I wasn't raised with a religion, but when I was a young girl I made a promise to the moon that I would worship her as long she brought my sister home safe to me. So after some exploration, I finally turned my spirituality towards a lazy paganism, honoring the sun and moon as god and goddess, etc. In truth, though, I am a more practical person drawn to a strong belief in science which is often at odds with fanciful spiritual ideas. But we all find our balance somehow, so I'm comfortable with contradicting ideas in my understanding of the world.
The brain is one of my favorite things to learn about and understand, so I'm reading a book called "Incognito" by David Eagleman. In it, he explores and explains the conscious and unconscious mind, the conflicts between the two, and tries to spell out who's running the show. Of course, we all think we're running the show (hello Ego!), but there's all this stuff going on behind the scenes and the conscious mind takes full credit for it. Which is probably good - who wants an overly humble conscious mind? In it, he cites examples of how we find our bodies reacting to things before our conscious mind realizes something. For example, when you want to catch a door before it closes, your body is often in action to do that before your conscious brain catches up to tell you that's a good idea.
I had an excellent example of that while I was getting my daughter's breakfast ready this morning. I was standing at the counter when all of a sudden my knee slammed into the cabinet, which hurt, and I yelled "Fuck!", then I noticed something was under my foot and the kitten was yowling as it ran away. So before I knew what was going on, my unconscious mind had taken care of business. And after my knee stopped throbbing, I chuckled, thinking back on Eagleman's example. It's very easy to take the unconscious mind for granted. The kitten, by the way, was unharmed in the making of this example.
On the drive in to work, I saw a bumper sticker: "We are not human beings in a spiritual world, we are spiritual beings in a human world." At first, I thought it was a pretty nice sentiment, then I got to thinking about the arrogance of the conscious mind and the huge machinations of our unconscious mind and how I believe many forms of religion are forms of escapism, control, irresponsibility, or a mix of all those things, and then I got tired of listening to myself and turned the music up.
I like believing in something greater than my self - like the god and goddess - because it does give me somewhere to turn when I need a kind of support or relief that I cannot get from friends or family, but intrinsically I think I still believe more in the power of the brain. The fact that we're even capable of studying the thing that makes us all tick is pretty amazing. I also sometimes view my brain as a separate entity from me, occassionally a traitor and a trickster, just this blob of cells that is in control of me and my body, making me do things. I am but a mere puppet for the blob, and yes, it lets me feel like I'm running the show - like any good boss - but I am ultimately just doing as I'm told, even when I don't understand why. I don't know if you've tried it, but trying to pay attention to and change unconscious reactions or tics or anything, is hard and exhausting. Sure, if you're persistent, you can do it, but for little things it hardly seems worth the enormous efforts.
My relationship with my brain changed earlier this year when I found out a couple of things were wrong with it; a MRI revealed some demyelination and a benign tumor. That's when I started to view my brain as traitorous. Things can be fucked up in there and your brain just lets you go around acting like everything is fine. I'm sure you've heard those tales of people walking around with giant tumors, everything is fine, and then one day they get a headache and next thing they discover that half their brain has been squashed by a tumor. Part of the reason for that is that we adapt when our bodies or brains change, if the change is slow enough, we just accomodate it without much thought. And then it kills us! Oh, the traitorous horror!
Well, on that note, Merry Christmas!
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Sunday, December 09, 2012
The Season is Upon Us
I swear it was just January, even if I can barely remember what happened in January. But I'm sure it was just January and it's impossible that it is now December and Christmas is just weeks ago. I remember being a kid and hearing the old folks talking about how time flies, and having no idea what they meant. As a kid, time literally crawled by. Three hours seemed like three days, now three hours seems like an hour. Funny how our brains do that to us.
The Christmas tree appeared at our house yesterday and after a couple of kid events, Peaches and I came home to. She was immediately ready to decorate, while I felt like I needed more time to realize that we are indeed in the Christmas season. Every year, I get a little further away from the Christmas spirit, a little less inclined to bust out my decorations the day after Thanksgiving. I'm sure happy to see everyone else do it, though, that helps me a little bit. I finally worked up some Christmas gumption after heading out to get more Christmas lights and a few ornaments (Christmas is all about shopping, right?) and we set to stringing lights. Then my Christmas world became permanently altered as my daughter went about hanging almost all of the decorations; my husband and I hung the decorations towards the top of the tree. But as I sat and watched her hang the decorations, I took a deep breath and reveled in my daughter, how much she's grown, and how Christmas is now in her hands. She will be the true Christmas enthusiast for years to come and I will siphon my Christmas spirit from hers.
After decorating and dinner, we headed down to the harbor to see the lights on the boats. We never made it down to the boats, as we were waylaid by parking lot festivities and some friends and their kids. One of those kids is near and dear to Peaches' heart, so they immediately ran off and hid behind a car. Fortunately, his little brother - heretofore know as The Third Wheel - was with them, so they didn't start making out. But I imagine that many years from now when The Third Wheel is otherwise occupied and Peaches and Shane are a bit more hormonal, this may happen. After some wholesome s'mores and sitting on Santa's lap (he insisted, how could I say no?) and listening to the half-dead Christmas band, we moseyed on over to The Legion. Peaches and Shane made the walk alternating between having their arms around each other or holding hands - it's true love at 5 and 7, I'm telling you! I've never been to The Legion, and we didn't actually go inside since the bar was outside, and the inside was filled with old people eating food. At night, The Legion appears to be a series of small ramshackle buildings held together with a plastic roof and accentuated by a porta-potty and a large lawn. The drinks were stiff (thankfully as the night was cold) and one of our friends regaled us with tales of some of the old folks there, which were pretty damned funny. Once the kids and dogs and frozen solid and my nose actually froze and fell off, we decided to head back to our friend's house so the kids could completely exhaust themselves and we could be warm.
