In my recent Yeats-reading fervor, I’ve been doing some external research (ahem, Wikipedia*, or Wikipaedia if you want to be fancy) on the man’s life. I know, I know, skimming a wiki page doesn’t count as “research,” but for all its shortcomings (lies, inaccuracies, completely made-up bullshit), it still provides a good lot of information, especially when it comes to lists of works – or oeuvres, if you want to be fancy**.
So I was reading Yeats’ list of works last night, deciding which of his poems or stories to tackle next, and I noticed an interesting statement in his bio.
“In 1997, (Yeats’) biographer R. F. Foster observed that Napoleon's dictum that to understand the man you have to know what was happening in the world when he was twenty ‘is manifestly true of W.B.Y.’”
I’d never heard that dictum, as I haven’t made a study of Napoleon’s quotes part of my oeuvre (ok, ok, I’ll stop). But I’m amazed at how true it seems. It brings to mind something I’m always yammering about – authenticity*** in writing. I recently accosted a new friend on the same subject, when he innocently asked who some of my favorite writers are. I’m sure he expected a list of four or five, not a three-page email explaining why, exactly, I adore Kay Boyle’s Death of a Man (because it is so tethered to its cultural and physical landscape, because it couldn’t have existed in any other time or place, because without the events of the world at the time of its writing, I wouldn’t have a highlighted, dog-eared copy of it on my bookshelf today).
And what I love about Yeats’ work (the little I’ve read) is sort of the same. He writes in the language of Ireland – his work firmly rooted in the landscape. But even so, he integrates mysticism and magic and possibility, which, in Ireland in the 1900s, one might truly have needed. Those weren’t the years of the Celtic Tiger, after all.
So it’s that. It’s that he can be authentic while spinning tales.
But good lord, no one asked. Next post? Back to pictures of dogs and climbing. I promise.
*Want to learn more about Wikiality? Check this out.
** I’ve been thinking about pretentious language lately, about how we use all-dolled-up words when a word in sweatpants would do. Part of it, I think, stems from cultural colloquialisms – the English of New England and the English of SoCal are vastly different. Same with the English of North America and that of the UK, especially in the way we hedge, or stall for time, or avoid saying what we want to say. Here, we’re prone to long “uummms,” and lots of “like, I means.” There, they say far cuter and more charming things, like, “so it would."
***I have no idea where my obsession with authenticity in writing came from. It’s especially weird because I read almost exclusively fiction…of course, I also frequently say, “there’s no such thing as fiction…it all comes from somewhere.”
3.20.2009
3.19.2009
Wisdom - now playing on a tea bag tag near you.
“Your greatest strength is love,” said the tag on my tea bag this morning.
And for some reason, it stopped me. I read my tea bag tags every morning and afternoon, and usually I just nod in agreement – the adages are always pleasant enough – and move right on.
But today was different. As I flipped the tag over on my way up the stairs to my office, I stopped abruptly, the words hitting me hard.
“Of course it is,” I thought. “Why don’t I use it more?”
I think about my physical strengths constantly. In yoga class, pulling hard on my heels in pada-mustasana, I think about my engaging biceps and locking my knees. Climbing, I think about my core, core, core. Running, I think about my quads. Even at work, sitting on my ball at my desk, I think about straightening my spine, sitting tall, dropping my shoulders….it’s never-ending.
But all those things are limited. I only have so much physical strength, and when it’s tapped, that’s it. I can’t give any more.
But love and compassion? Those wells run so deep I don’t believe I’ve ever touched the bottom. This morning, cleaning Arnie’s ears (he is getting over a nasty ear infection), I thought, “I would do this every day – ten times a day – if that’s what it took to keep Arnie healthy and happy.”
And kissing Brad goodbye, I said, “Call me if you need anything today.” And now, remembering that, I realize that I’d stop everything to help him, to make sure he’s as happy as possible….
And that’s totally true, though, I suppose I don’t always show it. I don’t allow my love to be stronger than all the other, weaker emotions I’m feeling.
And sure, “we’re always hardest on those we love,” or whatever that expression is…but what a lame thing to say—and an even lamer to practice. I’m guilty of it, of course. Poor Brad withstands my wrath when it’s 11pm and I have to get up at 4:30 to fit a run in before yoga and I can’t sleep and “why is it so goddamn hot in this room?” Or when were climbing and he makes a minor suggestion that will only help me but I get defensive and angry and storm off and leave him there, partner-less.
Christ, I’m hard on him. The poor guy. There are times when he’d be justified in doubting my bottomless well of love.
I’ve always been strong. Strong muscles, strong back, strong will (to an extent). Even at my least fit I can do a dozen pull-ups and the Lord of the Dance pose.
So if love is my GREATEST strength – stronger than my shoulders and my quads and my arm-wrestling prowess – imagine what I could do with it.
…If I put it to use; if I let it beat all the other bullshit that clouds my judgment.
And for some reason, it stopped me. I read my tea bag tags every morning and afternoon, and usually I just nod in agreement – the adages are always pleasant enough – and move right on.
But today was different. As I flipped the tag over on my way up the stairs to my office, I stopped abruptly, the words hitting me hard.
“Of course it is,” I thought. “Why don’t I use it more?”
I think about my physical strengths constantly. In yoga class, pulling hard on my heels in pada-mustasana, I think about my engaging biceps and locking my knees. Climbing, I think about my core, core, core. Running, I think about my quads. Even at work, sitting on my ball at my desk, I think about straightening my spine, sitting tall, dropping my shoulders….it’s never-ending.
But all those things are limited. I only have so much physical strength, and when it’s tapped, that’s it. I can’t give any more.
But love and compassion? Those wells run so deep I don’t believe I’ve ever touched the bottom. This morning, cleaning Arnie’s ears (he is getting over a nasty ear infection), I thought, “I would do this every day – ten times a day – if that’s what it took to keep Arnie healthy and happy.”
And kissing Brad goodbye, I said, “Call me if you need anything today.” And now, remembering that, I realize that I’d stop everything to help him, to make sure he’s as happy as possible….
And that’s totally true, though, I suppose I don’t always show it. I don’t allow my love to be stronger than all the other, weaker emotions I’m feeling.
And sure, “we’re always hardest on those we love,” or whatever that expression is…but what a lame thing to say—and an even lamer to practice. I’m guilty of it, of course. Poor Brad withstands my wrath when it’s 11pm and I have to get up at 4:30 to fit a run in before yoga and I can’t sleep and “why is it so goddamn hot in this room?” Or when were climbing and he makes a minor suggestion that will only help me but I get defensive and angry and storm off and leave him there, partner-less.
Christ, I’m hard on him. The poor guy. There are times when he’d be justified in doubting my bottomless well of love.
I’ve always been strong. Strong muscles, strong back, strong will (to an extent). Even at my least fit I can do a dozen pull-ups and the Lord of the Dance pose.
So if love is my GREATEST strength – stronger than my shoulders and my quads and my arm-wrestling prowess – imagine what I could do with it.
…If I put it to use; if I let it beat all the other bullshit that clouds my judgment.
3.18.2009
Of course, well sure, so there you go.
I’ve mentioned this before, but my current travel obsession is the UK, and lately it’s expanded to include Ireland. Aside from my mild obsession with Celtic Thunder, I adore the work of William Butler Yeats – his belief in the possibility of the supernatural so strong one can’t help but agree with him, one can’t help but think that, perchance, the finches flocking to her backyard are there because they know how happy they make her husband, and did that small one just wink at her?
So there’s Yeats, of course, himself having grown up in County Sligo, near Strandhill and surfing and the Warrior’s Run, which I’d like to do if I ever happen to find myself on the coast of Ireland in late August.
But there’s more. There’s the lushness, the saturation of color and Earth and culture. It seems one can’t escape Ireland in Ireland, whereas one can barely find American culture in parts of this country. Christ, I grew up in a place where half the population handles snakes and speaks in tongues.
Ok, not really.
But that’s about it. Other than petting the dogs, climbing a little bit and doing some yoga, I’ve mostly been reading about Northern Ireland (fantastic Smithsonian article about the same) and the tenuous peace there…thinking about how lucky I am that I’ve never been targeted because of my beliefs or my last name or the street on which I live. It’s so far out of my realm of understanding – the unyielding tension that must come with such strife. And yet, for decades, the violent, tireless terrorism that has plagued Northern Ireland has been called, simply, "the troubles." Like, the guy at the petrol station in Derry should ask, "Well, having a bit of trouble with your car, so you are?" Or the guy in the surf shop in Strandhill should comment, "Having a wee bit of trouble on the white horses, aye?" But nothing, it seems, it too horrifying for the Irish to make quaint. I love that. I guess that's how they sleep at night. Like Julie, my favrite yoga teacher, mentioned recently: "Yeah, it's hot in this room, but you can't do anything about it, so why waste energy thinking about it?"
All this makes me think of a recent Onion headline, “Vacation to Israel Cancelled due to History of Israel.” That of course, reminds me of others, including one from Ireland, “Bar Fight Entering Third Year.”
Ah, I know I’m failing you, readers. I haven’t been keeping up with this blog, and when I do, it’s not really to impart anything super worthy or recall a cool trip; it’s just sort of, well, blahheresalltheboringstuffonmymindblah.
The truth? I’m actually writing a ton—for work, of course, but also personal stuff: poems, essays, spec articles. I’m not sharing that work here, though, because I’m not totally comfortable with it yet. I don’t know quite why. And as for the lack of trip reports, well, I’ve been a homebody lately, choosing to pore over maps and guidebooks that will lead to future big trips rather than driving 6 hours to climb for a day and a half before driving 6 hours back home. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a phase.
On another note? My garden is growing! I'll post pictures soon.
So there’s Yeats, of course, himself having grown up in County Sligo, near Strandhill and surfing and the Warrior’s Run, which I’d like to do if I ever happen to find myself on the coast of Ireland in late August.
But there’s more. There’s the lushness, the saturation of color and Earth and culture. It seems one can’t escape Ireland in Ireland, whereas one can barely find American culture in parts of this country. Christ, I grew up in a place where half the population handles snakes and speaks in tongues.
Ok, not really.
But that’s about it. Other than petting the dogs, climbing a little bit and doing some yoga, I’ve mostly been reading about Northern Ireland (fantastic Smithsonian article about the same) and the tenuous peace there…thinking about how lucky I am that I’ve never been targeted because of my beliefs or my last name or the street on which I live. It’s so far out of my realm of understanding – the unyielding tension that must come with such strife. And yet, for decades, the violent, tireless terrorism that has plagued Northern Ireland has been called, simply, "the troubles." Like, the guy at the petrol station in Derry should ask, "Well, having a bit of trouble with your car, so you are?" Or the guy in the surf shop in Strandhill should comment, "Having a wee bit of trouble on the white horses, aye?" But nothing, it seems, it too horrifying for the Irish to make quaint. I love that. I guess that's how they sleep at night. Like Julie, my favrite yoga teacher, mentioned recently: "Yeah, it's hot in this room, but you can't do anything about it, so why waste energy thinking about it?"
All this makes me think of a recent Onion headline, “Vacation to Israel Cancelled due to History of Israel.” That of course, reminds me of others, including one from Ireland, “Bar Fight Entering Third Year.”
Ah, I know I’m failing you, readers. I haven’t been keeping up with this blog, and when I do, it’s not really to impart anything super worthy or recall a cool trip; it’s just sort of, well, blahheresalltheboringstuffonmymindblah.
The truth? I’m actually writing a ton—for work, of course, but also personal stuff: poems, essays, spec articles. I’m not sharing that work here, though, because I’m not totally comfortable with it yet. I don’t know quite why. And as for the lack of trip reports, well, I’ve been a homebody lately, choosing to pore over maps and guidebooks that will lead to future big trips rather than driving 6 hours to climb for a day and a half before driving 6 hours back home. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a phase.
On another note? My garden is growing! I'll post pictures soon.
2.27.2009
The Word "Whom" Deserves a Defender*
I often face questions of grammatical style in my day job; medical writing rivals the deepest Southern dialects for “most made up words.” When people come to my cubicle to ask if “flowability” is hyphenated, my first response is, “I don’t know. Is flowability a word?”
With no grammatical style guide to reference, I’m free to make up my own rules. I get to decide, for example, that a comma before the “or” or “and” in a series is superfluous. Why? Because I think they’re stupid, and with no concrete rule telling me otherwise, I’m the boss on this one!
So is flowability hyphenated? No! Why? Because I said so!
Perhaps all this power has gone to my head. What was it Lord Acton said about absolute power? That it corrupts absol…oh who cares. He should have diversified his adjective and adverb.
But now a secret: I don’t know everything. At leastthree eleven times a week I’m stumped by a grammatical question, and because I don’t trust printed language manuals that are out of date before they’re fully printed (after all, “ours is a living language,” as one of my colleagues eloquently pointed out yesterday), I usually turn to that source of all that is true and good, the Internet.
Many of you may know Grammar Girl from her popular podcasts. For me, podcasts are kind of “meh,” because I can’t sing along to them at the top of my lungs while imagining myself in old jeans and a western shirt playing a beat-up Gibson in a Nashville studio alongside Emmylou Harris and Gram Parsons (I know, he’s dead, but this is my fantasy and I can resurrect whomever I please). I just have to sit there and listen, and is it any surprise that I’m not very good at that?
But Grammar Girl also maintains a delightful website, where she posts transcripts of her podcasts for pod-non-believers like me. I visit her sitehourly to check usage or recall a rule. The other day, I noticed her post on style guides.
It’s another in a string of great resources from Grammar Girl. She links to the Economist’s style guide, my favourite for its snooty disdain of "Americanisms" (it’s hilarious; I imagine it being read aloud from a parliamentary bench by a powdered-wig-wearing John Cleese-type sillyman). She also links to a map of language from the MLA, which I imagined as a map of colloquial language, of regional dialects. In fact, it's just a map of who speaks what language where, and isn't quite as detailed as I'd like it to be. Imagine, though, a map of the United States with the dialects in place. So, for example, Western PA would be listed as a place where people pronouce the "ow" sound like "ah." So it's "dahntahn," not "downtown." And Utah would be noted for its peoples' love of the past perfect and past future tenses. "She had gone with me. Were you going to come with us?" What? That doesn't even make sense! Here's another example, frequently used by receptionists, "What was your name?" No! No! My name IS what it is, was and will be! It hasn't changed, it won't be different tomorrow!
Good lord, I feel like one of these guys:
Well, anyway, you get my point. That's all I have for you tonight. Tomorrow will be a big day, so I'm off to bed.
* Many thanks to Liz Lemon for her dedication to good grammar.
With no grammatical style guide to reference, I’m free to make up my own rules. I get to decide, for example, that a comma before the “or” or “and” in a series is superfluous. Why? Because I think they’re stupid, and with no concrete rule telling me otherwise, I’m the boss on this one!
So is flowability hyphenated? No! Why? Because I said so!
Perhaps all this power has gone to my head. What was it Lord Acton said about absolute power? That it corrupts absol…oh who cares. He should have diversified his adjective and adverb.
