beaux lining up and pining away at my door.  I've watched girls who were literally infants when I was in high school get married recently, and I'm done waiting for the bolt from the blue to strike here.  For whatever reason, although I am blessed with many other good things, that good thing is not going to be mine.  Therefore, I'm buying my own damned diamonds.  


Not a ring.  I don't want that.  It would be a little too much insult added to injury, if you follow the logic there.  There will never be a diamond ring on these hands apparently.  I have, however, always wanted a pair of diamond studs.  You can read my previous post about the ones that Artifactum makes on Etsy, made from uncut diamonds, unusual and lovely.  That is what I've bought myself.  


They are my way of making peace with thirty-five.  If nobody else will give them to me, then I love me enough to give them to myself. 

Absolutely an Exercise in Fiction

Testing out my fiction skills.  Please don't take this to be anything other than a writing exercise.  Obviously, if it were, there would be other bloggage to accompany it....

The sky is a cerulean vault overhead, and we’re inside a paperweight, a snowglobe filled with verdure.  You look like you belong here, but then again, you look like you belong everywhere.  There is no place I cannot imagine you fitting perfectly, no place I can imagine you looking wrong or unnatural.  Just now, you’re here in this green kingdom, though, listening to the wind sing high and soft in the trees, listening to the distant argument of certain raucous crows. You lie on this soft old white feedsack quilt in the middle of a summer-green field, one tanned arm behind your head.  That old t-shirt shows just a little of your stomach, enough to make ripples but not enough actually to incite action; your feet are bare at the end of strong legs, toes curling and uncurling.   We don’t talk.  I don’t need or even want words right now.  I need to watch you watching the world for a little while, absorbing it, breathing it in.  I need to watch the sun run its warm golden fingertips over your face, watch you turn into its touch, see those clever eyes close as you savor the sensation.  

You shift and stir, making a small noise of contentment.  Then you look at me.  All pretense of hiding behind my book is gone, and you know me well enough to know that even though the paperback is open in my hands, the only thing I’ve been reading for quite some time now is the changing expression on your face.  That little smile, the one that comes on slowly and is somehow something feline, curls your lips and your eyes turn a little amused, a little bold.  I return my gaze to my book, try to ignore the way that grin makes my pulse do outrageous things.  Your head tilts, and you idly trace the tip of one finger across the long scar on my foot, move up to the ones on my knee.  Touch.  Touch.  Touch.  Again, again, a message in tactile Morse until I finally lower the book again.  The amusement in your gaze is gone, and when our eyes meet, your hand closes gently on my leg.  I look away, taking my time, slip the little bronze bookmark onto the page, close it, lay it aside, and sink into green, gold, white, and blue.

Happy, D--n It.

If you want to be happy, be.  ~Leo Tolstoy

Yesterday, I decided that I was just going to be happy.  Come hell or high water, I was NOT going to allow the despairing blackness that has been sucking at my soul these past days and weeks to continue to pull me down.   I got up after a good night's rest, had a very decent breakfast courtesy of my trip to Sam's the night before, donned my Kentucky Shakespeare Festival sweatshirt, and went to school.


I listened to the Beatles on the way to school.  It's just about impossible to be upset when you listen to the Beatles.  I had music on at school, too, until class started.  Music always helps.  I made some clear-cut lists to get stuff processed, took care of as many little tasks as I could before school actually got started, and even graded entire classes of multiple choice tests during the class periods they were taken in.  


Most importantly, every time something stupid happened, I reminded myself to get perspective.  Reminded myself about what I am and am not responsible for.  What is and is not my fault, is and is not under my personal control.  I took a step back to consider what was worth the surge of emotion involved in feeling bad or angry, in allowing something to control me through that chain jerk of response.  


By the time late evening arrived, I was listening to the Rolling Stones and finishing up piles of work.  I left with a satisfied feeling.  The day was good because I grabbed it from the teeth of ridiculousness and ran away with it.  I'm going to have to keep doing that, I suppose, if I want any sort of peace at all.

Blackberries

I bought blackberries at Sam's.  I couldn't resist them.  They were little fragments of summer in their plastic box, and I desperately needed some summer right now to combat the cold and grey January days I've been having lately.

Blackberries grow wild in bramble thickets at our place in the country.  The past two years, I've missed them, either because of my knee or the AP reading, but usually, I can walk down the path to our shack and get my fill of them. The flavor of them is amazing.  They're tiny, but tart and sweet, perfection.  I can pick handfuls of them, and they stain everything when they're ripe, my hands, my mouth, the tails of summer t-shirts I use as makeshift collection baskets.  I eat them all and then try to suck the incriminating purple off my fingertips.

