Chewie Lives

Yesterday, I got mostly through a faculty meeting when a headache waylaid me.  I staggered upstairs through disgustingly-glorious sunlight to my Maxalt.  I took one and, per our usual routine, called to let my Mom know I'd had to take the big drugs.

She was out-of-breath, and once I managed to make my broken brain and her frantic speech connect, I understood that Chewie had gotten injured on his afternoon walk, and she was taking him to the vet.  I got off the phone and managed to drag myself home.  (Once again, recitations of "To Be or Not to Be" helped me focus.)

When I got home, I fell down.  Then I was unconscious for three or four hours.  When I woke up, Mom was sitting on the foot of my bed.  She had just gotten home from the vet. Chewie hadn't just been injured.  He'd been bitten by a snake.

He was just out doing his usual big fluffy white dog thing, and Mom said she saw him spring sideways in a giant leap.   By the time she got him back to the house, he was dragging his front paw and moving with great difficulty.  Mom never saw the snake.

The vet kept him overnight for medication and observation.  Roux walked around the house with huge eyes looking for him.  She kept coming over to me and hugging me as she does when she needs a little extra comfort.  Even the cats (who do not like him, even a little) searched for him.  When I put Roux up for the night, she seemed so sad sitting next to Chewie's empty crate.  This morning when I walked her and Yelldo, they were both very droopy.

I had another migraine today, but by the time I got home, Chewie was back.  He will need more medicine and more care.  He's restricted as far as his level of activity.  There will be no deep-woods foraging for him for a couple of weeks.  He's exceptionally lucky, though.  Mom told me that our vet had two dogs brought in yesterday with snakebite.  The other one didn't make it.

I am looking over at him right now.  He's lying in the floor being Chewie.  He's had pizza crust (one of his favorite things) and as many hugs and pats as he desires.  Even in my current state of semi-incapacitation, I am so happy to see him.  My big furry white dog child is going to be okay.  Everything else in the world can rock on however it wants to.

Rain

I woke up to the sound of rain, the gentle susurration of water slipping across the leaves of the live oak, falling down from the shingles of the roof, cascading onto the little wooden staircase leading from the south porch.  The pearl-grey half-light of cloud-shrouded skies made every shade of green outside the window somehow more intense that even full sun.

I wanted you to be there.  I would take your hand, and we'd walk out across the sparkling new-mown yard, heedless of the cool rain coming down.  Under tulip poplars still carrying their yellow-green and orange cups, you'd pull me into your arms, and I am quite sure that the tears slipping down my cheeks would mix in with the rain and go unnoticed.

I'm so very tired, and I've missed you so very much, you see.  I see you everywhere.  You hide in unexpected corners of daily routine.  You are in most of my books, just waiting for the unwary turn of a page.  You're in the big black crows that I see everywhere, clever-eyed and beautiful.  You're in the lyrics of every other song.  You're in the rumble of the thunder.  You're in the rain.

And this is maudlin, sentimental and overdone.  I dislike it even as I'm writing it.  Tomorrow, the sun will be out, and I will not be so full of that all-pervasive greyness that makes me wish.  Tomorrow, the armor of routine will insulate me, cut me off from everything not necessary to survive.  This does not mean, however, that if you were to appear on my doorstep right now, broad shoulders and hair dampened with this rain, that I would not step outside to meet you with open arms.

Busted Mainspring

I'm literally shaking.  Little shivers are running through me from time to time.  I suspect I've just finally hit the bottom of the well.

This week has been one of the most challenging I can remember.  Little crisis after little crisis, responsibility after responsibility, need after need have piled up with feather-like touches.  Feathers should be harmless, right?  It's worth noting that enough feathers can kill, suffocate, crush, just like any other thing.

There's more to write, but I don't feel like typing it.  I think a bed and some cats are what is called for here.

The Weekend in Review

It's almost time to end this weekend, but I'm clinging tenaciously to the last few minutes before I'll be forced to let it go.  These days slip away so quickly.  I swear time moves differently on Saturday and Sunday.