But now a secret: I don’t know everything. At least
Many of you may know Grammar Girl from her popular podcasts. For me, podcasts are kind of “meh,” because I can’t sing along to them at the top of my lungs while imagining myself in old jeans and a western shirt playing a beat-up Gibson in a Nashville studio alongside Emmylou Harris and Gram Parsons (I know, he’s dead, but this is my fantasy and I can resurrect whomever I please). I just have to sit there and listen, and is it any surprise that I’m not very good at that?
But Grammar Girl also maintains a delightful website, where she posts transcripts of her podcasts for pod-non-believers like me. I visit her site
It’s another in a string of great resources from Grammar Girl. She links to the Economist’s style guide, my favourite for its snooty disdain of "Americanisms" (it’s hilarious; I imagine it being read aloud from a parliamentary bench by a powdered-wig-wearing John Cleese-type sillyman). She also links to a map of language from the MLA, which I imagined as a map of colloquial language, of regional dialects. In fact, it's just a map of who speaks what language where, and isn't quite as detailed as I'd like it to be. Imagine, though, a map of the United States with the dialects in place. So, for example, Western PA would be listed as a place where people pronouce the "ow" sound like "ah." So it's "dahntahn," not "downtown." And Utah would be noted for its peoples' love of the past perfect and past future tenses. "She had gone with me. Were you going to come with us?" What? That doesn't even make sense! Here's another example, frequently used by receptionists, "What was your name?" No! No! My name IS what it is, was and will be! It hasn't changed, it won't be different tomorrow!
Good lord, I feel like one of these guys:
Well, anyway, you get my point. That's all I have for you tonight. Tomorrow will be a big day, so I'm off to bed.
* Many thanks to Liz Lemon for her dedication to good grammar.
2.26.2009
What Updike Taught Me
Over the weekend, I spent some quality time with The New Yorker.
The February 9th & 16th issue was largely Updike focused, in the wake of the great man’s death, and included two obituary tributes as well as several pages of snippets from the writing he’d done for the magazine over the years.
One of the snippets, from an early short story, “The Happiest I’ve Been,” hit me so squarely that I gasped – actually audibly, right there in the salon chair, prompting the woman applying my foils to drop the whole lot to the floor – in comprehension. Once again, as I have so many times before, I felt like the tall skinny man with the big nose was speaking directly to me.
It’s partially my huge ego, partially the Pennsylvania connection.
In the story, the main character, a younger Updike, according to popular opinion, says this of his – and my – homeland:
“There was the quality of the 10 a.m. sunlight as it existed in the air ahead of the windshield, filtered by the thin overcast, blessing irresponsibility—you felt you could slice forever through such a cool pure element—and springing, by implying how high these hills had become, a widespreading pride: Pennsylvania, your state—as if you had made your life.”
This is not a sentence oft critiqued by scholars reviewing “The Happiest I’ve Been.” This is not a sentence overly quoted by college freshmen, idealistic and hopeful in the development of their own writing styles. This is nothing, really, just another Updike sentence—but to me, it is poetry.
I know that 10:00 a.m. sunlight; I know those high hills. I love Pennsylvania with a ferocity otherwise reserved for my family and furry animals, so for me, that sentence makes the piece.
In a New York Times review of The Same Door, the book in which “The Happiest I’ve Been” appeared, William H. Pritchard comments on how Updike “taps the rich vein of nostalgic, guilty affection.” And it’s true. So poignant, the memories of home, but so small now, the buildings, the distances, the dreams. Where do you go once you’ve achieved everything you hoped for – staring out the window above your desk, bored by the familiar landscape – when you were 17?
A couple nights ago, climbing with a friend, I got on a new route rated near the limit of my redpoint ability. Whether it was softly graded or just my style, I climbed the first 25 feet with unusual grace. It felt easy. As I clipped the 5th bolt, I thought, “Oh shit, now I have to keep going.”
And isn’t that telling? I mean, suddenly it was so obvious to me why I haven’t climbed anything hard for years, why I can’t seem to improve. In that rare moment of unguarded thinking, when honesty trumped expectation, I said it all: I’m terrified of success, because I don’t know what the other side looks like. I don’t know how it feels to try something, not knowing the outcome.
I used to. I spent entire years floating from one thing to the next – mountain bike racing to African drumming to rock climbing to third world travel. I didn’t know what was coming next, and I didn’t care. I embarked on a year-long solo journey to Southeast Asia without even glancing at a guidebook. My mom knew more about Nepal than I did, and even as my parents sat with me at the airport gate (pre-9/11, they probably could have walked me right onto the plane if they’d wanted to), she was telling me about the climate, the currency, the cultural mores.
But, it’s scary now. Planes seem to be falling out of the sky with increased frequency. Our snow season has been, pardon the pun, unsettling. With several in-bounds avalanches early in the season, the mountains feel like a place far wilder and more unpredictable than the Wasatch. Every day there are more job cuts and bankruptcies; industries that built this country are collapsing around us.
How can we plan for the future when we don’t know what the future will look like?
So I’ve become a planner. My to do lists include such obvious reminders as, “play with dogs,” and “vacuum.” It’s compulsive, but it keeps me calm.
Of course, it also stops me from going too far, from trying too hard, from seeing what will happen. I don’t let the day unfold as it will; I force the day to fit my needs. I say, “Take!” while climbing, because if I don’t, I don’t know whether I’ll fail or succeed, and I don’t like not knowing.
(Is it any wonder I always have hamstring pain? Look how I constantly hamstring myself.)
Maybe this spring, as I plant my first garden and learn to accept growth as it comes – or doesn’t – in its own time, I’ll also learn to release the white-knuckled grip I feel like I need to have on every single aspect of my life. Maybe I’ll decide to try – really try – to climb a route, and not worry about falling off. Maybe in letting go, I’ll learn to hold on.
The February 9th & 16th issue was largely Updike focused, in the wake of the great man’s death, and included two obituary tributes as well as several pages of snippets from the writing he’d done for the magazine over the years.
One of the snippets, from an early short story, “The Happiest I’ve Been,” hit me so squarely that I gasped – actually audibly, right there in the salon chair, prompting the woman applying my foils to drop the whole lot to the floor – in comprehension. Once again, as I have so many times before, I felt like the tall skinny man with the big nose was speaking directly to me.
It’s partially my huge ego, partially the Pennsylvania connection.
In the story, the main character, a younger Updike, according to popular opinion, says this of his – and my – homeland:
“There was the quality of the 10 a.m. sunlight as it existed in the air ahead of the windshield, filtered by the thin overcast, blessing irresponsibility—you felt you could slice forever through such a cool pure element—and springing, by implying how high these hills had become, a widespreading pride: Pennsylvania, your state—as if you had made your life.”
This is not a sentence oft critiqued by scholars reviewing “The Happiest I’ve Been.” This is not a sentence overly quoted by college freshmen, idealistic and hopeful in the development of their own writing styles. This is nothing, really, just another Updike sentence—but to me, it is poetry.
I know that 10:00 a.m. sunlight; I know those high hills. I love Pennsylvania with a ferocity otherwise reserved for my family and furry animals, so for me, that sentence makes the piece.
In a New York Times review of The Same Door, the book in which “The Happiest I’ve Been” appeared, William H. Pritchard comments on how Updike “taps the rich vein of nostalgic, guilty affection.” And it’s true. So poignant, the memories of home, but so small now, the buildings, the distances, the dreams. Where do you go once you’ve achieved everything you hoped for – staring out the window above your desk, bored by the familiar landscape – when you were 17?
A couple nights ago, climbing with a friend, I got on a new route rated near the limit of my redpoint ability. Whether it was softly graded or just my style, I climbed the first 25 feet with unusual grace. It felt easy. As I clipped the 5th bolt, I thought, “Oh shit, now I have to keep going.”
And isn’t that telling? I mean, suddenly it was so obvious to me why I haven’t climbed anything hard for years, why I can’t seem to improve. In that rare moment of unguarded thinking, when honesty trumped expectation, I said it all: I’m terrified of success, because I don’t know what the other side looks like. I don’t know how it feels to try something, not knowing the outcome.
I used to. I spent entire years floating from one thing to the next – mountain bike racing to African drumming to rock climbing to third world travel. I didn’t know what was coming next, and I didn’t care. I embarked on a year-long solo journey to Southeast Asia without even glancing at a guidebook. My mom knew more about Nepal than I did, and even as my parents sat with me at the airport gate (pre-9/11, they probably could have walked me right onto the plane if they’d wanted to), she was telling me about the climate, the currency, the cultural mores.
But, it’s scary now. Planes seem to be falling out of the sky with increased frequency. Our snow season has been, pardon the pun, unsettling. With several in-bounds avalanches early in the season, the mountains feel like a place far wilder and more unpredictable than the Wasatch. Every day there are more job cuts and bankruptcies; industries that built this country are collapsing around us.
How can we plan for the future when we don’t know what the future will look like?
So I’ve become a planner. My to do lists include such obvious reminders as, “play with dogs,” and “vacuum.” It’s compulsive, but it keeps me calm.
Of course, it also stops me from going too far, from trying too hard, from seeing what will happen. I don’t let the day unfold as it will; I force the day to fit my needs. I say, “Take!” while climbing, because if I don’t, I don’t know whether I’ll fail or succeed, and I don’t like not knowing.
(Is it any wonder I always have hamstring pain? Look how I constantly hamstring myself.)
Maybe this spring, as I plant my first garden and learn to accept growth as it comes – or doesn’t – in its own time, I’ll also learn to release the white-knuckled grip I feel like I need to have on every single aspect of my life. Maybe I’ll decide to try – really try – to climb a route, and not worry about falling off. Maybe in letting go, I’ll learn to hold on.
2.20.2009
The only cure is a sundress
It was 50 degrees today, sunny and clear. I bolted out of work at 3:00 pm and sped home to fetch the dogs; we made it to the trailhead by 3:27.
My old New Balance sneaks left deep prints on the soft ground. The boys splashed in the mud and sniffed the air - grass and earth and freshness and promise.
I love this time of year. All I can think about is going south to climb for the weekend, camping in the desert and heading home again on Sunday night dirty and tired and happy.
We have lots of plans for the next couple months. There's gardening, of course, but there's also Red Rocks and the Red River Gorge and Santa Barbara and Mexico and Elephant's Perch and the City of Rocks and, obviously, Indian Creek. Oh, and Zion.
Oh dear. Hard to fit it all in, but fun to try. Arnold and Red are game, too, and will be our constant companions, looking up and wagging their tails at us as we try and try and try to climb our projects before our strength fails, before dark, before the weekend is over and we have to drive home to shower up for work on Monday.
I'm looking forward to wearing sundresses and flip flops and being tan and having a sock line from running and approaches.
I never liked spring when I was younger. I always wanted to keep skiing. I still love to ski - it makes me really happy - but something about spring, about newness, growth, possibility, the ease of warm weather (ahem, not HOT weather, mind you...I'll be bitching about Utah temps come July), the desire to hightail it out of town, swimming with the dogs in the resovoir at the base of Big Cottonwood Canyon, daylight till 9 pm....
It feels right for me right now.
My old New Balance sneaks left deep prints on the soft ground. The boys splashed in the mud and sniffed the air - grass and earth and freshness and promise.
I love this time of year. All I can think about is going south to climb for the weekend, camping in the desert and heading home again on Sunday night dirty and tired and happy.
We have lots of plans for the next couple months. There's gardening, of course, but there's also Red Rocks and the Red River Gorge and Santa Barbara and Mexico and Elephant's Perch and the City of Rocks and, obviously, Indian Creek. Oh, and Zion.
Oh dear. Hard to fit it all in, but fun to try. Arnold and Red are game, too, and will be our constant companions, looking up and wagging their tails at us as we try and try and try to climb our projects before our strength fails, before dark, before the weekend is over and we have to drive home to shower up for work on Monday.
I'm looking forward to wearing sundresses and flip flops and being tan and having a sock line from running and approaches.
I never liked spring when I was younger. I always wanted to keep skiing. I still love to ski - it makes me really happy - but something about spring, about newness, growth, possibility, the ease of warm weather (ahem, not HOT weather, mind you...I'll be bitching about Utah temps come July), the desire to hightail it out of town, swimming with the dogs in the resovoir at the base of Big Cottonwood Canyon, daylight till 9 pm....
It feels right for me right now.
2.17.2009
Well then. No excuses but laziness.
Before I do anything else, there’s this:
Thank you, Jen.
This talented, generous woman, whom I adore despite having never even met her in person (we’ll remedy that soon), sent me a gorgeous scarf, intricately knitted in regal, deep purples. Here it is, up close so you can see the beautiful quality of the knit. Jen, I’ve asked this before, but seriously – is there anything you can’t do?
Here's the beautiful new addition to my wardrobe (shown on me as model, because I have not removed it for days):
I feel so lucky. Everyone should have a Jen in their lives.
Now then, as to what I’ve been doing that’s taken all my focus away from blogging:
I've been admiring this print,
And this artist,
And this artist,
And this blog.
My goodness. Donkeys and sheep and dogs, oh my!
I also just finished Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, by Barbara Kingsolver. Please read it; it’s beautiful.
A memoir of her family’s year growing most of its own food and committing to eating as locally as possible, Kingsolver’s book was never preachy or judgmental. In fact, it was hopeful and eye-opening. I am not a gardener; I do not like manual labor. That said, after reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, I’ve decided that it’s time to start “voting with my dollars” in terms of our nation’s food industry. For the record, I’ll be voting with Brad’s dollars, too.
So I’m going to grow fruits and vegetables (we already have absurdly prolific peach and apricot trees). I’m going to till and plant and tend and harvest. Then I’m going to dry and blanche and freeze and can. In doing so, I hope that we can convey to the food industry that we do not approve of the excessive petroleum required to ship us bananas in Utah in February, of the minimal wages paid to the farmer, of the majority of our food dollars going to the shipment of the food, rather than the farmer.) We’ve bought a share of a grass-fed cow (the noshing fellow was raised just a few miles away from our house), so that, from our own little kitchen, we can tell world that we do not approve of the way that feedlots raise animals and our corn production.
So there.
Hhhmph.
That's all I have for you tonight.
Thank you, Jen.
This talented, generous woman, whom I adore despite having never even met her in person (we’ll remedy that soon), sent me a gorgeous scarf, intricately knitted in regal, deep purples. Here it is, up close so you can see the beautiful quality of the knit. Jen, I’ve asked this before, but seriously – is there anything you can’t do?
Here's the beautiful new addition to my wardrobe (shown on me as model, because I have not removed it for days):
I feel so lucky. Everyone should have a Jen in their lives.
Now then, as to what I’ve been doing that’s taken all my focus away from blogging:
I've been admiring this print,
And this artist,
And this artist,
And this blog.
My goodness. Donkeys and sheep and dogs, oh my!
I also just finished Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, by Barbara Kingsolver. Please read it; it’s beautiful.
