After Paris

I wonder if this is what it felt like living in the last days before World War I and World War II, this sense of things spinning out of control, this basic disrespect for the value of human life.  Even though we’re in the Centennial of WWI, I can’t help but feel we’re also living in the shadow of the next “war to end all wars.” 

The level of hatred I see displayed on Facebook on a routine basis is horrifying.  While I know there are tons of “trolls” who find some perverse amusement in stirring the hornet’s nest, I am not sure all these people are professing opinions for the shock value.  Everybody is afraid and angry, totally committed to demanding his/her own best even if it means cutting the other guy’s throat.  And then there are the people who actively search for a chance for that cutting to begin….

People online are arguing over whose tragedy is worse, who the cameras should be focused on.  It’s almost like some kind of hellish competition.  All over every social media outlet I use, this sort of faux superiority is pervasive, “Oh, you are posting in support of Paris?  Humph.  Well, I am CLEARLY a more developed and wonderful human than you.  I post about Beirut.”  “Oh, YOU’RE talking about BEIRUT? Racist! The only thing the news should be focused on is Mizzou.”  And it's endless.  The place names change, but the sense of vicious righteousness does not.  Where did this one-upmanship come from?  What do people think it’s going to accomplish?

Then there are those who use these horrible things for their own political grandstanding.  I have unfollowed five people on Facebook in the past two days and am within inches of disabling my account for a while because of all the finger pointing, fear mongering, and out-and-out lies. So few people seem to be trying to do anything about any of what’s happening other than use it as a club to bash their political opponent with.

And I’m the first to admit I don’t have answers.  I just wish people would use their brains and their hearts a little more, all people, and maybe together we could find some workable solution. 

I’m terribly afraid we’re past the point where that’s possible and only violence can follow.

Previously Recorded

(written in Pisa 3/11/13)

I suppose everybody has a “bucket list,” although to be honest I hate that term. Mine includes visiting several places, mostly because I can’t believe they’re real until I see them for myself. Today, I was able to check another of those locations off my list, but as usual with such idealistic goals, it didn’t turn out exactly the way I’d imagined.

We got up early, loaded our faithful tour bus, and headed out for a short trip (read: two hours) to Pisa. The weather started out totally foul, rainy and cold complete with spectacular displays of lightning popping the mountain tops. The nearer we came to Pisa, however, the brighter the day became, and by the time we arrived at the bus parking lot, clear, brilliant sun had emerged to bathe the scene before us. We stepped out, stretched and sighed, and were immediately attacked by umbrella vendors.

I’ve never seen anything like it anywhere else I’ve been. There must have been fifteen guys with cheap umbrellas and knock-off RayBans just waiting for each bus of tourists to arrive. Then, like a flock of vultures with a fresh kill handy, they would converge. Even if you had an umbrella in hand, they tried to sell you an umbrella.

They were simply everywhere. It became a running joke. One of the guys said, “I’m kind of afraid to go into the bathroom. I’m scared some guy is going to pop out and ask me if I want to buy some toilet tissue.” And really, I’m not sure this was an absurd notion….

We braved the gauntlet and got to the square of Pisa. It was lovely. I have seen pictures of the tower all my life, but for some reason, I never noticed how oddly delicate and lovely it really is. I took about a million photographs, including the ubiquitous holding-up-the-tower one, and sat for a while just looking up at it. Our guide told us a lot about the restoration efforts over the centuries, and I had even more respect for the structure that Pisa just refuses to let fall. There is something admirable about that kind of stubbornness to me.

Another part of our tour was inside the cathedral for which the Tower serves as a bell tower. It was simple, austere, and lovely. The Pisan Romanesque style is simpler, cleaner, and although the Florentine Gothic is beautiful, something about the Moorish arches inside this Pisa church pleased me. We walked through and saw wonder everywhere. One part of the church held a saint in his green-marble-and-glass coffin. Although I have taught Chaucer for years and explained people coming to Canterbury to worship the remains of St. Thomas a Beckett each time, I have never actually seen what I couldn’t help thinking of as a “saint in a box.” I took pictures of him to show next time I teach Chaucer.

As unexpected as all that was, the real shocker of the day came when we left the cathedral. One hundred days before the final exam for high school students, kids from all around Tuscany gather in Pisa to walk around the monuments for luck. Actually, what they do is mass up, fill the area, drink, fight, smoke, “get to know each other well,” grope perfect strangers, and play football. Enter American tour group us to this mix.