At the house, Shane and Peaches pretty much disappeared with the exception of a few appearances, one of which was an announcement that they had gotten married, and Peaches showed me her enormous wedding ring. She beamed with pride and joy, while Shane looked happy and slightly embarrassed. I worried about the dowry we would have to pay (just kidding, I hope). We finally packed it in a little after 10pm, and made the 10-minute drive home. The new bride asked for and was granted permission to fall asleep, which she did quite promptly.
Today, she learned to ride a bike, we watched "Elf", drove around to look at Christmas lights, and hung some more lights outside of our house. I am grasping for that elusive Christmas spirit, and thinking often of Richard, who had an unending love of Christmas and an incredible Christmas spirit. He loved Christmas like no one I've ever known, and bedecked both the inside and outside of his house with beautiful, timeless Christmas decorations. For him, it was not a time of gaudy decorations, but graceful and tasteful Christmas traditions steeped in goodwill, cheer, generosity, and love. But I think that's why he loved Christmas so much, because it embodied all of his every day beliefs. He passed away a few years ago, and I hope that his Christmas spirit will be carried on in some other happy soul.
The Christmas tree appeared at our house yesterday and after a couple of kid events, Peaches and I came home to. She was immediately ready to decorate, while I felt like I needed more time to realize that we are indeed in the Christmas season. Every year, I get a little further away from the Christmas spirit, a little less inclined to bust out my decorations the day after Thanksgiving. I'm sure happy to see everyone else do it, though, that helps me a little bit. I finally worked up some Christmas gumption after heading out to get more Christmas lights and a few ornaments (Christmas is all about shopping, right?) and we set to stringing lights. Then my Christmas world became permanently altered as my daughter went about hanging almost all of the decorations; my husband and I hung the decorations towards the top of the tree. But as I sat and watched her hang the decorations, I took a deep breath and reveled in my daughter, how much she's grown, and how Christmas is now in her hands. She will be the true Christmas enthusiast for years to come and I will siphon my Christmas spirit from hers.
After decorating and dinner, we headed down to the harbor to see the lights on the boats. We never made it down to the boats, as we were waylaid by parking lot festivities and some friends and their kids. One of those kids is near and dear to Peaches' heart, so they immediately ran off and hid behind a car. Fortunately, his little brother - heretofore know as The Third Wheel - was with them, so they didn't start making out. But I imagine that many years from now when The Third Wheel is otherwise occupied and Peaches and Shane are a bit more hormonal, this may happen. After some wholesome s'mores and sitting on Santa's lap (he insisted, how could I say no?) and listening to the half-dead Christmas band, we moseyed on over to The Legion. Peaches and Shane made the walk alternating between having their arms around each other or holding hands - it's true love at 5 and 7, I'm telling you! I've never been to The Legion, and we didn't actually go inside since the bar was outside, and the inside was filled with old people eating food. At night, The Legion appears to be a series of small ramshackle buildings held together with a plastic roof and accentuated by a porta-potty and a large lawn. The drinks were stiff (thankfully as the night was cold) and one of our friends regaled us with tales of some of the old folks there, which were pretty damned funny. Once the kids and dogs and frozen solid and my nose actually froze and fell off, we decided to head back to our friend's house so the kids could completely exhaust themselves and we could be warm.
At the house, Shane and Peaches pretty much disappeared with the exception of a few appearances, one of which was an announcement that they had gotten married, and Peaches showed me her enormous wedding ring. She beamed with pride and joy, while Shane looked happy and slightly embarrassed. I worried about the dowry we would have to pay (just kidding, I hope). We finally packed it in a little after 10pm, and made the 10-minute drive home. The new bride asked for and was granted permission to fall asleep, which she did quite promptly.
Today, she learned to ride a bike, we watched "Elf", drove around to look at Christmas lights, and hung some more lights outside of our house. I am grasping for that elusive Christmas spirit, and thinking often of Richard, who had an unending love of Christmas and an incredible Christmas spirit. He loved Christmas like no one I've ever known, and bedecked both the inside and outside of his house with beautiful, timeless Christmas decorations. For him, it was not a time of gaudy decorations, but graceful and tasteful Christmas traditions steeped in goodwill, cheer, generosity, and love. But I think that's why he loved Christmas so much, because it embodied all of his every day beliefs. He passed away a few years ago, and I hope that his Christmas spirit will be carried on in some other happy soul.
Saturday, December 01, 2012
Fish the Fish
When I was in middle school, I got a goldfish and named it Shithead. I'm not quite sure why I named it Shithead, but I did and so it was. He was the only fish I ever had until I was in my mid-30s when I inherited office fish, and when I left that office, I left those fish. Anyway, Shithead died a horrible fish death at the hands of Caligula the Cat.
Some time last year, my husband mentioned some goldfish at our local feed and tack store, and I said: "Please don't buy any fish. We don't need anything else to take care of." A few days later, I got the call. "Hey, I bought some goldfish!" My husband had bought a bunch of the goldfish, and having nothing to put them in (besides the toilet bowl), he thought a planter in the back was the best place. The large planter was here when we moved here and was filled with sand and rainwater. The fish lived there for a couple of days while I worried about raccoons eating them, until my husband bought a fish tank and rocks at the 99 cent store. The fish were moved, and during the move we found a couple had died. Unsurprisingly, I suppose.
So, the fish lived in a tank in my daughter's room for a few days, until we discovered that she was putting things in the fish tank that don't belong there: jewelry, small toys, food, etc. We moved the fish tank to the living room, and because of its close proximity to the heart of our house, noticed that one fish seemed to be slowly nibbling away at the others. Fish the Fish (aka Lily, Lily Rose, Flower, etc.) was going into action! Soon the only fish left was Fish the Fish.