A memoir of her family’s year growing most of its own food and committing to eating as locally as possible, Kingsolver’s book was never preachy or judgmental. In fact, it was hopeful and eye-opening. I am not a gardener; I do not like manual labor. That said, after reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, I’ve decided that it’s time to start “voting with my dollars” in terms of our nation’s food industry. For the record, I’ll be voting with Brad’s dollars, too.
So I’m going to grow fruits and vegetables (we already have absurdly prolific peach and apricot trees). I’m going to till and plant and tend and harvest. Then I’m going to dry and blanche and freeze and can. In doing so, I hope that we can convey to the food industry that we do not approve of the excessive petroleum required to ship us bananas in Utah in February, of the minimal wages paid to the farmer, of the majority of our food dollars going to the shipment of the food, rather than the farmer.) We’ve bought a share of a grass-fed cow (the noshing fellow was raised just a few miles away from our house), so that, from our own little kitchen, we can tell world that we do not approve of the way that feedlots raise animals and our corn production.
So there.
Hhhmph.
That's all I have for you tonight.
2.10.2009
When the News Makes Me Smile
Ah, another delightful story in the morning’s news – this one about the origins of some of the Muppets.
We all know how much I adore the Muppets – the combination of furry animals and silly nonsense completely delights my inner child. And my outer adult.
My favorite take-aways from this story are the “other” Oscars the grouch – “In Pakistan, his name is Akhtar and he lives in an oil barrel. In Turkey, he is Kirpik and lives in a basket. And in Israel, it's not Oscar at all -- it's his cousin, Moishe Oofnik, who lives in an old car” – and the knowledge that the Count was quite the ladies’ man, having been romantically “linked to Countess von Backward, who loves to count backward; Countess Dahling von Dahling and Lady Two.”
What a nice way to start the day.
We all know how much I adore the Muppets – the combination of furry animals and silly nonsense completely delights my inner child. And my outer adult.
My favorite take-aways from this story are the “other” Oscars the grouch – “In Pakistan, his name is Akhtar and he lives in an oil barrel. In Turkey, he is Kirpik and lives in a basket. And in Israel, it's not Oscar at all -- it's his cousin, Moishe Oofnik, who lives in an old car” – and the knowledge that the Count was quite the ladies’ man, having been romantically “linked to Countess von Backward, who loves to count backward; Countess Dahling von Dahling and Lady Two.”
What a nice way to start the day.
2.09.2009
The Dealer Always Rings Twice
I love this story, from the AP, about a milkman who left weed on doorsteps, along with his daily dairy deliveries.
How quaint, the thought of dawn in the British countryside, sheep and roosters waking and starting to talk, the narrow, grassy lanes shrouded in mist. The dog barks at a noise on the stone steps leading into the garden, and you open the door to find fresh milk from the cows down the road, and a dime bag of marijuana from, well, wherever they grow weed in England. Could be anywhere, it’s so verdant there.
Poor milkman. He was just trying to rid his customers of the aches and pains of aging, which he probably understands well, being in his 70s and still working manual labor....
Really? Nothing better to do in Northwest England than chase down an elderly milkman who’s making a little extra change and helping people feel better?
I’m disappointed in you, England. I had higher hopes for such a civilized nation.
How quaint, the thought of dawn in the British countryside, sheep and roosters waking and starting to talk, the narrow, grassy lanes shrouded in mist. The dog barks at a noise on the stone steps leading into the garden, and you open the door to find fresh milk from the cows down the road, and a dime bag of marijuana from, well, wherever they grow weed in England. Could be anywhere, it’s so verdant there.
Poor milkman. He was just trying to rid his customers of the aches and pains of aging, which he probably understands well, being in his 70s and still working manual labor....
Really? Nothing better to do in Northwest England than chase down an elderly milkman who’s making a little extra change and helping people feel better?
I’m disappointed in you, England. I had higher hopes for such a civilized nation.
2.06.2009
Not an Enjoyable Ride
For the past few months, the skin around my mouth nas been dry and flaky and red and painful. Yes, it's been months, and I just got around to going to the dermatologist today - lame.
Nonetheless, in I went, ready to meet a new doc to talk to him about my skin and ask him about this "sunscreen" business (I'm convinced it's all a scam by Johnson & Johnson).
I was terribly disappointed.
I walked in to find a brisk, angular little woman with bad skin behind the registration desk (Note to bitchy, angular receptionist: when you work at a dermatology office, you might want to employ some of the free samples loitering about the place. Otherwise, new customers will take one look at your face and comtemplate walking out). After 12 minutes of explaining to her that yes, I do have an appointment and no, I've never been here before and no, my insurance has not changed, as I have never in fact been here before, she asked me to please take a seat and stop preventing other clients from checking in.
That should have been my cue to leave. Really, I should have walked right out the door at that point.
Instead, I waited 15 minutes to be called back (not entirely inappropriate, but a bit annoying when one is trying to get back to work in time for a brainstorming session. That includes food.), and then sat for 75 minutes in a cold exam room with no magazines (thank god for iPhone Scrabble), wearing a backless robe, waiting for the doctor to see me. Twice convinced I'd been forgotten, I peeked into the hallway and asked a passing nurse if I should perhaps reschedule.
Let's just say that the passing nurse made the receptionist seem like Glenda the Good Witch.
Finally the doc burst in, and I thought, "Maybe it'll be worth it; maybe this guy will be an awesome doctor...."
Here's what happened. 10 minutes later I was standing back at the reception desk, doling out copious amounts of cash for products the doctor all but forced me to buy, having neither explained why I needed said creams and cleansers, nor told me what, exactly, was wrong with my face.
It all happened so fast - and with such disregard for customer service - that I was too shocked to protest, and was in my car heading back to work before I managed to form the question, "I'm sorry, but what is this stuff and why are you selling it to me?"
AAAARRRGH.
I shall not return.
(Frank Coble cartoon)
Nonetheless, in I went, ready to meet a new doc to talk to him about my skin and ask him about this "sunscreen" business (I'm convinced it's all a scam by Johnson & Johnson).
I was terribly disappointed.
I walked in to find a brisk, angular little woman with bad skin behind the registration desk (Note to bitchy, angular receptionist: when you work at a dermatology office, you might want to employ some of the free samples loitering about the place. Otherwise, new customers will take one look at your face and comtemplate walking out). After 12 minutes of explaining to her that yes, I do have an appointment and no, I've never been here before and no, my insurance has not changed, as I have never in fact been here before, she asked me to please take a seat and stop preventing other clients from checking in.
That should have been my cue to leave. Really, I should have walked right out the door at that point.
Instead, I waited 15 minutes to be called back (not entirely inappropriate, but a bit annoying when one is trying to get back to work in time for a brainstorming session. That includes food.), and then sat for 75 minutes in a cold exam room with no magazines (thank god for iPhone Scrabble), wearing a backless robe, waiting for the doctor to see me. Twice convinced I'd been forgotten, I peeked into the hallway and asked a passing nurse if I should perhaps reschedule.
Let's just say that the passing nurse made the receptionist seem like Glenda the Good Witch.
Finally the doc burst in, and I thought, "Maybe it'll be worth it; maybe this guy will be an awesome doctor...."
Here's what happened. 10 minutes later I was standing back at the reception desk, doling out copious amounts of cash for products the doctor all but forced me to buy, having neither explained why I needed said creams and cleansers, nor told me what, exactly, was wrong with my face.
It all happened so fast - and with such disregard for customer service - that I was too shocked to protest, and was in my car heading back to work before I managed to form the question, "I'm sorry, but what is this stuff and why are you selling it to me?"
AAAARRRGH.
I shall not return.
(Frank Coble cartoon)
2.05.2009
Oh Happy Day!
Friends, readers, give thanks on this day, because it is the birthday of Christopher Guest, whom we have to thank for a number of moments of hilarity.
Not sure who he is? Here are a few clips of his genius:
Not sure who he is? Here are a few clips of his genius:
2.04.2009
Wednesday is for Goldens.
What I love now:
-The return of Golden Retriever Wednesdays, with this close-up of Arnie.
Note the bluish glow on the right side of the image? That's from my computer. That's how near Arnie likes to be to me. Is it any surprise I love him so much?
-Eminem’s new song (with Dr. Dre and Fifty Cent).
-The proliferation of tie-dye in the Spring lines
-Mexico and the thought of going there
-Daylight until 6:00 pm
-A Bit of Fry and Laurie, which is silly, silly, silly. Here's one of my favorite sketches. (Try to watch the whole thing, but if you must skip forward, start at 1:20 and go from there....)
-The endless debate in my office about who would win in a fight: Gandalf or Dumbledore. Here are some supporting facts, though the supporting facts are wrong, as the obvious answer is Dumbledore. Duh. Note that the website also pits Yoda against Magnito and Frodo against Harry Potter. And yes, at my office, we are all HUGE dorks.
-That we’re heading to Zion next weekend – climbing with friends, camping in the desert, perfect.
Speaking of silly, I also love this photo:
Ducks always seem to be mouthing off; I think that's why I like them so much.Look at that guy. QUACK QUACK QUACK! I'M A PENGUIN! So brazen, he is.
I found that shot while researching a concept for a new ad campaign for work. I used the following phrase in my search: imposter, duck. I wonder what the IT department thinks of my internet browsing history....
-The return of Golden Retriever Wednesdays, with this close-up of Arnie.
Note the bluish glow on the right side of the image? That's from my computer. That's how near Arnie likes to be to me. Is it any surprise I love him so much?
-Eminem’s new song (with Dr. Dre and Fifty Cent).
-The proliferation of tie-dye in the Spring lines
-Mexico and the thought of going there
-Daylight until 6:00 pm
-A Bit of Fry and Laurie, which is silly, silly, silly. Here's one of my favorite sketches. (Try to watch the whole thing, but if you must skip forward, start at 1:20 and go from there....)
-The endless debate in my office about who would win in a fight: Gandalf or Dumbledore. Here are some supporting facts, though the supporting facts are wrong, as the obvious answer is Dumbledore. Duh. Note that the website also pits Yoda against Magnito and Frodo against Harry Potter. And yes, at my office, we are all HUGE dorks.
-That we’re heading to Zion next weekend – climbing with friends, camping in the desert, perfect.
Speaking of silly, I also love this photo:
Ducks always seem to be mouthing off; I think that's why I like them so much.Look at that guy. QUACK QUACK QUACK! I'M A PENGUIN! So brazen, he is.
I found that shot while researching a concept for a new ad campaign for work. I used the following phrase in my search: imposter, duck. I wonder what the IT department thinks of my internet browsing history....
1.28.2009
I Just Read
A Truly. Gorgeous. Poem.
I opened the Writer's Almanac webpage, as I do every morning. Today I expected a poem by John Updike, who died yesterday. I'm sad about that; his fiction is a national treasure. I recently described it to a friend as "clear, brave and blue collar - hard working to the very end." I can think of few other authors who have so succinctly captured the American experience.
But, and I say this wishing his peacefully resting soul the very best, his poetry is cumbersome and overwritten, pretentious and cliche. It's just plain awful.
So imagine my delight, when upon opening the Writer's Almanac, I saw not an Updike travesty, but the delightful gem I've pasted below. I think it is absolutely beautiful. Cautious at first, but with incredible momentum, just like a first love.
This is the kind of poetry I dream of writing.
Everything We Do
by Peter Meinke
Everything we do is for our first loves
whom we have lost irrevocably
who have married insurance salesmen
and moved to Topeka
and never think of us at all.
We fly planes & design buildings
and write poems
that all say Sally I love you
I'll never love anyone else
Why didn't you know I was going to be a poet?
The walks to school, the kisses in the snow
gather as we dream backwards, sweetness with age:
our legs are young again, our voices
strong and happy, we're not afraid.
We don't know enough to be afraid.
And now
we hold (hidden, hopeless) the hope
that some day
she may fly in our plane
enter our building read our poem
And that night, deep in her dream,
Sally, far in darkness, in Topeka,
with the salesman lying beside her,
will cry out
our unfamiliar name.
I opened the Writer's Almanac webpage, as I do every morning. Today I expected a poem by John Updike, who died yesterday. I'm sad about that; his fiction is a national treasure. I recently described it to a friend as "clear, brave and blue collar - hard working to the very end." I can think of few other authors who have so succinctly captured the American experience.
But, and I say this wishing his peacefully resting soul the very best, his poetry is cumbersome and overwritten, pretentious and cliche. It's just plain awful.
So imagine my delight, when upon opening the Writer's Almanac, I saw not an Updike travesty, but the delightful gem I've pasted below. I think it is absolutely beautiful. Cautious at first, but with incredible momentum, just like a first love.
This is the kind of poetry I dream of writing.
Everything We Do
by Peter Meinke
Everything we do is for our first loves
whom we have lost irrevocably
who have married insurance salesmen
and moved to Topeka
and never think of us at all.
We fly planes & design buildings
and write poems
that all say Sally I love you
I'll never love anyone else
Why didn't you know I was going to be a poet?
The walks to school, the kisses in the snow
gather as we dream backwards, sweetness with age:
our legs are young again, our voices
strong and happy, we're not afraid.
We don't know enough to be afraid.
And now
we hold (hidden, hopeless) the hope
that some day
she may fly in our plane
enter our building read our poem
And that night, deep in her dream,
Sally, far in darkness, in Topeka,
with the salesman lying beside her,
will cry out
our unfamiliar name.
1.25.2009
Still here
Good lord. So much for that goal of "writing more."
But there's been lots of activity here in the past couple weeks. We journeyed to Bozeman to visit a friend and ski. We took the boys and skied with them, which was a rare treat, because we can't really ski with them here (Big and Little Cottonwood are watersheds for the City, so even though the snowcats leak hydraulic fluid into the ground and the old mines leach nasty chemicals into the streams, dogs can't play there because they might pee).
They had a wonderful time; they love skiing.
It's been nice.
So much has changed since my last post - the inaguration (Yay Obama!), the reversal of the Mexico City rule (Yay Obama!), the establishment of citron as the color of the season (Yay Michelle!) and new snow in the Wasatch.
It was a wonderful weekend of skiing, climbing, eating good food, spending time with friends, making big plans....
More to come.
But there's been lots of activity here in the past couple weeks. We journeyed to Bozeman to visit a friend and ski. We took the boys and skied with them, which was a rare treat, because we can't really ski with them here (Big and Little Cottonwood are watersheds for the City, so even though the snowcats leak hydraulic fluid into the ground and the old mines leach nasty chemicals into the streams, dogs can't play there because they might pee).
They had a wonderful time; they love skiing.
It's been nice.
So much has changed since my last post - the inaguration (Yay Obama!), the reversal of the Mexico City rule (Yay Obama!), the establishment of citron as the color of the season (Yay Michelle!) and new snow in the Wasatch.
It was a wonderful weekend of skiing, climbing, eating good food, spending time with friends, making big plans....
More to come.
1.09.2009
Modern Day Quilting Bee
The New York Times is running a very cool feature right now called One in 8 Million. It struck me because I think it's beautifully designed, but also because it reminded me of This I Believe and Storycorps, two undertakings that are all about showcasing the opinions and stories of regular, exceptional people.
