Darling, You're Boring Me

Ever have that moment when someone who interested you just stops being worth fooling with?  The connection is there, and suddenly, like a flipped switch, it ends.  It's like the exact moment an opened Diet Mountain Dew loses its cool and its carbonation.  When that happens, you're left with a sweetish, citrusy something, but that magic fizz is gone forever.  

I had that moment this week.

It's a shame, I guess, but probably it was bound to happen.  It's not that either of us has undergone a transformative life experience or some such jazz.  What happened wasn't particularly reprehensible or cringe-worthy, but it was something so...I don't know...trite and cliched that I couldn't stand it.  I just wanted to respond, "Really?  You're going with THAT?  You couldn't find any other useless worn-out stereotype to embrace? What's left to say after THAT?"

Everybody is ordinary.  Everybody has unloveliness to them.  I don't mean to sound like a snob.  I have a channel of quiet a mile wide that likely borders on bone dull of a Monday night.  Maybe others have had that same experience with me.  

I also support the idea that boredom comes from a boring mind.  I've said that quote hundreds of times.  Maybe that's true of me.  I wouldn't tend to think it's dull up there, but I do measure things by my own system....and that tends to be neither the metric nor the English unit.

Really, we don't owe each other the courtesy of living up to expectations.  Staying true to what we believe is much more important.  We need to do the things that make us happy as long as we aren't harming anybody else.  I'm just not sure that what I saw is actually the pursuit of some high ideal.  I could have respected that.  Instead, it seemed more like something somebody was doing because they couldn't come up with anything better to occupy the time....  

Despite all that philosophical maneuvering  I can't help but feel a tiny touch sad.  It's a little like thinking something was an original only to find it's a cheap knock-off.  Is it my fault for not being able to tell the difference?  Probably.  It's disappointing nonetheless.

The Bridge of Sighs

Beautiful, isn't it?  Clean white limestone shining above the canal.  Graceful arches, delicate carvings.  Yes, this is the famous Bridge of Sighs, one of the great sights in Venice.  The name sounds like a dream, like a place where lovers go to repine over unreturned affection.  The reality of it is somewhat less glamorous.

The Bridge of Sighs connects the official rooms of the Doge's Palace to the prisons.  It took its rather fanciful name from the fact that the last sight of the free world for most of those who crossed it was out the intricate metal lattice of its windows.  The prisoner could see the beauty of free Venice and give one last sigh of regret and loss before the darkness to come swallowed them.

While I was in Venice, I got to tour the Doge's Palace, now a museum.  It's more than a little overwhelming, which was its original intent.  All who came to the Doge's Palace were to feel the wealth and the power of the city-state of Venice pressing down upon them as they traveled through the government offices.  Ceilings of rare woods covered in plaster relief and pure gold compete with paintings and frescoes by known masters.  Sculptures and bronzes stand in pools of light from Murano glass windows.

This excess of ornamentation is only one part of the Doge's power in Venice.  As the tour progressed, we saw the rest of it.  The dungeon prison cells of the palace are windowless, cold, small.  They do not face each other, so although there are some cells with walls of woven iron bars,  there could have been no possibility of the simple comfort of finding a human face nearby.  The lower the floor for the cells, the less space and air they provided.

It was cold on the day we visited, yet it could not be called deepest winter.  Venice also floods on a regular basis, the street level being submerged under enough water to cause walkways high enough to serve as seats for tired tourists when the water isn't up.  Just thinking of that as I walked through those cells made me shiver with something that had nothing to do with the chill in the air.  Suddenly, the idea of being in those stone walls with water rising was a claustrophobic hand around my throat.

One of the last parts of the tour was a walk over the Bridge of Sighs itself.  I was still mentally in the jail cells when I walked up the short staircase onto it.  I glanced out a window and saw the canal.  Suddenly, I realized where I was.  I stood for a long time, running the tips of my fingers against the smooth cold stone walls.  All I could think of was how many people never made the journey I was making, how many only took the trip in the other direction.  How could it carry any other name?

Another short set of steps led back down into opulence.  I walked over to one of the many windows that spilled light and air into the chamber and stared out at the short expanse of stone upon which I'd just been standing.  Eventually, I turned away and followed the sparse crowd to another part of the museum.  Even after I was walking in the spotty sunlight of Saint Mark's Square, some shadow of that limestone passage lingered.

Three Italian Guys

(thus begin the blogs from Italy)

On my recent trip to Italy, I learned more about famous Italian philosophers, artists, and saints.  Here's a look at three and why I think they're fabulous.

Dante

Dante isn't new to me.  Likely, he's not new to you, either.  Even if all you know is the image of a guy touring hell, Dante is one of those all-pervasive writers.  Last time we were in Florence, I saw the reconstruction of his house.  We visited the tiny square where it stands this time, as well.  Images of him are all over Florence, and a statue of him stands tall outside the church of Santa Croce where his tomb is visited by tourists from all over the world.

He's the favorite son of Florence.  Everybody seems to overlook the uncomfortable fact that once upon a time, Florence kicked him right out.

Dante has my heart for two reasons.  First, the Divine Comedy is the first work to be written in the language of the common man.  Dante chose "vulgar Italian" instead of Latin for his work because he believed in the beauty and value of his own language.  This makes him brother to Chaucer, an educated man who elevated and celebrated his own dialect.  

The second reason I love him is because he got the best of all possible revenges.  He sent everyone who ticked him off or exiled him straight to hell, and they've been there ever since.  He filled his Inferno with creative punishments for those who he found offensive.  I can just imagine his satisfaction as he penned their torments.  I imagine, or at least I hope, that it was highly therapeutic.  This brings me to my second artist...

Michelangelo

Again, he's not new to anyone, but I think he gets caricatured or reduced.  He's a famous name, one highly likely to be recalled if someone is looking for an artist.  The thing about Michelangelo is that he lived according to the artistic vision in his head and was unwilling to compromise.  He saw the human body as an expression of divine beauty.  He broke the law to do secret dissections to understand the inner workings of muscle, bone, and tendon.  He turned his knowledge into such grace and splendor, and he refused to see anything "dirty" in what he created.  

This trip, I got to go to see the David at the Accademia del Arte.  Everybody has seen images of the David.  It's one of the great cliched pieces of world art, and I wasn't actually expecting that much.  I spent about thirty minutes waiting to get in to the museum passing souvenir carts full of images of the statue, including boxer shorts depicting its groin, postcards of zoom shots of that same region, and various other tacky items.  When we got in, I heard several people comment on just one aspect of the statue:  his exposed genitals.  

I couldn't help but be exasperated by that.  The David is famous for a reason.  It is, quite simply, astonishing.  Forget the cheap imitations.  Forget the touristy trinkets.  Everybody should see it.  While I didn't have the heart-stopping reaction my best friend did when she saw it after so many years of waiting, I did feel a catch in my breath, that little "Oh" reaction.  Even on a cloudy Florentine day, the light spilling across the marble from the simple dome above was the only adornment it could possibly have needed.  We walked forward slowly, sat down to take it all in.  Every curve, every tendon, every delineation of vein or hollow of muscle was beautiful.  The longer one looks at the David, the more spectacular it becomes.  How can anyone be so crass as to reduce it to that one component, to make a dirty joke of something profoundly pure?

Unlike so many others, Michelangelo never perceived the body as a source of wickedness.  If you look at his paintings, he celebrates the wonder that every person should feel when the intricacies of our bodies are considered.  The body for him seems to have been its own form of art with nothing prurient implied in it.  Too bad more people can't take that opinion.  Too bad more people can't see the beauty that he did.