These storebought berries don't exactly have the same zing to them, but they're a welcome fruit diversion.  As I was waiting for my rice to cook tonight, I opened the little box and just ate them straight from the container with only a light rinse as a garnish.  Their taste was like a little memory, a reminiscence of the summer I yearn for.  I'm going to keep eating berries and daydreaming about summer days on the porch of my shack with a book and a camera and nothing but a golden afternoon with the sound of wind in the trees and the tall grass rippling before me.  Maybe Time will be merciful, move quickly, and those days will be back here again soon.

Bottom

The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief.  ~William Shakespeare, Othello

As long as you keep getting born, it's alright to die some times.  ~Orson Scott Card

Yesterday, I hit the hard, rocky bottom.  All my optimism died.  All my hope, all my ability to see good in the situations, all of the deep wells I pull from to keep going dried up on me and left me with nothing.  

It happens sometimes despite my best efforts to the contrary.  I can't always juggle, can't always shuffle step, can't always pretend away all that's making me sad or crazy or tired isn't there.  

I think I used to be better at it than I am now, though.  And that worries me, frankly.  My students see that I'm sad or tired, and they comment on it sometimes.  I don't want them to know it.  I want to hide it better than I am or not be so stressed all the time for them.  Being that person for them is just wrong.  I need to do better, be better for them.  Their mood so often comes from mine, and I have to be very careful about what I'm putting out there.


So I'm trying to pick myself up off the floor.  I got my hair cut.  I bought a silly shirt with Yoda on it at Wal-Mart.  I bought food, real food.  I left school early the last two days rather than stay until the darkness wrapped the building in its fist and crushed it.  I'm watching Firefly, some of my favorite episodes.


I have to get up.  I have to stumble to my feet.  If I don't, then I'm no use to anybody, not to my students, not to myself. 

 

Mud Heals

My pottery class started back tonight.  I'm now in Ceramics II, which means, presumably, that I know what I'm doing.  (Ha.)

I put my new nifty noiseblocking earbuds in (bought because, quite frankly, I didn't know where in the world my regular set had gotten off to this afternoon), set my iPod to shuffle some Beatles, and started handbuilding 30 minutes before class was actually set to begin.  I had a design in mind that came to me sometime early this morning when I was getting dressed.  I have a necklace with a smiling moon face on it and quote from Lennon's lyrics, "And we all shine on/like the moon and the stars/and the sun..." on it.  I started kicking around the idea of an intricate moon face then, and it grew from there.

I got the piece built.  It took me about two and a half hours, and the time I spent lost in the application and addition of bits of clay to the circle base I started with was sheer bliss.  The face itself is the best one I've done yet; if it doesn't crack and if it survives the kiln, I think it will be nice.  A lot is going to depend on the glaze, and I can't make up my mind on how to approach it yet -- brights, underglazes, subtle, sparing, total, gloss overglaze....the options bewilder me.  Maybe looking at it again next week will help bring clarity.

It's amazing how good I feel when I'm working in clay.  There is no stress (unless I'm trying to keep something from killing itself and other people on the wheel), only the satisfaction and challenge of trying to make what's in my hands match what's in my head.  I honestly think I could do it all day long.  Maybe I have what Mr. G. calls "mud in the blood."  I kind of like the thought of that.

Dreams

Normally, I wouldn't write before school, but I'm just feeling weird, and maybe putting it here will make some of the bits and pieces fall into place so I can identify the cause and I can get on with it all today. I went to bed reading E.E. Cummings, feeling fairly peaceful or at least no more stress than usual on a day before the work week begins. I woke up with a head full of dreams and a stomach full of acid, neither of which is conducive to a good Monday.

The Topamax, amongst its other lovely characteristics, almost always keeps me from remembering my dreams most of the time.  I've always been a vivid dreamer; my cousin L. used to tell me if he could somehow hook something up to record what I dreamed, he'd be rich, presumably from stuff in the sci-fi/fantasy/horror genres of fiction.  I recognize that mostly my dreams are my brain's way of "filing" the day away, but sometimes... sometimes...

I have some that repeat.  They're usually bad.  I have the one where deceased members of my family appear to tell me that something bad is going to happen.  I have the one where I'm on a big ship, something Titanic-esque, that sinks and one of those propellers comes down smack-dab on top of me.  And last night, I added a lesser disturbing one, not a wake-up breathless or crying, but wake up sick one, the "I have to get somewhere and can't" dream. 

I was late for an international flight.  Everything was going wrong.  I was trying to get back to the place where I was going to be living and working....the destination kept changing...sometimes I think maybe it was Costa Rica...and nobody around me was concerned.  Despite the fact that I had planned carefully, my group would not leave the hotel. Things broke down.  Bags tore or just disappeared.  My passport tried to lose itself.  The concourses literally lengthened as I was running down them in an airport that looked like a cross between Atlanta and the one in Bangkok. 