I've been outside a good deal the past two days, not really doing anything but enjoying the rare bright cool weather we've been having.  The temperature was delicious.  Lying in my hammock or sitting in my chair and staring up into the shifting light of the tulip poplar canopy seemed to be the right way to spend time.  I have done a lot of reading lately; I'm on a Harry Potter kick and reread three of them this weekend.

Today, I was the sole form of music for the morning service since everybody else was gone here or there, and after that, I didn't feel like doing anything else complicated.  So I didn't.  I did a little light laundry, a lot of reading.  I refilled bird feeders, petted dogs.  I studiously ignored the wreck and ruin around me.  After the hell that was last week and the dread of the one to come, I needed time with no one making demands on me, no job to be done, nobody to support, just me.  Sooner or later, it will all catch up to me, and I'll have to spend a lot of time putting everything to rights, but today, I just couldn't face it.

So maybe it's no real wonder I'm resisting the inevitable.  I wish there were a job somewhere that involved reading and sitting in the sun for fantastic amounts of money.  If dogs could be thrown in, then I think I'd take it.  As it stands, though, I've finally overcome inertia and forced myself to take care of the last bit of procrastinated work that had to be done tonight, and I guess it's time to brush my teeth and turn out the lights....

Sing to the Moon - Laura Mvula

I stumbled over Laura Mvula last week when her album was on NPR's First Listen.  I have more or less become obsessed with it since then.  The whole album is in every way fantastic.  Right now, though, this is my favorite song.  The words are beautiful as are the images.  It touched me very personally, so I wanted to share it here.
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(Verse)
Hey there you, shattered in a thousand pieces
Weeping in the darkest nights.
Hey there you, try to stand up on your own two feet
And stumble into the sky.

(Pre-Chorus)
When the lights go out and you’re on your own
How you’re gonna make it through till the morning sun?

(Chorus)
Sing to the moon and the stars will shine
Over you, lead you to the other side.
Sing to the moon and the stars will shine
Over you, heaven’s gonna turn the time.

(Verse)
Hey there you, looking for a brighter season
Need to lay your burden down.
Hey there you, drowning in a hopeless feeling,
Buried under deeper ground.

(Pre-Chorus)
When the lights go out it’s a waiting game.
Never gonna see a day when your world will change.

(Chorus)
Sing to the moon and the stars will shine
Over you, lead you to the other side.
Sing to the moon and the stars will shine
Over you, heaven’s gonna turn the time.

Sing to the moon and the stars will shine
Over you, lead you to the other side.
Sing to the moon and the stars will shine
Over you, heaven’s gonna turn the time.

A Week Full of Crap

This week started with the tax debacle on Monday and continued to roll right over me until it was gone.  I won't detail all of it.  There's just too much.  Today alone is worth three or four blogs.  The crowning event happened this afternoon after school.  

I took a necklace of mine that had broken to a jeweler for repair.  While I was there, I had them look at my rose of sharon ring.  It has been catching everything lately.  When the lady looked at it, she started pointing out problems and finished by telling me that I needed to put the ring in a drawer and not wear it except for "special."  It's too fragile and too old, apparently, to withstand repair.  

I'm heartbroken.  I blogged about this ring earlier, so don't want to repeat, but it's so much more than a circle of metal to me.  My grandmother gave me money, my parents gave me money, and I used part of the paycheck from the first job I ever had to pay for the rest.  It represents my family as a whole.  I have worn it every single day (barring international travel) since I got it.  It makes me happy each and every single time I look down at it.  Now I have to put it away, and it's like something I loved has died.

My finger itches from not having the ring on.  I keep feeling it with my thumb, probing for the band that should be there.  But there's nothing.  Each time I realize why, it makes me sad all over again. 

I am sure that there are other rings in the world, but none of them will be *mine*.  It is also true that it is just a little thing, not earthshattering at all, but nevertheless, to me it matters.  It's just one more thing of mine that I love but cannot do anything to heal or better.  It's just one more precious piece of me that has gone bad and can't be reclaimed.  

I am rapidly losing the ability to hide everything under a neat curtain of positive thinking and Noh smiles. The lost and the broken are destroying me.