And his contemporaries missed it over and over, really.  I didn't know until this trip that the figures in the Sistine Chapel had been painted as nudes.  All of mankind was naked and perfect before its creator.  He felt that this was perfection.  Of course, people being what they are, he was accused of painting pornography on the walls of the Vatican by one of the cardinals, the official censor.  He denied this and to get revenge for the criticism, he painted the man in hell in the great scene of the last judgment.  Not only did he publicly condemn his critic, Michelangelo also stripped him down and had him tortured for eternity by having a giant serpent wrap around him and devour the very portion of his anatomy that seemed to lead the cardinal's thinking.  Irony is a wonderful thing. 

Of course, his critics got the last word.  About three years after he died (while working on the mosaics of Saint Peter's), the powers that be forced one of his students to come in and add seco drapes to the original frescoes in the Sistine Chapel.  That snake still buries his fangs into the cardinal though.  I guess you can learn from this and from Dante that offending the artist is, to say the least, unwise....

Saint Francis of Assisi

As with the other two, I can't imagine many people haven't at least seen the image of St. Francis.  The gentle brown-robed figure so often depicted with birds or beasts is common even outside the Catholic church.  I have a concrete figure of him standing watch in a bed full of day lilies near my bird feeders.

We actually got to go to Assisi this time, and for the first time, that concrete icon became a real person.  At the great basilica of Saint Francis, we met Brother Michael, a Franciscan priest.  He was one of those rare people who just radiates that type of holy serenity.  There was nothing rigid or formal about him.  He was totally welcoming of us without knowing us at all.  One of the things he said as we stood outside the doors of the lower basilica that I will probably never forget was that the basilica had been built with us in mind.  Not that the people who started it some seven or eight centuries ago knew us personally, but that they knew travelers would come from all over the world to their doors, and they wanted us all, people from every place and in every time, to feel peace and hospitality when we arrived.

The great basilica itself has three levels.  We started in the lower basilica, and I have never seen a place with such beautiful art.  Most of it was done by or is in the school of Giotto, the "father of the Renaissance."  The dark blue ceiling curves protectively overhead, and a sense of absolute serenity enfolded me as we entered.  After looking at the features of the architecture, we were sent downstairs to the crypt. By this point, we had seen lots of "saints-in-a-box," as I have come to think of the displayed remains of the deceased holy.  There was nothing ostentatious about Saint Francis's tomb.  The sarcophagus wasn't showy marble or glass-sided.  It was simple stone surrounded by the limestone foundations of the great church above.  For all its lack of ornamentation, it was the most moving of all of such things I saw.

I think it was because of what we were told about Saint Francis himself.  He had everything, wealth, privilege, the status of the oldest son which meant more property and power would come his way when his merchant father died.  He tried to find meaning in excess, in reveling in the things his money could get him, but he found it hollow.  He tried next to find it in service to his country, joining the military and winding up as a prisoner of war.  When he came home, he turned to God after a spectacular conversion including a vision that ordered him to rebuild the church.  He did this literally and with his own hands, but he came to understand that it wasn't physical labor that he was meant to do.  His father tried to stop him, thought him insane, and after a massive and public confrontation, disowned him.  Francis took this in stride, and went on to give up everything in order to do that which he felt he had been called to do.

I admire Francis because in his own way, he was every bit as misunderstood and rebellious as Michelangelo and Dante.  While to the best of my knowledge, he was much more about the forgiveness than the eternal revenge, the austere life of service he chose was just as much against the grain of his society, the medieval church, as were the lives of the other two.  The church of his day was full of greed, materialism, and politics.  Everything in his past fitted him for pursuit of these things, but he knew just how little actual fulfillment was to be had from them, so he chose another way:  putting the needs of others first.  He had wisdom and dedication, and apparently, he also kept his humor.  Today, he still inspires people to live with such tremendous care for others and kindness.  

Even the symbols associated with Saint Francis are compelling to me.  The Tau cross he chose as his personal emblem sums it up.  According to what I was told, he picked it because it was the last letter of the Hebrew alphabet, connecting to the idea of giving up the old and transitioning to the new, ending one life and starting another.  I think no matter what your spiritual beliefs, there comes a time when the idea of leaving something broken behind in search of something else is important.

There are lessons to be taken from all three of these revolutionaries.  I cannot help but feel that even though they were such different people, all of them were great because all of them were somehow able to transcend themselves, escape the narrow focus that enfolds so many of us.  They are an inspiration to pursue the heart's great desire no matter what obstacles arise.  They overcame banishment, censorship, and the disapproval of those closest to them to do the thing they knew they had to do, the thing they were meant to do.  If in any way I can manage to emulate this, while I know any sort of eternal greatness is not portioned for me, perhaps I can avoid mediocrity.

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.

The Sincerest Form of Flattery

Listening, not imitation, may be the sincerest form of flattery.
~ Dr. Joyce Brothers

Airstream Dream

Last night, I had a nightmare.  The details wouldn't mean a thing to you.  The monsters involved have been hanging around a long time.  I woke up from it disconcerted.  That icky feeling that lingers after something stirs up the sediment of the subconscious persisted through a flying early morning trip to the central post office, drug store, and (God help me) Wal-Mart.  When I got home, I went outside and filled up all my bird feeders, came in, watched Singing in the Rain, and played a lot, and I do mean A LOT, on Pinterest.

While I was avoiding reality online, I searched Pinterest for stuff about Airstreams.  Then three hours of my life disappeared.  There are a million pins about vintage travel trailers.  Some are restorations while others are total makeovers.  All of them made me yearn.  Oh, how very, very much I want an Airstream.

I want to fit it up with vintage colors and cool old stuff, much of which I probably could take from right here in the house.  I want to give it a clever name painted right on the outside, install solar panels on the roof, hook up an old Chevy pickup to it, load up you and the dogs (Chewie and Roux, at least), and head out.

We could start with small trips, I guess, but what I really want to do is head down the road with sort of an end goal, maybe California or Seattle in three weeks, but nothing in the middle nailed down.  I want to stop on the side of the road and take pictures of old neon signs.  I want to stand on the edge of the Grand Canyon and have my breath taken away.  I want to a cook meal of dubious quality on equipment older than both of us and pray it comes out okay, find a place to stop if it doesn't.

I want to stand outside with you silently in the starlight somewhere that isn't here and look up into the sky until the majesty of it fills me up.  I want to fight with you over something stupid like the stereo or the shower or the inevitable flat tire or the dog walking or the washing-up (as would be bound to happen if we were really trapped together for three weeks in something so small as a truck and my theoretical Airstream) and after, find a way to tape it all back together again, understand each other better through it.  I want to sleep on a bed that we have to set up together, shoo large dogs off, and put away again in the morning.  I want to pour you coffee from my grandfather's stove percolator into a white milkglass Fire King mug I found years ago on eBay.

Ah, today, my gypsy feet are itching, itching, and sometimes lately I think I could happily take only what would fit into this imaginary caravan I'm creating in my mind and not look back.  It's a crazy sort of wide-awake dream, I suppose, but it helps to counter the darkness left behind by the other kind.  It won't hurt either of us if I indulge it just a little bit longer.

The Road to Dixie

The week started off on quite a tear.  Monday was a nightmare of problems getting a prescription filled, a car that suddenly started leaking fluid in massive quantities in a parking lot, impending wrath-of-God weather, and to top it all off, a headache that robbed me of all cognizance.

I woke up on Tuesday with what I have come to think of as a "migraine hangover," still unable to focus, still processing with a significant lag, and also having the new element of a sore neck to go with it.  It was fabulous beyond words.  I desperately wanted to come back home and fall unconscious, but I had my Comp class to teach, and so instead of being able to leave at the last bell, I had to stay until late into the evening.  I came home and found the beginnings of good news with my car repaired fairly inexpensively and waiting for me to pick it up.