It made me wonder: What's behind this national search for connection, this desire to hear other peoples' stories?
I see it in myself. More than ever, I want to know what books my friends are reading, what my family thinks about the economy, what my colleagues think about the situation in Isreal and Palastine. I want to build connections.
I find myself looking for them in song lyrics, in novels. I am looking up to the mountains more, feeling more calmed than usual by the pink light, by the sights of the Crow's Foot to the South (not steep enough to ski) and the Medusa Face of Mount Olympus to the North (too steep for me).
Maybe this is coming from Facebook, from the carefully constructed presentations I'm seeing from people I knew once or maybe never. Maybe it's that I'm learning things about my friends - via Facebook - that I've never heard from their mouths, and it makes me wonder if I've been kind enough to them, if I've been the friend they need.
I think we're hard wired to be attracted to some people and opposed to others. If we like someone, I think we feel it before we know it, that something inside - our souls, our hearts, our mind's eye - tells us, "go ahead, it's ok...you'll be able to trust this person forever."
And in the same way, no matter how much we want to share ourselves with some people, sometimes we just can't. We see similarities, we like the way they look, we want to be their friend, but something holds us back; something says no.
I thought about all this today, at work, while listening to Rob Zombie. I know, it seems incongruous, especially after my ode to Ryan Adams in the previous post (of course, Ryan's musical roots are in heavy metal, so I guess it's really not that much of a departure).
I hate violence, horror movies, loud noises, agression (I'm starting to sound a bit like Buster)...but I love Rob Zombie. Something about him intrugues me. I'm drawn to him. I think he's probably a nice guy; I think we'd be friends.
I don't know where I'm going with any of this. I'm just feeling lucky tonight, I guess, for meeting new friends, for reconnecting with old ones. I feel lucky, too, that it's never over, this evolution of self. We aren't static; today is finite - this too shall pass - but it launches us into what comes next. There are so many people to meet, so many experiences to anticipate, fear, learn from, enjoy.
It made me wonder: What's behind this national search for connection, this desire to hear other peoples' stories?
I see it in myself. More than ever, I want to know what books my friends are reading, what my family thinks about the economy, what my colleagues think about the situation in Isreal and Palastine. I want to build connections.
I find myself looking for them in song lyrics, in novels. I am looking up to the mountains more, feeling more calmed than usual by the pink light, by the sights of the Crow's Foot to the South (not steep enough to ski) and the Medusa Face of Mount Olympus to the North (too steep for me).
Maybe this is coming from Facebook, from the carefully constructed presentations I'm seeing from people I knew once or maybe never. Maybe it's that I'm learning things about my friends - via Facebook - that I've never heard from their mouths, and it makes me wonder if I've been kind enough to them, if I've been the friend they need.
I think we're hard wired to be attracted to some people and opposed to others. If we like someone, I think we feel it before we know it, that something inside - our souls, our hearts, our mind's eye - tells us, "go ahead, it's ok...you'll be able to trust this person forever."
And in the same way, no matter how much we want to share ourselves with some people, sometimes we just can't. We see similarities, we like the way they look, we want to be their friend, but something holds us back; something says no.
I thought about all this today, at work, while listening to Rob Zombie. I know, it seems incongruous, especially after my ode to Ryan Adams in the previous post (of course, Ryan's musical roots are in heavy metal, so I guess it's really not that much of a departure).
I hate violence, horror movies, loud noises, agression (I'm starting to sound a bit like Buster)...but I love Rob Zombie. Something about him intrugues me. I'm drawn to him. I think he's probably a nice guy; I think we'd be friends.
I don't know where I'm going with any of this. I'm just feeling lucky tonight, I guess, for meeting new friends, for reconnecting with old ones. I feel lucky, too, that it's never over, this evolution of self. We aren't static; today is finite - this too shall pass - but it launches us into what comes next. There are so many people to meet, so many experiences to anticipate, fear, learn from, enjoy.
1.07.2009
An Apparent Obsession
It feels like spring tonight, the breeze warm and the snow melty. I came home from work, walked Arnie to the park and played with him and his friend, the stick, for an hour, then unpacked groceries, stacked my new library books neatly on my nightstand and made dinner.
And now I’m here, snoozy Arnie resting his head on my feet and dinner, a BSE, beside me.
A BSE: salami, fresh mozzarella, baby spinach, garlic aioli, crusty bread. BSE. Best Sandwich Ever.
Today on Facebook I mentioned how much I was digging the Ryan Adams cd I was listening to (Easy Tiger – brilliant, as always), and my old friend Max commented that he’d just seen him in concert, and that the show was “flawless.” And I thought, “What a perfect description for this music. It is flawless.”
I’m still listening to Ryan Adams now, and it’s motivating me to write and play my guitar. It always does, which is why it’s all or nothing with him and me. There’s no halfway, I’m either listening to him and only him (well, and Whiskeytown, but that’s still him), or his playlists are collecting dust. His music is just too intense and brings back too many memories for me unless I’m feeling really grounded and present.
I know I’ve told you about the night he played at Zeno’s, the best bar in State College, but I’ll tell you again.
It was right after he left Whiskeytown, and he was passing through on his way from the South back to New York, and for some reason, he played an impromptu gig at our small, dark, basement bar. $5 at the door. Just him and his guitar. Only about half the people there that night knew who he was – those who did were as starstruck as I – so the crowd was talking and laughing and just having fun on a Friday night in a bar.
A bit of a primadonna, he got pissed at all the “$5 dollar assholes” who wouldn’t shut up and stormed off “stage” (really just an area clear of tables). I was working at Zeno’s at the time, and was sitting by the back door, checking IDs. He made his way right to me, and I remember that tunnel vision thing happening, where all I could see was him walking toward me, and everything else going all fuzzy. I cannot remember exactly what I said to him, or what he said to me, but I know he was upset and needed calming down, and I know I told him that he should keep playing, that the $5 dollar assholes didn’t get it and that plenty of the rest of us did, and I remember him taking his sunglasses off and looking hard at me, trying to figure out if I was fucking with him or not. And then he walked back out and finished his set, and I biked home that night dying to laugh with my dear friend, Jon – also a big fan and also in the crowd that night – about the antics, the drama, the fact that he wore his sunglasses indoors. We still laugh about “$5 assholes” when we see each other. It was such a good night.
Don't know his stuff? Here he is without the shades.
Here he is with the shades.
And now I’m here, snoozy Arnie resting his head on my feet and dinner, a BSE, beside me.
A BSE: salami, fresh mozzarella, baby spinach, garlic aioli, crusty bread. BSE. Best Sandwich Ever.
Today on Facebook I mentioned how much I was digging the Ryan Adams cd I was listening to (Easy Tiger – brilliant, as always), and my old friend Max commented that he’d just seen him in concert, and that the show was “flawless.” And I thought, “What a perfect description for this music. It is flawless.”
I’m still listening to Ryan Adams now, and it’s motivating me to write and play my guitar. It always does, which is why it’s all or nothing with him and me. There’s no halfway, I’m either listening to him and only him (well, and Whiskeytown, but that’s still him), or his playlists are collecting dust. His music is just too intense and brings back too many memories for me unless I’m feeling really grounded and present.
I know I’ve told you about the night he played at Zeno’s, the best bar in State College, but I’ll tell you again.
It was right after he left Whiskeytown, and he was passing through on his way from the South back to New York, and for some reason, he played an impromptu gig at our small, dark, basement bar. $5 at the door. Just him and his guitar. Only about half the people there that night knew who he was – those who did were as starstruck as I – so the crowd was talking and laughing and just having fun on a Friday night in a bar.
A bit of a primadonna, he got pissed at all the “$5 dollar assholes” who wouldn’t shut up and stormed off “stage” (really just an area clear of tables). I was working at Zeno’s at the time, and was sitting by the back door, checking IDs. He made his way right to me, and I remember that tunnel vision thing happening, where all I could see was him walking toward me, and everything else going all fuzzy. I cannot remember exactly what I said to him, or what he said to me, but I know he was upset and needed calming down, and I know I told him that he should keep playing, that the $5 dollar assholes didn’t get it and that plenty of the rest of us did, and I remember him taking his sunglasses off and looking hard at me, trying to figure out if I was fucking with him or not. And then he walked back out and finished his set, and I biked home that night dying to laugh with my dear friend, Jon – also a big fan and also in the crowd that night – about the antics, the drama, the fact that he wore his sunglasses indoors. We still laugh about “$5 assholes” when we see each other. It was such a good night.
Don't know his stuff? Here he is without the shades.
Here he is with the shades.
1.02.2009
Today and beyond.
Today was:
Coffee
Brad and dog time
Running
Skate Skiing
Dog hiking
Good food
West Wing on dvd (love that show)
With any luck, tomorrow will bring more of the same. Maybe a Nordic race, too, just for fun.
And some climbing, because it's about time to get in shape for Kalymnos, where we're heading in March or April. I think we'll have fun there; with varied climbing grades and lots of swimming, eating and scooter-riding opportunities, it'll be a relaxing vacation for both of us. Also, with any luck, we'll go after Brad has achieved another round of Yosemite goals (they just keep coming - like white trash babies), so he'll be on the sport climbing program and not worried about El Cap or Half Dome fitness (he's always fit, though, so it's not a valid concern...kind of like me worrying about not petting Arnie enough).
But there's something else on my mind, something that's occupying as much space as Nepal did in my early twenties, wwhen I didn't know why, but I knew I needed to be there - I knew there was something in Nepal waiting for me. So I went. And I was right.
And now it's Scotland. I have no idea why, I don't know where this is coming from, but I want to go there, to Scotland, to Tomich and Lewis and Edinburgh and Glasgow. There's no climbing in Scotland (no offense to any Scottish climbers who may be reading); there's no skiing. At first glance it seems out of character, but the truth is, I don't need to take any more climbing vacations (after Kalymnos, because that one will be really fun). I'd rather go somehwere to learn something, to be shocked out of narrative (thank you, Mark Doty, for that line) by difference and culture and meeting people who've lived on the same land their whole lives, land that's been in their families for 10 generations. (Yeah, you're right, and yes, I could just go to the hills of West Virginia for that kind of inbred kitsch, but they don't have lochs in the Appalachains. Just hollers and cricks, and I've seen those.)
But that's it - that's the other thing on my list of goals for 2009: go to Scotland.
With that, I'm off to read Fodor's Scotland, Lonely Planet Scotland, Frommer's Scotland and - just for good measure - "Notes from a Small Island."
Coffee
Brad and dog time
Running
Skate Skiing
Dog hiking
Good food
West Wing on dvd (love that show)
With any luck, tomorrow will bring more of the same. Maybe a Nordic race, too, just for fun.
And some climbing, because it's about time to get in shape for Kalymnos, where we're heading in March or April. I think we'll have fun there; with varied climbing grades and lots of swimming, eating and scooter-riding opportunities, it'll be a relaxing vacation for both of us. Also, with any luck, we'll go after Brad has achieved another round of Yosemite goals (they just keep coming - like white trash babies), so he'll be on the sport climbing program and not worried about El Cap or Half Dome fitness (he's always fit, though, so it's not a valid concern...kind of like me worrying about not petting Arnie enough).
But there's something else on my mind, something that's occupying as much space as Nepal did in my early twenties, wwhen I didn't know why, but I knew I needed to be there - I knew there was something in Nepal waiting for me. So I went. And I was right.
And now it's Scotland. I have no idea why, I don't know where this is coming from, but I want to go there, to Scotland, to Tomich and Lewis and Edinburgh and Glasgow. There's no climbing in Scotland (no offense to any Scottish climbers who may be reading); there's no skiing. At first glance it seems out of character, but the truth is, I don't need to take any more climbing vacations (after Kalymnos, because that one will be really fun). I'd rather go somehwere to learn something, to be shocked out of narrative (thank you, Mark Doty, for that line) by difference and culture and meeting people who've lived on the same land their whole lives, land that's been in their families for 10 generations. (Yeah, you're right, and yes, I could just go to the hills of West Virginia for that kind of inbred kitsch, but they don't have lochs in the Appalachains. Just hollers and cricks, and I've seen those.)
But that's it - that's the other thing on my list of goals for 2009: go to Scotland.
With that, I'm off to read Fodor's Scotland, Lonely Planet Scotland, Frommer's Scotland and - just for good measure - "Notes from a Small Island."
12.30.2008
Oh, this is my favorite thing...
My brother just sent us the the first season of Arrested Development on dvd, and it's a damn good thing I have the week off, because my sides hurt so much from laughing that I can barely stand up. I've seen it before, but it's like it's funnier now...
Tomorrow it'll be back to running and skiing and climbing and stuff, but for now I'm tucked in beside the dogs, knitting things and laughing at the funny Bluths.
Tomorrow it'll be back to running and skiing and climbing and stuff, but for now I'm tucked in beside the dogs, knitting things and laughing at the funny Bluths.
12.27.2008
Yeah, but I still feel rejected.
I got an email, on Christmas day, telling me that my "This I believe" essay wasn't chosen to be read on NPR, but will be placed on the website instead.
The email went on, "Please don’t consider this in any way a "rejection." Our criteria for broadcast consider many factors beyond subjective notions of quality. We air only a fraction of one percent of those submitted, and we must balance our few selections across themes, perspectives, diversity of sources, and so on."
A fraction of one percent? I'm not sure I believe that, and despite the email's best intentions, I still feel rejected.
Here's the thing, though, about my essay: it's too preachy (they specifically ask for no preaching) and I don't like the ending. I mean, I wrote it in seven minutes, so maybe if I'd tried a little harder, followed the rules and gone through it at least once with a red pen, I might have had more of a chance....
Which brings me to the subject of goals.
Athletic goals almost always end badly for me. I lose interest halfway there, or I get distracted, or I can't take the pain and repeated failure that comes with trying really hard. I'm embarassed to say this, because I live in a world where athletic achievements are paramount and much else falls away unnoticed, but I'm hardpressed to think of a single sports-related goal I've achieved in the past few years. Oh, who am I kidding? I have barely done a damn thing in the past few years - the flux and buck of life proving almost too much for me to bear, having struggled, most mornings, just to get out of bed.
So I think I need something else. While part of me is inclined to say, "My goal is to climb the orange 12a at the gym," I know that as soon as I declare it, I'll lose interest.
Also, I give up when it gets hard. I tend to choose the easy path. I don't see stuff through. This post is beginning to seem like a reverse online dating ad. "Lazy woman with untrained dog looking for..."
Just kidding. We all know that Arnie is very well trained. Not by ME, of course, but trained nonetheless.
But it's easy to make athletic goals, because sports - as much as I love the things I do - aren't what I hold most dear, and if I fail at them, well, hell, "it's just a game."
But to fail at writing or playing the guitar or being a mom to Arnie or finishing the New Yorker in the alloted week (harder than you'd think)....that would hurt. That would mean I've failed at the things that matter most, and that's a whole other kind of disappointment.
