Can't Get Me Down

Happy Thursday!!

Dawg is...

...exhausted by the hard work of protecting our perimeter.

Our NETWORK perimeter, that is.

I keep trying to tell him that viruses have no smell, but I'm not sure it's getting through. (Spot the pun!)

IT'S A BEAUTIFUL MORNING!!

America, I love you.

(This post is so cheating and I don't even care.)

And E, Entrepreneur, my boy, the light of my heart, who canvassed for the Human Rights Campaign when he could barely walk, YOU. You helped. You actually, measurably, HELPED CHANGE THE WORLD.

SO sexy.

Who says one person can't change the world?

Today, the world has been changed for everyone.

Where we camped

I think you might be interested in this track: https://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msa=0&msid=202352412221126755785.0004cd73f68a98ae93035 Created by My Tracks on Android. Name: 10/20/2012 15:08 Activity type: - Description: - Total distance: 4.22 km (2.6 mi) Total time: 05:57 Moving time: 05:39 Average speed: 42.52 km/h (26.4 mi/h) Average moving speed: 44.83 km/h (27.9 mi/h) Max speed: 74.70 km/h (46.4 mi/h) Average pace: 1.41 min/km (2.3 min/mi) Average moving pace: 1.34 min/km (2.2 min/mi) Fastest pace: 0.80 min/km (1.3 min/mi) Max elevation: 786 m (2579 ft) Min elevation: 684 m (2244 ft) Elevation gain: 2 m (6 ft) Max grade: 2 % Min grade: -16 % Recorded: 10/20/2012 15:08

Exotic is as Exotic Does

It's birthday season again, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my MOTHER and my LITTLE, both of whom are incredible ladies, although in very different ways, and many thanks to both of them for being born on the same date, to make it easier for me to remember both birthdays, as one reminds me of the other, and vice versa.

This has got me started thinking about birthdays, and what they are, and things like that.

In my office at the B, last year, the ladies took me out to lunch for my birthday, as is somewhat of a custom in our group at the B--there's four of us and we each take turns planning for the next lady's birthday after ours--and they asked me what I did to celebrate my birthday that year, although technically it had been the previous year as, being that my birthday is always in December, we hadn't gotten a chance to celebrate it in the same month or even in the same year, holiday schedules being what they are, plus the added complication of moving offices. (And we're moving AGAIN! Joy.)

Anyway, they asked me what I had done, and I said, "Oh, a bunch of my girlfriends threw a Trader Joe's themed party, in which everything came from Trader Joe's, because that's how *I* entertain, and we all congregated at someone's apartment and drank too much wine for a weeknight and just chatted."

There was a moment of silence, and then all the ladies sighed.

"Wow, that sounds...WONDERFUL," my cube mate said, and the other two made emphatic agreeing noises.

I was surprised--not because that celebration wasn't fun, because it was! But because it was pretty low-key to be considered, in my mind, as something "wonderful", at least with that kind of emphasis. After all, the year before, for my 30th birthday, I had thrown a fancy cocktail party in the middle of the week. Roommate made two kinds of punch cocktails from a signed punch recipe book that the head bartender at one of our favorite local cocktail havens had loaned her; we bought out the local Trader Joe's and offered foods galore; we insisted that everyone appear in fancy dress. It was a Happening. Sitting around and drinking wine seemed a little more low key in comparison.

But the ladies around me at the B are wives and mothers, in addition to being careerists, and they have a lot of demands on their time, especially now, as their kids are starting high school and such, and to them, a crew of ladies sitting around on a weeknight drinking too much wine for a school night and just chatting was the epitome of Wonderful.

Good to remember.

Monstrous Regiment of Women

I didn't know, until right now, that Terry Pratchett's "Monstrous Regiment" title actually had a source!

And a very old one, at that.

1558: John Knox publishes a pamphlet anonymously entitled: The first blast of the trumpet against the monstruous regiment of women.

The key blurb, with some of the original spelling:

"For who can denie but it repugneth to nature, that the blind shall be appointed to leade and conduct such as do see?

That the weake, the sicke, and impotent persones shall norishe and keepe the hole and strong, and finallie, that the foolishe, madde and phrenetike shal governe the discrete, and give counsel to such as be sober of mind?