Today, all the clouds both mental and physical had rolled away.  The weather was cold but gorgeously clear.  The sky was that shade of blue that makes me breathe as deeply as I can as if I could somehow inhale some of that bright glory.  The daily schedule was shot to pieces because of an assembly.  It didn't even phase me.  A friend sent me a link to the new Josh Ritter album on NPR First Listen, and I spent what remained of my lunch hour exploring all that new wonder.  My copy is due to be here tomorrow.  Rarely have I watched the progress of a package on my little iPhone app with more anticipation.

The day my car tried to die, I took it through a back street in town to get it to the mechanic who cobbles it back together routinely.  I hadn't been all the way down it in a very long time, and near an overpass I drive across every single day, I found a hidden gem.  Tucked right beside the concrete arch is an old sign for the Dixie Oil Company.  The building that went with it is gone now, but this one incredibly well-kept sign stands sentinel over the mowed emptiness.  I wanted to shoot it the moment I saw it, but I had only my iPhone and a car that was trying to overheat as well as thunder capable of vibrating windows, so I kept driving.  I promised myself I would come back.

It wasn't exactly safe.  There's no question of that.  It's not in a good part of town, and it's rather isolated.  (Does this sound familiar?)  I couldn't not shoot that sign, though.  I kept thinking about it, about the light I'd like to catch on it.  Today, since I was feeling so good, I brought my camera to school and waited.  When the day was finally done, I packed up and ran for it.

The light was perfect when I got there.  There is a golden time in the morning and the afternoon when all the colors are more vivid, when everything seems glossed by wonder.  Even the old neon sign was made something more, something mystical by it.  I shot frame after frame of it, took some with my phone, and scooted back to my car without incident.  The result can be seen above.

So far, the week has been a real mix of things.  Tomorrow is payday, and so it should mark a significant upswing.  As long as it doesn't try to backslide to Monday's fun, I think I will make it out.

Wonder Woman and Fountain Pens

Today, a new iOS update rolled out, and I dutifully upgraded my Apple products.  As the screen returned to functionality on my iPad, I was greeted with the colorful Art Deco Wonder Woman graphic I have on it just now for my lock screen wallpaper.  I put in my passcode, and the home screen full of icons floating above an image of a vintage fountain pen collection filled the screen.  I sort of laughed to myself, thinking, "And now you know everything that's important there is to know about me by looking at those two pictures."

It was a joke, but as I turned it over in my mind, I started thinking about how much truth there is to it.  The things we choose to decorate the things we use every day probably say an incredible amount about what goes on behind the closed doors of our psyches.

I started thinking of the images on my other devices:  the shot of the Old Place at sunset on my iPhone, the READ MORE owl graphic I made into a sticker on the outside of my Kindle, the Jailhouse Rock Elvis currently dancing his way across this wallpaper of this computer.  If you pay attention to the little glimpses of what people decorate with, you can learn something about what they value.

Case in point:  every parent or grandparent who has their children's faces plastered on every single one of those places.  Every pet owner who has ever used his or her dog or cat in a profile picture or as screensaver shot (I've done both, btw.)  Every sentimental soul who has his or her true love as the first thing they see when they activate their phone....

I change out the images I see on my various devices quite frequently, but I think most of them would speak to a listening eye (heh).  Wonder Woman?  She shows up a lot.  I think I have at least three different backgrounds with her in it.  You can find the blog post about why I think she's so super awesome and how long that's been going on.  I guess probably everybody has one superhero kicking around in the upstairs, whether they festoon their surroundings with him/her or not.

The fountain pens?  Now that I think about it, I have at least two vintage advertising images of them in addition to the photo of the collection mentioned earlier.  They represent my love of old-fashioned, graceful, and functional things.  They show my love for writing.  They speak to my love of things that last.

Now that this has occurred to me, I will undoubtedly be trying to collect scraps of information about others around me from it.  It's sort of a puzzle, and I have a hard time escaping the lure of those.  I will also probably wonder what it says about me when I switch to the bright orange graphic of a little black cat with librarian glasses on.  Hmm.  Maybe I better not over-analyze too much.  Sometimes, maybe a picture is just a picture is just a picture....

Virtual Welding and Other Internet Activites

I'm trying to get ready to start using the MIG welder I got from my parents for my birthday.  It's been a long time since I took the class, and I am pretty sure that I've forgotten almost everything. Fortunately there isn't as much to refresh myself on as there would be if I were trying to reteach myself arc welding.

Today probably would have been a good day weather-wise to try it, but I keep picturing myself in the emergency room because I didn't take enough care.  Instead, I've been making a mind map of links and resource on Mind42, reading and saving big PDFs to Evernote, and shopping for tools.  You know.  Time-wasting digital prep.

It's nice to do.  It's nice also just because it's so very different from everything else I usually do.   The past few days have been rough, and even though I basically came home and fell down last night, I am still exhausted.  I slept for ten hours, got up, had breakfast and walked the dogs, and went back to sleep for two more hours.  The only problem is that I could go back in there right now and sleep more.  Probably it's just the time of the school year.  If I can get through 11 more days, I will have Italy.

And after that, a few days in which to start welding....

The Little Voice Inside

Yesterday morning, I was getting ready to go see my best friend in Jackson.  My birthday was last week, and while I wasn't able to get to my favorite restaurant, Kismet's, during the week for it, I was darned well going this weekend.

One of the front tires on my Cruiser has been giving me fits.  If you read here often, you will remember that it went totally flat on me one morning last week.  Since then, I've been doing a visual inspection of my tires every time I get in it to make sure it's not low/flat again.

I was running a bit late, and I simply forgot to check the tire.  I didn't remember until I was just about headed down the hill portion of my driveway.  I sighed, stopped, put it in park, and got out to do a quick run-around inspection.  It was low.

I'll admit to saying things that weren't polite at this point.

I grabbed my phone and called my parents, intending to go to their house and use Dad's big air compressor to fill it back up.  When I got there, Mom was already standing by her van pulling various things out of it.  She asked me to take her van instead.

I had already been uneasy about the car and a long trip because of its age as well as because of the tire issue.  However, I didn't want to drive another vehicle.  It's silly how attached we become to things and to routine.  I don't like driving other cars.  I wanted mine.  Silly, silly, silly.

That little voice inside my head stepped in at the point where I would have probably insisted on taking the Cruiser and said, "You should take the van today. Just to be on the safe side."  Dad was going to take the wheel off the Cruiser and check it again, and so I handed over my keys, took hers, moved my junk to the van, and left.

When I was close to home, I called to see what the vehicle status was.  Mom told me something that made my blood run absolutely cold.  The tire had been checked when it ran flat the other day, but no hole had been found.  As the guys at the tire shop my Dad took the wheel to inspected it, they also saw nothing wrong.  Dad decided that to be on the side of caution, he would go ahead and have the tire replaced.  That way, hopefully the issue would be over.  When they pulled it off the wheel, the steel belting inside had somehow become detached.  A bubble had formed on the inner surface.  It was waiting to blow out.

I drive like the proverbial bat out of hell.  I routinely thrash my little car in ways that I am fully aware are pushing its capabilities and safety.  I like to drive, and I enjoy speed.  (That is actually a very serious understatement.  This is why I want a muscle car.)  Something takes hold of me when I get out on the interstate.  The speed limit seems to be more of a speed suggestion to most of the people around me.  Everybody suddenly thinks they're NASCAR or Formula 1 drivers. People driving 45 mph lay claim to the passing lane like it's their homeland.  There's a major split where two interstates diverge, and the out-of-state traffic is always in the wrong lane and suddenly switching.  It's insane.  Add to that potent mixture the fact that I am usually leaving town at about five o'clock, the stupidest of all the stupid traffic hours, and you can probably imagine the type of driving I'm talking about.  You'll understand why I had a chill down my spine.