It's Tax Day!

(insert the obscenity of your choice here.)

About 3:45 today, I still hadn't heard from my tax service, so I made one last phone call hoping to get through during what is the busiest last-minute dance between simple serf and federal overlord.  I finally got something other than a busy signal, was told everything was waiting, packed my bags and headed to pick up my taxes as fast as my little car could carry me.

I hadn't had the courage to ask what the damage would be on the phone.  I didn't feel that I could stand it if I owed much.  I have no money right now, debts everywhere and only tiny trickles of income.

When I sat down, I knew from the expression on my accountant's face that the news was not a return.  And it wasn't.  It really wasn't.  The amount would have been negligible for many people I know.  For me, it started those little shivers of full-scale panic moving under what I was desperately trying to remain a calm facade.

I held it together long enough to  write two checks which I had nothing in the bank to cover.  I held it long enough to walk across the street to the local post office where the register was locking up and causing delays.  I held it together long enough to get back across the street and into my car, to get my vehicle pointed toward home.

Then all those steel rivets sheered away, and I fell apart.

I cried so hard that I couldn't see the road.  I was shaking so hard that the only thing keeping me from falling over in the seat was the white-knuckled grip on my steering wheel.  All I could think of was that I was working so hard, trying to meet all my responsibilities, and the result of that was....nothing.  No forward motion.  Nothing gained.  Only a big finger waggling smack from the government at the end of the year.  Only a request for money I don't have.  I passed a cemetery during that trip and saw a sign on its chainlink fence advertising the cost of a plot.  I remember thinking, "My God.  It even costs money to die.  I don't even have enough money to die..."

I managed to get to Mom and Dad's, and I sat with them a long time.  I moved money from the account intended to pay for my plane ticket to Turkey, very nearly emptying it, and I felt my stomach turn over.  The debt to the nation is paid.  As to how I am ever going to find the money now to go to Turkey this summer, I have absolutely no idea.  Right now, it seems more remote than the face of the moon.

Now I'm just waiting for a night of nightmares, and all will be complete.

Little Things

Man is fond of counting his troubles, but he does not count his joys.  If he counted them up as he ought to, he would see that every lot has enough happiness provided for it.  ~Fyodor Dostoevsky

Precisely the least, the softest, lightest, a lizard's rustling, a breath, a flash, a moment - a little makes the way of the best happiness.  ~Frederich Nietzsche, Thus Spake Zarathustra

Be happy.  It's one way of being wise.  ~Colette
_______________________________________________________

Little things make me happy.  I'm pretty sure this is the best way to be.  Here is a list of some of the small things that have brought me joy lately.

• indigo buntings - I looked outside my window yesterday to see a small sea of brilliant blue birds.  I thought they were bluebirds at first, but as I looked at them, I realized they were something quite different.  All of my feeders were empty, courtesy of my usual contingent of feathered and furred friends, so I went to Walmart to buy 40 lbs of seed to refill everything.  I don't know how long they'll be here, but I want them to have food while they are.
• buttermilk - Mom brought me a carton of buttermilk the other day.  I always forget how much I love it.  Glass by glass, I've been enjoying the tartness of it.  I need to get it more often.
• shiny nail polish - If I have a retail weakness, it has to be for shiny nail polish. Every time I go by a display, I stop and look.  It's not like I don't have more than enough to last me the rest of my life.  Somehow, though, there's always another cool color.  
• my cast iron Lodge pizza pan - I've made homemade pizza for years and years, and I've had tons of different pans.  A few months ago, I decided to splurge on a cast iron one made by Lodge.  I love cooking in cast iron; nothing makes better fried chicken or cornbread than a cast iron skillet.  I didn't know what to expect from it, but it makes some of the best pizza I've ever turned out.  It does something to the crust that makes it fantastic.
• waking up to rain - Even though it can be really horrible when I know I have to get out and do stuff in it, waking up to the sound of rain is soothing.  This morning, I woke up at 4:00, something that's not unusual.  Hearing the rain and knowing I didn't have to go anywhere made that thing that tenses up in me every morning when my eyes fly open in the darkness unknot.  I rolled over, smoothed a hand over Dillon (who stretched and purred), and pulled the covers up a little higher.  
• new greenness - As I've been driving lately, I've noticed that incredible show green appearing again.  Every shade of green from the palest and most delicate silvery-green to rich deep dark green spreads over the hillsides.  When the sun is out and the skies are nearly cloudless, something about the combination makes my heart surge.  It's like it wants to fly away into all that glorious color.  