Dominance firmly established, Fish the Fish ruled the tank. I dutifully cleaned it. After the second cleaning, we witnessed Fish the Fish jump out of the tank and it was saved. Then one day I cleaned the house and the fish tank and then went out. My husband was home when I got back and asked where the fish was. "In the tank. I just cleaned it." Nope, no fish in the tank. We looked all around, until we found it weakly floundering on the floor, 4 feet away from its tank. Fish the Fish was put back in the tank where it began swimming around as if nothing had happened, and we wondered how long it had been out. Similar incidents happened a couple more times, where someone would arrive home and find Fish the Fish on the floor, 4 feet away from its tank.
We tried replacing the goldfish that had been lost in the original purchase, and Fish the Fish quickly laid them to rest, so we gave that up. Then I determined that I didn't like Fish the Fish and was tired of looking after it, so having little empathy for goldfish, I began a campaign of benign neglect. Fish the Fish was fed only once a day and its tank was not cleaned for several months. The tank became so murky that it was sometimes hard to see Fish the Fish. When Fish the Fish was seen, we saw that it was getting a little moldy. The tank became so fragrant, that I finally had to acquiesce and clean the tank. Fish the Fish will not die.
Because Fish the Fish will not die, its been with us for a year now, and we've entered into a period of caring tolerance. I feed Fish the Fish twice a day and its tank is cleaned regularly. We are careful not to fill the tank so much that Fish the Fish can make its suicidal leaps onto the floor. I have developed a sort of affection for Fish the Fish, although I won't mourn its death. I expect we'll have to have a little memorial for it and I'll try to some muster up some kind words. I kind of see Fish the Fish as an aquatic hermit: it wants to be with no one, but it wants to live a long life. Perhaps Fish the Fish is Merlin reincarnated. Or perhaps it's just one of those hearty goldfish that I've heard about, a cut above the rest.
I watched Fish the Fish swim around the other night, and was compelled to write a little about it and even post a little video of Fish the Fish; I suspect I will never have another fish like Fish the Fish.
Some time last year, my husband mentioned some goldfish at our local feed and tack store, and I said: "Please don't buy any fish. We don't need anything else to take care of." A few days later, I got the call. "Hey, I bought some goldfish!" My husband had bought a bunch of the goldfish, and having nothing to put them in (besides the toilet bowl), he thought a planter in the back was the best place. The large planter was here when we moved here and was filled with sand and rainwater. The fish lived there for a couple of days while I worried about raccoons eating them, until my husband bought a fish tank and rocks at the 99 cent store. The fish were moved, and during the move we found a couple had died. Unsurprisingly, I suppose.
So, the fish lived in a tank in my daughter's room for a few days, until we discovered that she was putting things in the fish tank that don't belong there: jewelry, small toys, food, etc. We moved the fish tank to the living room, and because of its close proximity to the heart of our house, noticed that one fish seemed to be slowly nibbling away at the others. Fish the Fish (aka Lily, Lily Rose, Flower, etc.) was going into action! Soon the only fish left was Fish the Fish.
Dominance firmly established, Fish the Fish ruled the tank. I dutifully cleaned it. After the second cleaning, we witnessed Fish the Fish jump out of the tank and it was saved. Then one day I cleaned the house and the fish tank and then went out. My husband was home when I got back and asked where the fish was. "In the tank. I just cleaned it." Nope, no fish in the tank. We looked all around, until we found it weakly floundering on the floor, 4 feet away from its tank. Fish the Fish was put back in the tank where it began swimming around as if nothing had happened, and we wondered how long it had been out. Similar incidents happened a couple more times, where someone would arrive home and find Fish the Fish on the floor, 4 feet away from its tank.
We tried replacing the goldfish that had been lost in the original purchase, and Fish the Fish quickly laid them to rest, so we gave that up. Then I determined that I didn't like Fish the Fish and was tired of looking after it, so having little empathy for goldfish, I began a campaign of benign neglect. Fish the Fish was fed only once a day and its tank was not cleaned for several months. The tank became so murky that it was sometimes hard to see Fish the Fish. When Fish the Fish was seen, we saw that it was getting a little moldy. The tank became so fragrant, that I finally had to acquiesce and clean the tank. Fish the Fish will not die.
Because Fish the Fish will not die, its been with us for a year now, and we've entered into a period of caring tolerance. I feed Fish the Fish twice a day and its tank is cleaned regularly. We are careful not to fill the tank so much that Fish the Fish can make its suicidal leaps onto the floor. I have developed a sort of affection for Fish the Fish, although I won't mourn its death. I expect we'll have to have a little memorial for it and I'll try to some muster up some kind words. I kind of see Fish the Fish as an aquatic hermit: it wants to be with no one, but it wants to live a long life. Perhaps Fish the Fish is Merlin reincarnated. Or perhaps it's just one of those hearty goldfish that I've heard about, a cut above the rest.
I watched Fish the Fish swim around the other night, and was compelled to write a little about it and even post a little video of Fish the Fish; I suspect I will never have another fish like Fish the Fish.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Temptation
I was contacted by a recruiter this week for a job down in LA-LA-Land, the place of smog and Botox and fake boobs and real movie stars and surfers and David Hasselhoff and all things sparkly and pretty and fake and far apart. He asked what I thought of moving to LA, and I said: "Living in LA is tough." He laughed. Moving from where I live to LA is similar to a farmboy from Bumfuck, IA moving to the Big Apple, only without public transportation. But I'll admit that I entertained the notion for a good eight hours. I imagined living in one of those cute bungalow houses in Pasadena, returning to my mother's hometown. I imagined getting my daughter into toddler modeling or acting. I imagined that all the money I would make would solve all of my problems and allow me to return here in a few years, tan and unfettered, with enough money to buy a house. I was tempted by the green.