Just the previous evening, see, I'd been braking hard, dancing through 18-wheelers pulling the big hills between town and here, running all out.  It had been more than enough to blow that tire.  I have a front-wheel drive vehicle.  While I've had a blowout at 70 mph on the interstate before, it was a back tire that went, so I was able to maintain control. Anything I can imagine having happened if one of the front ones blew in that kind of traffic at that speed is not good.

I'm thankful for that tiny voice of reason and caution.  I'm thankful that I listened to it.  Otherwise, this could very well have been a posting from a hospital room or a message from beyond.

From the Land of Maxalt

I woke up this morning full of good intentions.  Of course, we all know right where they lead....

My head started kicking early, but I ignored it. In the past two weeks, it's been like thunder rumbling in the background, a threat that never quite gets around to materializing.  Today, though, as I worked on scraping the top layer of the debris work-week neglect off my life and my house, it started up again, and I had a feeling this time the storm intended to break.

I emptied and reloaded the dishwasher, cleaned some genuinely toxic things out of my fridge, cleared away the MIG welder and all its accouterments to my office/workshop, washed a couple of loads of clothes, put my feather mattress outside to freshen and fluff in the bright sun.  Around noon, my mother called to see if I wanted to go eat dinner somewhere, and by that point my head was starting to get rather insistent.

We went to our local fish camp.  If you are from a place where you don't have those, you're missing it, buddy.  Everybody goes to the fish camp.  I talked to my great aunt and great uncle, my Granny's brother and sister, and one of my cousins.  It's like a miniature family/community reunion there at times.  Last time we were there, I apologized to our server for my parents disappearing on the way to our seats to talk to other people, and he just laughed, saying, "Oh, I lose people all the time before we get to the table."  Mom and I got a booth, and I sat watching the light on the brown river water flowing a short distance away from the restaurant.  Mom and I talked, and even before the entrees were brought, I took a pill.  Just the motion of the light on the river and the pale sand of the bank was making me nauseous.

After that, I have to say, I don't remember much of the meal, but I do remember the pain stopping.

I came home, staggered out with Mom's help, came in, fell down on my unmade, un-feather-mattressed bed, pulled a quilt and my comforter over me, felt Dillon perch on my hip, and became unconscious.

In about an hour, I have to pull the tattered pieces of myself together well enough to sit on an organ bench and be a musician.  Probably I can do that.  The world isn't in that frustratingly-indescribable state of hyper-reality and disconnection that either the headaches or the drug always brings on just now.  As long as the notes on the pages don't decide to pull a cartoon number and dance around on me, maybe nobody will notice I'm not at my best.

Oh, but I'm so very, very tired of this.

So, Yeah. Thirty-Seven.

One of my students came by and hugged me in the hall today and said, "I won't ask you how old you are.  Women aren't supposed to tell."  I smiled to myself.  I claim every minute of mine.

I woke up this morning draggy and totally preoccupied with an order of 136 dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts that were coming from Columbus today.  After checking Swackett, I saw how cold it was going to be, and I pulled on my new Hamlet sweatshirt from Out of Print.  I finished the outfit with black pants and my new blue Chucks.  Having thus fortified myself, I walked dogs, sacked trash, and headed out.

School rolled in as usual.  Everything was business as usual until 2nd block started.  I noticed that they were all a little twitchy, but I didn't think much about it.  Suddenly, my administrator walked in the door carrying a cake.  They all sang and even had those little blowout party favors.  I was so surprised!  They gave me a wonderful little book of Peanuts "wisdom for life" cartoons and a card that plays the main theme from Star Wars. They dressed me in purple glitter glasses, Mardi Gras beads, a birthday badge, and a pink princess crown.   We ate cake, took pictures, and had a great time.  Fourth block came in, and suddenly, they burst into song, greeting me with a card all of them had signed.  It was all so sweet and so unexpected.  This batch of students is so sweet.

The doughnuts came, and I took my 4th block class down to unload them.  They seemed tickled to meet my mother who was driving the "delivery van" for us.  We got it done quickly and went back upstairs.  After school, several of my NHS members showed up, and we tagged and sorted the doughnuts for distribution tomorrow.

At last, my big day was done.  I sat in the quiet of the empty library waiting for the students to take a load of doughnuts out to their car, and I popped open one of the boxes I bought.  I bit into that fresh Krispy Kreme, and suddenly, all the effort was worth it.

I went by my favorite Thai restaurant on the way home and got my traditional massaman.  Mom and Dad came by and led me out to her empty van.  Only, as it turned out, it wasn't quite empty.  In the back was a MIG welder in a box.  I've wanted one since I took that brief welding course years ago.  It was the only kind of welder I did well with.  I have walked past countless pieces of metal and sorted them into other forms and combinations wishing I had something to make that happen.  Since a MIG welder is a bit like a glue gun for metal (yes, a gross oversimplification, but still), maybe I'll finally be able to make some of those idle fancies come true.

Added to all these things have been the constant notifications from FB filled with well-wishes and kind words from my friends and family.  It has been so good to hear from everyone. It's nice, just sometimes, to be on the receiving end of it.

And so 37 has arrived.  I am fairly certain it will have its share of joy and change like its fellows, but at least it has started sweetly.

Sick. Restless. Rain.

I've been sick the past few days, really deeply not-getting-up-long-ish sick.  I'm better today.  Tomorrow, I'll probably be right as rain.

Speaking of which.

I can hear it falling on the metal roof, and it's calling me to bed, but I sort of don't want to give in.  I mean, yeah, the bed sounds all kinds of wonderful.  It's not too cold or too hot tonight, and the thought of putting on my pajamas and sliding my feet in against the cool crisp giraffe-printed cotton of my sheets is a serious enticement.  Like an overtired toddler, though, I am kicking against it, holding out stubbornly.

Why?

I don't know.  Maybe because I'm tired of going to bed at a "respectable" hour.  It seems like I race home, walk dogs, walk dogs, walk dogs, and go to bed.  While I love my dogs, something is missing.

Oh, likely, it's just my gypsy feet acting up.  I have caught myself looking longingly at this gorgeous old silver Airstream a guy down on Main Street in Podunk has and wondering if it's totally ragged out inside, if he might be impelled to part with it for something less than a fortune.  Most of my Pinterest activity for the last little while has been impossible escapes and places that just look to glorious to be real.

Most of the time, I'm okay.  I am working along on plans for things here, projects, school things, and as long as I'm occupied, it's fine.  When I get sick, when it rains, all the need to go and see something else crops up like a dam holding it back is somehow destroyed when the furious motion stops.

Someday.  Someday, I am going to take that 1950s vacation where I load all my crap and some of my animals up into an Airstream,  pull it with a little old truck of some make and model earlier than 1970, and I'm going to drive all the way out to California.  This is a thing I am going to do.  I'm going to take a million pictures, buy the cheesiest souvenirs I can find, and collect state stickers for the Airstream or some such thing.  There is too much of *this* country I haven't seen.

I just wish I could get started on this project tomorrow.  Instead, there is only being sick.  And restless.  And the rain....

Downton Abbey

Bates the Pit Bull

(And if I've blogged it before, I'm blogging it again.  Get over it.)