Yeah. It was like that.

In the time it took us to cross from the cathedral to its baptistery, we were separated numerous times, inspected physically by people we didn’t know, yelled at, invited to frolic, greeted in broken English, jostled, and generally roughed up. By the time we got from the baptistery to the exit, some fool had put his hands on me without written permission (a thing that will get you killed), and one of the college girls on our trip had been surrounded by a horde of five guys who proceeded to be altogether too free with their hands.

We made it out and got to the bus stop only to be assailed by that location’s team of intrepid umbrella sellers. They were the most persistent of any we were to encounter. At one point, all of us were chorusing “NO! NO!” every time they offered an umbrella. They remained undaunted, circling us until the blessed arrival of public transportation.

Even though elements I had not expected were introduced, nothing can take away the beauty of Pisa. Maybe the umbrella men and the idiot teenagers somehow make it even better. We all survived. We all got to see and enjoy the sights. We have a tale to take away. It truly was a “bucket list” moment, memorable in every way.

This Broadcast Was Taped Before a Live Audience

(written in Venice 3/8/13 but delayed due to lack of wi-fi)

For a very long time, I have wanted to visit Venice. It has always seemed totally unreal to me, like a set somebody in Hollywood conjured and other people took as reality. I’ve seen it in tons of movies, read about it in countless books, but I have never believed I would ever get to see the real place.

We came in last night after a day full of flight hell, and by the time we got to our hotel here in the mainland suburbs, rain was falling, everyone was too exhausted to care, and our only goal was to fall down as expeditiously as possible.

Today, I visited Venice.

Our journey toward the city of 118 islands started a little oddly. As we were loading our water taxi, a smaller boat nearby was loading a corpse in a body bag. We all sort of stared, looked away, and shuffled our feet, not quite sure what to do with that. Welcome to the place where every sort of activity is done on the water, ladies and gentlemen.

We started in a glass-blowing factory on a small island off the coast of Venice proper. We watched a man make an entire horse in under two minutes. It was considered to be “impure” and was recycled after we left. It was pretty awesome to us. The tour continued, as is the way of such things on these trips, with a journey through their showroom. I had wanted to buy a Murano glass ball to go with the one I was given in Brazil, but since I am not able to shell out a couple of hundred dollars for a paperweight, no matter how lovely, I bought a few other small things instead.

Then we came to the city itself. We started with a walking tour, and I was immediately struck by the previously-mentioned unreality of Venice. The tiny canals everywhere were filled with boats, the tourist gondolas, some guy moving from one place to another, water taxis, everything, everything slipping quietly by. I kept feeling as though I would look up at one of the palazzo windows and see an Animatronic figure singing “It’s a Small World” at any moment.

The colors and textures, the smells and the stones, the curiously lovely blue-green of the quiet water, all were lovely. The thing that takes the breath away, though, is the architecture. We came to Campo San Marco, and while the façade of the square is lovely, Basilica San Marco is one of the loveliest churches I have ever seen. Every inch of the ceiling and much of the external façade is covered in mosaics made of tiny colored glass pieces and gold. I think that one could easily sit and stare at the front of that building for weeks, maybe months, and still find new details to delight the eyes. Inside its dim hushed domes, mosaics made of marble from every corner of the world form geometric perfection.

Our trip to Venice had three true highpoints for me. The first was a gondola ride. Who doesn’t associate the gondola with Venice? It’s one of those stereotypical and iconic cultural icons that comes almost automatically. When I found out that I was coming here, one of my first thoughts was “gondola ride.” After a walking tour, we assembled at one of the canals, divided up into small groups, and clambered aboard the sleek black ships awaiting us.

It was amazing. After I stopped being scared I’d flip the boat, I relaxed somewhat into the plush red upholstery and looked around. Every bridge we passed seemed to have something charming carved into it. I wondered if that was just to delight the eye of the water-bourne passenger. Everywhere, there were gondolas full of tourists. Nobody was loud or yelling even though many of the boats were filled with teenagers. A certain hush seemed to fall. Nobody wanted to break it, and even talking to groups in other boats was done quietly.

We slid past ancient water-doors, over submerged stone and marble steps, and the true face of the city emerged. Everywhere tiny piers jutted out into the canals. Here and there, an iron gate closed off access to what had been a main entrance to the commercial part of the old palazzos.