My cat woke me up before I ever found out whether or nor I got where I was supposed to be going despite all the obstacles, but since I think the next thing in the arsenal of delay was probably going to be an army of clowns pouring out of the floor grating, I'm not sorry she did.  Where does this stuff come from?  I feel ill.....

Fragile

I just sat with one of my friends in the CCU waiting room.  Her dad, my pastor, is in.  He's bleeding internally, and they can't find the source to stop it.  He's hemorrhaging so fast that they've given him four pints of blood so far, and that's still not enough.  He's stable right now, but they have to scope him again tomorrow to try to find the hole and finally stop the bleeding for good. 

My friend has been through some terrifying moments since last night when her father collapsed and had to be taken to the hospital by ambulance, but she's holding up.   That's what you do in these situations.  You "hold up."  You sit in various rooms you don't really see, consume food you don't really taste, say things you don't really remember, and wait for the next update. Your heart stops with every ring of the CCU phone, and you pray, pray, pray that your doctor does not walk in the door unless you are looking for him/her. 

I did what I could do, sat with her, talked, relived silly stories to take her mind off it, all things she's done for me when I've been the one on those low-backed and supremely comfortless couches in that self-same room.  I stayed for a little more than an hour, I think, would have stayed longer, but I'd ridden in with my father, and he was ready to go home.  I know what happens when the distraction disappears.  The possibilities close in again.  Your brain cuts on again, and you wait.  And wait.  And wait. And think.

It's the worst part of any crisis, really.  Those moments when all the frantic action is done and there is absolutely nothing you can do to help or harm, when all your intelligence, all your skill, all that you are, personally, is useless to help somebody you love.  If you're a Type-A, hands-on, leadership type (and she and I are much from the same mold), you long to be able to do something, anything, roll a bandage, hold a bedpan....something....anything...so you don't feel so helpless.  So you don't feel like the whole thing is just spiraling completely out of control. 

And you know that it is.  Your higher mind knows that the situation is totally beyond you, maybe even beyond the people in the white coats and scrubs who surround you, beyond anybody but the hands of God Almighty.  But that action would help, would give you at least the illusion of something like control....  It's hard to be reminded of how fragile we are, how little we can really do when the chips are down and the situation is at its worst.  I will never forget that grey shadow on my own father's face as we raced in to the emergency room on that June afternoon.  I know my friend is never going to forget holding her own father waiting for the ambulance to arrive, wondering....  

Once you've had that brush with the horrible, terrible, shattering fragility of somebody you love and survived it, you just can't look at things the same way again.  Priorities change.  Humility comes.  Your own place in the universe shifts.  You both hold them closer and learn to let them go a little.  You learn that you're not in control of everything even if you try to be, and that sometimes things can come out okay even if you can't do a damn thing about any of it. 

And if loss comes, there are lessons to be learned from that, too.  Lessons about endings and pain and how we can pick the bits and pieces of ourselves up, how to maintain, how to remember, how to keep, how to let go....

I am praying for my friend and her father.  I will do whatever I can to help her out during this time.  I hope he's well again soon.  I would have wished for her that this time had never come, but now that it's here, I hope that all the things that come from it are good things, unexpected blessings, and that none of the more painful things that come from these brushes with fragility have to come now.

I Like This....

ever been kidnapped
by a poet
if i were a poet
i'd kidnap you
put you in my phrases and meter....
~Yolande Cornelia "Nikki" Giovanni, Jr., "kidnap poem"

Pen Lust

This is Levenger's new Plumpster in Pearl.  I want it.  I need it.  It will be mine.  Look at the colors, the swirls of grey and purple....  It is simply gorgeous.  If I met it walking down the street, I would pin it to the wall and kiss it senseless.....


"But," you're saying to yourself (just a little nervously or with that tolerant eye roll that you save just for me), "it's just a pen.  Calm down, please, before I have to get the authorities to give you more 'happy pills.'  I don't get it.  What's the big deal?"

First, have you ever heard of hyperbole?  And second, no.  It's not "just a pen." 

It's a work of art. It's a tribute to the importance of writing as something that should take thought, have value, be done with an instrument, not a disposable stick.   It's a vessel that can be filled and filled again, ink flowing in with inspiration. It says that the act of writing is important enough to have something permanent dedicated to it, something that is cherished and maintained instead of casually cast off. It's the choice of someone who writes things that matter, even if the items themselves are ephemeral.

It's a testament to the fact that even putting a signature on a document should be an act done with deliberation, and yes, can even be a celebration if what's in the hand is not something mundane and joyless to start with.  I've seen it a million times.  Take up one of these pens, and you will enjoy writing more.  It is inevitable.  There is something about them that enchants, that demands that writing become a little luxury instead of a chore.