I resisted it for a long time.  It was one of those things where too many people were talking about it, and I thought it wouldn't be something I'd enjoy.  Last summer sometime, I saw it on Amazon Prime and decided to give it a try.  Oh my God, how I love this show.  Whenever I am sick or sad, I want to watch Downton.  I realize that this is becoming a cliche of a certain type of woman, probably, but I really don't care.

Thomas the Siamese Cat

One of the things I bought for myself for my birthday was the third season on DVD.  I'm watching the season finale right now, and I have to say that this just keeps getting better and better.  I love the lushness of the sets.  I love the changing nature of the characters.  I love the fact that I am frequently surprised by what happens.

It's graceful and elegant.  It's lighthearted and funny.  It's heartbreaking and tragic.  Not every moment in the lives of the characters is happy.  There is real pain, real loss, and also real joy. New characters enter and are every bit as interesting as the ones who have been there from the start.  When it's compared to the tripe that masquerades as storylines in most other shows, or God forbid, reality TV, there is very little else that compares.

Matthew the Australian Shepherd

I don't have a wine party or sit down with a box of Godiva when I watch it.  I don't aspire to Edwardian fashion (except maybe the HATS).  I have to say, though, it's a very pleasant way to spend a hour or two.

All of these Downton characters as animals come from the delightful Etsy shop Toadbriar.  You can get them and see more by clicking here.

Flat Tires and Fake Babies

The past couple of days have been more of a rollercoaster ride than usual.  I got up to go to school yesterday, threw all my crap in my car, got almost across the interstate bridge, and I heard the distinctive thump-thump-thump of a flat tire.  It took just long enough for me to get onto the on ramp to process, and I pulled off on the side of it to get out and check.  The tire was so flat the seal had broken.

I just sat in the car for a minute, trying to think of what the best thing to do would be.  I finally decided to back up the on ramp, praying nobody came speeding down it.  I managed to get turned around and limped slowly home.

The rest of the day was about what you'd expect from such a beginning.  Late arrival at school.  Not having the stuff I needed when I thought it was ready.  Technology stupidity.  A feeling of being rushed and just somehow dull.  An unexpected meeting.  A lack of Diet Mountain Dew everywhere.  The big stuff and the little stuff all went to perdition in a handcart.

Today, I drove another vehicle.  I took an entire 8-pack of Diet MD to my little fridge.  We ordered lunch from a local restaurant.  I wore a new sweater.

And my students made me laugh.  They came in chatting about babies.  Suddenly, according to them, I was expecting imaginary ones myself.  They started coming up with baby names.  I wound up with imaginary twins:  Shakespeareonte and Shakespeareonce (a boy and a girl).  It made me smile, and I needed it.

It also made me a little sad for all the obvious reasons, but I tried to focus on the sweetness instead of the bitter.  Some days, that is easier to do than others.  I'm lucky with the students I've got right now.  They are a great assistance with it gets difficult.

All the Anniversaries

It seems like all kinds of important things have major landmark anniversaries this year.  Some examples right off the top of my head:

• The Emancipation Proclamation - 150 years
• Pride and Prejudice - 200 years
• James Bond movie series - 50 years
• The Bell Jar - 50 years
• Doctor Who - 50 years
• The London Underground - 150 years
• James Meredith admission to Ole Miss - 50 years
• The Birmingham Bus Boycott - 50 years
• Wagner born - 200 years
• Medgar Evers slain - 50 years
• Valium approved - 50 years
• Kennedy assassinated - 50 years

That's the short list.  Hmm.  I wonder if this year is going to live up to its predecessors.  

Think Happy Thoughts

The following items have gotten me through the day:

1. A big white silly dog waiting to lean on me when I got home
2. Rocky Road ice cream in my freezer
3. My little purring cat who sits on the other pillow of my bed and sings away the nightmares
4. The thought of Italy, and soon
5. Mirror-silver toenail polish
6. "A. Blue" low-quarter Chucks
7. Contemplating an Elvis bust dressed up next to my Shakespeare
8. Watching my students gleefully pillage a basket of prizes and then play with Slinkys and bubbles
9. The new Little Caesar's commercial with the clown in the forest
10. Granny's daffodils starting to bloom in the backyard

Couch Guitar Straps

No.  I haven't taken up the guitar again.  These guys sort of make me wish I could stand the calloused fingertips, though.  Their products are awesome.

I first found them on Etsy.  You can get to their shop here.  I was intrigued by the materials they use.  As you can see to the left, they recycle things, largely automotive textiles, in really fabulous and useful ways.  These are old seatbelts.  Isn't it amazing how lovely they are?

What took my fancy, though, was the range of products they make from automotive vinyl.  They take deadstock vinyl and other fabrics, originally intended to reupholster car and truck seats, and create straps, electronic gadget cases, wallets, passport covers, even messenger bags.  When seen in a different conformation than big swathes of seat, the intricate detail of these old fabrics really stands out.

The first thing I purchased was a Kindle cover.  It's made from seat covering from a 1960s GMC truck.  The bright red is one of my favorite colors, and I love that it is made from something vintage.  Even though the one on Etsy was sized for the Kindle Fire, Couch made a custom version for my Kindle Paperwhite at no extra charge. It is perfect for running around as it adds no extra bulk whatsoever to the Kindle while providing protection.  Also, I mean, look at the thing.  It's gorgeous....

I also found a camera strap made from deadstock for a Volkswagen Beetle.  I have been using it now for a couple of months, and every time I take my camera out of its case, it makes me smile.  The red (see a theme here?) color and the fact that it came out of one of the world's happiest cars just thrills me.  I can't wait to use it in Italy.

For my annual "month of senseless indulgences," I decided to get one of their other pieces that I had been ogling in my Etsy favorites for a long time.  Couch makes several styles of wallets.  I needed one that was small and simple to fit in my larger "string purse"  This one was perfect.  It was also perfect because it's made from 1960s Chrysler vinyl in a lovely emerald green.  It came today, and I cleaned out the pockets of my string purse into it.  It could not be more perfect.  It slips down into the pocket with my checkbook taking up almost no more space than the bunched-up cards did alone.  I now know exactly how much cash I have on-hand because it's not all wadded up in the change pouch like it has been.  Organization and art triumph.

The philosophy behind Couch is admirable.  They make everything themselves, and the pride they take in their products is clear.  Things are hand-stamped, strong-sewn, screen-printed by them.  They use their own products, and professional musicians are also fond of them.  They ship fast, communicate well and with great friendliness.  Heck, they even sent a free pick holder with the wallet.  (I am going to give it to one of my guitar-playing friends.)

I like the fact that they are taking the common, something designed to cover a cushion for your backside, and making it extraordinary.  It is meaningful to me also that they are giving these things a second life.  To me, things that have already had one purpose and find or are given another are just inherently richer, infinitely preferable.  I know I am going to enjoy these items and the history of them for a long time to come.

A Mobile Observation

What does it say about me that it annoys me when radio stations mute minor vulgarities in their songs? I'm listening to Pink Floyd's "Money," and when it got to the "goodie good bullshit" line, they bleeped it. If that word offends you so very much, maybe you should not listen to the song. I find this sort of thing hypocritical and corrosive to the original intent of the artist. Even if they bleep it, we all know what was meant, effectively hearing it in our heads. What's the point?

Actually, Quite-a-Lot

Quite a lot has happened since I wrote last.  I've sat down with the computer several times, but each has wound up involved with other things than coming here.  I am taking a moment now to try to catch up.

I got a call yesterday saying that I'd been nominated to be the Star of the Week, a community member profiled and highlighted in our local newspaper.  I was floored.  I do not think of myself as overly interesting.  I was honored, though.  I saw the completed interview in today's paper.  It was strange to see myself there, picture and all, but nice, too.  I don't think I came off sounding like an idiot.