That's why I didn't want to post the link to my essay - I'm afraid to open that part of my life to public scrutiny. People can say I'm a lousy skier or climber or runner or whatever (I also totally suck at dodgeball), and sure, it hurts, but none of those sustain me from the inside when all else falls away, and none of those allow me to meet with Triumph and Disaster, and treat those two impostors just the same.
So my goals, to be truly worth something, to be harder to just blow off, need to be real and honest and deal with the things I'll never let go.
You heard it here first, my goals for 2009 are as follows:
1. Play the guitar. PLAY. Not strum and hum along, but really play, really make it sing.
2. Read The New Yorker, The Smithsonian, Nat'l Geo and The Sun by the time the next issues arrive. No more leaning tower of periodicals on my nightstand (aka, an upside down Thai laundry basket).
3. Get writing published. In print, not just online. This involves the bigger goal of facing fear of rejection, potentially again and again and again.
4. Remain motivated at work. I love my new job. I'm excited about work in a way I haven't been for years, and I want to hold on to that.
There's one more, but I'll tell you about that another time. Right now, I'm going to finish reading this article, which references a place near my childhood home, a place I'd love to make my home someday. If they stop mining. And if they grow bigger mountains so Brad would come with me.
The email went on, "Please don’t consider this in any way a "rejection." Our criteria for broadcast consider many factors beyond subjective notions of quality. We air only a fraction of one percent of those submitted, and we must balance our few selections across themes, perspectives, diversity of sources, and so on."
A fraction of one percent? I'm not sure I believe that, and despite the email's best intentions, I still feel rejected.
Here's the thing, though, about my essay: it's too preachy (they specifically ask for no preaching) and I don't like the ending. I mean, I wrote it in seven minutes, so maybe if I'd tried a little harder, followed the rules and gone through it at least once with a red pen, I might have had more of a chance....
Which brings me to the subject of goals.
Athletic goals almost always end badly for me. I lose interest halfway there, or I get distracted, or I can't take the pain and repeated failure that comes with trying really hard. I'm embarassed to say this, because I live in a world where athletic achievements are paramount and much else falls away unnoticed, but I'm hardpressed to think of a single sports-related goal I've achieved in the past few years. Oh, who am I kidding? I have barely done a damn thing in the past few years - the flux and buck of life proving almost too much for me to bear, having struggled, most mornings, just to get out of bed.
So I think I need something else. While part of me is inclined to say, "My goal is to climb the orange 12a at the gym," I know that as soon as I declare it, I'll lose interest.
Also, I give up when it gets hard. I tend to choose the easy path. I don't see stuff through. This post is beginning to seem like a reverse online dating ad. "Lazy woman with untrained dog looking for..."
Just kidding. We all know that Arnie is very well trained. Not by ME, of course, but trained nonetheless.
But it's easy to make athletic goals, because sports - as much as I love the things I do - aren't what I hold most dear, and if I fail at them, well, hell, "it's just a game."
But to fail at writing or playing the guitar or being a mom to Arnie or finishing the New Yorker in the alloted week (harder than you'd think)....that would hurt. That would mean I've failed at the things that matter most, and that's a whole other kind of disappointment.
That's why I didn't want to post the link to my essay - I'm afraid to open that part of my life to public scrutiny. People can say I'm a lousy skier or climber or runner or whatever (I also totally suck at dodgeball), and sure, it hurts, but none of those sustain me from the inside when all else falls away, and none of those allow me to meet with Triumph and Disaster, and treat those two impostors just the same.
So my goals, to be truly worth something, to be harder to just blow off, need to be real and honest and deal with the things I'll never let go.
You heard it here first, my goals for 2009 are as follows:
1. Play the guitar. PLAY. Not strum and hum along, but really play, really make it sing.
2. Read The New Yorker, The Smithsonian, Nat'l Geo and The Sun by the time the next issues arrive. No more leaning tower of periodicals on my nightstand (aka, an upside down Thai laundry basket).
3. Get writing published. In print, not just online. This involves the bigger goal of facing fear of rejection, potentially again and again and again.
4. Remain motivated at work. I love my new job. I'm excited about work in a way I haven't been for years, and I want to hold on to that.
There's one more, but I'll tell you about that another time. Right now, I'm going to finish reading this article, which references a place near my childhood home, a place I'd love to make my home someday. If they stop mining. And if they grow bigger mountains so Brad would come with me.
12.19.2008
But then, I do love the lights
The Impoverished Preppy made an interesting comment on my last post; she mentioned that the thought of no holiday decorations made her a bit sad.
And as I thought about it, I had to admit that it is a bit sad to not honor the season with lights and candles and greenery. Nativity scenes and santa bullshit aside, there is beauty to the traditional decoration of the season, and much of it has little to do with the churchy, commercial nonsense I so dislike.
I dreaded winter in Sweden, when the sun appeared only from 11 am to 2 pm, until I learned how Swedes celebrate the season of darkness. In November, when the gray of the world is at a maximum, they light candlabras and lanterns and live in cozy firelight until spring. It is beautiful and heartwarming, and now that I think about it, an ideal way to honor the season, the Solstice, Hannukah and Christmas.
After living there, in the cold, blond North, I made candles an everyday part of my life. The rituals of lighting them and blowing them out became like a prayer, and so even though I claim to eschew all things religious, I have to admit that I do feel a universal greatness when it's dark except for fire (and, honestly, I even little twinkle lights are really pretty).
Sigh. There goes my hard stance on all things Christmas. Full disclosure: earlier this year, I said to Brad, "Maybe we should get a tree. Not for stupid ornaments, just for lights and my pretty fabric garland (see below)." And he looked at me like I was high. I think he loathes the holiday hooplah even more than I.
But we'll see. I love, love, love this festive garland I fashioned from pretty fabric scraps. It's one of the most delightful things I've ever seen - like a tutu in its over-the-topness, but free of red and green and Jesus...just how I like my holiday stuff.
Big Arnie, who turns 5 years old on December 26th, makes a charming model, no?
And as I thought about it, I had to admit that it is a bit sad to not honor the season with lights and candles and greenery. Nativity scenes and santa bullshit aside, there is beauty to the traditional decoration of the season, and much of it has little to do with the churchy, commercial nonsense I so dislike.
I dreaded winter in Sweden, when the sun appeared only from 11 am to 2 pm, until I learned how Swedes celebrate the season of darkness. In November, when the gray of the world is at a maximum, they light candlabras and lanterns and live in cozy firelight until spring. It is beautiful and heartwarming, and now that I think about it, an ideal way to honor the season, the Solstice, Hannukah and Christmas.
After living there, in the cold, blond North, I made candles an everyday part of my life. The rituals of lighting them and blowing them out became like a prayer, and so even though I claim to eschew all things religious, I have to admit that I do feel a universal greatness when it's dark except for fire (and, honestly, I even little twinkle lights are really pretty).
Sigh. There goes my hard stance on all things Christmas. Full disclosure: earlier this year, I said to Brad, "Maybe we should get a tree. Not for stupid ornaments, just for lights and my pretty fabric garland (see below)." And he looked at me like I was high. I think he loathes the holiday hooplah even more than I.
But we'll see. I love, love, love this festive garland I fashioned from pretty fabric scraps. It's one of the most delightful things I've ever seen - like a tutu in its over-the-topness, but free of red and green and Jesus...just how I like my holiday stuff.
Big Arnie, who turns 5 years old on December 26th, makes a charming model, no?
12.17.2008
The Grinch She Smiles
Me? Not a fan of Christmas. The materialism makes me sad; the stress over gift-giving and tension that goes into the "perfect day" just leaves me tired and empty. It becomes so routine and expected that the kindness and generosity is stripped away. People get mad at me because I say I don't want anything for Christmas, "Well I HAVE to get you something," they bark. And I think, "No. No, actually, you don't."
(For what it's worth, I feel similarly about weddings, though my own ended up being wonderful, mostly because my family and close friends understand and accept me for the grimpy, grinchy cynic that I am.)
That said, while I eschew gifts and church and stories about dear lord baby Jesus, there is one Christmas tradition that I love: the Christmas Tree Star commercial from Eat'n Park.
Eat'n Park is a Denny's-style restaurant chain as ubiquitous in Pittsburgh as Italian-American men in tracksuits. There are A LOT of them. Eat'n Park, while nothing special, gives me fond memories of all the phases of my adult life. As soon as my friends and I turned 16, we borrowed our parent's Jeeps and Honda Accords and drove to the franchise that bordered the next school district. We nursed weak, tepid coffees for hours, vying for the attention of the guys from Latrobe and waving off the waitresses who tried to kick us out. Later, when I was in college and home for the summers, I met my mom at the Eat'n Park near the hospital where she works, and we ate fruit salads and muffins and talked about everything. A few years after that, when my grandma developed Altzheimer's and moved to a care facility, I went once a week with my grandfather to the Eat'n Park near his house, and we ate eggs and toast and drank that same awful coffee. Some days we talked alot - one of us telling stories that sounded fantastic and improbable to the other, two generations apart - and other mornings we ate our breakfasts in a comfortable silence.
There are hints, in the paragraph above, as to the origins of my grinchiness. In case you missed them, here they are: I miss my family 365 days a year, but Christmas is especially hard. I miss my grandparents and my parents and my brother. I miss our dear family friends who are as much a part of the Cavicchio holiday as any blood relative. I miss watching Tucker, the Golden Retriever I grew up with, gaze at the christmas tree, which he typically befriended early in the holiday season and subsequently spent many hours a day admiring. I miss the party we had every Christmas Eve, for family and friends and neighbors. I miss the quirky guests who just wouldn't leave even though the wine was gone and we were doing dishes and it was nearing 1:00 am. I miss good Italian food. I miss Christmas day napping and reading. I miss skiing after Christmas, every day for the whole week, until the New Year. I miss being so close to home.
I know what you're thinking, and yes, I could go home for Christmas. Why don't you, you say? Why are you bitching about something you can change with a click of your mouse and your Visa card, you ask? Because my home is here now. Because I need to give this place a chance to matter to me like that place does. Because I don't want to be away from my husband and dogs for the holidays, even holidays I refuse to acknowledge. Because I owe it to myself and Brad to make our holidays OURS, to develop our own traditions.
And we're working on it. We try to ski every Thanksgiving, even if it's lousy snow. It sort of marks the unofficial end to climbing season and start of ski season, and it's always nice to share our first (or one of our first) ski tours of the winter with each other and our close friends. We've spent Turkey Day skiing with Matt, Ed and Mitchell, all dear friends and current and former housemates (all of whom belong in the housemate hall of fame).
And for Christmas, we're starting to establish similar traditions. We ski on Christmas morning - that much is certain. We've spent Christmas Day with the guys mentioned above, as well as with Chris and Ari and, a rare treat in the Wasatch, our two dogs. I'll never, ever forget hearing Chris, who was a fairly new skier, shout, "Can you please call off the dogs?" as he struggled to stay upright in the White (or was it Pink?) Pine area of Little Cottonwood. Arnie and Red were so excited to ski with him that they were leaping around him and in front of him and bumping into him and trying to chase him. Poor Chris didn't quite have his ski legs on, and at one point, the three of them went down in pile of fur and limbs and skis and poles. Chris emerged smiling, of course. He always did.
We have another Christmas tradition as well: we don't exchange store-bought gifts, opting instead to just spend time with each other - whole entire days together are rare for us in the winter due to Brad's work schedule, so when we get them, we honor them. We sleep in. I drink coffee, which Brad makes for me. We go skiing. We come home and play with the dogs. We (ahem, Brad) build a big fire. We play Scrabble. We hang no lights or decorations, and the closest thing we have to a Christmas tree is the chopped pine lining the house, waiting for its turn in the stove.
It's not what I grew up doing on Christmas. It's not what Brad grew up doing on Christmas. But it's what we know and what makes us happy, so moving forward, while a part of me will always miss the weird Cavicchio family tradition of Christmas lasagna with Grandma's meatballs, it will become the right thing.
(For what it's worth, I feel similarly about weddings, though my own ended up being wonderful, mostly because my family and close friends understand and accept me for the grimpy, grinchy cynic that I am.)
That said, while I eschew gifts and church and stories about dear lord baby Jesus, there is one Christmas tradition that I love: the Christmas Tree Star commercial from Eat'n Park.
Eat'n Park is a Denny's-style restaurant chain as ubiquitous in Pittsburgh as Italian-American men in tracksuits. There are A LOT of them. Eat'n Park, while nothing special, gives me fond memories of all the phases of my adult life. As soon as my friends and I turned 16, we borrowed our parent's Jeeps and Honda Accords and drove to the franchise that bordered the next school district. We nursed weak, tepid coffees for hours, vying for the attention of the guys from Latrobe and waving off the waitresses who tried to kick us out. Later, when I was in college and home for the summers, I met my mom at the Eat'n Park near the hospital where she works, and we ate fruit salads and muffins and talked about everything. A few years after that, when my grandma developed Altzheimer's and moved to a care facility, I went once a week with my grandfather to the Eat'n Park near his house, and we ate eggs and toast and drank that same awful coffee. Some days we talked alot - one of us telling stories that sounded fantastic and improbable to the other, two generations apart - and other mornings we ate our breakfasts in a comfortable silence.
There are hints, in the paragraph above, as to the origins of my grinchiness. In case you missed them, here they are: I miss my family 365 days a year, but Christmas is especially hard. I miss my grandparents and my parents and my brother. I miss our dear family friends who are as much a part of the Cavicchio holiday as any blood relative. I miss watching Tucker, the Golden Retriever I grew up with, gaze at the christmas tree, which he typically befriended early in the holiday season and subsequently spent many hours a day admiring. I miss the party we had every Christmas Eve, for family and friends and neighbors. I miss the quirky guests who just wouldn't leave even though the wine was gone and we were doing dishes and it was nearing 1:00 am. I miss good Italian food. I miss Christmas day napping and reading. I miss skiing after Christmas, every day for the whole week, until the New Year. I miss being so close to home.
I know what you're thinking, and yes, I could go home for Christmas. Why don't you, you say? Why are you bitching about something you can change with a click of your mouse and your Visa card, you ask? Because my home is here now. Because I need to give this place a chance to matter to me like that place does. Because I don't want to be away from my husband and dogs for the holidays, even holidays I refuse to acknowledge. Because I owe it to myself and Brad to make our holidays OURS, to develop our own traditions.
And we're working on it. We try to ski every Thanksgiving, even if it's lousy snow. It sort of marks the unofficial end to climbing season and start of ski season, and it's always nice to share our first (or one of our first) ski tours of the winter with each other and our close friends. We've spent Turkey Day skiing with Matt, Ed and Mitchell, all dear friends and current and former housemates (all of whom belong in the housemate hall of fame).