It's a minuscule weapon, a tiny sword, forged to fight one's way through the thousand soul-killing tasks that assail a person during the day.  Looking down at the beauty of the materials whether they are metals, resins, or woods, feeling the weight in the fingertips, unscrewing the cap, and moving the nib across the page makes even a grocery list a ritual, a pleasure.  There is no paperwork so onerous that it cannot be lightened by the use of a lovely pen. 

So no, this isn't just a pen.  It's not just an inkstick; after all, any fire-blackened stick can scratch letters on a surface.  These are elegant aids for thinking; they are weapons against the trivialities of the day; they are devices of reclamation and revelation of the soul.  

All of those things considered, and all of them true, or at least granting that they are true for me, maybe there wasn't quite as much hyperbole at the beginning as you thought, then, was there?

Duh

Just took down a post, so if you're looking for it, you're not nuts.  I am.  I reposted a poem I had already put up back in October.  How silly of me.  I can't believe the mental gearings are so stripped out that I can't even remember what I've already put here and haven't. 

Well. 

Yeah, actually, maybe I can. Crap.  My brain is turning into mush.

Anyway, the poem definitely wasn't good enough to be up twice despite the fact that there were some significant revisions to it.  I won't inflict it on my "readership" (and yeah, I'm lacing that with heavy irony, would you rather I call you a captive audience or a mercy mission?) more than once.  Sorry, world.  I will strive to be more interesting.  Only....My motley is a little faded and worn just now, and I think most of the bells have fallen off my cap while I was busy with other stuff.....

Worn

I've started to dread certain things, certain conversations.  I've started to dread certain places, certain people for the repetitive nature of the references that wear on me.  I never expected to fall out of the world so quickly, to find myself stranded by what I suppose is some sort of generation gap so fast.

I find that frequently I care nothing for the topics under discussion, for the endless review of TV shows that apparently fascinate and obsess most of the others.  It does not matter to me what happens on American Idol or Gray's Anatomy.  Really.  And I get very tired of hearing how "daring" some people are when they head out for an evening at the most generic and poorly-staffed of chain restaurants and a dish they've never had before.  Is this what an exciting life is?  I've never thought so.  And yet, lately, this is what I'm surrounded by. 

It all just makes me feel so damn old.  Or strange.  Or both.  Does nobody talk about the things I do anymore?  Isn't there anyone who wants or views or does the things that I enjoy?  Am I passe or just horribly out of place?  I don't introduce topics of conversation anymore because I got tired long ago of the blank stares and the long, painful, awkward pauses before the return to the over-bright trivialities.  I don't talk about books or "odd cuisine" or even really ideas anymore in those places because it seems like everything has devolved to what Orwell's character Syme called "duckspeak."  (And yes, right now everything is 1984-ese because I'm rereading it for the umpty-umpth time...) I don't know how to resolve it. I just know that it makes me feel left out and worn down.

Don't get me wrong.  I have friends who "get me."  I do have people I can talk to about things and who don't make me feel like a reject and an oddity.  But they're getting fewer and farther between.  I hate this.

Reading Fool

I found this, and it just struck me as perfect for me.  My personal ex libris is a reading fool, more ornate than this one, sitting in a library with his shoes off and his feet up enjoying a moment away from his duties entertaining the rest of the world with a book.  I love the detail and the color of this little guy, too.  I might make him the new icon for the blog, but I would sort of hate to lose the picture of the Black Fool from King Lear at the top.....

Success

To laugh often and love much; to win the respect of intelligent persons and the affection of children; to earn the approbation of honest citizens and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to give of one’s self; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to have played and laughed with enthusiasm and sung with exultation; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived—this is to have succeeded.  (Attributed to Emerson, but not his.)

I had a weird day.  The first day back after a holiday is always hectic and full of nonsense. I was trying to get about fifteen things done today, obligations fulfilled, clubs organized and running smoothly, fundraisers organized and off the ground, and my stupid rolling chair that I've had for seven years now broke.  One of the metal legs that support the wheels just shattered.  I've never seen anything like it.  It didn't break in any of the expected places; instead it broke in one of the places it shouldn't have been able to break....

I felt like I'd lost a friend.  That chair and I have logged a great many hours....grading...sitting and listening to the woes of friends, peers, students, sharing joys and lunches with people who are no longer there, supporting me as a teaching platform when my knee had to be rebuilt.  I know it's silly, but I felt like I lost a part of my teaching history when I had to carry it out like a piece of trash.  I don't know why I attach so much meaning to inanimate things.  Too much imagination, I guess.

Later in the day, I found that I'd gotten nominated for an award at school.  I'm very honored that the people who nominated me thought that I was worthy of it.  I don't think I'll win; the other people in the running are certainly more qualified and deserving than I, but it's nice to be considered. 