The journey was everything I had hoped it would be. I took a picture of myself in the gondola, and I’m smiling like crazy in it. I will use it for my new FB picture, and each time I see it, I will remember how good it felt.

The second highpoint of the day came while I was touring Saint Mark’s Basilica. Almost as soon as we walked in, the sound of the cathedral organ filled the air. I held my breath, fearing that I would hear only tuning or practice runs as I had the day we were in the Duomo in Florence two years ago, but instead, the mighty voice of the instrument soared, rebounded, and filled the golden-domed space with beauty. It actually brought tears to my eyes. I looked around the upper galleries, knowing one of them held the organist, and finally, I found a space in which I could see him. I watched him play, reveling in the tactile nature of the deep notes of a great organ. He played two or three songs before I could bring myself to wander on. Another great wish of mine, to hear a cathedral organ played, had been granted.

The final gift from Venice came in the form of a tiny china cup of espresso. When we arrived in Venice, our guide had told us about Café Florian, the first public coffee house in Europe. She told us that it was COSTLY, but the ambiance wasn’t to be missed. After we left San Marco, we decided to go try out the coffee in the place where revolutions, coups, and operas had been cobbled together. I had an espresso and a piece of ricotta cheesecake. It did turn out to be VERY expensive. However, sitting in the great square of Venice sipping one of the best cups of coffee I’ve ever had and watching the world stroll by was worth every single euro.

Tomorrow, we leave here headed for Florence. I know that returning to that beautiful city will bring another set of highpoints. I can only say that I look forward to meeting them as they come.

CrazyTown

I don't know what's going on lately in the town I work in, but I wish someone would find a way to put an end to it.  Random people are getting shot and injured or killed; robberies for nothing are happening.  People are getting more and more afraid.  Sales of police-strength mace and weapons are going up. I fear that soon, many, many people are going to be very, very dead, and it may not be any of the people who started the problem in the first place.

Every day, it seems, brings a new horror in the newspaper.  The town I'm talking about is no major metropolitan area.  There are fewer than 100,000 people in it.  It should not be possible that suddenly, everyone walks in fear once the sun goes down, that everyone looks at every person they see in the parking lot as a potential assailant.  A hint of panic has begun to taint the air at a time when people should be gathering with friends, exchanging gifts, thinking with love for all mankind.

Innocent people, as always, are the ones who are being pulled in and made to pay for the actions of others committed in arrogance and hate:  a mother and her babe-in-arms, a couple who stopped because they thought someone needed help, a man who spent his life trying to make sure there was equality for all.  The last is an irony so poignant that it tears at the soul.  He put his life on the line to make sure life could be better, and he's shot by thugs in hoodies for....nothing.  Because somebody refused to cower before them.  Because they think life is cheap, not understanding that life is all the more precious because it can be so easily ended.  Because they happened to have a weapon in their hands, and they've come to believe that this somehow makes them strong and right. They're throwing away their own lives and trying to throw away his with both hands as fast as they can.

It makes me grieve because I have the sick feeling that at least some of the shooters will wind up being familiar faces or names.  It's happened in the past.  It's an aspect of teaching in an urban setting that probably isn't covered in education classes.  It also makes me extremely angry.  What right have these to make everyone walk in fear?  What right have they to believe it is okay to spread their violence wholesale and make what should be a season of peace and hope into an active war zone?

Somebody needs to do something about this.  Someone with right, power, and authority.  It's time for those who can and should put an end to it to stop waiting, fiddling around, turning a semi-blind eye.  It's not a "community problem."  It's an all-of-us problem.  If someone with legal right and power doesn't find a way to end it soon, it doesn't take a genius to see that individuals are going to try to do it instead.  If that happens, well, I think Shakespeare had a quote for that in Julius Caesar, "Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war...."  We all know how those Shakespearean tragedies end, don't we?  With a pile of corpses and shattered potential.

Well, Now You've Just Pissed Me Off....

The Land Mass thing is everywhere on the web right now.  Some of it is amusing.  One bit of it, though, pushed the big red button.  Fasten a seatbelt and enjoy the ride.

A comment on a friend's FB status about the Land Mass read, "Why SHOULD Mississippi be considered a state?  What has it ever given the US?  LOL"  I started to respond there, but I decided I needed more space than I had and also that I didn't want to scream at the top of my FB lungs.  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.  Are you really that ignorant?