Little joys.  These are the things from which larger happiness is made.  I'm going to keep looking for them.

One of the Freakiest Things I've Ever Seen

I'm watching the 2010 Macbeth with Patrick Stewart.  It's good, for Macbeth (I'm a Hamlet-ite).  I guess it would have been hard for it to be bad with Patrick Stewart in it.  There is, however, something in it that has scarred me for life:  the Witches.  They're terrifying.

Part of it is the way they move.  It's that slippery, fast-slow thing you often see ghosts do in horror films.  There's something about it that is deeply disturbing and that somehow impresses itself on the mind.  I really hate that.

Then there's the fact that they are, as you can clearly see here, dressed as old-fashioned nurses.  Why that adds to the creep-out factor I can't really say, but it does.  It truly, truly does.  Even the glasses on the one chick add to the overall "run-away" feeling.

 Watch them in action in the famous "Double-Double-Toil-and-Trouble" scene for yourself.  just don't expect to sleep afterward.

Bee Herding for Fun and Profit

Today was another day with no air conditioning in my classroom.  It was more than 80 degrees by the time we were in the middle of first block.  Yesterday, similar conditions triggered a migraine, one bad enough to warrant Maxalt and 12 hours of unconsciousness.  To combat the ridiculous heat, I opened most of the windows around the perimeter of my room.  While this did help the temperature to drop somewhat, it brought in its own batch of problems.

First there was the noise.  Schools are active places.  Classes move hither, thither, and yon.  Even though I am on the second floor, there were still periods of activity where somebody was taking a class to the library or when some random kid was yelling to a friend across the green.

Then there were the bugs.  Yesterday when I had the windows open, it was wasps.  One stayed overnight in the curtains, and I started my teaching day trying to kill it.  It was remarkably resilient.  I hit it about six times before I finally crushed it in the window sill.  Wasps are not my friends.

Today it was bumblebees.  No.  I do not know why.  I guess that's all Central Casting had to send after I violently eliminated the wasp.  Two flew in during second block.  One landed on the back of a miniblind.  I thumped my side hard enough to eject it out the open window behind it.  Its companion made its clumsy way between the open window and the unmoving panel, thoroughly trapping itself.

This is how I became a beeherd.  I tried to gently shoo it toward the opening.  No deal.  Apparently, bumblebees are not to be "shooed."  I finally gave up and waited on it to decide to find the opening itself.  Yeah.  It seems the bumblebees quite stubbornly insist that the one place they currently are is the only door to freedom.  Finally, I gently slid the window closed, took a bright red folder, and carefully, carefully slid it under the bee.  It clung, politely folding its wings down as if it liked being on the red folder for some reason, and I moved it to the window sill.  The folder was too large to sit there, so I gently laid it on the desk nearby.  The bee, irritated that I was moving away from the light coming in the window, buzzed back up to the glass.  I quickly flung open the window, herded the bee back onto the red folder, and propelled it outside again to all our very great relief.

I think I can file this as #356 of the things nobody ever told me school teachers were required to know how to do.....

Useless Skills I Possess

 In no particular order, I can:

1. make an owl out of white foamcore
2. slice tomatoes very thinly
3. assemble a six-band Turkish puzzle ring
4. trap a large silly white dog by using subterfuge and stealth
5. open a Maxalt tablet when I'm in so much pain that I don't even know who I am
6. curse quite colorfully in five languages (this is not to imply that I speak five languages...which would be useful)
7. plan a lesson and replan the same skills in the sudden and inexplicable absence of all technology
8. change a tire next to a busy highway and or interstate
9. fold origami cranes
10. artfully smear wheat bread with Nutella

I'm sure somebody out there is just waiting for these qualifications.  In the meantime, there is bread that needs Nutellaing.  Excuse me.