I was also informed that I have been chosen by one of students for a special kind of recognition.  It was totally unexpected, but I am so grateful for what it represents.  To be chosen by one's students as worthy is probably the highest honor and vote of confidence a teacher can hope for.  Once I am sure all of it is official and not-a-secret, I'll talk more about this.  Right now, I've said about as much as I need to.

I found out about and have been working on an application for a two-week summer trip to Japan to  collaborate and exchange information with teachers there and with other teachers from around the States.  I finished the application last night, and now all that's left is the waiting.

I'm also waiting to hear about the AP Reading this summer.  I think it's time or past time for the first round of notifications to come out (I can't find my letter), so I might not have been selected this time.  I am worried that missing last year for TGC has hurt me in the selection process.  Only time will tell.

Regardless of all the things still up in the air and while tomorrow might be a hammer right between the eyes, I have a good, good feeling about 2013.  Thirteen, for a variety of reasons, has always been lucky for me.  Maybe this whole year will be.

A Letter from Myself

(this arrived in the mail today.  we wrote letters to ourselves on the last day of the TGC Brazil trip as a final reflection.  although I knew it was coming, opening it still came as a poignant moment.)

__________

23 June 2012

Dear You,

Please remember what you've learned and seen here.  Even on the days when things get terrible, appreciate all you have.

Don't forget the students you've met.  Don't forget David Campista and their great generosity.  Take it with you and remember that beauty.

Remember the monkey.  Wild things can be gentle, too, when approached with the appropriate attitude.  This is good classroom advice.

Remember the joy of being alone.  Remember the joy of being with others.

It's okay to order the caipirinha.

It's okay to go back to the hotel if your head hurts, too.

Take a minute and look back over the pictures.  Watch the light go through the crystal ball.  And, finally, if you are not as happy right now as you were at every moment in Brazil....get your ass back there.

ME

All the Etsy Things

It struck me today as I was sitting on a steel-pad table by a rural creek just how many thing I use constantly and really love have come from Etsy.  There were the red case for my Kindle and the red strap on my Nikon, both made by Couch Straps from deadstock automotive vinyl.  There was the small sandwich wrap by Yulco I use so I don't have to put a PB&J in a sandwich bag and wastefully throw the bag away after.  There was the red martingale collar from Mod Dog around Chewie's snow-white throat, allowing him comfort and me control if needed.  Even the tiny silver studs with their kanji symbols for peace and luck on them I was wearing in my second set of piercings had come from someone there, Cherry Creek Jewelry.

I know Etsy receives criticism.  Maybe some of it comes rightly.  I haven't researched stuff enough to know.  I just know that since I started shopping there, I have access to things I love.  I like my stuff to be either a) old or b) classic/unique and always c) well-made.  Etsy shops, the ones I frequent, anyway, meet all those requirements.  There are all these incredibly talented people out there who make exactly the right thing when I'm looking for it, something my style, my size, my philosophy, and without this site, I'd never know about it.

My tastes are not what could be called "common" for this area.  While we have some mightily awesome junktiques that I adore, finding makers for the type of art and the style of personal items such as phone cases, jewelry, etc. I want is problematic unless I go to a larger place.  The beauty of Etsy is that I don't have to go anywhere.  It comes to me.

Even as my tastes and little manias change, Etsy remains able to satisfy them.  If I'm on a "kick" with a particular topic, set of characters, or item, I can find things on Etsy that fulfill that desire reasonably.  I can also find new interests, even new project ideas for myself, by looking there.

The last thing about using Etsy that I appreciate is the general friendliness of the craftspeople.  I've never run into anyone there who wasn't willing to adapt or create a custom order.  I have ordered from some of them several times, and they actually remember that I was a customer.  It's nice.  I also like the fact that so many shops offer discounts to repeat buyers.  In a world where often you go into a shop and are made by lack of service or outright rudeness of the staff to feel that you're doing them a disservice by spending your money there, being acknowledged and appreciated is a fairly novel change.

I've also almost never run across anyone there whose quality wasn't even more than advertised.  I have some pieces, including my long-desired and much-loved green Leonard messenger bag from New Duds, that I know I will have for a very long time.  I will probably wear out before it does.  In a world of use-and-toss or buy-knowing-you'll-have-to-buy-again-soon, it's refreshing to see durability and quality accompanying beauty.

I didn't mean for this to become an Etsy hymn, but really, I don't mind that it did.  I get far too much enjoyment from the site not to have said something good of it.  While not everyone may agree with me about its virtues, for me, it is the perfect "shop."

Wonderful Things

(a list)

• Watching my Pyrenees run, frolic, and splash wildly in the creek.
• Having said Pyrenees warm and dry and leaning on me as we drive down dirt roads.
• Driving down red dirt roads.
• Having just enough coffee left to make a pot.
• Watching a new coffee maker produce said coffee.
• Drinking that coffee from a new Fiestaware jumbo cup.
• Sitting in sunlight streaming through the window.
• Knowing that if I want to, I can go take a nap.
• Knowing that if I do go take a nap, four-hundred-and-eighty-seven cats and dogs will pile up in the bed to nap, too.
• Listening to the rumbling purr of a small, plump, striped cat.
• Having a vehicle that stops when the brakes are pressed.  (Mine currently does not do this.)
• Driving a big, brown, battered farm truck with enough pulling power to move a small moon.
• Hearing the quiet chiming of agate windchimes and thinking of Brazil.

I think I hear a nap calling me.  It's been peaceful today.  I hope yours has been as well.

Snow Day

Yesterday before we left school, all the talk was of the incoming winter storm.  Preparations were made in case we needed to start school late.  Phone chains were checked.  Reminders were given to keep everything in the building safe.

I have to admit I didn't really expect any snow.  Every year, snow is predicted, and every year, the hearts of local children are crushed when we get four flakes or none at all.  Their bright little eyes glimmer with the thoughts of waist-high drifts which prevent the school buses from running, but the reality of living this far South is that if we get enough to cover the ground fully, we've had a heck of a storm.

I woke up about 4:30 as usual, my never-ending fear of oversleeping my alarm kicking in, and I wondered if it were snowing, but not enough to get up from my warm cocoon, dislodge cats, and go see.  Thirty minutes later, the alarm sounded, and I dragged myself out of bed and started the wait for notification.

District told us they'd notify us by 5:30 if we were going to try a late-start day.  At about 5:15, my phone started chiming.  The person above me on my phone tree, a person in my department I depend upon to get news, the actual email and call from the CO all told me I could go back to bed.  Late start was a reality.  I rolled over with great happiness.

About thirty minutes later, everything went off again.  School was officially called off for today.  Snow day protocol was in place.  I got up, looked out the window, and even in the dim light, I could see white everywhere.  Against all probability, we had snow.  I have to admit, I was glad to have been wrong.

I slept late, got up, took the dogs out, and got wet from the thick clumpy snow still falling.  Roux went out and came in quickly.  Chewie absolutely frolicked.  He loved the snow.  He ran in huge circles, kicking up mud and snow everywhere.  He dove face-first into the tiny drifts.  I laughed and laughed, and I realized as I did it that it was the first time I had really laughed in days.

I took some pictures, came in to get what I needed to fill all the birdfeeders.  When I went back out carrying the twenty-pound sack of birdseed, Roux slipped out with me, and she and Chewie took off before I could navigate the slick steps and get her collar.  Memories of the last time she ran off played back almost immediately.  Those 22 hours where I was waiting for Chewie and her to come home were some of the longest of my life.