The last thing I did was fight with a class that was largely apathetic about the subject matter.  It was depressing and made me feel useless and terrible.  When the bell rang, I went out to bus duty sad and tired.

After school, I decided to leave fairly early and go get a new chair since the wooden one I had subbed for my destroyed roller was a real literal pain to sit in for very long.  I got the task done quickly and on sale at the local Office Thing, got everything loaded (in the rain, of course), and was heading home. 

Somewhere I heard the phrase "a successful" something, maybe on the radio.  I can't remember if they said "successful doctor" or "successful lawyer" or some such, but it got me thinking of my day as a whole and my career as a whole.  In all the time I've been dealing with education (read: since I was old enough to know what my mother did for a living), I have never heard anybody called a "successful teacher."  It hit me hard enough to make me laugh. 

I'm sure it is mostly because we don't make a bajillion dollars a year.  We do, for the most part, live lives of semi-poverty.  It probably seems to most to be the fool's path to go to school as long as we do and then get so horribly little for our pains.  Some days, to be perfectly honest, it seems so to me as well.  I can't even imagine what it would be like to be in one of those other professions where people are paid on a level commensurate with their education.  I can't even imagine, most days, what it would be like to be paid on a level that would allow me to pay all my bills every month....

So can we be "successful"?  And if so, how?  I think we can be.  I think we can be successes if our students feel better about themselves when they walk out than when they walked in because they know more about themselves.  I think that if our students know more about the world and about their place in it, then we're successes.  I think we're successful if our students can take the knowledge we give them and stand strong on their own feet.  I hope I'm turning out this kind of student.  After today and days like today, I'm not so sure.  But hopefully, even if nobody ever says it to me in life, even if it's never written up in a trade journal or remarked on during a radio show, maybe they can use it as my epitaph. 

"Successful Teacher."  It would be nice to be remembered that way.

Reflections on the Tudors

And doesn't this sound like something you want to read?  No, really....

I've been watching The Tudors on BBCAmerica for the past two days.  They're running the series now (much sanitized, I'm sure, since it originally aired on Showtime), and it was inevitable that I would be snared by anything to do with Henry VIII and his messed-up life.  I know this is a soap-opera, so they've taken what was already "soapy" enough and amped it, but I find some of their slants and character portrayals interesting.

Anne Boleyn always comes off as a scheming temptress.  I'm not sure she wasn't, but I find her in this series sort of particularly horrible.  Selfish, grasping, deliberately cruel....I think the viewer is supposed to think this so when her inevitable fall comes, we'll be happy about it.

She got me thinking about how bad relationships with manipulative partners can mangle the people they're involved with.  Henry never sees Anne for what she is.  All his friends, people he's known and trusted for years and years, people he grew up with, prized for telling him the truth disapprove, and he refuses to listen.  I've seen that happen again and again with people I know personally right before the entire thing goes up in flames or violence. 

I know the great cliche is that love is blind, but why do lovers always assume that all their friends are wrong?  If everyone you love and trust tells you that your current amor is stepping out on you, playing games with your mind, being abusive to you, making you into some other person than you used to be (and not in a good way which you, let's face it, probably needed), then isn't there the slightest possibility they might be right?

I guess what Earl Derr Biggers says is true, "Every man must wear out at least one pair of fools shoes."  It would just be encouraging to me if people didn't keep going back to that same shop for this season's latest style of that same old fad.

Look What I Found

I got the good news that I'm going back to the AP Reading again this year, and I'm looking forward to it very much.  I found a list I made from last year's reading on a small notebook I carry with me, and I laughed at some of my observations.  "Acorn" is what I called myself because first-year readers had an acorn emblem on their badges last year to indicate that we were newbies.

Top Things I've Learned as an Acorn

• Always bring a sweatshirt 
• I almost froze.  Lots.  I finally bought one.I still almost froze.  This year, I'm taking Polarfleece.  And a hat. 
• The surprising number of things you can do with a  yellow Post-It
• Oh-so-much more than the makers originally intended....
• People will cut you if there's no ice cream on Saturday afternoon.
• Apparently, this is a sacrosanct tradition.  God help Food Service if they alter it....
• Get to the convention center Starbucks EARLY.
• It IS possible to hurt yourself badly enough to need medical aid while grading papers.
• How to get "calibrated."
• Cold Diet Mountain Dew, hard liquor, medical supplies, nail polish, batteries, office supplies (and all other things) can be purchased at CVS.
• (really probably a codicil to the last) If you can't find somebody, they're at CVS.
• The park where the Shakespeare Festival performs is TOO FAR away to walk to.  Really.

There were other little memories in there related to jokes from the actual table, but I won't put them here. I can't wait to go back this year.  Sigh.