House and Garden

I slept late for me (8:00), and then I just sort of stayed in my pajamas for awhile, something I rarely do.  I watched Real Genius, one of my favorite oddball 80s movies, and then I read.

I had decided when I woke up, though, that today was going to be useful.  There was something at Moundville I sort of wanted to see, but I knew if I went that I would spend money I don't really have right now.  Therefore, instead of road trip Saturday, this was going to be do something about my crappy house Saturday.

I started with the yard.  There is never a non-mowing season in Mississippi.  Well, maybe about a week in December and the first two weeks of January.  Aside from this the growing things are a problem all the time. My yard isn't green yet, but it was scruffy with spring weeds, seedpods from blooming things, and drifts of live oak leaves.  The tufty stuff had gotten high enough to hide snakes, which like the yard are always a problem here, so it had to go.  I walk dogs out near the woods in total darkness, so clear ground is a necessity.

I got my mower running after getting air in the tires, etc., and spent the next three hours zipping around and avoiding boggy spots on the zero-turn.  It's amazing how much junk there was now that I've seen everything cleaned up.

Chewie, Yelldo, and even Roux were outside with me.   Roux was on her new run that Dad crafted with some industrial-weight cable and huge eye-bolts.  It lets her run around some outside between two large trees in the backyard but removes the risk that she'll take off.  She can finally have some sun with everybody else without having to be held on a leash.

After I finished with the yards, I got out my hammock and strung it up.  Roux immediately came and laid under it, poked her head through it, demanded I pet her over it.  I took a picture of her when she figured out she could stick her muzzle insistently through the loose weave of the hammock.  She's a mess.

While I was in the hammock, I saw the first hummingbird of the season.  He came up to the feeder in the backyard, stuck a beak in, backed up, and flew off twittering in irritation.  I guess tomorrow I need to clean up the feeders and refill them before the little sugar-hungry devils start roughing up  me on my way to the car.

About 6:30, I came in and got ready for Doctor Who.  The new episodes are on now, and although I know Moffatt is building character background, I still feel a little underwhelmed by this season.  Maybe next episode is "the magic episode" I'll need to kickstart my enthusiasm.

After Doctor Who, I turned off the TV and turned my attention to the rest of the house.  I cranked up the stereo and started in.  I cleaned up the kitchen and reloaded the dishwasher.  I moved laundry from point a to point b and started that process over again.  I vacuumed, the task I hate the most in the whole housekeeping rigmarole. I made a fresh pitcher of tea.  As loads of laundry finished, I dumped them on my bed since what I've been washing for most of the day is bed linens and my comforter, etc.

Now I'm waiting for Chewie to decide he is ready to come in for the night and for the last load of bed-related stuff to finish.  When those two things happen, I can take a hot shower, make up my bed, and get some sleep.  I'm by no means finished with my house cleaning, but what I've done will help me not to feel so bad every time I come home and see my junky house and yard.  

Nightmares

I wasn't kidding when I said I would have nightmares tonight. This, however, is really going to be no different from any other night....

Lately, I've had increasingly horrible nightmares.  All the old themes are there, like some kind of hellish classic film festival in the recesses of my mind.  I lose people.  I lose places.  I lose myself.  All of it is dressed up in the majestic glory of a mind too prone to imagination and well-fed with science fiction and fantasy monsters.

I wish I could sleep one night and not wake up, heart pounding, reaching out for...whatever it is....  I don't know what it would take to do that. I am tired of staring into the green glare of my clock as I try to make my mind comprehend what time and place I'm in.

It doesn't seem to matter what I do just before bed, either.  I can read the happiest, fluffiest stuff in the world and still wind up in that bombed-out, demon-ridden landscape that apparently hides just behind my eyelids.

It's time to head back there for tonight.  Maybe tomorrow I'll have a different story to tell.  It would make a nice change.