And such be al women, compared unto man in bearing of authoritie. For their sight in ciuile regiment, is but blindnes: their strength, weaknes: their counsel, foolishenes: and judgement, phrenesie, if it be rightlie considered." 

Daily Routines

Inspired by this post over at Gretchen Rubin's blog, of course, like half my musings are.

Because then, you see, the wonderful Maggie Mason wrote this post about Winston Churchill's Daily Routine, and then I dove deep into the rabbit hole, which is always a delightful thing to do, especially for such a good cause.

Which just brought me back around to this, Joan Didion's Favorite Packing List.

In conclusion, there is so much good stuff in this world! Thanks, Internet. You make it possible. 

More Normal Conversation

Entrepreneur and I are in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner—or rather, I’m cleaning and he’s keeping me company, as he cooked the entire meal for me earlier while I lay in bed, as my back was acting up again, and I lay there and healed and drank ginger beer and and read Alison Bechdel, which is a really wonderful way to spend one’s time while your lover is slaving away over a George Forman for you, and I highly recommend it.

ANYWAY, AS I WAS SAYING. It’s rather late and we have just watched Real Time with Bill Maher, as we are wont to do, and therefore we have just learned that Ann Coulter will be a guest on the show next week, along with Ben Affleck, which is pretty much must-see-TV.

“She’s gotten crazier,” E said, around a spoonful of ice cream.

“Yeah, I agree,” I said. “I remember when she first came on the scene, and she was mainly famous because she was a conservative Republican and wore leopard-print miniskirts, and had long blond hair. Ashley’s character from the West Wing was based partly on her, remember? Because at first they thought she was just trying to get into show business, and then she turned out to know something. Ainsley, that is. NOT Ann Coulter.”

“We used to call her Brown-shirt Barbie,” E said, chuckling.

I grinned slightly. “I can understand the Barbie reference, although I have some issues with that term, but I don’t understand the brownshirt reference! Can you help?”

“They’re the original paramilitary arm of the Nazi party who  helped bring Adolf Hitler to power,” he informed me.

“Ah. That makes sense. I don’t like ‘Barbie’ as a term in general, though. It over simplifies and over generalizes the issues surrounding women in politics and how their looks affect their reputation, while at the same time dismissing the entire woman and the entire discussion of why looks are or aren’t important! Now, THAT’S an impressive sellout word.”

He is quiet, eating his ice cream, allowing me space to talk. We talk about gender a lot less than you might think, given our particular relationship, or put another way, the particulars of our relationship. He was raised by two mothers; his cousin just married her girlfriend of many years; he majored in Psychology. He does the cooking and stays home with the dog, and so far he has brushed my dog, too, more often than I have in the last two years, and often does the laundry. I go to work at a high-powered job all day and am spending my weekends helping run his business on the side. We break traditional gender roles like we breathe—which is maybe why we don’t talk about them much. We just are. And there are pitfalls, too—he has horror stories about his experiences in the psych department of his college, and his mother and I have precious little patience to hear about how difficult HIS life has been, gender-wise.

So we don’t talk about it much, not because it’s taboo but because it doesn’t seem to get us anywhere and I love our relationship, however it runs.

But I’m serious about this Barbie word and so, uncharacteristically, I’m off and running. “It’s like when they called Palin, ‘Caribou Barbie’, just because she was pretty. I mean, to give credit where credit is due, I don’t think she attempted to use her looks once in the whole campaign—it’s just about the only dirty trick she DIDN’T try to use. And even so, the media went crazy about the cost of her suits and her makeover, getting her out of those mom sweaters, and such. Like John McCain wore Mens Warehouse! But no one fussed over how much HIS image consultant spent on clothes.”

“Yes, that’s true,” E said, gently. “But I think they called her that because she had so little SUBSTANCE. I mean, ‘Barbie’ is a completely accurate assessment, there.”

I thought about it. “Yeah, I can see that.”

And I did, but I was still bothered. And I came to a conclusion of why it bothered me later, but most unusually for me I saved it until the blog, because it wasn’t worth re-hashing all that again.