Oh sure, we here in-state gently and not-so-gently mock ourselves, but we know very well that not everything that comes out of here is bad.  While it's okay if we are laughing at ourselves, it's not okay for somebody from the outside to point fingers and make accusations.  It's not that we don't have problems; heaven knows we do.  It's that it's just RUDE, honey.  We may have all kinds of issues, neuroses, and battles, but at least we know not to point fingers.

What then has Mississippi given the US?  Here's the short list:

• Musicians - Marty Stewart, B.B. King, Howlin Wolf, Muddy Waters, Jimmie Rogers, Charley Pride, ELVIS, Jimmy Buffett, Robert Johnson, the entire band 3 Doors Down, Leontyne Price, Faith Hill, 
• Writers - William Faulkner, John Grisham, Eudora Welty, Richard Wright, Natasha Trethewey, Tennessee Williams, Walker Percy, Nevada Barr, Greg Iles, Thomas Harris, Anne Moody, (and I'll just STOP here.  there are too freaking many.)
• Entertainers - Jim Henson, Sela Ward, James and Robert Earl Jones, Morgan Freeman, Oprah Winfrey, Diane Ladd
• Athletes - Walter Payton, assorted Mannings, Oil Can Boyd, Brett Favre, and so many others there is just a separate list of them available online
• Art - George Ohr, Walter Inglis Anderson
• Creators - Hartley Peavey, James Hardy, Haller Nutt

There are more.  So many, many more.  Check the PAGES of stuff on Wikipedia for what Mississippi has given to the rest of the country.  Then, if you please, fold your stupid comment in four corners and insert it somewhere where it might remind you not to be so much of what you are next time.

Thanks. No, Really. THANKS.

I was looking for some quotes on dating and relationships for the last post, and Google helpfully popped these ads up.  As a very dear friend of mine once said, "F--- you, Google.  F---- you."  I will PIMP SLAP you, biyatch.

When Bad Things Happen

(written Friday)

Today deserves a special award. It had included having to deal with the consequences of some right red sonofabitch somewhere in North Carolina who stole my debit card number somehow (may he rot in Hell) and also an extended period of handwashing my own delicates in strong detergent and hot water in the hotel sink. As I type Adele’s voice is masking the sound of things dripping dry.

I have had SNAFUs and bank misunderstandings abroad, but I’ve never opened an email and seen, basically, “Call us. It’s all gone to hell. Kisses, Your Bank.” I thought at first it was a spam mail, and as busy as things are on this trip, I truly started to ignore it. That little niggling voice of paranoia in the back of my head, though, said, “No. Call. Even though it’s going to cost you a small fortune, at least you will have peace of mind. Call.” That was when all the wheels came off a day that was actually going pretty well….

I talked to four different departments of my own bank and a service of Visa called “Visa 911.” I gave my personal identifying information about 847 times. I ran up a phone bill that I can’t even bear to ponder out of the corners of my mind’s eye. It was a truly surreal thing to be standing in the cool airy courtyard of a school here in Pocos de Caldas while my entire financial life was on the verge of spinning into the toilet. Birds sang, a soft breeze blew continuously. Life was continuing, but I felt angry, worried, and most of all, violated by some anonymous person who felt like what was mine should be theirs just because.

It’s resolved to the point that it can be while I’m still abroad. When I return home, the next round of fun will begin. I don’t even want to think about how many things are keyed to that damn number. That’s fine, though. It will all get taken care of eventually. I am grateful to my bank for its vigilance. What I can’t get back is that feeling of utter helplessness as I was thousands of miles away from home and locked away from my money. There are not words for what I hope happens to the cause of it.

Things They Don't Tell You

Life would be so much easier if people would just TELL you things.  I know experience is supposed to be the best teacher and we all learn better by doing, but some things should not have to be mysteries wrapped up in enigmas wrapped up in things I have suffer and  to go Google to find out about.

Like my recent tetanus shot.  My arm felt like it was going to fall completely off yesterday.  Most of the other symptoms had gotten manageable, but I literally could not raise my arm without it feeling like someone was stabbing me.  It was as if I had a very bad cut and huge stitches through that muscle.  There's a hard place there, too, and it's a little red.  It itches some.

My mind IMMEDIATELY begins to think, "Okay.  This wasn't exactly covered by 'mild irritation at injection site.'  Maybe I need to be worried?  Do I need to be worried?  Is this too much, or is this normal? Am I in the range of symptoms that needs to call the doctor?"