Hunger Games

As usual, I am more than a little behind on my viewing.  Tonight, I clicked onto my Amazon Prime Streaming account and saw The Hunger Games had been added to Prime Videos (i.e. - Free Stuff).  Even though it was going to keep me up "past my bedtime" (oh God.  how sad.), I decided I wanted to see it.

I've been putting off watching it for more reasons than the financial.  I really like the Hunger Games series.  I was afraid that they'd screw the movie up.  I hate it when movies take a perfectly good book and turn it into something else.  I could tell very early in the film that while a lot of it was going to be impossible to film because it happens in Katniss's head, the film makers had tried very hard to keep the feel and the spirit of the  books.

As disturbing as the books were, though, somehow the movie is even more.  I know I will have nightmares about it tonight.  And maybe, really, that's not the wrong reaction to have.  It SHOULD terrify.  It SHOULD cause grief, even if it's only a fiction.  When it stops moving us is when I think the problem has overtaken us.

My students asked me yesterday if they thought we were headed for a dystopia.  I told them it was entirely possible.  After NYC Mayor Bloomberg tells the citizens of his city that increased surveillance up to and including remote controlled drones will be a reality in their immediate future, I don't see how anyone could argue otherwise.  Maybe we won't be sitting around drinking Victory Gin or watching children kill in a Hunger Games, but the things these works warn us about are starting the seep in the cracks.

Of course, I could just be paranoid.  I could just have taught too many dystopian works too many times.  If it's all the same to you, though, I think I'll keep looking over my shoulder....

New Boots

When I was little, I had a pair of bright yellow wellies.  They had Big Bird on them and a fastener that always reminded me of the oval-shaped looping sticks on the lollipops I received at the end of each doctor's visit.  I guess in those days, that was an easy connection for me to make since I was forever sick, forever going to doctor, forever getting shots or having blood drawn, and forever having it pseudo-comforted by green hard candy on a cardboard stick.

Those boots always made me happy.  I remember playing in puddles with them and being oddly fascinated that my feet did not get wet even if I stood in ankle-deep puddles.  When I outgrew them, no other rainboots emerged to take their place.  I always missed them, though.

I've looked at rainboots off and one for a long time.  I stand morning and afternoon duty outside at least one week a month, sometimes two.  Our weather here in Mississippi is...well...ridiculous.  We frequently have monsoonish rains that make the entire universe slush.  Even my other "waterproof" shoes can't always do the job, and very few things make me feel as icky and miserable as soaked socks.

I finally found a pair I liked, and they were my "monthly splurge."  I have no idea why wellies are so freaking expensive, but they are.  They had to qualify as an indulgence in my current budget.  They came today, and they are so infinitely worth it.

Since wellies are fashionable right now for some odd reason, there were bunches of patterns to choose from.  They had stripes, brights, even animal prints.  None of those things really called out to me, though.  Instead, I picked a pair in a color called matte red.  That means that unlike so many of the pairs of boots running around right now, there is no insane (and easily scuffable) gloss shine to mine.  They are a cheerful red, one of my favorite pick-me-up colors.  It's the same red that the rubber balls I used to have as a child were.  I've started calling them my red-rubber-ball wellies, and that association makes them even nicer.

It happened to be raining today when the package arrived (hm. imagine that.  rain in Mississippi....), so I put on some socks, slipped on the wellies, leashed Roux, and went outside to walk dogs and test boots.  They're fabulous.  I wasn't expecting much by way of comfort, but I think I could wear them indefinitely.  Best of all, as Roux sniffed and strolled, I splashed through puddles, hesitantly at first and then with increasing confidence and into increasing depth.  No cold trickle of water seeped in.  I felt like I did when I was small, marveling at the everyday magic of being sealed safely inside my bright boots.

Swackett glumly predicts rain for tomorrow.  If its predictions pan out, I'll wear the red-rubber-ball-boots to school and be able to ford the rivers in the parking lot with no more worry than if it were a bright, dry day.  It's a little thing that makes life better.  Money well-spent, indeed.