And here it is: If you’re going to use the word “Barbie” about Sarah Palin, you can’t accurately use it about Ann Coulter, and vice versa. “Barbie” means too many things, and that derogative smears both ladies in a particularly obfuscating way. Calling Palin a “Barbie” apparently means, “She has little to no substance”. Whereas calling Coulter a “Barbie” apparently means, “She is overly reliant on her looks as a tool”.

And THAT’S dangerous. Really dangerous. Because if you describe Ann Coulter as a Barbie too many times, you might convince yourself—or the liberals you’re talking to—that she ALSO has “little to no substance”.

And now, suddenly, you’re no longer treating her like a theat.

I mean, this is ANN EFFING COULTER! She’s a threat!! She’s Defcon 4! Don’t forget it, ever. I don’t care what you call her, but don’t forget who she is and what she represents. I WISH she had “little to no substance”. What a wonderful world that would be.

What Passes For Normal Conversation In Our House

Entrepreneur and I are in line at Whole Foods, and he is unhappy. We have gone to Whole Foods, at his request, when I was tired. And I protested, but eventually acquiesced, because he wanted two things: lactose-free milk, and ginger beer. And I understood these needs, and agreed, finally, that it was the best place to go for these items.

As it ended up, they had neither.

Whereas, I cleaned out the aisles! For someone who hadn't wanted to go to WF in the first place, I was happy as a clam. The cart, that he had so patiently pushed around the aisles, was full of my stuff.

So there we were in line at Whole Foods, as I was saying, and the poor cashier asked us if we had "found everything okay." We looked at each other.

"Well, you don't have the right kind of ginger beer," I started, knowing that Entrepreneur wouldn't if I didn't.

"Yeah," he said. "You only have Reed's, and that's...not my favorite. And you actually don't carry full-fat lactose-free milk."

Another cashier wandered up, and dutifully took down our suggestions. And then we both realized, in the moment: here we were, two people that had eaten today, and had jobs (well, me, anyway) and driving cars and everything, and we had supportive families that were talking to each other and we lived in America, and we were in line at Whole Foods complaining that they didn't have full-fat lactose free milk or our favorite kind of ginger beer.

We finished our conversation with both of the cashiers that had now been forced into helping us, due to corporate policy, and extricated ourselves with as much dignity as we could muster, which wasn't very much.

Thirty minutes later we were unloading our hard-won privileged grocery items and we noticed a huge amount of, shall we say, hippie-types hanging around Century Link Field. Entrepreneur did a little research on his phone and found the cause. "Ah. There's a show with members of both Phish AND The Grateful Dead tonight."

"Ah," I said.

Him: "So, if you want to score some acid, you know, tonight's the night."

Me: "Thank God, I've been meaning to get some! I looked for it at Whole Foods but they only had that one kind, which I hate."

Him: "Yeah. And when you complain to the cashier, they just look at you weird."

I'm Doing Laundry...

...in a place in which I need pliers to work the washer and dryer.

I LOVE IT.

If My Friend Molly Can Post Reguarly From EUROPE...

Then I really have no excuse, beyond that it hurts to type and I need to save every available minute I have for work papers, because I have a $40 million paper to get out today and a $100 million dollar paper to get out by Wednesday.

I know, right? I mean, THAT'S boring! But it's what I do, and furthermore it's what the Man pays me to do, and, you know, it's not trivial, this business of planes and foreign militaries and surveillance and so on. It's not Dilbert, although it can look like it if you're not paying attention. It's Serious Business, and I'm good at it, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your point of view.

Fortunately, because between Entrepreneur and myself, someone has to make the money, and really, if I'm honest, I had to make money previous to me being in this relationship anyway! I mean, sadly, no one pays me to sit around and look pretty. I KNOW. I'm annoyed every day.

And unfortunately, because I actually love my job and would probably go batshit insane if I didn't have something LIKE it to do, and because if I want do it well, it can produce a lot of pressure and stress, two things I don't necessarily handle well, and finally, because as aforementioned, it requires 10 hours a day of constant typing and it turns out that I now hurt like the dickens, all the time.