I waited for several hours to see if they'd come back on their own before I grabbed leashes, bundled myself into forty layers and a purple hat, and headed after them.  I walked through the woods road to the far pasture calling their names.  I'm sure if the hunters who hang out across the road were there today, they got very tired of it.  As a teacher, I can be exceptionally loud when I need to be.  I made it all the way to the line of trees at the edge of that pasture and still, no dogs.

I stood and I called over and over, and just when I was thinking that I would have to give up and just go home, I saw a flicker of movement in the trees and heard the distant and longed-for jingling of collar tags.  Roux appeared and disappeared behind the trunks of the pines.  Then Chewie burst out of the woods in a blur of dirty wet white.  I captured him and put him on the leash, and we chased Roux down, leashed her, and we all went home.

I took the time to make breakfast, fought my ridiculous, useless coffee pot and managed to eke out a cup with it, got on Amazon and bought a new coffee pot so I can have the exquisite pleasure of destroying the one I have with a hammer, did some online research and browsing, and was as useless as possible.  I decided to watch Friends, and it has turned into a marathon.  It's been fabulous.

Roux has been sleeping all afternoon.  Chewie is mostly wiped out, too.  As I look at them, all I can think of is how grateful I am that they came when called.  If the weather hadn't been as nasty as it was, I'm not sure if that would have been the case.  Maybe we all got a chance to do some things today we don't normally do, and we all got it out of our various systems.  Tomorrow will be a return to what passes for normality around here.  I guess all good things, even the unexpected ones, must come to an end.

Fede Gimmel

This is a fede gimmel or gimmal ring.  These rings are made of two, or as in the case of this one, three rings that swivel open.  The hands open, and there is a heart inside.  You can see an example of an opened one below.  It's a different ring, but I think you can get the idea.  These were used as men's wedding rings or women's engagement/betrothal rings during the Victorian period.  (By the way...I like the word "betrothed."  If I ever get to that point, I'd like to be "betrothed" instead of "engaged." Betrothed.  Yeah.)

I love this.  To me, it's a fascinating variation on the Claddagh.  The same symbolism of eternal unity and companionship is there.  The heart is hidden, a private thing, on this ring, but it's lovely.  The detailed hands, one masculine with its shirt sleeve, and one feminine with its ruffle, are charming.  I have seen lots of different types of old jewelry, but so much of it is intended for women.  The fact that this has so much detail and could be worn by men, too, delights me.

If I were getting married, that distant misty if, then I think this would be a cool band for that imaginary husband of mine to have.  I would hope he'd be interested in it.  I don't know.  Maybe it's too fancy for a modern guy.  I just adore the history, the symbolism, and the function of it.  I'd like to think Imaginary Husband would look down at his ring, think of us together, and smile.  Isn't that the purpose of those things, after all?

Oh, and if you want the ultra-awesome one from the top picture, I found it here.

My Ring

From this Etsy listing by Meg:


"Etched into a genuine, natural, beautiful deep purple amethyst stone is a gilt flower and in the center of that lovely painted flower is a Salanger or 'rough cut' diamond (pre-dates the rose cut)

These rings, known as Rose of Sharon, were very popular in the Mid Victorian Era. They were used as love tokens, sometimes betrothal rings....or just as a romantic gift. It was a symbol of unfailing love.

In the Victorian Era, the language of flowers was as important to people as being "well dressed." For example, the recognizable scent of a particular flower, plant or perhaps a scented handkerchief sent its own unique message. Roses symbolized love, but even different colors meant different things."
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When I was in my first year of college, I went to one of the first antique malls to be opened downtown.  Part of the sprawling space was a venerable jewelry store, one of those institutions that had been in town forever and was now a part of this larger enterprise.  In addition to the contemporary pieces they had an entire case of estate pieces.  

I looked down into the case idly, and among the lockets and diamonds there was a ring with a giant, glorious, dark purple amethyst.  It was near my birthday, and amethyst is my birthstone.  I dithered, knowing it would be beyond my slim budget, but I tried it on.  My mom was with me, and as we looked at it, she told me that I should get it.  My Granny wanted to get me something for my birthday, and Mom said that she and Dad would also chip in.  I put the first payment on it that day.

It's been on my hand every day.  I always wondered about the carving in the middle.  Was it a violet to accompany the February birth month?  Was it a tulip?  It sort of looks like one.  Was it a rose?  I didn't know.  Not knowing didn't make me love the ring, which I had come to see as a symbol of my united family, any less.  

Today, I found this ring on Etsy.  It's so much like mine that the two have to be sisters.  The cut is the same.  The setting is a little less elaborate than mine, but even the design is similar.  The I finally have answers to my questions.  As always with things with a past, knowing what it really is makes it even better.  Every time I look at it, I can know that it represents everlasting love.  Even though it wasn't a romantic gift, it is totally fitting. 

With Apologies to the Wilburys

Been stuck in airports, terrorized
Sent to meetings, hypnotized
Overexposed, commercialized
Handle me with care

I'm so tired of being lonely
I still have some love to give
Won't you show me that you really care

~ "Handle With Care" - The Travelling Wilburys
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I've been on a massive Wilburys kick lately.  I've been listening to the big double album practically non-stop for about a week.  Today, I relented somewhat and let Genius make me a mix from one of the songs.  I freaking love the Genius feature on iTunes.  Most of the time, the mixes it comes up with make me much happier than if I'd tried to do it myself.  It's like a little surprise gift every time I click it.

Anyway.

That's not really what I was going to write about.  Maybe it's as good a topic as any.  The continuing rain seems to be blotting out my will to do anything other than slog through the day, float home, and fall down.  Snow is rumored for tonight, but, quite frankly, I'll believe it when I see it.

I'm just tired.  And maybe all I really need is a day where I can see that blue sky.  Maybe it's something far more profound.

Something made me realize today that my birthday is coming up soon.  It comes in on sneaky little cat feet when I'm too busy to pay attention, and then suddenly, BOOM, there it is dancing on my head.  I can't scrape up even the tiniest little bit of enthusiasm for it.  I need to be planning something good, but mostly, I'm just thinking, "37.  Whooptedoo."

There's also the fact that I have no idea what I'd plan.  The actual day is in the middle of a week this time.  I will probably be driving to a city two hours to the north to pick up a carload of Krispy Kreme doughnuts for a fundraiser we're trying to do at school that night since our tentative delivery day is Valentine's Day.  Since I'm in charge of it, I get to do the driving.

I could make a list, I guess, of things I'm going to do as 37 comes, but what belongs on that list?  Maybe a midlife crisis complete with a sports car (okay, yes.  I want one of those for reasons that are not midlifecrisisy.), a twenty-something boyfriend with "an old soul," vast swathes of leopard print, too much alcohol, and not quite enough sense?  Maybe a declaration that this is going to be the start of the year in which I really, truly, finally...  what?  How do I end that sentence? Write the story?  Get the tattoo?  Go back to Brazil/Japan/England?  Learn to play the banjo?  Make another stained glass window?  Finally get all these repairs done on the house?  Really get control of my camera?  Write some poetry that isn't poo-ish? Have electricity or water run to our country shack?   Buy a kiln?  There are so many things hovering in the wings, waiting for me to decide if I'm ever going to do them or not.  The possibles are meeting the actuals, though, and they're not coming off so well in that clash.

I'm just tired.  I'm not afraid of the upcoming birthday.  It doesn't distress me.  It just feels like another one of those things I'll have to take on and deal with, one more stone into the big sack of them I drag around on my back.  That, I guess, is why the lyrics of "Handle With Care" strike such a massive chord with me right now.  I know how they feel.  It is practically my very own personal theme song.