Were I single and/or childless, I would have said yes on-the-spot. Back in my childless days, I would have moved almost anywhere, just for the fuck of it. Just for the experience of living elsewhere. But now I've got this little girl, and she loves her home. I cannot imagine what it would be like for her moving from our quiet little beach town to the hey-hey of LA. She complained about a year ago about how she couldn't "keep up with the pretty"; imagine her internal struggle of keeping up with pretty down there. Also, I remember what it was like to move a lot as a kid. People say that kids are resilient, and they are, but it's very difficult for me to inflict things on my daughter that I abhorred as a child. Mushrooms is a good example of that. I hate mushrooms (you know, the non-magical kind), always have, always will. My daughter doesn't like them either. So, remembering my own disdain for having them foisted upon me, I don't argue with her that they are more wonderful than she realizes. And if half-cooked lima beans ever make an appearance on her plate, I will not make her sit at the table with them for hours, uneaten.
Yes, kids are resilient, but that doesn't mean that the actions of parents don't have an effect. It just means that - like us - experiences are absorbed and they march on, perhaps having learned something or learned to hate something. And as a friend told me - kids don't make a choice to come into the world, so we are responsible for making their lives good. And I don't think that hauling my kid down to LA would be good.
But I'm still toying with the tempation. I will talk to the recruiter tomorrow and throw out an absolutely ridiculous number and see if he bites. And if he bites, then all of the things I imagined could possibly be realized - except for the toddler modeling and acting cause that's just too much damned work. On the other hand, why the hell would I want to live in LA? Is money enough to get me to leave my idyllic little town?
Nah, probably not. The temptation is sweeter than the outcome on this one, I think.
Were I single and/or childless, I would have said yes on-the-spot. Back in my childless days, I would have moved almost anywhere, just for the fuck of it. Just for the experience of living elsewhere. But now I've got this little girl, and she loves her home. I cannot imagine what it would be like for her moving from our quiet little beach town to the hey-hey of LA. She complained about a year ago about how she couldn't "keep up with the pretty"; imagine her internal struggle of keeping up with pretty down there. Also, I remember what it was like to move a lot as a kid. People say that kids are resilient, and they are, but it's very difficult for me to inflict things on my daughter that I abhorred as a child. Mushrooms is a good example of that. I hate mushrooms (you know, the non-magical kind), always have, always will. My daughter doesn't like them either. So, remembering my own disdain for having them foisted upon me, I don't argue with her that they are more wonderful than she realizes. And if half-cooked lima beans ever make an appearance on her plate, I will not make her sit at the table with them for hours, uneaten.
Yes, kids are resilient, but that doesn't mean that the actions of parents don't have an effect. It just means that - like us - experiences are absorbed and they march on, perhaps having learned something or learned to hate something. And as a friend told me - kids don't make a choice to come into the world, so we are responsible for making their lives good. And I don't think that hauling my kid down to LA would be good.
But I'm still toying with the tempation. I will talk to the recruiter tomorrow and throw out an absolutely ridiculous number and see if he bites. And if he bites, then all of the things I imagined could possibly be realized - except for the toddler modeling and acting cause that's just too much damned work. On the other hand, why the hell would I want to live in LA? Is money enough to get me to leave my idyllic little town?
Nah, probably not. The temptation is sweeter than the outcome on this one, I think.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Ghostly Summer Pink Justice
Today is the epitome of a perfect autumn day here in Northern California; it's about 70 degrees, the sun is shining, the humidity is perfect, the ocean is calm and blue and sparkling, the skies huge and cloudless. How hard it was to put myself in my car and point it to work, it would have been so much easier to go get a swimsuit, a towel, a book, and lunch and go lie on the beach until I go so hot that I had to go in the water. *Sigh*...they really need to move California summer vacations to when we actually have summer weather.
I saw some justice meted out in kindergarten this morning; good, old-fashioned justice where the victim is punished and the perpatrator gets off scot-free. This got me to thinking on how we learn about the wheels of justice from such a young age. We learn early that though we might be the victim of a crime, chances are good that no one will pay for that crime but us. I think criminality and justice is fascinating, I appreciate our justice system (granted, it's got some huge problems but it's not the gulag), and I appreciate those who study it, understand it, and do their best to make it work. But I couldn't help but think that in terms of criminal justice, the approach to it doesn't change much between kindergarten and adulthood. Except the part where you don't get sentenced to death in kindergarten - instead you have to sit at a table far away from everyone else.
I also saw a man wearing a pink polo shirt walking a pit bull wearing a pink sleeveless top. I had to laugh out loud at that one. Why you gonna do that to your pit bull? I hope it's a girl. How do you know your dog likes pink? Is it a sleeveless tee because she's got such big pit bull muscles? Do you do that to make her less threatening? Why not put some pink bows on her ears too? And some pretty pink dog shoes?
Every few months, I get a really bad "I miss New Orleans" pang, wherein I am ready to pack everything up and move there again, for good. I imagine a job, and a nice place, I think on the incomparable feeling of the city, the beauty of the architecture and a lot of the people there, the music, and the fact that odd is the norm there, and lord, do I want to get back to that place. And then, I think on the summer heat, and the cockroaches, and the politicians, and the crime, and I know that I'm not ready to go back there yet. The day will come, though, when I do pack everything up and haul my old ass there and haunt the streets after I die. Don't know what it is about that place, but I will always feel inexplicably tied to it, just as I do to my hometown. If only I could live a thousand lives, to do everything that I want to.
I read an article about an author that writes historical fiction, and in it she talks about how she saw and felt ghosts when she was young. And having been in her shoes, I was not the least bit skeptical. I didn't see them, but I felt them, and I still do. Call me nutbags, that's all right, I understand. But she also talked about how she felt that encountered the devil once, and that it changed her world forever. Before that she had felt that the otherworld was a benign thing, but once he made his appearance she couldn't feel that way anymore. I felt better reading that, having seen the devil running along the alleyway next to my step-grandmother's house one morning when I was a child. He was all gray, with no facial features, but fierce and angry and focused on chasing someone down. And I knew that he was the devil, even though he didn't look like one. I don't think he even noticed me watching him from the window. I tried to tell Maureen, but she didn't understand and told me there was no one outside the house. So I carried the gray man around with me for a long time, a secret bit of knowledge that I knew no one would believe (and still don't think anyone will believe). I have one friend that also saw a similar man, and have found some reference to the devil as a gray man. I don't know that my outlook on ghosts changed much after that, but I never doubted what I saw. I don't subscribe to the devil as an entity that lives down in Hell any more than I believe a god lives up in Heaven, but I do believe that entities live here with us, for better and for worse, and can affect our lives. And that's my little bit of crazy for you today. For free! Yay! Free crazy blog talk! Now...where's my aluminum hat and my specter-o-meter and my witch hat and free ticket to the nuthouse?