And for Christmas, we're starting to establish similar traditions. We ski on Christmas morning - that much is certain. We've spent Christmas Day with the guys mentioned above, as well as with Chris and Ari and, a rare treat in the Wasatch, our two dogs. I'll never, ever forget hearing Chris, who was a fairly new skier, shout, "Can you please call off the dogs?" as he struggled to stay upright in the White (or was it Pink?) Pine area of Little Cottonwood. Arnie and Red were so excited to ski with him that they were leaping around him and in front of him and bumping into him and trying to chase him. Poor Chris didn't quite have his ski legs on, and at one point, the three of them went down in pile of fur and limbs and skis and poles. Chris emerged smiling, of course. He always did.
We have another Christmas tradition as well: we don't exchange store-bought gifts, opting instead to just spend time with each other - whole entire days together are rare for us in the winter due to Brad's work schedule, so when we get them, we honor them. We sleep in. I drink coffee, which Brad makes for me. We go skiing. We come home and play with the dogs. We (ahem, Brad) build a big fire. We play Scrabble. We hang no lights or decorations, and the closest thing we have to a Christmas tree is the chopped pine lining the house, waiting for its turn in the stove.
It's not what I grew up doing on Christmas. It's not what Brad grew up doing on Christmas. But it's what we know and what makes us happy, so moving forward, while a part of me will always miss the weird Cavicchio family tradition of Christmas lasagna with Grandma's meatballs, it will become the right thing.
12.16.2008
Inspired
I'm busy enough at work that I don't have time to browse the Internet for funny or beautiful or interesting or noteworthy things. As a "creative," though--that is, one who's responsible for developing (or, ahem, "concepting") advertising campaigns, headlines, taglines, etc.--I grant myself a few minutes a day to check out websites and blogs that inspire me in the professional realm....forgive me for not checking out your sites at work, dear readers; I like to save them until I can really read and not just look at the pictures.
While the following aren't necessarily related to writing or advertising, they are the few sites I allow myself to peruse (bonus points if you know the definition of peruse..it may not be what you think...) at work because they are so creative, so lovely, that they put me in the right frame of mind to be creative. (I know, some of them are on the blogroll to the left. That's ok; they're worth double mentions.)
Posie Gets Cozy
Anna Maria Horner
Heather Bailey
Decor8
Apartment Therapy
Print & Pattern
They all offer pretty pictures of cozy spaces, self-designed fabrics and crafts and wonderful ideas to filled creative time...finding that time is up to you, and is another story.
As I left work tonight, I was clutching a list in my hand. It said:
Library - return books and pick up holds
Blockbuster - return movie
Laundry
Playtime with the doggies
Finish fabric-scrap garland
Finish surprise knitting project for _____
Begin surprise knitting project for _____
I got through the laundry, and there's nothing left. I have plans for an early, early run with a friend, am still shaky from a lunchtime workout with another friend and have to fold a mountain of (finally) clean clothes.
Check out those sites, though. They're like tea in a window seat on a cold, rainy afternoon.
While the following aren't necessarily related to writing or advertising, they are the few sites I allow myself to peruse (bonus points if you know the definition of peruse..it may not be what you think...) at work because they are so creative, so lovely, that they put me in the right frame of mind to be creative. (I know, some of them are on the blogroll to the left. That's ok; they're worth double mentions.)
Posie Gets Cozy
Anna Maria Horner
Heather Bailey
Decor8
Apartment Therapy
Print & Pattern
They all offer pretty pictures of cozy spaces, self-designed fabrics and crafts and wonderful ideas to filled creative time...finding that time is up to you, and is another story.
As I left work tonight, I was clutching a list in my hand. It said:
Library - return books and pick up holds
Blockbuster - return movie
Laundry
Playtime with the doggies
Finish fabric-scrap garland
Finish surprise knitting project for _____
Begin surprise knitting project for _____
I got through the laundry, and there's nothing left. I have plans for an early, early run with a friend, am still shaky from a lunchtime workout with another friend and have to fold a mountain of (finally) clean clothes.
Check out those sites, though. They're like tea in a window seat on a cold, rainy afternoon.
12.14.2008
Warm and Cozy
I am a lousy firestarter.
We heat with wood, so this is a problem.
After ski touring today, I came home wanting to cuddle the dogs and watch a movie and maybe take a nap, but there is no comfort in doing so next to a cold, dark woodstove.
My poor husband was at a ski demo all day and a clinic this evening, so for him to come home to a cold, dark house would be terribly unfair. I have to figure out why this wood won't catch (it's dry, pitchy pine; it's charring without burning makes no sense) before he comes home.
That said, it's pretty comfortable here on the couch, Arnie on one side, Red on the other. Their warm furry bodies making a dent in the cold. We're watching the Namesake, based on the book of the same name, one of my favorites. It was originally a short story, which the author, the brilliant Jhumpa Lahiri, expanded into her second book. If you haven't read her stuff, I permit you to stop reading my blog for the time it takes you to track it down. Then you have to come back.
That's all I have for you tonight. I'm happy, very content with two fun days in the mountains, and it's hard to write when I'm happy. It's easy to upload videos of singing muppets, but it's hard to write in a voice I like. It sounds, to me, too braggy or inauthentic. I'm going to work on it, but now, I'm going to try to light another fire.
We heat with wood, so this is a problem.
After ski touring today, I came home wanting to cuddle the dogs and watch a movie and maybe take a nap, but there is no comfort in doing so next to a cold, dark woodstove.
My poor husband was at a ski demo all day and a clinic this evening, so for him to come home to a cold, dark house would be terribly unfair. I have to figure out why this wood won't catch (it's dry, pitchy pine; it's charring without burning makes no sense) before he comes home.
That said, it's pretty comfortable here on the couch, Arnie on one side, Red on the other. Their warm furry bodies making a dent in the cold. We're watching the Namesake, based on the book of the same name, one of my favorites. It was originally a short story, which the author, the brilliant Jhumpa Lahiri, expanded into her second book. If you haven't read her stuff, I permit you to stop reading my blog for the time it takes you to track it down. Then you have to come back.
That's all I have for you tonight. I'm happy, very content with two fun days in the mountains, and it's hard to write when I'm happy. It's easy to upload videos of singing muppets, but it's hard to write in a voice I like. It sounds, to me, too braggy or inauthentic. I'm going to work on it, but now, I'm going to try to light another fire.
12.10.2008
In the past month...
I've submitted an essay to NPR's This I Believe and two poems to the New Yorker.
Chances so small you need a microscope to see them, but it makes it exciting to check my email every morning.
I'll post all three here, at some point, but for now, this - an old favorite from Robert Bly:
The Face in the Toyota
Suppose you see a face in a Toyota
One day, and you fall in love with that face,
And it is Her, and the world rushes by
Like dust blown down a Montana street.
And you fall upward into some deep hole
And you can't tell God from some grain of sand.
And your life is changed, except that now you
Overlook even more than you did before;
And these ignored things come to bury you,
And you are crushed, and your parents
Can't help anymore, and the woman in the Toyota
Becomes a part of the world that you don't see.
And now the grain of sand becomes sand again,
And you stand on some mountain road weeping.
-Robert Bly
Chances so small you need a microscope to see them, but it makes it exciting to check my email every morning.
I'll post all three here, at some point, but for now, this - an old favorite from Robert Bly:
The Face in the Toyota
Suppose you see a face in a Toyota
One day, and you fall in love with that face,
And it is Her, and the world rushes by
Like dust blown down a Montana street.
And you fall upward into some deep hole
And you can't tell God from some grain of sand.
And your life is changed, except that now you
Overlook even more than you did before;
And these ignored things come to bury you,
And you are crushed, and your parents
Can't help anymore, and the woman in the Toyota
Becomes a part of the world that you don't see.
And now the grain of sand becomes sand again,
And you stand on some mountain road weeping.
-Robert Bly
12.04.2008
Live the Questions and Watch More Muppets
My hair isn't all THAT awful. Thank you for your concern (Lisagh, I am truly laughing about the whole thing now...thanks for reminding me to do so). As you all reminded me, there are millions of reasons to smile.
Like this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EDFgtFXfnv0&feature=related
And this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xpcUxwpOQ_A&feature=related
And, my all-time favorite, this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OCbuRA_D3KU&feature=related
I mean, with the hats and sweaters? Please. What could be funnier?
...
It's Rilke's birthday, and despite his being a skeevy lothario who preyed on rich old women, he wielded a hell of a quill. We have him to thank for Letters to a Young Poet, which popularized the idea of "the journey is the destination." Here's an excerpt, courtesy of The Writer's Almanac:
"You are so young, so before all beginning, and I want to beg you, as much as I can, dear sir, to be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now."
Like this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EDFgtFXfnv0&feature=related
And this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xpcUxwpOQ_A&feature=related
And, my all-time favorite, this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OCbuRA_D3KU&feature=related
I mean, with the hats and sweaters? Please. What could be funnier?
...
It's Rilke's birthday, and despite his being a skeevy lothario who preyed on rich old women, he wielded a hell of a quill. We have him to thank for Letters to a Young Poet, which popularized the idea of "the journey is the destination." Here's an excerpt, courtesy of The Writer's Almanac:
"You are so young, so before all beginning, and I want to beg you, as much as I can, dear sir, to be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now."
12.03.2008
I Used Real Butter.
My hair has been a dried-out nest of split ends for about 3 weeks, and tonight I made the time to get it cut. Even though I know better (I've been burned before), I decided to go to one of those cheap, chain haircutting places; I just didn't have the energy to make an appointment. Of course, the cheap, chain haircutting place could fit me in right away.
Note to self: Never trust a service professional who isn't booked at lease a month out.
The girl who cut my hair had highlights so variegated she looked like a goddamn parrot. Regardless, I was desperate, and I thought (erroniously it turns out), "How hard can it be to trim straight hair?"
Note to self: You are an idiot.
I now have two levels of hair - one to my shoulders, the other to my ears. I look like a topiary. I have a shelf on my head.
I came home raging, in tears, upset about the bad haircut but mostly mad at myself for willingly entering this situation.
I wanted to call up Rainbow Brite and tell her that if I did my job as badly as she had just done hers, people would die. That's not true, but I'd say it anyway. And I wanted to tell her to keep the $16 I'd spent to look like a quaker with a mullet, because she obviously needed it for beauty school.
But then I thought, "oh my god, it was $16 and she stands on her feet all day cutting the hair of people who probably ignore her, and really, I feel sorry for her."
I'm still pissed off about my hair - it's so bad I'm going to have to get it cut again just to undo the damage - but I'm over my anger at the cockatoo. She can't help it, she was probably blinded by chemicals from her striped hair leaching into her scalp.
....
After the storm of fury (and many, many minutes spent petting the dogs and listening to Brad tell me, "it's reall not that bad"), I started to think about dinner. Being all wound up, I was seeking comfort food, and the thing I've been wanting most lately is the old Italian staple of peppers and eggs.
Thinking of my little Grama, who was always, always cooking, and who made the most delicious peppers and eggs in the world, I passed over the olive oil for butter - her pan grease of choice.
I sauteed the onions the peppers in bubbly, hot butter, then poured in the whisked eggs and stirred. I ate them with toast and more butter (I guess I'm on a kick), and temporarily forgot about how my now head resembles a toadstool.
Jen is right. It's best to use real butter.
Note to self: Never trust a service professional who isn't booked at lease a month out.
The girl who cut my hair had highlights so variegated she looked like a goddamn parrot. Regardless, I was desperate, and I thought (erroniously it turns out), "How hard can it be to trim straight hair?"
Note to self: You are an idiot.
I now have two levels of hair - one to my shoulders, the other to my ears. I look like a topiary. I have a shelf on my head.
I came home raging, in tears, upset about the bad haircut but mostly mad at myself for willingly entering this situation.
I wanted to call up Rainbow Brite and tell her that if I did my job as badly as she had just done hers, people would die. That's not true, but I'd say it anyway. And I wanted to tell her to keep the $16 I'd spent to look like a quaker with a mullet, because she obviously needed it for beauty school.
But then I thought, "oh my god, it was $16 and she stands on her feet all day cutting the hair of people who probably ignore her, and really, I feel sorry for her."
I'm still pissed off about my hair - it's so bad I'm going to have to get it cut again just to undo the damage - but I'm over my anger at the cockatoo. She can't help it, she was probably blinded by chemicals from her striped hair leaching into her scalp.
....
After the storm of fury (and many, many minutes spent petting the dogs and listening to Brad tell me, "it's reall not that bad"), I started to think about dinner. Being all wound up, I was seeking comfort food, and the thing I've been wanting most lately is the old Italian staple of peppers and eggs.
Thinking of my little Grama, who was always, always cooking, and who made the most delicious peppers and eggs in the world, I passed over the olive oil for butter - her pan grease of choice.
I sauteed the onions the peppers in bubbly, hot butter, then poured in the whisked eggs and stirred. I ate them with toast and more butter (I guess I'm on a kick), and temporarily forgot about how my now head resembles a toadstool.
Jen is right. It's best to use real butter.
12.02.2008
Skiing Makes Us Happy
The next post (or last post, depending on what order you're going in) is long with no pictures, so here's one to make things more interesting.
From our Thanksgiving Day ski tour - short but fun, around Alta. Our housemate, Matt Turley, was with us and took the photo. As you can see, he's very good at what he does.
Thankful
This Thanksgiving was one to remember. We didn't take an epic trip or cook an amazing meal (I know better than to even talk about cooking with the likes of Cindy and Jen whisking around the web); we just hung out. Just the two of us (four if you count Arnie and Red, 16 if you count by paw...) with no agenda.
We skied a little bit, climbed a little bit, played a ton of Scrabble (I lost 4 games in a row, but my prowess has since returned), watched movies by the fire, ate tomato soup and simple vegetarian food (very satiating when I thought about all the turkeys being slaughtered) and knitted. I rode a motorcycle for the first time (and loved it, though that's another post), caught up on The New Yorker and made a dent in the stack of Suns that have been taunting me for months.
I opened old books of poetry and was reminded how words, strung together in particular ways, can stop my heart. And I think part of the reason I love poetry so much, partly why I will always select a collection of poems over non-fiction or a novel, is that it welcomes emotionial reactions.
...
The four men who wrote five of my favorite poems seem prone to those dramatics. The Embrace, by Mark Doty; The Face in the Toyota, by Robert Bly; Home Again and On Turning Ten by Billy Collins; and Touch Me, by Stanley Kunitz. Similar in form and tone, similar, even, in subject matter, these five poems affect me the same way every time I read them, no matter how often I read them.
And I think of these four men when I watch my husband, whom I love and adore more every day, react coolly and smoothly to unexpected situations. His ability to deal never fails to leave me awestruck. While I throw myself on our bed, in tears and hysterics, complaining that the world is falling apart and lamenting everything from the condition of the economy to not having enough time to take Arnie for a proper run (and in my mind, those two are given equal weight), he rubs my back and tells me that everything is going to be ok, that everything will work out, that there’s no need to worry.
And in those moments, I'm grateful for the men who write the poems I love, but I'm far, far more grateful for Brad, who is so unlike them and me, who can read a poem and find it nice, but not internalize it, not take it on as his own. It's a skill I'll never, ever have, but it's something I need to be close to, because it helps me make it through each day. He is rock, not river, touchstone, not flame. Without him, I'd be reduced to tears by the sight of the front page, by every report on NPR, by the thought of Arnie growing older, by the uncertainty of the future.