Not wanting to push the panic button, I ignored it most of the day, and, well, did stuff that didn't involve raising that hand.  Or raised it anyway and went, "Owowowowow" in my head.  Finally, though, when I got home, it was so stiff and sore that I decided I would look up what a bad tetanus shot might be like to find out if I needed to be concerned or not.

The answer was a resounding no.  In fact, according to the information I found, tetanus shots are worse for everybody on the second day after.  They can give pain for up to a full week, but day 2 is usually the peak of the agony.  Well...isn't that...nice?  But it did explain what was going on, and I felt better knowing I wasn't about to have some exotic bad reaction to the injection and...explode...or something....

Here's the thing, though.  If apparently everybody has that problem, why didn't the information sheet (front and back, both sides) include that?  If the way to mitigate the pain is ice packs and Tylenol, why isn't that recommended....ANYWHERE?  All the information sheet covers is "You may feel bad. Here's how!"  And then it's vague and scary with its three classes of symptoms.  Be practical.  Be specific.  Tell people, "You're going to feel like a damn Greyhound bus hit you at high speed.  In the arm.  Twice.  It will leave a red spot and a hard place. That's okay.  You're not dying (well, more than usual, anyway). Take some Tylenol.  Put a cold pack on it.  Go to bed.  Get some rest.  And tomorrow?  Hahahahaha.  Tomorrow, well, plan to wear clothing that doesn't go on over your head.  Oh, and we also hope you're not a side-sleeper...."  Sigh.

Not Funny, Twitter

In their "Who to Follow" recommendations, Twitter recommends I follow Google Maps.  Unfunny, Twitter.  Very, very unfunny.  (And probably, I couldn't even if I tried..... Damn blinking blue dots.....)

Dearest Gentlemen

*rant

My Dearest Gentlemen:

I am writing to inform you that in the past few days, you have managed, as a gender, to hack me off repeatedly.  Oh, I know, I do things that are ungainly, occasionally silly, and sometimes outright laughable or frustrating.  I'm entitled, right?  Last time I checked, I was still a human being...just like you.

This isn't about those things.  This is about the two tendencies you have that are going to get you smacked right straight in the face if you can't correct or restrain them when dealing with me in the future.

First, if I am trying to work on something, whether it is a computer or an essay revision, hell, I don't care if it's a fission bomb, do not come and just try to take the damn thing out of my hands without asking because you think you can do it better.  Sometimes I actually do know what I'm doing despite my lack of Y chromosome.  Now I know that may be shocking to you.  Yes, even though I am a "chick," and an English major chick at that, I can do some few paltry things with computers, especially in the educational technology setting.  I make no claims at being a "tech" or a great proficient, but there is some stuff I can do, and I don't just mean change out my desktop wallpaper.  (And, no, F., I might not have been able to set that pin the other day in Google maps, but I by God can now....)  If I'm working on a problem and you just assume you can do it better and try to take over, that's an insult.  When you come up, lean over, lay hands on, try to remove next time, you're going to draw back a maimed limb.

Second, I know I tend to get to my ideas differently than other people.  I always have.  The best way to describe it is that I don't think in straight lines always. This means that I see too many options sometimes.  Just because the way I think isn't the way you think does not mean I'm dumb.   I have a CV as long as my arm to prove that with certificates, degrees, and awards if you'd like to see them.  The upshot of all that is this:  if I ask you a damn question about something, answer it.  I can probably keep up.  If I don't understand, I will ask you questions until I can see at least the general outline in my head.  Don't look at me like, "Oh hell, this woman wants to know about X.  How can I ever make her tiny brain comprehend?"  Yeah, I know that what I asked you about may be complex.  But probably, I would not have asked the question if I didn't need to know or wasn't interested.  What is it that you think I should be talking to you about anyway?

I don't get this crap when I talk to other women, guys.  You may have noticed that we don't do this to you, either.  Well, or not.  You may be too busy assuming that we need your help or that we can't understand what you're talking about to notice.

*rant off

The Need to Dream Better

Okay.  Those of you who know me and know what's been going on will get some of the symbolism involved in some of these things.  Other parts of this stuff, I won't pretend to tell you from where my mind dragged it.  Last night, I dreamed:

1)  That I went back for my PhD and got chased by a psychotic killer.  He was also apparently a magician or monster or something.  He decided that I was a good recruit for his cause, whatever it was, I don't remember, and also, oh yeah, that he was in love with me.  There was a lot of running away.  I got chased through dorms, libraries, and campus streets.  It would have made a good movie, maybe.  Clip, you were there, too.  Sorry.  I guess if I go back, you do, too, honey.