I saw some justice meted out in kindergarten this morning; good, old-fashioned justice where the victim is punished and the perpatrator gets off scot-free. This got me to thinking on how we learn about the wheels of justice from such a young age. We learn early that though we might be the victim of a crime, chances are good that no one will pay for that crime but us. I think criminality and justice is fascinating, I appreciate our justice system (granted, it's got some huge problems but it's not the gulag), and I appreciate those who study it, understand it, and do their best to make it work. But I couldn't help but think that in terms of criminal justice, the approach to it doesn't change much between kindergarten and adulthood. Except the part where you don't get sentenced to death in kindergarten - instead you have to sit at a table far away from everyone else.
I also saw a man wearing a pink polo shirt walking a pit bull wearing a pink sleeveless top. I had to laugh out loud at that one. Why you gonna do that to your pit bull? I hope it's a girl. How do you know your dog likes pink? Is it a sleeveless tee because she's got such big pit bull muscles? Do you do that to make her less threatening? Why not put some pink bows on her ears too? And some pretty pink dog shoes?
Every few months, I get a really bad "I miss New Orleans" pang, wherein I am ready to pack everything up and move there again, for good. I imagine a job, and a nice place, I think on the incomparable feeling of the city, the beauty of the architecture and a lot of the people there, the music, and the fact that odd is the norm there, and lord, do I want to get back to that place. And then, I think on the summer heat, and the cockroaches, and the politicians, and the crime, and I know that I'm not ready to go back there yet. The day will come, though, when I do pack everything up and haul my old ass there and haunt the streets after I die. Don't know what it is about that place, but I will always feel inexplicably tied to it, just as I do to my hometown. If only I could live a thousand lives, to do everything that I want to.
I read an article about an author that writes historical fiction, and in it she talks about how she saw and felt ghosts when she was young. And having been in her shoes, I was not the least bit skeptical. I didn't see them, but I felt them, and I still do. Call me nutbags, that's all right, I understand. But she also talked about how she felt that encountered the devil once, and that it changed her world forever. Before that she had felt that the otherworld was a benign thing, but once he made his appearance she couldn't feel that way anymore. I felt better reading that, having seen the devil running along the alleyway next to my step-grandmother's house one morning when I was a child. He was all gray, with no facial features, but fierce and angry and focused on chasing someone down. And I knew that he was the devil, even though he didn't look like one. I don't think he even noticed me watching him from the window. I tried to tell Maureen, but she didn't understand and told me there was no one outside the house. So I carried the gray man around with me for a long time, a secret bit of knowledge that I knew no one would believe (and still don't think anyone will believe). I have one friend that also saw a similar man, and have found some reference to the devil as a gray man. I don't know that my outlook on ghosts changed much after that, but I never doubted what I saw. I don't subscribe to the devil as an entity that lives down in Hell any more than I believe a god lives up in Heaven, but I do believe that entities live here with us, for better and for worse, and can affect our lives. And that's my little bit of crazy for you today. For free! Yay! Free crazy blog talk! Now...where's my aluminum hat and my specter-o-meter and my witch hat and free ticket to the nuthouse?
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Abe & Marilyn
I leave the house thinking of my framed 1994 Scientific American cover, a picture of Marilyn Monroe on Abe Lincoln's arm, with a caption pointing out that digital photography can create events that never happened. I think briefly on how much the world changed between 1994 and 2001; the technological revolution that is still happening and the events of 9/11 have altered the United States. I used to think a lot about how the world changed so much for people that were born in the late 1800's and lived into the mid-1900's, and I thought the world would never change so much for me. Now I realize change is often subtle, we absorb it as we move along in the world, sometimes looking over our shoulder at how it used to be. Going to the airport will never be the same; all of the joy and excitement has been sucked out of that. I remember when you could take someone to or meet someone at the gate, right there when they got off the plane to give them joyous reunion hugs. Now you must wait plaintively at the baggage carousel, your eyes cruising over hundreds of faces (depending on the airport you're at, of course) until you pick out the face you're seeking. And while you wait for that person, for what may seem an interminably long time, you get to fret. What's taking so long? Maybe you're at the wrong baggage carousel? In the wrong terminal? Is it the wrong flight? Did you write it down wrong? Ah, but now we have cell phones to replace the distance created by the stringent airport regulations, the time we spend in our cars, the time we spend at work, the time we spend in front of our TV's and computers and devices.
I leave a sunny, warm day behind - tropical, even, with El Nino wrapping its arms around us - and begin to slip into the fog that wraps its tendrils along the coastline. The fog is thin at first, visibility is good, but as I venture up toward Skyline Drive the fog thickens. Cars are dark spectres ahead, invisible, until their dark forms are revealed as I rocket toward them and pass them; some people drive very slowly in the fog, gripped by terror. I remember coming up this way before 1994, to Alan's house to get pot, in Jeff's humongous old boat of a car. I was usually stoned out of my mind, and the fog always seemed to be thicker than pea soup, and I would hang on for dear life as Jeff careened that boat into the soup. My car now is a speeding pod of sound, a place I disappear into, a refuge. The sunlight reveals itself again at the end of the 280, and traffic thickens with trucks and tourists and then I am at work, ensconced in technology.