...
Sometimes I wonder why people suggest I read particular books. What in those pages makes them think of me? And what in me makes a certain character smack familiar?
It happens all the time. More than, “Oh, this was a good book, you should read it,” people seek me out and say, “I thought about you as I read this.” And I’ll smile and accept the recommendation or, sometimes, the book itself, and as I start reading, I'll think, “What? Why?” Because often, I see no connection. Often, I don’t like the book or main character, and I'll feel a bit awkward and confused about the whole thing.
But then, sometimes I read something that I want everyone to read. Something like a Billy Collins poem. Something equal parts light and dark, something that stops me, that sees me there at my desk, shaking my head in amazement that people can write openly, so well. And in those times I don’t stop to wonder why I want to share this thing, I just want to share it. I want everyone I know to feel as jarred into presence as I was by those words. Today was one of those times. I came across the poetry of Maria Mazzioti Gillan, and I couldn't stop reading it.
I couldn't wait to get home and post it here, so you could read it, too. It resonated so strongly for me, was so familiar, was so heartwarming...but then it occurred to me that without a little Italian American grandmother and an upbringing in a city of industry for reference, these poems might mean nothing. And I realized then that even if they fall on deaf ears, even if you look them over and say, "yeah, they're ok," I still needed to share them; I still wanted you to have the opportunity to see them for yourself. I'll start with this one:
AFTER SCHOOL ON ORDINARY DAYS - Maria Mazzioti Gillan
After school on ordinary days we listened
To The Shadow and The Lone Ranger
As we gathered around the tabletop radio
that was always kept on the china cabinet
built into the wall in that tenement kitchen,
a china cabinet that held no china, exceptcups and saucers,
thick and white and utilitarian, poor people’s cups
from the 5&10 cents store.
My mother was always home from Ferraro’s Coat factory
by the time we walked in the door
after school on ordinary days,and she’d give us milk with Bosco in it
and cookies she’d made that weekend.
The three of us would crowd around the radio,
listening to the voices that brought a wider world
into our Paterson apartment. Later
we’d have supper at the kitchen table,
the house loud with our arguments and laughter.
After supper on ordinarydays, our homework finished,
we’d play monopoly or gin rummy, the kitchen
warmed by the huge coal stove, the wind
outside rattling the loose old windows,
we inside, tucked in, warm and together,
on ordinary days that we didn’t know
until we looked back across a distance
of forty years would glow and shimmer
in memory’s flickering light.
We skied a little bit, climbed a little bit, played a ton of Scrabble (I lost 4 games in a row, but my prowess has since returned), watched movies by the fire, ate tomato soup and simple vegetarian food (very satiating when I thought about all the turkeys being slaughtered) and knitted. I rode a motorcycle for the first time (and loved it, though that's another post), caught up on The New Yorker and made a dent in the stack of Suns that have been taunting me for months.
I opened old books of poetry and was reminded how words, strung together in particular ways, can stop my heart. And I think part of the reason I love poetry so much, partly why I will always select a collection of poems over non-fiction or a novel, is that it welcomes emotionial reactions.
...
The four men who wrote five of my favorite poems seem prone to those dramatics. The Embrace, by Mark Doty; The Face in the Toyota, by Robert Bly; Home Again and On Turning Ten by Billy Collins; and Touch Me, by Stanley Kunitz. Similar in form and tone, similar, even, in subject matter, these five poems affect me the same way every time I read them, no matter how often I read them.
And I think of these four men when I watch my husband, whom I love and adore more every day, react coolly and smoothly to unexpected situations. His ability to deal never fails to leave me awestruck. While I throw myself on our bed, in tears and hysterics, complaining that the world is falling apart and lamenting everything from the condition of the economy to not having enough time to take Arnie for a proper run (and in my mind, those two are given equal weight), he rubs my back and tells me that everything is going to be ok, that everything will work out, that there’s no need to worry.
And in those moments, I'm grateful for the men who write the poems I love, but I'm far, far more grateful for Brad, who is so unlike them and me, who can read a poem and find it nice, but not internalize it, not take it on as his own. It's a skill I'll never, ever have, but it's something I need to be close to, because it helps me make it through each day. He is rock, not river, touchstone, not flame. Without him, I'd be reduced to tears by the sight of the front page, by every report on NPR, by the thought of Arnie growing older, by the uncertainty of the future.
...
Sometimes I wonder why people suggest I read particular books. What in those pages makes them think of me? And what in me makes a certain character smack familiar?
It happens all the time. More than, “Oh, this was a good book, you should read it,” people seek me out and say, “I thought about you as I read this.” And I’ll smile and accept the recommendation or, sometimes, the book itself, and as I start reading, I'll think, “What? Why?” Because often, I see no connection. Often, I don’t like the book or main character, and I'll feel a bit awkward and confused about the whole thing.
But then, sometimes I read something that I want everyone to read. Something like a Billy Collins poem. Something equal parts light and dark, something that stops me, that sees me there at my desk, shaking my head in amazement that people can write openly, so well. And in those times I don’t stop to wonder why I want to share this thing, I just want to share it. I want everyone I know to feel as jarred into presence as I was by those words. Today was one of those times. I came across the poetry of Maria Mazzioti Gillan, and I couldn't stop reading it.
I couldn't wait to get home and post it here, so you could read it, too. It resonated so strongly for me, was so familiar, was so heartwarming...but then it occurred to me that without a little Italian American grandmother and an upbringing in a city of industry for reference, these poems might mean nothing. And I realized then that even if they fall on deaf ears, even if you look them over and say, "yeah, they're ok," I still needed to share them; I still wanted you to have the opportunity to see them for yourself. I'll start with this one:
AFTER SCHOOL ON ORDINARY DAYS - Maria Mazzioti Gillan
After school on ordinary days we listened
To The Shadow and The Lone Ranger
As we gathered around the tabletop radio
that was always kept on the china cabinet
built into the wall in that tenement kitchen,
a china cabinet that held no china, exceptcups and saucers,
thick and white and utilitarian, poor people’s cups
from the 5&10 cents store.
My mother was always home from Ferraro’s Coat factory
by the time we walked in the door
after school on ordinary days,and she’d give us milk with Bosco in it
and cookies she’d made that weekend.
The three of us would crowd around the radio,
listening to the voices that brought a wider world
into our Paterson apartment. Later
we’d have supper at the kitchen table,
the house loud with our arguments and laughter.
After supper on ordinarydays, our homework finished,
we’d play monopoly or gin rummy, the kitchen
warmed by the huge coal stove, the wind
outside rattling the loose old windows,
we inside, tucked in, warm and together,
on ordinary days that we didn’t know
until we looked back across a distance
of forty years would glow and shimmer
in memory’s flickering light.
11.25.2008
Oh Deer.
It's been 20 days since my last post. Longest lapse ever, I think.
Here's why:
sad feelings of failure
avoiding my own thoughts and, thus, blogging
new job
very busy
happy Katie
I began a real post today; I'll finish it up tomorrow and have something new for you then.
Sorry for the lapse. Love you all.
Here's why:
sad feelings of failure
avoiding my own thoughts and, thus, blogging
new job
very busy
happy Katie
I began a real post today; I'll finish it up tomorrow and have something new for you then.
Sorry for the lapse. Love you all.
11.05.2008
Always Amazing
I went to bed to a cold rain on a hopeful nation, and woke up to five inches of snow and a new American leader.
Now, hours later, having run four miles through shin-deep powder behind a happy Arnie, I am watching the snow continue to fall. Eight inches now, in the back yard, and I'm quietly amazed. Relieved.
The first snow of the season never fails to drop my shoulders a little, to make me see things more simply, and today was no exception.
Tomorrow morning I'll wake up early and skin up Alta with a couple friends. It'll burn my lungs and my legs will be jelly by the time I'm back in the valley, but it will be worth it.
It's not officially ski season yet - we have several more climbing trips planned before we really embrace winter sports - but this will be a good taste of what's to come.
We're heading south - Vegas and Saint George and Zion - for Turkey Day, and I'm looking into Mexican getaways for Christmas. I don't have real hopes for getting Brad to the beach for Christmas, but it's fun to imagine.
And somehow, while imagining, I'm unspeakably fit and riding an 8-foot board. In reality, I'm not, and the only surf board I ever stood up on was so big I couldn't even carry it by myself.
Now, hours later, having run four miles through shin-deep powder behind a happy Arnie, I am watching the snow continue to fall. Eight inches now, in the back yard, and I'm quietly amazed. Relieved.
The first snow of the season never fails to drop my shoulders a little, to make me see things more simply, and today was no exception.
Tomorrow morning I'll wake up early and skin up Alta with a couple friends. It'll burn my lungs and my legs will be jelly by the time I'm back in the valley, but it will be worth it.
It's not officially ski season yet - we have several more climbing trips planned before we really embrace winter sports - but this will be a good taste of what's to come.
We're heading south - Vegas and Saint George and Zion - for Turkey Day, and I'm looking into Mexican getaways for Christmas. I don't have real hopes for getting Brad to the beach for Christmas, but it's fun to imagine.
And somehow, while imagining, I'm unspeakably fit and riding an 8-foot board. In reality, I'm not, and the only surf board I ever stood up on was so big I couldn't even carry it by myself.
Today I Am....
Still unemployed (any one need an editor, writer, PR maven, brand strategist or fashion consultant?),
Still nervous and unhappy about that,
Still unsure about how to make money and what to be when I grow up,
Still tired from staying up too late,
But...
THRILLED by the election results,
PROUD of this nation,
EXCITED by the change that's sure to come,
HAPPY to raise a dog under the new administration - think of the opportunities available to him!
And happy that there are five inches of snow on the ground and it's still dumping!
Here I am watching the election results at Lizzie's house. Note how excited Arnie and Moxie (serving as Arnie's pillow) are. They can hardly contain themselves.
Still nervous and unhappy about that,
Still unsure about how to make money and what to be when I grow up,
Still tired from staying up too late,
But...
THRILLED by the election results,
PROUD of this nation,
EXCITED by the change that's sure to come,
HAPPY to raise a dog under the new administration - think of the opportunities available to him!
And happy that there are five inches of snow on the ground and it's still dumping!
Here I am watching the election results at Lizzie's house. Note how excited Arnie and Moxie (serving as Arnie's pillow) are. They can hardly contain themselves.
11.04.2008
Today I Will...
Go running,
Dress up fancy and
Go to a job interview,
Go climbing with the ladies,
Play with Arnie in the mountains,
Go to yoga,
Clean my house,
Vacuum up the dog hair in my car and
NOT check the internet every five minutes to see what's happening with, well, the donkey in the room, because I VOTED and can only vote once and there's no reason to fret over things I can't change.
So goodbye till tomorrow. Fingers crossed.
And JUST IN CASE you're still undecided (who the hell are you people?) here's something to sway your opinion in the right direction:
Dress up fancy and
Go to a job interview,
Go climbing with the ladies,
Play with Arnie in the mountains,
Go to yoga,
Clean my house,
Vacuum up the dog hair in my car and
NOT check the internet every five minutes to see what's happening with, well, the donkey in the room, because I VOTED and can only vote once and there's no reason to fret over things I can't change.
So goodbye till tomorrow. Fingers crossed.
And JUST IN CASE you're still undecided (who the hell are you people?) here's something to sway your opinion in the right direction:
10.31.2008
Praise for the things we know
I know that it's sad to follow someone out of yoga class when, even after 90 minutes on the mat, their shoulders remain visibly tense, their necks strained. I know that sometimes I can see that pain, even though they smile and talk more loudly at my look of concern. Those times, seeing people in such deep struggle, I want to touch their arms and say, "You can stop. You can release completely and the world will still go on. Nothing is going to crash onto your shoulders." And I know I want to do this because sometimes I need someone to do it for me.
I know that listening to live music gives me a sense of community. It takes me back to Sunday nights in State College, to a monthly singer/songwriter series that brought the likes of John Gorka, Dar Williams and Catie Curtis to town. What I loved about those nights - what remains with me even now, as I listen to recorded music on a rainy night in a city far away from State College - was that everyone's hearts were in the same place. Everyone in that beautiful room - all exposed beams and floor to ceiling windows and the Rothrock State Forest beyond - was smiling and warm, and everyone left those shows intending to pour light into the world*.
*The idea of pouring light into the world is something I can't claim but keep close. It came to me from Rumi's One Song, which I've heard and seen on the radio, in yoga class, on a friend's website and in an old birthday card in the past few days. Thank you, universe. I got your message, and now I'm passing it on.
One Song, written in the mid-13th century, is so appropriate for our time that reading it stops my breath, even though I know it by heart, even though I know what's coming. It's so simple, to praise, without the stigma of Prayer as we see it now, political and inaccessible. But to praise - to honor and thank and recognize...why are we not doing that all the time? Why am I not doing that all the time?
One Song
What is praised is one, so the praise is one too,
many jugs being poured
into a huge basin. All religions, all this singing,
one song.
The differences are just illusion and vanity. Sunlight
looks slightly different
on this wall than it does on that wall and a lot different
on this other one, but
it is still one light. We have borrowed these clothes, these
time-and-space personalities,
from a light, and when we praise, we pour them back in.
I know that listening to live music gives me a sense of community. It takes me back to Sunday nights in State College, to a monthly singer/songwriter series that brought the likes of John Gorka, Dar Williams and Catie Curtis to town. What I loved about those nights - what remains with me even now, as I listen to recorded music on a rainy night in a city far away from State College - was that everyone's hearts were in the same place. Everyone in that beautiful room - all exposed beams and floor to ceiling windows and the Rothrock State Forest beyond - was smiling and warm, and everyone left those shows intending to pour light into the world*.
*The idea of pouring light into the world is something I can't claim but keep close. It came to me from Rumi's One Song, which I've heard and seen on the radio, in yoga class, on a friend's website and in an old birthday card in the past few days. Thank you, universe. I got your message, and now I'm passing it on.
One Song, written in the mid-13th century, is so appropriate for our time that reading it stops my breath, even though I know it by heart, even though I know what's coming. It's so simple, to praise, without the stigma of Prayer as we see it now, political and inaccessible. But to praise - to honor and thank and recognize...why are we not doing that all the time? Why am I not doing that all the time?
One Song
What is praised is one, so the praise is one too,
many jugs being poured
into a huge basin. All religions, all this singing,
one song.
The differences are just illusion and vanity. Sunlight
looks slightly different
on this wall than it does on that wall and a lot different
on this other one, but
it is still one light. We have borrowed these clothes, these
time-and-space personalities,
from a light, and when we praise, we pour them back in.
10.30.2008
10.28.2008
Oh I'd, I'd Drive All Niiiiiight Again, Just to Vote for Obama...
If Bruce Springsteen, the Dead, Jimmy Buffett* (forgive me, but come on! Some of his songs are really sweet!), James Taylor and Jay-Z ALL like Obama well, hell, then I do, too.