ALL THE TIME. It's still weird for me to think about it, really. Like this is my new normal. Like my body just woke up one day and said, "You know what? I think I'm going to stop working today. I'm just, I don't know, tired, you know? I need some 'me' time. I just have to go...somewhere that's not here." And just took off, and I'm sitting there at the restaurant on this date with life that I've made, all like, "How can you leave me like this? After all I did for you? I looked after you and fed you and took you on walks!" And my body is already out the door, and the waiter's there handing me the check that I can't afford and also I'm naked, although maybe that only happens in my nightmares.

But, yeah. It's weird. It's hard to get used to a new normal at 31. I have to rewrite my life narrative. Ixnay on the tequila-fueled salsa dancing marathons, bring on the multiple cups of tea and ergonomic shoes. It's not...exactly...like getting old, but it feels damned similar. To be comfortable with it, I have to rewrite my narrative in a way that has promise to me, that shows promise FOR me, that seems like it will have good things around every corner, secret easter eggs that I have to walk slowly to find.

And so I'm doing things like: taking a lot more pictures, trying to stay present in the moment instead of wanting to fly off into the Great Gray Cloud Of Sadness And Despair. Trying to find small, good, things. Like, for example:

The fact that I have great health care (and that is a LARGE good thing!) and that I can even put my partner on it, saving HIM money, which is a good thing for US.

Even HAVING an US. (Again: a rather large good thing.)

The fact that the internet exists. Miles and miles of internet, miles and miles of entertainment, and not just mindless, either. For example: there is my friend Molly's travel blog, found here. I mean, my friend Molly can post updates to her blog from all over the world, and I can read them, here, standing at my ergonomic desk wearing my ergonomic shoes, and people say we don't live in the future? (To be fair, I would still like a jetpack.)

Also, you know what else exists on the internet? The text of Ernest Hemingway's story, "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place", the title of which I just realized does not use the Oxford Comma, which is a thing I know about because of the internet. (Curious? Google the following: Oxford Comma Strippers. I PROMISE it is actually safe for work and will make you LOL.)

And finally, the following:

PLANT! It's name is Plant. It's a maidenhair fern, and it's in my cubicle, and it makes me so happy.

Entrepreneur: "Yeah, an important rule of dating is to not muzzle-sweep your girlfriend."

Warning: Not A Cheerful Post

(EVERYTHING IS FINE, MOM.)

But! Some days we must take a moment to reflect on interesting things, and interesting things are not always bright and sunshiny. And so I share with you the following, a passage from Clarissa Pinkola Estes' WOMEN WHO RUN WITH THE WOLVES:

"“Her idea of a really good time was to board the train to Chicago and wear a big hat, and walk down Michigan Avenue looking in all the shop windows and being an elegant lady. By hook or by crook or by fate, she married a farmer. They moved out into the midst of the wheatlands, and she began to rot away in that elegant little farmhouse that was just the right size, with all the right children, and all the right husband. She had no more time for that ‘frivolous’ life she’d once led. Too much ‘kids.’ Too much ‘woman’s work.’ One day, years later, after washing the kitchen and living room floors by hand, she slipped into her very best silk blouse, buttoned her long skirt, and pinned on her big hat. She pressed her husband’s shotgun to the roof of her mouth and pulled the trigger. Every woman alive knows why she washed the floors first. A starved soul can become so filled with pain, a woman can no longer bear it.”"

I found this via the always amazing Ask Metafilter, because I was looking for--no, not ways to kill myself, Lordy!--but because I was looking for the best MOP.

And the Ask Metafilter discussion continues:

Another responder: "While it doesn't quite fit your description, being a play and all, it also sound quite similar to Marsha Norman's Night, Mother, where jessie makes sure everything in the house is settled before committing suicide."

And yet another responder: "Also, it's the opening scene of the pilot to the TV series DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES."

And yet one more: "Although the character is male, that's also the opening scene of the film Wristcutters: A Love Story."

And finally: "I recently read the same thing in an article about an elderly woman who legally (in her country, with medical supervision) killed herself. Her son told her, Mother, you don't need to bother with that. But she had some powerful inner need to get everything cleaned up before she departed."

And finally, the original poster:

"Thanks, all! I had no idea that 'Woman cleans, then woman kills herself' was such a commonly repeated theme in literature. Or life. This has been both enlightening, and a little depressing. I suggest that we all let those floors go for awhile! :)"

And, as often, I think the hive mind has churned out some good advice, here. I do in fact suggest we all let those floors go for awhile. 