I volunteer at my daughter's kindergarten class for an hour every day now, and watch one teacher wrangle 26 children. I learn a lot hanging around with these kids. Their minds are still open and free, they can invent whatever they like in their heads, everything is new, they judge each other on behavior rather than appearance (unless someones ass is hanging out), and they are too new to school to have formed any cliques. I wonder what their home lives are like, how they will turn out, if they will all know each other for the rest of their lives. I have taken one boy under my wing at the teacher's request. Emilio misses his mother so much that he cries every day for the first 15 minutes. This Monday I saw him outside the classroom with his father - clearly a macho macho man - crying while his father stood back and watched, obviously unsure of what to do. Emilio stood and cried, his father laughing uncomfortably from time to time; another mother tried to help out, to no avail. A few minutes after all the kids had sat down, yet another mother came in to report that Emilio was standing outside the classroom by himself. And I wonder if his father just threw up his hands and left his crying son standing there, with no comfort. Emilio came in, sat in his favorite corner, and cried, until the teacher asked me to try to get him to join the class. He told me his missed his mom, didn't want to sit with the class, and finally said he wanted to draw. So, I found him paper and markers, and he drew a stunningly wonderful picture of a house with a multi-colored picket fence and a chimney. Two girls came over to watch him and didn't even bother to ask if they could also draw. Today I found him in the same corner, crying, and this time he told me that he misses his mom and he hates school, and it takes too long for school to be over so he can be back with his mom. So, he sits and draws again, and when he's done, just sits at the table with me. He points out his name on a list I'm working from, and I tell him my last name, and he thinks it's funny ('cause it is). And his mood lightens, and I tell him that he did all the work that he was supposed to yesterday, so he must be a good student. I worry that he will spend every morning for the rest of kindergarten crying, drawing, etc., establishing a routine with me. I hope that he will at some point find comfort and be able to just join the class. And I wonder why it is that he misses his mother so very much. Is it just his nature? Did something happen? Will he outgrow it?
My daughter sits amidst the kids, a good girl, hands in lap, half-heartedly singing along because she hasn't memorized all the words yet. She is a girl that wants to get it right; when there are rules she wants to follow them and when there are ways to do things, she wants to do them. She is also a girl with a rich imagination that lays out 30 minute long stories with various animals and dolls, rich with dialogue that can sometimes be uncomfortable for others. The other day I overheard her chiding: "No blacks allowed!" and my mouth hung open - had she been studying history? Then I realized someone was telling her black horse that black horses were not allowed, but they all worked it out, and the black horse got to join in on the fun too.
I leave a sunny, warm day behind - tropical, even, with El Nino wrapping its arms around us - and begin to slip into the fog that wraps its tendrils along the coastline. The fog is thin at first, visibility is good, but as I venture up toward Skyline Drive the fog thickens. Cars are dark spectres ahead, invisible, until their dark forms are revealed as I rocket toward them and pass them; some people drive very slowly in the fog, gripped by terror. I remember coming up this way before 1994, to Alan's house to get pot, in Jeff's humongous old boat of a car. I was usually stoned out of my mind, and the fog always seemed to be thicker than pea soup, and I would hang on for dear life as Jeff careened that boat into the soup. My car now is a speeding pod of sound, a place I disappear into, a refuge. The sunlight reveals itself again at the end of the 280, and traffic thickens with trucks and tourists and then I am at work, ensconced in technology.
I volunteer at my daughter's kindergarten class for an hour every day now, and watch one teacher wrangle 26 children. I learn a lot hanging around with these kids. Their minds are still open and free, they can invent whatever they like in their heads, everything is new, they judge each other on behavior rather than appearance (unless someones ass is hanging out), and they are too new to school to have formed any cliques. I wonder what their home lives are like, how they will turn out, if they will all know each other for the rest of their lives. I have taken one boy under my wing at the teacher's request. Emilio misses his mother so much that he cries every day for the first 15 minutes. This Monday I saw him outside the classroom with his father - clearly a macho macho man - crying while his father stood back and watched, obviously unsure of what to do. Emilio stood and cried, his father laughing uncomfortably from time to time; another mother tried to help out, to no avail. A few minutes after all the kids had sat down, yet another mother came in to report that Emilio was standing outside the classroom by himself. And I wonder if his father just threw up his hands and left his crying son standing there, with no comfort. Emilio came in, sat in his favorite corner, and cried, until the teacher asked me to try to get him to join the class. He told me his missed his mom, didn't want to sit with the class, and finally said he wanted to draw. So, I found him paper and markers, and he drew a stunningly wonderful picture of a house with a multi-colored picket fence and a chimney. Two girls came over to watch him and didn't even bother to ask if they could also draw. Today I found him in the same corner, crying, and this time he told me that he misses his mom and he hates school, and it takes too long for school to be over so he can be back with his mom. So, he sits and draws again, and when he's done, just sits at the table with me. He points out his name on a list I'm working from, and I tell him my last name, and he thinks it's funny ('cause it is). And his mood lightens, and I tell him that he did all the work that he was supposed to yesterday, so he must be a good student. I worry that he will spend every morning for the rest of kindergarten crying, drawing, etc., establishing a routine with me. I hope that he will at some point find comfort and be able to just join the class. And I wonder why it is that he misses his mother so very much. Is it just his nature? Did something happen? Will he outgrow it?
My daughter sits amidst the kids, a good girl, hands in lap, half-heartedly singing along because she hasn't memorized all the words yet. She is a girl that wants to get it right; when there are rules she wants to follow them and when there are ways to do things, she wants to do them. She is also a girl with a rich imagination that lays out 30 minute long stories with various animals and dolls, rich with dialogue that can sometimes be uncomfortable for others. The other day I overheard her chiding: "No blacks allowed!" and my mouth hung open - had she been studying history? Then I realized someone was telling her black horse that black horses were not allowed, but they all worked it out, and the black horse got to join in on the fun too.