More Giraffes

I just got this for my bedroom.  It fits in with the theme elsewhere in the house (vintage advertising posters), including the old Waterman pen poster I already have up in there. It will also tie the giraffe sheets to the dark green comforter in a convincing way, I think.  Or at least these were my excuses for getting it... 

Look, it makes me happy.  Does it hurt you?  Leave me alone.... (grumble, mutter)

Serendipitous Quote

"Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live." ~ Oscar Wilde

You know, it's really scary sometimes...this quote was sitting right there on my page in the widget as I was reading over the finished post.  Serendipity strikes again....

Insensitivity

The irony of what I'm about to write does not escape me....

I am having to sort of avoid someone I know because that person's judgmental attitude is starting to make me really irritated all the time.  I've decided that it's better to run away than to be rude.  I don't know, ultimately, if that's right or not....

It started with a little racial comment.  It was sort of tossed out there casually, thoughtlessly, with that assurance that "everybody was going to agree with it" that I find so prevalent in this particular neck of the woods.  It was just a reinforcement of a stereotype, but really, coming from this particular individual, it was disappointing, discouraging, and tiring.  It was one of those "scales falling from my eyes" moments, and I haven't been able to deal with this person the same way since.  (And that, of course, is where the irony mentioned earlier comes in, so you may now point your fingers if you like.)  Since then there have been other things, obligations left unfulfilled, other comments made that make me think this person can't see the world in any other terms except the rather narrow ones this individual has taken as a personal philosophy. 

I run around with a fairly diverse group of people who have made a variety of choices with their lives.  I have my own deeply-held beliefs about what I want, what I believe to be right and good.  I would never for a minute, though, think that I had the right to take my beliefs and shove them down somebody else's throat.  I'm happy to talk about what I believe.  I just don't ever want to give the impression that the choices that somebody makes somehow makes that person of less worth as a human being.  Just because I wouldn't do it that way doesn't mean it's wrong.  If it's not illegal, if it's not stupid and hurting that person or somebody else, why would I try to regulate somebody else's choices?  I have enough to do to keep my own little life in order without looking down my nose at someone else. Different does not have to equal bad.  What happened to infinite diversity in infinite combinations?

For that matter, what ever happened to compassion?  What ever happened to taking people as you find them?  Do we all have to be like this person to be "good people" in that individual's estimation?  I'm fairly sure I don't measure up, then.  But you know what?  I can be okay with that.  There are some seals of approval I probably don't need, especially when the price is as high as it is.

Migraine Storm

I had a bad week headache-wise, and I haven't really gotten anything else done because of it.  Tuesday, I had an episode that terrified me.  I looked up at lunch and actually saw something that wasn't there.  There was something the size of a largish melon but bright red like a tomato smashed on the floor.  It had a bright yellow center.  I was trying to figure out where it came from, who had dropped it and why they weren't cleaning it up, when it registered that it wasn't there anymore.  It was gone.  It never had been there. 

I've never had that happen to me before.  Right after that, the sort of mild headache that had been hanging around all day flared.  Of course, I was out of Maxalt, so....

That was a bad day.  I don't remember how I got home, but I did, thank God.  The next day I was sick all day with sort of residual fatigue and ache.  The migraine kept threatening to flare back up, and I never had any energy.  It felt almost like having the flu.

Yesterday was okay.  I felt like myself again.  I don't know what caused all the weirdness this time around.  I tried to call my doctor's office and find out if I needed to be worried, but of course, his pathetic receptionist didn't have him or his nurse practitioner call me back, so I still don't know.  I hate his desk staff.  They ruin what is otherwise a very good clinic.

I'm going to rest this weekend, especially since we have an extra day.  Maybe next week will be totally headache free.

What I Want Right Now

I'm tired, but I am keyed up.  I should go on to bed, but I feel energy zinging through me uselessly, pointlessly.  Why?  To what end?  What is churning up the murky depths of my mind?  I don't know.  I am just...unsettled.  So, I'm going to blog.  Here's a list of things I want right now.  Maybe if I shift all the pieces around, some order or picture will emerge.