ONE MONTH LATER...

Entrepreneur and I have had a crowded month. Many, many, things, have happened.

Coming home some time in the past month, I said to him, "I feel like I work my fingers to the bone all fucking day and I get to the end of the day and I'm exhausted, and yet I have accomplished only one-quarter of the things I needed to."

"RIGHT?" he said. "Where the hell does the time GO?"

For example, we got to the end of July and I was saying, "Remember when I spent three weeks practically bedridden?" And he said, "Yeah, that seems like yesterday."

"That practically WAS yesterday," I said. "That was in July. And we're STILL IN JULY."

The look he gave me was priceless. The man has an even rockier relationship with time than I do. It's precious.

And now, here we are, at the end of August, and I just realized it's only been eleven days since we reclaimed the Loft. It seems like three weeks, because we want to get so much done and we can't seem to GET it done, but it's only been eleven days and perhaps it was unrealistic to expect a gimp on full social disability and an overly-driven yuppie who works 10 hours a day and commutes at least an hour and a half on top of that and who isn't in great physical shape either to completely revamp a bathroom and kitchen in eleven days. I mean, maybe.

Good To Know: Empathy Vs. Sympathy, Plus Side Order of Empathic Concern

Empathy refers to the understanding and sharing of a specific emotional state with another person. It is the capacity to recognize feelings that are being experienced by another sentient or semi-sentient being. Someone may need to have a certain amount of empathy before they are able to feel compassion.

Sympathy, however, does not require the sharing of the same emotional state. It is an extension of empathic concern, or the perception, understanding, and reaction to the distress or need of another human being. This empathic concern is driven by a switch in viewpoint, from a personal perspective to the perspective of another group or individual who is in need. Empathy and sympathy are often used interchangeably, but the two terms have distinct origins and meanings. Instead, sympathy is merely a concern for the well-being of another individual or group of individuals. Although sympathy *may* begin with empathizing with the same emotion another person is feeling, sympathy *can also* be extended to other emotional states.

Clear as mud? I thought so, too. Here's a definition of Empathy that I like: "The ability to put oneself into the mental shoes of another person to understand her emotions and feelings."

Whereas Sympathy seems to be an outwardly-generated emotional state. "There are some specific conditions that need to happen in order to experience sympathy. These conditions include attention to a subject, believing that a person (or group) is in a state of need, and the characteristics of a given situation."

"The state of need of an individual or group is also considered during the creation of sympathy. Varying states of need (such as perceived vulnerability or pain) require unique human reactions, often ranging from attention to sympathy. A person experiencing cancer might warrant a feeling of sympathy more than a person who has a cold. The conditions under which sympathy is selected as an appropriate response are organized more broadly into individual differences and situational differences."

Okay, I'm just going to keep going with the Wikipedia article, because this is FASCINATING and because according to this, I've been using "sympathy", and possibly "sympathetic to", all wrong!!

"The ways in which people think about human deservingness, interdependence, and vulnerability motivate the experience of sympathy. A person who seems ‘deserving’ of aid is more likely to be helped. A belief in human interdependence fuels sympathetic behavior; this belief is seen as somewhat selfish because helping someone who is connected to you through some way (family, social capital) will often result in a personal reward (social, monetary, etc.)
Sympathy also operates based on the principle of the powerful helping the vulnerable. Therefore, those who are perceived as vulnerable (young, elderly, sick) become the target of sympathy. This desire to help the vulnerable has been suggested to stem from the paternalistic nature of humans, where humans seek to protect and aid their children in survival. People help others as if they were their own children or family when they are in need.

Individual moods, previous experiences, social connections, novelty, salience, and spacial proximity can also influence the experience of sympathy. Individuals experiencing positive mood states and people who have similar life experiences are more likely to produce sympathy.
Spacial proximity, or when a person or group exists close geographically (such as neighbors and citizens of a given country), they will more likely experience sympathy towards each other. Similarly, social proximity follows the same pattern. Members of certain groups (ex. racial groups) favor people who are also members of groups similar to their own. Social proximity is intimately linked with in-group and out-group status. In-group status, or a person falling within a certain social group, is also integral to the experience of sympathy. With this reasoning, it would be easier to feel sympathy for someone with the same religious beliefs than for someone in a religious group that one is not a part of. Both of these processes are based on the notion that people within the same group are interconnected and share successes and failures and therefore experience more sympathy towards each other than to out-group members, or social outsiders."