Thursday, September 06, 2012
The Big Day
Took a solo road trip up to Eureka to see my dear friend this past weekend, sans child dog husband cat. Just me and music, on the road through the redwoods. The traffic was light, and the weather was good, albeit terribly hot. I decided to go without AC as it was just me and I'm more likely to melt in church than in heat, and I wasn't driving to a hot date, so who cared if I smelled like a old gym sock lost at the bottom of a gym bag when I rolled into town. The drive there and back is one of my favorite parts of my visits up north when I'm on my own. I get to do some of my favorite activities during the drive: drive, listen to music, smoke, drink coffee, and not listen to anyone talking. I even tell myself to shut up. There is a certain meditative quality to six hours of seeminginly mindless driving (I know it's not actually mindless, but it kind of shuts my chatterbox brain down, so it seems mindless). There was not much excitement on the way up, outside of the fact that I held my pee all the way from Pacifica to Willits. Then I stopped in Willits at the Book Juggler (if you're ever in Willits, do stop there) where I bought 4 books, and went down the street to a bakery where I wrote a check for $5.50. Not quite Lebowski, but Lebowski-ish.
There are a lot of towns along the way that I drove (passengered) through as a a child. Willits is one, Hopland, Cloverdale, Ukiah. They are all completely different. Cloverdale is so different that I can't actually recognize it. Hopland and Willits are towns that have grown, and you can see the demarcations of the old and new towns. For the people living there, I'm sure the change and growth seems slow, but on my first trip up there in 20 some years, it seemed sudden and sad. Where were the places I remembered? Where did old Cloverdale go exactly? Did they move the whole freeway?
While I barrelled along for 6 hours, I wondered why I wasn't more inclined to stop and have a look around here and there. I had an appointment for a new tattoo at 4pm, and it looked like I was going to roll into Eureka around 2pm. That gave me 2 hours for farkling. I debated with myself. "You should check out old Victorian Ferndale." "Why?" "Because you haven't been there." "So what?" "People say you should go." "And?" "It's quaint." "It's a tourist trap, and you will surely be trapped and then disappointed." And there I went, speeding past Ferndale. Speaking of speeding, on my last solo trip back, I got a $300+ speeding ticket. This time, I put my cruise control on and set it to a comfortable 10mph above the speed limit. Then I proceeded to text friends, chat on the phone, do my hair and make-up, changed my clothes, sat in the back seat for a while, rode on the roof, and then had a nap.
Just kidding, I only napped a little bit. But no speeding ticket!
The visit was a little piece of heaven, after my 3 hour tattoo torture session was over. Food, rest, relaxation. Not wiping anyone's butt, cleaning, answering inane questions (okay, fewer inane questings), having uninterrupted conversations. One of the highlights was the "comedy show" at the Silver Lounge at the amazing Eureka-Arcata Airport in McKinley where a parsimonious shot of Maker's Mark is only $8! Funny going to see this collection of upstart comics; Laurel and I used to do the same thing at The Other Cafe in San Francisco. We saw lots of now semi-famous comedians when they were upstarts. Sometimes they were funny, sometimes they weren't, sort of like the comedians at the Silver Lounge. One young lady was among the comics, and I wanted so much for her to be the funniest one, but she wasn't. Her stage presence was poor, her timing was off, and her jokes were not funny. But that's all right - this was her last comedy show before she moves back to her mother's motherland - Germany. So, I don't feel so bad for her. Perhaps zee Germans will find her to be hilarious.
The week before my trip was when the news was hot and heavy with the Republican stance that the categorization of rape was okay. Let me just say that I am not a Republican and I never will be in this country. Maybe in some other country, or on another planet, or in Hell, but not here. I know you're not supposed to say never, but I'm pretty confident on this one. If you're a Republican, well, that's definitely your choice. But I hope you're not aligning yourself with the pack of buffoons currently acting as the Republican mouthpiece.
The feminist movement was in its heyday when I was growing up, and I lived through the supposed death of sexual discrimination in the workplace. Shit, I got my first job in radio because one of the DJ's liked my ass and my smile (let me say here that beyond his blatant admiration of the opposite sex, he was always a gentleman and may he rest in peace). And I saw workplace politics change - more women in managerial roles, less blatant sexual harassment. But over the past 10 years or so, I've seen a lot of backsliding, though not so much in my workplace. I see a lot of it in the media - in advertising, specifically, and I see it in women younger than myself. Feminism walks a fine line, and women have to operate more carefully than men do. Men don't have to concern themselves with women being distracted by their balls or how much cleavage they're showing. Men don't have to wonder, in a room full of women, how many are having uninvited sexual fantasies about them (although I have no doubt that men would love that!). And they also don't have to listen to politicians debate about what they are allowed to do with their bodies or whether or not they will be allowed to terminate pregnancies that resulted from rape.
I like being a woman, and I think women are pretty fucking great. And while I'm not a staunch man-hating type of feminist, I am finding myself very concerned about how women are portrayed in the media these days, especially in advertising. If men were equally exploited, I would be fine. I want equality in everything, including sexual exploitation, stereotyping, harassment, and dicating what is okay for us to do with our lives and our bodies. Any one who knows me know that I'm an equal opportunity exploiter and harrasser. And I want the women in advertising to stand up and insist on equal opportunity exploitation. And that's what I want to pass on to my daughter...that there are differences between men and women, but that they are equal in more ways than they are different. And the one thing that I will always tell her is that a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle...and vice versa, and I will make sure that she will never put herself in a position where she actually needs a man.
And dear reader, don't misunderstand. I love me some men. I don't love them because I think they can do things that I can't or because I think they're smarter or because they're less sinful or because I was supposedly spawned from Eve who came from Adam's rib (that is some funny shit...a woman spawned from the rib of a man...you know that one was made up by a man who had serious issues with his mother and his entry into this world from her vagina). I love them because they're people. But I don't love the men that insist on thinking that they know what's best for my body, or that they can tell me what I can and can't do with it, or that I am less than they are, or that are still repressing their women (hello Middle East!), or think that I'm only good for sex, cleaning, raising children, or think that I am more sinful than they are.