• To be sitting on the bench in the library in Trinity College in Dublin surrounded by books and silence and light.  I would like to stay there until that peace made from the presence of knowledge and tiny little atoms of ancient books fills me up like a spirit.  I don't even care about the Book of Kells, although that is a different kind of wonder.  I just want to be in that temple to books and breathe in.
• To have the other fountain pen I didn't have the money to buy in that shop just off the square in Vatican City.  There were two in that glorious little closet-sized shop full of them that I loved. I chose a Caran d'Ache that would travel well and I love it, but my fingers still itch for the multi-colored resin glory of the other.
• To build a workshop out back of my house.  I want a place where I can do my pottery and my stained glass, cut things out of plywood and leave my messes when I'm done.  I miss making things, but glass and pottery are messy, and I don't have "mess space" here.  Glass especially causes problems and holes in the foot if one isn't careful, not to mention the storage issues with the tools and materials.  I need a space.
• To find a way out.  A clear path.  An open door.
• To have someone to read poetry to and with.  And talk about books and kitsch and the state of the world and stupid science fiction theories with.  And go see the Colosseum again with.  Or the Buddhas in Sukhothai.  Or watch whatever happens to be on TV.  Or wake up next to.  And most definitely kiss. Lots.  Slowly. Until there's nothing else in the whole world but that, the taste of him, the sound of his breathing.
• To live in Florence.  The city caught me.  I'd like to live there long enough to learn it, and not just the "Disney World" version of it as the guide we had called the Old City.  I'd like to live there long enough to know it like a place that's home.

Pretty dreams.  Pretty pieces to tumble in the light.  I think I'll go to bed now and see if sleep will take me.  Maybe I can toss these bits together lightly and not have bad dreams tonight.  

Winter Rain

All the hatches are appropriately battened, and we're waiting to see if the weather we've been promised will be terrible or only cold, cold rain.  Right now, I hear it pinging, singing against the window panes.  It's hissing in that way that doesn't say rain so much as sleet, and I can hear my hopes of a three-day weekend around my birthday disappearing.  If this stays and if this sticks, they'll cancel school tomorrow.  At least we have a day built in this year.  In the past two years, when we've needed foul-weather days, they've sort of over-optimistically failed to put them in our calendar and we've paid for it at the end of the year.

The general heavy grayness of the atmosphere this morning made it easy to sleep in after yesterday/last night's overindulgence in TV.  I found a new series that I like, Firefly.  Ovation had a marathon on, and I saw almost every episode.  That was a very good show.  I wish they hadn't canceled it, but it seems these days that if it's creative and well-written, it has the kiss of death on its brow from its first episode.  The vast mass of viewers want to watch "real people" have "real life problems," hoard crap in their houses, slap each other over affairs, have their dirty laundry aired before the eager and vigilant eye of the camera.  It's the modern-day gladiatorial arena spilling technicolor blood into every waiting living room.

I stood for a long time this morning watching the birds at the feeders.  The weather and my refilling of everything yesterday brought out even more than usual, so the ground was practically covered with them. I love the way all the different types seem to have personalities.  Chickadees are fearless and curious.  They are always the first to come to every new feeder.  They sometimes won't even wait for me to go back inside before they're perched and testing, chirping to each other that food is back.  Cardinals are bold and territorial, the males flipping up their tufted crests like a knight's plume before they charge.  They fight with each other as much as they eat.  The orange and black birds which are either tangiers or orioles (I haven't gotten my book out yet) dance and flap their wings, scattering leaves and other birds in their quest for the hidden treat.  I can always tell when they've been to the feeders because the ground beneath the feeders is swept clean of every last leaf.  There are blue jays, finches, and a supporting cast of others, as well, each colorful and striking.

And then there are all the lovely timid little brown birds, the sparrows, the wrens.  They come in droves and take what the larger birds knock down.  The wrens build nests in the metal table out under the pecan tree and think nobody sees them do it, landing quickly before darting inside with a long strand of field grass in their beaks.  Sometimes I think I like them best. 

The birds are restful to me.  I could watch them for hours.  I hope I can get my camera into a place where I can get some pictures of them without disturbing them. Right now, the window that I'd like to use for that purpose needs to be cleaned.  Since it's about fifteen feet off the ground, that's a bit of a chore.  Let it be.  It's enough to watch them shine like jewels in the flat grey drizzle and be peaceful.

Why This Should Be True, I Do Not Know....

"I always find it more difficult to say the things I mean than the things I don't.
W. Somerset Maugham, The Painted Veil, 1925"

The Better Part of Valor....

The last bell ended today, and I knew I needed to go straight on home.  I've got that restless, itchy feeling that means I could do something stupid at any moment.  There's no moon, so I don't know what's driving it.  I feel like I could get in my car and push its poor little engine to the redline and drive it until I wound up....

Who knows?

New Orleans?   Except I'm not altogether enchanted by it.  There's a sadness there that deprives the city of much of its grandeur for me.

Memphis?  Maybe.  It is Elvis' Birthday Weekend, and I love me some Elvis kitsch.

Farther afield even....Bloomington.  Crimson and Cream.  Mother Bears.  Something at the Auditorium.  Winter's cold fist wrapping the campus in that brutal grip.   D.C.  Everything in the world I could possibly want tossed carelessly around for the taking.  Hole up in a museum and not come out until I've seen it all.  Or maybe nothing so dramatic.  Maybe only .... Show up on the doorsteps of friends who I haven't seen in years.  Go somewhere where nobody knows me.  Go to the airport with my passport and two changes of clothes and pick a country off a map.