2) Just before I woke up, I was running away from and fighting a giant crocodile.  Maybe it was an alligator.  Does it really matter?  It was not good.  It kept coming again and again.  There were other people with me, but who is vague.  We kept trying to hit it and shoot it, but it kept coming back.  Weapons we had that should have killed it failed us or just plain did not work on it.  We finally had it pinned down (don't ask me how) with a stick, and it was supposed to be dead, but it got loose, and it came after me.  I had a gigantic wooden cutting board of all things, and I kept bludgeoning the thing with it, and almost beat it to death (again, no reality here), but then the cutting board fell apart in my hands FOR NO REASON, and it started coming back to life again. When my 5:00 alarm went off, I was backing away from it with an even more ridiculous weapon in my hand, a slotted wooden cooking spoon with a handle as long as a sword.  (WONDER WHAT THE CROCODILE REPRESENTS)

3) I keep dreaming about the same house over and over again.  I have never been to this house.  I have never seen this house on TV.  What is this place?   Last night there was a garage and all these guys I do not know working on crap.  I don't even know what to make of that.  Is my brain randomly channeling satellite feeds now?

There was more, but blessedly, I can't pull out more than fragments.  I think I almost miss the Topamax blocking my dreams out entirely if this is what my brain manages to come up with.

After a Lot of Sleep...

There is such a thing as counting chickens before they hatch.  Or before the eggs have even been laid.  Or before you even buy the setting hens.

There is such a thing as building fortresses so strong and protective that you forget to put in doors to let yourself out.  It's true you're very safe that way, I guess, but you also starve to death very slowly, comfortable in the righteousness of your safety....

This is not D. again.  No matter whatever else it ever does or does not come to be, no situation will ever be exactly that again.  The person in question is not him.  Once the panic has passed, I can see that.  The similarities are there, but they are superficial.   I can't keep judging everybody by that yardstick, assuming everybody plays by his rules..  If I do, then...well...I suppose the past always wins.

The other side of the equation is not the me that I was in those days, either.  I don't know that this is a good thing all the way through, but I think for the most part it is.  I know myself more thoroughly than ever I did then, what I want, what I will and will not endure, what I need and what I can offer.  I regret some of what is gone, some of the sweetness I think I probably used to have, some of the trust that is never coming back.

In any case, I have to start allowing whatever amount I have left to be the thing with which I lead.  I have to stop looking for demons in the dark before I have seen positive signs of the cloven hoof.  While everything inside me is screaming that this is going to get me slammed through the floor, is begging to run back inside and brick up all the remaining doors and windows, I'm tired of living this way, and the air in there is stale and dead.

So.

(God help me.)

Maybe I will try to choose to start to trust somebody after all.

Maybe.

(did I leave enough wiggle room in that? ...yeah...)

Grenade, or, WTF Were You Thinking When You Wrote That?

I'd catch a grenade for ya
Throw my hand on a blade for ya
I'd jump in front of a train for ya
You know I'd do anything for ya

I would go through all this pain
Take a bullet straight through my brain
Yes, I would die for you, baby
But you won't do the same

"Grenade"  -  Bruno Mars

______________

I just heard this song again while I was driving home, and I was struck anew with how much it annoys me.  It was popular as a new song when I went to San Francisco, and I remember standing on Pier 39 in the rain listening to it booming through the outdoor speakers thinking how totally asinine the lyrics are.  I try not to be overly judgmental about songs.  I mean everybody likes different things, and I try to respect that.  There's an audience out there for everything, and I know that my own tastes aren't bread-and-butter for all people.  That being said, there's just something about this song that pushes all my buttons one after the other.

I think it's the over-the-top-ness of it.  It's a bit of the old "the lady doth protest too much" for me. I am all for profound expressions of love, for deep and heartfelt commitment, but despite the intention to express that here, somehow, it doesn't come through.  Instead, what I hear is something petulant and immature.  I get Romeo and Juliet love instead, all extreme, all impulse. I hear, "Hey!  I'm showing how wonderful I am!  Aren't you watching?"  There is nothing here that is about endurance or survival.  Instead, this is all about sort of a glorious blowout finale that is supposed to serve as proof of love.  