I think I could write a whole essay on this, so I'll stop here. I just had to say something, I was so appalled at the whole debate and that people would even defend the idea of categorizing rape. And I'm not even sure that prison rape got into the debate, and it should. I'm sure "they" would be less inclined to categorize man-on-man rape.
Sigh...well, I've gotten all serious here, so it's time for me to go. May your balls stay where they belong and your tits stay where you want them.
There are a lot of towns along the way that I drove (passengered) through as a a child. Willits is one, Hopland, Cloverdale, Ukiah. They are all completely different. Cloverdale is so different that I can't actually recognize it. Hopland and Willits are towns that have grown, and you can see the demarcations of the old and new towns. For the people living there, I'm sure the change and growth seems slow, but on my first trip up there in 20 some years, it seemed sudden and sad. Where were the places I remembered? Where did old Cloverdale go exactly? Did they move the whole freeway?
While I barrelled along for 6 hours, I wondered why I wasn't more inclined to stop and have a look around here and there. I had an appointment for a new tattoo at 4pm, and it looked like I was going to roll into Eureka around 2pm. That gave me 2 hours for farkling. I debated with myself. "You should check out old Victorian Ferndale." "Why?" "Because you haven't been there." "So what?" "People say you should go." "And?" "It's quaint." "It's a tourist trap, and you will surely be trapped and then disappointed." And there I went, speeding past Ferndale. Speaking of speeding, on my last solo trip back, I got a $300+ speeding ticket. This time, I put my cruise control on and set it to a comfortable 10mph above the speed limit. Then I proceeded to text friends, chat on the phone, do my hair and make-up, changed my clothes, sat in the back seat for a while, rode on the roof, and then had a nap.
Just kidding, I only napped a little bit. But no speeding ticket!
The visit was a little piece of heaven, after my 3 hour tattoo torture session was over. Food, rest, relaxation. Not wiping anyone's butt, cleaning, answering inane questions (okay, fewer inane questings), having uninterrupted conversations. One of the highlights was the "comedy show" at the Silver Lounge at the amazing Eureka-Arcata Airport in McKinley where a parsimonious shot of Maker's Mark is only $8! Funny going to see this collection of upstart comics; Laurel and I used to do the same thing at The Other Cafe in San Francisco. We saw lots of now semi-famous comedians when they were upstarts. Sometimes they were funny, sometimes they weren't, sort of like the comedians at the Silver Lounge. One young lady was among the comics, and I wanted so much for her to be the funniest one, but she wasn't. Her stage presence was poor, her timing was off, and her jokes were not funny. But that's all right - this was her last comedy show before she moves back to her mother's motherland - Germany. So, I don't feel so bad for her. Perhaps zee Germans will find her to be hilarious.
The week before my trip was when the news was hot and heavy with the Republican stance that the categorization of rape was okay. Let me just say that I am not a Republican and I never will be in this country. Maybe in some other country, or on another planet, or in Hell, but not here. I know you're not supposed to say never, but I'm pretty confident on this one. If you're a Republican, well, that's definitely your choice. But I hope you're not aligning yourself with the pack of buffoons currently acting as the Republican mouthpiece.
The feminist movement was in its heyday when I was growing up, and I lived through the supposed death of sexual discrimination in the workplace. Shit, I got my first job in radio because one of the DJ's liked my ass and my smile (let me say here that beyond his blatant admiration of the opposite sex, he was always a gentleman and may he rest in peace). And I saw workplace politics change - more women in managerial roles, less blatant sexual harassment. But over the past 10 years or so, I've seen a lot of backsliding, though not so much in my workplace. I see a lot of it in the media - in advertising, specifically, and I see it in women younger than myself. Feminism walks a fine line, and women have to operate more carefully than men do. Men don't have to concern themselves with women being distracted by their balls or how much cleavage they're showing. Men don't have to wonder, in a room full of women, how many are having uninvited sexual fantasies about them (although I have no doubt that men would love that!). And they also don't have to listen to politicians debate about what they are allowed to do with their bodies or whether or not they will be allowed to terminate pregnancies that resulted from rape.
I like being a woman, and I think women are pretty fucking great. And while I'm not a staunch man-hating type of feminist, I am finding myself very concerned about how women are portrayed in the media these days, especially in advertising. If men were equally exploited, I would be fine. I want equality in everything, including sexual exploitation, stereotyping, harassment, and dicating what is okay for us to do with our lives and our bodies. Any one who knows me know that I'm an equal opportunity exploiter and harrasser. And I want the women in advertising to stand up and insist on equal opportunity exploitation. And that's what I want to pass on to my daughter...that there are differences between men and women, but that they are equal in more ways than they are different. And the one thing that I will always tell her is that a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle...and vice versa, and I will make sure that she will never put herself in a position where she actually needs a man.
And dear reader, don't misunderstand. I love me some men. I don't love them because I think they can do things that I can't or because I think they're smarter or because they're less sinful or because I was supposedly spawned from Eve who came from Adam's rib (that is some funny shit...a woman spawned from the rib of a man...you know that one was made up by a man who had serious issues with his mother and his entry into this world from her vagina). I love them because they're people. But I don't love the men that insist on thinking that they know what's best for my body, or that they can tell me what I can and can't do with it, or that I am less than they are, or that are still repressing their women (hello Middle East!), or think that I'm only good for sex, cleaning, raising children, or think that I am more sinful than they are.
I think I could write a whole essay on this, so I'll stop here. I just had to say something, I was so appalled at the whole debate and that people would even defend the idea of categorizing rape. And I'm not even sure that prison rape got into the debate, and it should. I'm sure "they" would be less inclined to categorize man-on-man rape.
Sigh...well, I've gotten all serious here, so it's time for me to go. May your balls stay where they belong and your tits stay where you want them.
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