Ok, so I've liked him all along. But still - the Boss? Who could vote against the Boss?
Well, maybe the three friends I went to Mexico with shortly after purchasing the Essential Bruce Springsteen collection (two cds plus bonus disc!). I was a little obnoxious interrupting all their important sunbathing to recite the authentic American poetry of the kid from Jersey.
Whatever. They were listening to, like, Shakira.
Of course, if she were eligible to vote, I'm pretty sure she's vote for Obama, too.
* And I know, I know, that I'm the first to mock the pasty bloated frat boys who don grass skirts and get shitcanned for Buffett shows. Of course I do. They're ridiculous. But that doesn't change the fact that "A Pirate Looks at 40" is a beautiful song. Don't hate the Jimmy, hate the fans.
Ok, so I've liked him all along. But still - the Boss? Who could vote against the Boss?
Well, maybe the three friends I went to Mexico with shortly after purchasing the Essential Bruce Springsteen collection (two cds plus bonus disc!). I was a little obnoxious interrupting all their important sunbathing to recite the authentic American poetry of the kid from Jersey.
Whatever. They were listening to, like, Shakira.
Of course, if she were eligible to vote, I'm pretty sure she's vote for Obama, too.
* And I know, I know, that I'm the first to mock the pasty bloated frat boys who don grass skirts and get shitcanned for Buffett shows. Of course I do. They're ridiculous. But that doesn't change the fact that "A Pirate Looks at 40" is a beautiful song. Don't hate the Jimmy, hate the fans.
10.24.2008
Boulderer's Mind, Beginner's Mind
Fall off the starting moves, get back on. Fall off the starting moves, get back on. Fall off the starting moves, get back on.
Bouldering in Little Cottonwood Canyon a few days ago with one new friend and two old ones, I felt the peace of Beginner's Mind, or Shoshin.
As I landed on the crash pad one then two then five then eight times, I realized that the climber I was before didn't matter. The climber I'd be later didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was left hand on the sidepull, right hand on the undercling, push off right foot, flag left foot.
Later that day, in a yoga with a teacher I didn't know, I eased into the first downward dog of the practice and at once my body complained and my mind drifted from the mat: Tight hamstrings, achy shoulders, sore wrists, stiff neck, too tired, really hungry, I hate this halter, I wish I had a headband, I wonder if Lululemon is coming out with petite pants anytime soon, I should figure out what I want to do with my life, like, what do I really want to do....
Then the teacher mentioned the Muladhara (root) chakra (signified by the color red, by a square, by grounding and stability) and as soon as I heard those words, I was back on this earth in the room on the mat, and I was present again. The only thing that mattered was that moment that stretch that release. Yogi's mind, beginner's mind.
It's all connected.
Bouldering in Little Cottonwood Canyon a few days ago with one new friend and two old ones, I felt the peace of Beginner's Mind, or Shoshin.
As I landed on the crash pad one then two then five then eight times, I realized that the climber I was before didn't matter. The climber I'd be later didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was left hand on the sidepull, right hand on the undercling, push off right foot, flag left foot.
Later that day, in a yoga with a teacher I didn't know, I eased into the first downward dog of the practice and at once my body complained and my mind drifted from the mat: Tight hamstrings, achy shoulders, sore wrists, stiff neck, too tired, really hungry, I hate this halter, I wish I had a headband, I wonder if Lululemon is coming out with petite pants anytime soon, I should figure out what I want to do with my life, like, what do I really want to do....
Then the teacher mentioned the Muladhara (root) chakra (signified by the color red, by a square, by grounding and stability) and as soon as I heard those words, I was back on this earth in the room on the mat, and I was present again. The only thing that mattered was that moment that stretch that release. Yogi's mind, beginner's mind.
It's all connected.
10.21.2008
A Toast.
Here's to Brad, who knows how much I love NPR's, "the PuzzleMaster Presents," and reminded me, on Saturday morning, when to listen.
Here's to Sarah Tomson Beyer, whose FlowMotion workshop on Sunday reminded me that yoga is everything; like a zoomed-in photograph, yoga magnifies the beautiful, the flawed, the easy and the hard. It sees through the facade to the bones - who you are, why you're there and where you need to go.
Here's to Nicole and Paul for letting me tag along to Hellgate. It was a big group at a small crag and it reminded me why I started climbing in the first place - to spend time with friends and enjoy autumn afternoons and climb a bunch of routes and come home tired and hungry and looking for socks and a sweater and a movie and a glass of wine. It was one of the best days of climbing I've had in a long time.
Here's to Jami Larsen, who opened her yoga class this morning with this quote from the president of India, Pratibha Patil. I'm paraphrasing here, but it was something about how, in these times, when fear and concern are so pervasive, we should look to the great and peaceful leaders - past and present - for guidance. She's a smarty-pants, that Pratibha.
Here's to NederJen for being so kind.
Here's to Cindy, who posted this beautiful passage - from a Buddhist wedding ceremony - on her blog.
And here's to Marit, who gave me the inspiration for this post.
Here's to Sarah Tomson Beyer, whose FlowMotion workshop on Sunday reminded me that yoga is everything; like a zoomed-in photograph, yoga magnifies the beautiful, the flawed, the easy and the hard. It sees through the facade to the bones - who you are, why you're there and where you need to go.
Here's to Nicole and Paul for letting me tag along to Hellgate. It was a big group at a small crag and it reminded me why I started climbing in the first place - to spend time with friends and enjoy autumn afternoons and climb a bunch of routes and come home tired and hungry and looking for socks and a sweater and a movie and a glass of wine. It was one of the best days of climbing I've had in a long time.
Here's to Jami Larsen, who opened her yoga class this morning with this quote from the president of India, Pratibha Patil. I'm paraphrasing here, but it was something about how, in these times, when fear and concern are so pervasive, we should look to the great and peaceful leaders - past and present - for guidance. She's a smarty-pants, that Pratibha.
Here's to NederJen for being so kind.
Here's to Cindy, who posted this beautiful passage - from a Buddhist wedding ceremony - on her blog.
I will not die an unlived life.
I choose to inhabit my days fully to allow my
living to open me, to make me less afraid,
more accessible, and to loosen my heart so I
may feel all joy and all pain from within and
without. I choose to live in humility,
gratitude, and vulnerability so all that comes
to me as a seed goes to the next as a blossom,
and all that comes to me as a blossom
goes to the next as a fruit.
And here's to Marit, who gave me the inspiration for this post.
10.20.2008
Safe, prosperous and free
Even the yogic hip hop artists (ok, artist) are voting for the Man. Check it out.
10.17.2008
My Brother was totally right*
Cindy McCain does look like Skeletor.
Observe:
Here's Cindy, beer heiress and would-be (but not gonna be) first lady.
And here's Skeletor, a muscular humanoid with a yellowish bone cranium.
Creepy.
* I'm still working hard to abide by Thumper's Rule. I'm simply repeating what my brother said. So this snarkiness doesn't count. In my mind, at least.
Observe:
Here's Cindy, beer heiress and would-be (but not gonna be) first lady.
And here's Skeletor, a muscular humanoid with a yellowish bone cranium.
Creepy.
* I'm still working hard to abide by Thumper's Rule. I'm simply repeating what my brother said. So this snarkiness doesn't count. In my mind, at least.
10.14.2008
Smith Barney? Bunch of Bitches.
It's hard to come up with goals; apparently I'm not a self-starter.
(Reminds me of the classic Chris Farley news anchor skit: "I'm not "hygenic." I don't "smell good." That being second only to the Matt Foley skit - below - in terms of funny.)
But back to my goal-setting dilemma.
In recent years, the only goals I've set have been athletic - running and climbing-related. That's fine, I guess, but what happens with those is that I either achieve them or I don't, and nothing changes about me, about who I am. I've either climbed something or I haven't, and neither result makes me a better (or worse) person (though I always feel like the harder I climb, the better - and more worthy - a person I am, but that's crazy-talk that I'm not going to address).
So now it's time for something real. God knows I have a lot of emotional stuff to work on, and thanks to my darling bloggie friends for their kind words and good ideas on how to get through it.
1. Be nicer, by which I mean, don't be bitchy (even to people who are better looking/more athletic/smarter/more talented than me). Don't do it.
2. Think more. Like, really put some thought into the things I say, do, buy, eat, use. As far as I'm concerned, this is it - one shot, just like Eminem says - so why waste it?
Argh. These are vague and lame. I'm still thinking. In the meantime, and in keeping with our nation's economic concerns, I'll share this important PSA from our friendly fund mangers at the Wu-Tang Clan.
(Reminds me of the classic Chris Farley news anchor skit: "I'm not "hygenic." I don't "smell good." That being second only to the Matt Foley skit - below - in terms of funny.)
But back to my goal-setting dilemma.
In recent years, the only goals I've set have been athletic - running and climbing-related. That's fine, I guess, but what happens with those is that I either achieve them or I don't, and nothing changes about me, about who I am. I've either climbed something or I haven't, and neither result makes me a better (or worse) person (though I always feel like the harder I climb, the better - and more worthy - a person I am, but that's crazy-talk that I'm not going to address).
So now it's time for something real. God knows I have a lot of emotional stuff to work on, and thanks to my darling bloggie friends for their kind words and good ideas on how to get through it.
1. Be nicer, by which I mean, don't be bitchy (even to people who are better looking/more athletic/smarter/more talented than me). Don't do it.
2. Think more. Like, really put some thought into the things I say, do, buy, eat, use. As far as I'm concerned, this is it - one shot, just like Eminem says - so why waste it?
Argh. These are vague and lame. I'm still thinking. In the meantime, and in keeping with our nation's economic concerns, I'll share this important PSA from our friendly fund mangers at the Wu-Tang Clan.
10.12.2008
Full Disclosure and the Concious Shift to Thumper's Rule
It's a down-tempo Sunday for us. Brad and I are both kind of achy and fighting colds; we're run down following a climbing event in Indian Creek (I've been away for nearly 2 weeks, hence the lack of posts).
So we've lit a fire (it's been snowing since Friday night) and are taking it easy. The dogs don't seem to mind, as they're also exhausted, dreaming and sighing at my feet.
While in the desert - with no phone or email or distraction - I thought back to my first time there, down that stretch of highway 211 toward Canyonlands, and finally acknowledged what I've been ignoring.
It's been a tough few months. Year. Couple years.
I can't actually calculate how long, but Brad's been around for much of it, and I know it can't be easy on him. I've lost my fire and spark and charm and psyche. I don't have a plan or any goals, and I'm tired of feeling mediocre all the time.
I don't know what to do, what my next steps should be. I feel guilty for being so extravagant - it's not lost on me that it's a fucking luxury to whine about feeling sad and not being skinny when I have friends battling cancer and losing loved ones. But if I could just snap out of this, I would, and I'd drench myself in the vibrance I used to have - the vitality that has seen me through everything good.
But I can't. I've tried switching meds all around and having my thyroid checked and changing my diet and getting more exercise and taking more rest days, and this summer was the worst yet. I looked up the other day and realized that it's the middle of October, again, and nothing has changed. I'm still unsure of myself, I still don't know what I want to do with my life, I still feel unremarkable and lame.
Sigh.
And of course it's not all bad. Certain things - walking Arnie, playing Scrabble with Brad, cooking, yoga, dance - give me joy. An hour ago, Brad and I walked the dogs to a nearby park to let them run amok, and on the way, passed a house with a bunch of those enormous, blow-up halloween lawn decorations (a giant tarantula, a ghost, a Homer Simpson dressed as a skeleton - huh?). Arnie wasn't sure what they were, so he crouched very low and crept up to them. After a few air sniffs, he moved in for closer investigation, accidentally bumping the tarantula's leg with his snoot. The resulting tumult saw Arnie hiding behind my legs, actively avoiding eye contact with the oversized nylon tarantula and his brother, Red Dog, who was almost-but-not-really rolling his eyes in embarrassment.
I need to set more goals and work harder at seeing all the good and funny and kind and joyful things and people around me. I made a promise today - to myself, but I said it out loud to Brad so that he could help hold me accountable - to start abiding by Thumper's Rule.
Without being too self-helpy, I'll say that I believe positive energy begets positive energy, and I've been putting lots of negativity into the universe lately. It's no surprise I'm a mess.
So all day - and I know it's only been one day - I've been censoring the snarky and hateful and nasty. I am sadly surprised at the effort it's taken. I guess I'm mostly snarky and hateful and nasty. Even the sarcastic has been tempered.
And it feels good.
It feels like a start.
More goals tomorrow.
So we've lit a fire (it's been snowing since Friday night) and are taking it easy. The dogs don't seem to mind, as they're also exhausted, dreaming and sighing at my feet.
While in the desert - with no phone or email or distraction - I thought back to my first time there, down that stretch of highway 211 toward Canyonlands, and finally acknowledged what I've been ignoring.
It's been a tough few months. Year. Couple years.
I can't actually calculate how long, but Brad's been around for much of it, and I know it can't be easy on him. I've lost my fire and spark and charm and psyche. I don't have a plan or any goals, and I'm tired of feeling mediocre all the time.
I don't know what to do, what my next steps should be. I feel guilty for being so extravagant - it's not lost on me that it's a fucking luxury to whine about feeling sad and not being skinny when I have friends battling cancer and losing loved ones. But if I could just snap out of this, I would, and I'd drench myself in the vibrance I used to have - the vitality that has seen me through everything good.
But I can't. I've tried switching meds all around and having my thyroid checked and changing my diet and getting more exercise and taking more rest days, and this summer was the worst yet. I looked up the other day and realized that it's the middle of October, again, and nothing has changed. I'm still unsure of myself, I still don't know what I want to do with my life, I still feel unremarkable and lame.
Sigh.
And of course it's not all bad. Certain things - walking Arnie, playing Scrabble with Brad, cooking, yoga, dance - give me joy. An hour ago, Brad and I walked the dogs to a nearby park to let them run amok, and on the way, passed a house with a bunch of those enormous, blow-up halloween lawn decorations (a giant tarantula, a ghost, a Homer Simpson dressed as a skeleton - huh?). Arnie wasn't sure what they were, so he crouched very low and crept up to them. After a few air sniffs, he moved in for closer investigation, accidentally bumping the tarantula's leg with his snoot. The resulting tumult saw Arnie hiding behind my legs, actively avoiding eye contact with the oversized nylon tarantula and his brother, Red Dog, who was almost-but-not-really rolling his eyes in embarrassment.
I need to set more goals and work harder at seeing all the good and funny and kind and joyful things and people around me. I made a promise today - to myself, but I said it out loud to Brad so that he could help hold me accountable - to start abiding by Thumper's Rule.
Without being too self-helpy, I'll say that I believe positive energy begets positive energy, and I've been putting lots of negativity into the universe lately. It's no surprise I'm a mess.
So all day - and I know it's only been one day - I've been censoring the snarky and hateful and nasty. I am sadly surprised at the effort it's taken. I guess I'm mostly snarky and hateful and nasty. Even the sarcastic has been tempered.
And it feels good.
It feels like a start.
More goals tomorrow.
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