What about proving that you love someone by sticking out the bad times?  What about proving that you love someone by simply picking up the phone and making a call when you know they need to hear your voice?  By going to the grocery store when they're sick?  By taking care of the daily grind instead of elevating the drama or waiting for the disaster movie?  Is this guy going to be there for that?  I think not.  I don't think he's got the stones for it, personally.  That is the real test of a man, and the point at which all too many fall away, unable to have real courage.

So, really, I guess, I don't want to hear any more of these "romance" songs with swords waving.  I think, gentlemen, that if a woman is asking you to "throw [your] hand on a blade for [her]," you might want to check that out a little more closely before you make a long-term commitment, too, but you know, hey, whatever works for you, personally.  Not my business.  I'm still on the lookout for somebody with that true daily courage myself, not courage to die like a drama queen, but the courage to live like a real man.

And It Just Doesn't WORK

I'm trying for about the eleventh time to get a video converted from wmv to mp4 so I can (perhaps) upload it to the finicky BlackBoard system.  I hate this.  HATE THIS.  Nobody told me there was a size limit for uploads on BlackBoard.  I'm sure this was supposed to be a part of "learning by experience" ho-ho-ho.  Instead, what it is doing is PISSING ME OFF.  The video will not convert (I'm using VLC, and it is, for the first time ever, failing me.) The only version I've been able to extract is choppy video with no sound.  If I try to get better quality than that, it pretends to make it but doesn't.  I'm exhausted and I need to sleep, but I have to turn this assignment in.  I was so pleased with the video I'd made.  Now I just want to throw the laptop across the room because I can't turn it in.  I'm borderline migraine. I do not need this from something that is not even a job.

Chick With a Camera Makes a Request

Dear Sir and/or Madam and/or All Four Hundred and Eighty Seven of your Progeny:

I am absolutely delighted that you have come out to enjoy this festival/museum/cultural showcase today and/or tonight.  Isn't it a grand spectacle of what humanity is capable of when everyone works together?  Yes, indeed. That being said, I did have one or two little things I'd like to request of you:

1)  Might it be possible for you NOT to slam into me/roll over me with your oversized purse/stroller/child-in-arms/purchases?  I'd love to go home today without bruises.  Injury should never be a part of anyone's weekend plans.

2)  It does require a bit of distance to photograph most objects.  I am trying to be as respectful of everyone's desire to see everything as I possibly can.  Heaven forfend that I become a nuisance.  Could I gently ask that you not dart in front of me two or three times AFTER YOU LOOK AT ME when I have the camera raised to my eye to take the photograph?  This will make me want to do you bodily violence much less.

3)  Just a general rule in all public situations, do you think you could possibly make sure your children aren't running loose and, oh, say climbing the stairs into forbidden and dangerous machinery past the clearly-marked off boundaries in a second-floor shop in an old factory while you are deeply involved in discussion of such world-shattering matters as the upcoming football game?  I really feel that it should be beyond my responsibilities to reclaim toddlers from the gaping maw of death.  Well, at least on a weekend.

4)  I am perfectly willing to wait for you to finish up your exploration of today's exhibitions as I wish to be as unobtrusive with my hobby as possible.  I might just gently ask, though, that you don't congregate in front of major objects of interest in order to use your cellphone, eat, talk about the upcoming football game/weather/your last surgery/Mamaw/etc., admire your offspring or the offspring of others, or plan further stops on your excursion, or all of the above.  One or two tiny steps to the side as a courtesy are much appreciated.

5)  Everyone knows that parking at a major event is a stressful hassle, especially if you don't wish to walk very far.  However, one should never be in such a total frothing panic to claim a space that one is willing to BACK OVER a pedestrian, especially when one has LOOKED AT said pedestrian for thirty seconds or so before putting the vehicle in reverse.  And no, kind sir, your age does not excuse you.

Thank you for your generous consideration.  A little more courtesy will keep us all harmonious and happy (and me from having to wreck on you in public in such a way that would make my students all proud).