These are the times, the moods, the impulses that lead me into folly, into the things that I can't take back.  It's better then that I simply finished up my grading, packed my bag, and slipped surreptitiously down the back stairs and away.  It's better, then, that no temptation was put in my path tonight, no inducement to make me tilt my head to the side and say, "You know what?  Why not?  Why.  Not."  

Even though I usually allow my head to rule my heart and logic to guide my steps, sometimes moments like this, these moments of sheer...whatever this is, frustration, impatience, boredom....break out, and I can empathize with my cats as they race through the house, as they claw on their scratching post, wide-eyed, sharp talons ripping, ripping.....

Because sometimes, although discretion is always the better part of valor, I just don't have it in me.  Maybe none of us do.   Maybe none of us can be all good all the time.  Isn't it a blessing when we're protected from ourselves during those times?

Fixing It

In a conversation yesterday with a person of the male persuasion, the issue of “fixing” things came up and the manly tendency to try to resolve feminine issues and/or "crises" came back to my mind.  I, as I so frequently am, was addled by Topamax, and I never speak as well as I write, anyway, so I don’t think I articulated what I wanted to.  I kept thinking about what he'd said, the disparity between what men try to do and what I really want, and while I know that I may not be typical, I kept wishing I'd said it better.  Enter the blog.....

Every guy I have ever known (my father notwithstanding) has wanted to “fix” things for me.  That male characteristic sort of fascinates and impresses the hell out of me.  Men seem hardwired to take hold of problems and wrestle them to the ground.  It doesn’t matter what it is.  I used to have a friend, my best guy friend in college in fact, and if I was having a terrible day and I told him about it, he started making master plans to re-engineer my entire life to conquer the problem.  (Since he was/is an engineer by trade, you can sort of understand that, I suppose.  Occupational hazard?)  It was an awesome, scary, and amazing thing he could do.  He built beautiful castles in the air.  While not everything he mapped out for me was possible, practical, or even plausible, I loved him for it in a sort of “it’s-the-thought-that-counts” way, just like I loved my Dad for being able to help me see that all forms of math are not the anti-Christ when I was facing late-night pre-test stress, just like I love my guy friends who power through any odd school committee assignment we’re given with absolute and mind-shattering confidence while the rest of us are still going into “kill them all with edged weapons” mode. 

One of my favorite “fix it” lines came from one of my least favorite people, my samurai ex.  When I was unable to contact someone who was holding up my entire career in Japan and was exceedingly stressed out about it, he said, “Do you want me to kill him?  You know I do have a bamboo sword….”  It was a joke (Well….sort of.  Good God, you should have seen him with a bamboo sword….), but mostly it was just another expression of that “let me fix it for you” mentality that I find a little endearing most of the time.

Notice that I said most of the time. Some of the time I find it really irritating, because that’s not what I want.  

I don’t cling.  I’m not a vine.  I don’t need someone to run out and protect me from the big, bad world.  I’m not stupid or weak.  I don't "freak out" or have a crisis as a subtle mind game or emotional manipulation, and I don’t believe in taking the easy way out, don't believe in taking my problems and going to somebody else and saying, "Here.  I broke it with my silliness.  Fix it."  I’ve never been a Disney princess in a tower.  Or, well, if I am a tower-dwelling lady of any variety, I have always been the type who has always known that she’s going to have to get her own freakin’ self down because all my Prince Charmings have actually been highly unreliable if they've been around at all.  Perhaps it’s a personal failing of mine, but I don’t even take help carrying things in from the car well.  I’m too accustomed to having to carry every burden, physical or emotional, myself.  And yes, I know that’s a type of failing, a type of hubris, too.  I really do try to work on it.

I am, however, a strong woman.  I’m a Scarlett O’Hara/ Boadicea/ Elizabeth I type of girl, and I can hold my own with the best of them.  I’m a blackwinged Morrigan type chick, full of war and death and magic and poetry, and so if I come to a guy and I tell him about something that’s going on with me, it’s not because I expect him to draw his sword and race out there and VANQUISH IT. 

It’s because I’m tired and I’m bloody and I’m worn out from fighting.  It’s because I need, just for a few precious moments, just for a second, a place to rest, to catch my breath, to feel like there is somebody, somewhere who feels that I’m okay.  That I'm important.  That I'm precious.  That I’m the sane one (even though I know that this is somewhat dubious).  I can use my own duct tape. I can change my own tires when I’m stranded on the side of the highway in the dark.  I can slay my own dragons.  What I’m so very bad at is taking care of the wounds left after the fight; I'm so very bad at taking good care of me.  I guess, then, fixers, if you really want to fix something, there’s your starting point.