God.

I need some sunshine really badly.

Rereading Harry Dresden

A cop, a wizard, the king of the goblins, and Santa Claus go on a hunting trip.
Stop me if you’ve heard this one. ~derekisanerd on Tumblr
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When the break began, I ripped through Cold Days, the latest installment of the Harry Dresden books by Jim Butcher.  As I read it, I realized there were SCORES of things I dimly remembered.  Anytime a series has 14 books in it, I suppose it's natural that the first ones are fuzzy, especially since these have come out about one a year for the last 13 years.  I decided when I finished that this would be a good time to go back and see what I had forgotten about one of my favorite characters.


Craploads, apparently.



It took me most of the break, and then life intervened as it so often does, and I didn't quite make it through all 14 again before school started back.  I just finished the reread of the one that started it all off, Cold Days, this afternoon.  My initial reaction to this readathon was a genuine appreciation of Butcher's forethought as a writer.

He's a tricksy beast.  Rereading, meaning I knew where the characters were headed this time, I could see that he's been weaving some of these things together now for a very, very long time.  Some of the books were stronger than others, but all of them moved the character forward.  Rereading them all together, I saw certain themes and patterns emerge that having to process the story in bits and drabs over the course of YEARS had gotten a bit lost.  I saw things that I feel are foreshadowing of what's coming next.  It makes me look forward to the new one even though I know I've got about eight months (probably) to wait.

I also have a deeper love of Harry.  He might be one of my favorite characters ever.  The thing that endears him so to me is that he knows he is deeply flawed.  He's got a dark side that makes Darth Vader seem gentle and caring.  And yet, even when it costs him everything, even when letting that darkness out would save him pain and suffering, he keeps finding the strength to rein it in.  He is constantly willing to take the bullet if it means somebody else won't have to feel the pain.  And yeah, he's a little blind to certain things, exceptionally confused about women, and wizard-arrogant, too.  If I were going into some kind of fantasy-world fight, though, I'd want him by my side (or maybe out in front of me).  If I were hanging out in my living room on a Friday night, he's also a literary figure I wouldn't mind having crash on my couches and MST3K a film.  He manages to give a pretty good feeling for the good and bad of what it's like when a person who suddenly finds themselves becoming larger than life.

I'm on to other books and new territory now, but I ought to do things like that more often.  There are certain books I reread almost every year, like sitting down with an old friend and catching up on what's changed over a cup of coffee.  I don't think I can do all of Dresden that way again each year, but there are other series and singles that I've read before, think I remember all of, and probably need to revisit.

Yeah.  And I'll find time for all that sometime after the fifth of Never.  Why isn't there a job somewhere that lets me get paid to read?

Cool Hand Luke (revisited)

"Cool Hand Luke, hell.  He's a natural-born worldshaker."  ~ Dragline, Cool Hand Luke

I just watched Cool Hand Luke again, and a couple of scenes really struck me this time.

The first was when Luke is out in the yard fighting Dragline.  He keeps getting knocked down, is broken and bloody, but he continues to stand up even though he knows Dragline is not going to stop hitting him, isn't going to be allowed to stop hitting him.  Everybody including Dragline keeps telling him to stay down, but he refuses.

The second scene happens just before they bring Luke back the second time and force him to dig and refill a ditch until he breaks.  He stumbles in to eat, and the dog guy who hates him because of what happened to one of the bloodhounds starts giving him problems in the form of a huge plate of rice which Luke must eat or go back to "the box" again.  Luke starts trying to eat it, and finally, he just puts his spoon down and stares at it dully.  You can see it on every line of his face that he knows he's headed back to what is becoming his own personal hell.  Everyone is quiet, and then suddenly, one of the men gets up, puts away his own empty plate, and as he heads for the door, he takes a huge spoonful of rice off Luke's plate and eats it.  No comment.  Just scoop, chew, swallow, and gone.  Then another does the same.  And another.  And another.  The scene fades out with more than half of the rice already gone and other spoons dipping in, with everybody helping to take some of his burden on themselves.

The last was near the end, after Luke runs for the last time and winds up in the church.  The expression on his face as he's put into the car is the final image we see of him.  (Deliberately vague to avoid spoilers.)  That same small smile has been on his lips so many times during the key events of the story.

Luke, the purposeless, the drifter, the lost, the broken, became something so much larger than just himself.  He becomes a legend, a hero, a source of hope for the men of the chain gang.  He was deeply uncomfortable with the role he found closing in on him, even tried to escape.  When he ran from the prison, he was running from these expectations as much as he was running from the physical walls and chains.  He could feel the need those men had for a rebel, someone stronger than the brutal men who were in charge of their lives.  They needed someone who could show in his every action and word that freedom was something one carried inside them, not something that was dependent on location and situation.  Ultimately, he accepts this, and he is redeemed by redeeming them.

The cost, of course, is proportionate to the gain....

It's not a film I watch often, but sometimes I just need to see it.  It reminds me of several things.  First, maybe the best thing, the most important thing, we can do is give somebody else hope.  Second, even if one ultimately loses, there is a kind of victory in refusing to give in.  Third, and honestly, not as happily, everybody has a breaking point.  No matter how strong their conviction, at some point and under the right stress, everybody will snap.  Fourth, breaking doesn't have to be the end of the story.  There can be something after the shattering of the soul if you're strong enough to scrape together all the shards and reassemble them into something like the original.

Maybe this was the best of all possible films for me to see right now.  I think I needed to remember some of these things.

Januaryness

It is easy to go down into Hell; night and day, the gates of dark Death stand wide; but to climb back again, to retrace one's steps to the upper air - there's the rub, the task.  ~Virgil


In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day. ~F. Scott Fitzgerald
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The holidays are over, their glitter and bright lights gone.  The days are short, the nights are cold, and it won't stop raining.  I hate January.  There's nothing good in January.  It is a despicable month.  It gets a lot of press as a "new beginning," but underneath that thin gilt veneer is a rusted-out base metal that is a lot closer to the truth of things.

Because of the pay schedule I'm on, my last check came the 16th of December, and I won't see another dime until January 30th.  I am scrimping and saving, but my money is already almost gone, and the January bills are rolling in, piling up, making me sick as I try to figure out how to take care of them.

The ground outside is sodden.  Even on high ground, when I step through my yard to walk my dogs, that uneasy softness shifts and slides.  The sky is perpetually grey, dull, just like I feel.  When there is sunshine, it is almost an unbearable but wonderful brightness, like something that I heard about it a story once but stopped believing was real long ago.

The dark, bleak nothing wraps its fist around my heart, and as I look around me, everything I see is colored by it.  Maybe it's more right to say that the color is leeched away by it.  In any case, everything I see makes me sad and filled with discontent.

The city I live and work in has nothing, does nothing, it seems except produce coffins in which to lay to rest my students and former students.  Former gains disappear.  Bright spots and efforts fail and disappear.  Friends in other places tell me of things that they get to do, and the dismal cloud chokes me hard.

My dreams are bad.  People die.  Things are lost.  Situations that are unwinnable are constant.  There's never a moment of peace.  I wake up tired.

My head hurts all the time.  My stomach is constantly upset.  I don't know what to do or how to stop it.  Maybe it's something I'm eating or not eating.  Maybe it's just stress.

I would run away, but there is nowhere to run to.  I would dream of something better, but I'm fresh out of silly notions with which to distract myself.  I would immerse myself in some hobby, but they all either need money or some motivation that I can't seem to scrape up at the present.

And maybe I'll be all better tomorrow.  I can certainly hope so.  I just have a feeling that this will be with me until January is gone.