Sincerely,
The Chick with the Camera

Certain Questions I'd Like the Chance to Ask

Right now there are several things stressing me out greatly.  Unfortunately, in the way of such things, I cannot seem to get all the pieces to resolve themselves into order.  Therefore, I'm going to ponder them here just a little.  Since nobody reads this AT ALL except for the Beowulf's Boast, I don't think it will matter.  I could probably post a four-page-long adventure in erotica and nobody would raise the slightest flutter.  And you know what?  Maybe one of these freaking DAYS I WILL just to see if anybody is paying attention. (GROWL.)  But (folding my hands in the most lady-like of ways), readership isn't the point right now.  And.  I'm not doing this for anybody else, anyway.  So, with no further delay, the questions that are weighing most heavily on my mind, deliberately denuded of context:

• What the sam-hill is the matter with you?  Why are you acting like this?  Did you fall and hit your head on something?  No?  Then GET OVER YOURSELF.  CHEEZUS. 
• Really?  REALLY?  You're going to sit there and tell me you didn't know this?  I'm sorry.  Give me a minute to laugh myself hysterical, and then I'll go pull the REAMS OF PROOF to show you wrong out of a drawer.
• If you're not okay with it, WHY DO YOU KEEP TELLING ME THAT YOU ARE?  Can't we just please be past that?
• At what point did you come to believe that you are the center of my whole universe? Recheck your premise.  Your logic is not only flawed, it is shattered.
• The more you push me, the less I'll do what you want.  The harder you pull, the quicker I'll run.  Haven't you realized that?

Dusting Off My Hands

...because I made one of my problems disappear today.  Screw this. Right now, you irritate me, disappoint me, or depress me, and so I've made you go away.  I don't have to look at it if it makes me sad.  Bye-bye, darlin'.

...because I'm finding it easier to let go every day.  Every disaster brings me closer to decision.  Every moment of peril brings new understanding.

...because I had a migraine that made me weep.  Literally.  And had to be taken home by somebody else.  Sometimes there's nothing else to do but brush the dust off the hands from the fall and get ready to get up again tomorrow.

...because I cannot fix everything that is broken.  Because I cannot make everyone pick up every gift that is offered.  Because I'm tired of being heartsick over it.

...because today my family was stolen from by redneck thieves.  I'm revising my theories about guns.

...because I saw things today that took me right back to the "bad old days" I hoped were gone forever.

I'm going to bed now.  Today was pure-D-hell, as my grandfather would have said it.  I took a big migraine pill long enough ago that I'm no longer screaming and crying from the pain.  Everything else will hold.

No Time for It

Two things are keeping me from updating right now:  lack of time (we're at the end of the 9wks, and the rush is on) and a general lack of sense of myself as good company right now.  If you were close enough to be near me right now, you'd know exactly what I mean.  Sometimes, and I'm all too aware of this, believe me, I am the least pleasant person who ever lived.  As much as I wish I were all woven from dewdrops and sunbeams, from fairy wings and elvish whispers, this is not the case.  Right now, solitude is more or less probably the best quarantine until I'm better company and more tolerant of everything, my own foibles included.

really? REALLY?

Things that happened lately that have made me say the above either out loud or in my head:

• the singing of "Brick House" by a student when I slipped my sweater off today because I was hot (I'm sure this was neither a complement nor an homage to my beauty since I look like a school marm from the nineteen teens.....This just made me roll my eyes... Just what I need -- verbal irony.)
• the ringing of my alarm clock after only four hours of sleep.  I was NOT prepared for today.  
• getting behind the third slow-moving thing on the way to work this morning which caused me to be late.  Again.  For the second time on duty week.  (MOVE...Get that thing...out...of...)
• coming home after leaving Roux out just once to see what she'd do to find she'd shredded every single thing she could get her teeth into in a gleeful festival of destruction all over the living room
• having to use the Porta-Potty at Prairie Arts and finding that to add insult to injury the door had no lock  (What?  Why?  I can't...even....  I have quite literally seen facilities consisting of holes in the ground that were less heinous.)
• trying to print from a non-saveable PDF application and having it screw up, disappear, screw up, disappear, screw up, disappear....

Comment

I checked in on the old blog this morning, and lo, there upon my dashboard, there in shades of orange was the indicator that I had a comment!  My blog got a comment!  I clicked upon it with a bit of trepidation....  Was it my old friend AC?  Had some heretofore unknown entity liked what I'd written?  Hated it? Was there a kindred soul out there yearning to commune? (excuse the hyperbole, I'm still having my first Diet Mountain Dew of the day.)   I get very little feedback here.  I'm usually just tossing this stuff off into the void, and even though I'm okay with that, the thought of actual interaction made little writer's heart nervously quiver.....  (okay.  it got away from me again.  I'm working on it.  I'm working on it.)

Yeah. You guessed it.  Spam.  BOO.

Well, there's a button for that, isn't there?

O_o