Turkey

I had a morning of professional development and car problems.  When I got out of a two-hour assembly, I had a voicemail waiting.  It was one of the coordinators from the NEH Summer Institute I had applied for.  Out of more than 200 applications, I had been chosen to be one of thirty teachers to spend three weeks exploring the Ottoman Empire in Turkey.

I am afraid that I jumped up and down and squeaked like a cartoon character at that point.

It still hasn't fully registered that it is real.  I have been pinning stuff about Turkey on a special board on Pinterest since I first became aware of this program.  While I was in Venice, Constantinople (now, of course, Istanbul) was everywhere because of the trade ties and seemingly-regular wars.  Now, I have the chance to see the other side of that total equation.  It is incredible.

In all my life, I have never imagined that I would be able to see Turkey.  I have to pay for my own plane ticket, but the NEH provides a stipend to pay for the other expenses in-country.  Even if I have to eat rice for three months, I will find a way to pay for that ticket.

At Loose Ends

If you're wondering where I've been, the answer is...nowhere.   I am at sort of at loose ends with several things.  I heard back from the Japan summer trip.  It's a no-go.  I still haven't heard anything from Turkey; I'm afraid to be optimistic.  I want it so much, more every time I go on Pinterest (I've set up a board there just for stuff about Turkey).

It's more than just that, though.  I keep feeling like it's time to make some kind of change, but I don't know what kind of change to make.  Should I change jobs?  Hairstyles?  The type of yogurt I have for lunch?  Should I learn another language?  How to crochet?  How to rebuild an engine?

I feel a vague dissatisfaction with everything, and I don't know why.  Nothing is terrible now.  I mean, of course, my car is still screwing up and leaving me stranded.  And I still have work stress.  Migraines.

I don't know what to do about any of this, though.  Is there even a way to make it better?  Isn't this what life is just made of?  I'm trying to stay focused on good things.  Into every life a little crap must fall but that doesn't mean it's all crap all the time.

Maybe it's just spring, that time of new beginnings.  Sometimes it fills the air and makes me want to bloom with the daffodils and the dogwoods.  I wish I knew what I needed to bloom myself.

Like French-Fried Hell

The past three days, I've been fighting off a migraine.  The weather has been rocking and rolling.  There has been stress of varying kinds.  Today, I lost the fight.

I made it to my off period.  I intended to find a way to defeat the headache so I could finish my day.  How silly of me.  Within 45 minutes, I was literally sobbing, head-on-desk, as the room spun and evil little psychos with spiky shoes jumped up and down  inside my brain.

I vaguely remember stumbling downstairs and telling my administrator something.  My head principal heard her talking on the walkie-talkies trying to call a sub, and I will forever be grateful for the fact that he told me (through her) to go on home.  They had it.

I sort of remember struggling to get my stuff together, literally and figuratively.  I sort of remember my administrator following me out to my car to make sure I made it.  I remember far too little of the drive home.

I do remember saying something over and over as I drove.  I became aware that it was the "To Be or Not to Be" soliloquy at some point.  I suppose there are some people who recite a poem or a psalm in times of distress.  Apparently, and probably not unexpectedly, I turn to Hamlet....

When I got home, I struggled to walk the dogs.  Then I lay down to hear them erupt into insane barking.  I dragged myself up and went to the door where a guy from EMEPA and I scared the living bejeezus out of each other.  He and another guy had come to replace my power meter.  He kept saying, "It will only take about 5 seconds.  Your power will only be off 5 seconds."  To be honest, I wouldn't have cared if it were off for a half day if it meant I could get my dogs to shut up and let me lie back down.  I muttered something at him and nodded a lot, he walked off, I closed the door, and by the time I managed to fall down again, I heard the microwave give its excited "I-have-life-and-meaning-again" beep.  One of my last coherent thoughts was, "Huh.  It really was five seconds."

Then I remember nothing until Roux was suddenly leaping on the bed and burrowing her nose under my arm and Chewie was dancing around us both.

I still feel like french-fried hell.  I just looked up to see there is still daylight.  Well, it can just get along without me.  I'm going back to bed soon. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

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