Ooooookay. Okay. So: Empathy is what you feel, whether you act on it or not, when you perceive a human/semi-sentient being near you in distress. Cat, child, homeless person, significant other in a sad mood, etc. SYMPATHY is how you...react to your empathy, I guess. Does that sound right to everyone?

If it does, or even if it doesn't, I get to run with it because it's MY blog, so that's what I'm going with.

(Bonus round: Empathic Concern is just another term for Sympathy. Other acronyms used: compassion, pity. Again: active emotions that usually draw from "empathy" as a starting point, but are not *required* to do so.)

Love Note

My amazing Entrepreneur went out and bought a mirror for me and installed it for me after I yelled at him about a lack thereof, and then he only went and bagged up the laundry and dropped it off at a laundromat. I may have yelled at him about that, too, back on Saturday night, after too much wine. And I'm not sure exactly what kind of awesome person is able to forgive and forget the drunken yelling, or even the sober yelling, and just does the things his partner requests of him, regardless of mode of communication, but I would like to stay with this awesome person for awhile. That is all.

*It helps that he speaks New Yorker. For him, "Do what I say or else I'm going to throw you off the loading dock" is a normal phrase to use in a business conversation. He is still a little surprised that that offends some people. 

My Mother Is Awesome

From a few days ago:

"Hi, I'm intrigued about 168 Hours after reading your post! Is that something I can download from the library to my iPad? The hard copy is unavailable, but the download IS available."

Me, in response: "Hi Mom, I’m not that familiar with the iOS (Apple Operating System) but you certainly SHOULD be able to download that book to your iPad! I’ll play around with it for a second anytime. Shouldn’t be more than a five minute test."

Her: "Maybe I should get it out of the box first, yes?"

And then, just yesterday: "Dear Daughter, Observation: You are communicating/posting more because you feel so much better (no back problems), the sun is out, and you have some cool new threads! Just my opinion!!"

Oh, Mom. You rock.

Garbage In, Garbage Out: Thoughts On Life

...and that reminds me, I need to take out ALL of our trash at the DR. We have hills of trash, and they're starting to form mountains, on which rests a light coating of dog-hair snow. We are growing LAND MASSES of garbage.

Which reminds me of Garbage Island. Which reminds me: buy more reusable bags. Humanity, we are horrible. More pictures of Garbage Island here.

Which reminds me of this post I wrote about rural Thailand, particularly this passage:

"Thailand in general has a waste management problem, and the Burmese school is in the slums, so there is trash everywhere, huge piles of it out back of all the huts. It's depressing. ...On the negative side, the Western culture of consummation of pre-packaged things--sodas and pre-wrapped sweets and things--has TRASHED the area, see the Waste Management problem, above."

BUT!

That is not the point of this post at all. The point of this post is that for some reason I have "Oops, I Did It Again" stuck in my head, which I will not link to because no one should ever be forced to listen to that song, and for some reason I know ALL the words right now, I could sing the entire song a capella, and THAT started a train of thought that ended with: Garbage In, Garbage Out. I could meditate on the complete inanity of the lyrics of "Oops, I Did It Again", which are inane EVEN FOR A BUBBLEGUM POP SONG...

...OR, I could purposefully meditate on something a little more stimulating!

Which is how I got here:

"The sun, whose rays Are all ablaze With ever-living glory, Does not deny His majesty He scorns to tell a story! He don't exclaim, "I blush for shame, So kindly be indulgent." But, fierce and bold, In fiery gold, He glories all effulgent! I mean to rule the earth, As he the sky We really know our worth, The sun and I! I mean to rule the earth, As he the sky We really know our worth, The sun and I!

Observe his flame, That placid dame, The moon's Celestial Highness; There's not a trace Upon her face Of diffidence or shyness: She borrows light That, through the night, Mankind may all acclaim her! And, truth to tell, She lights up well, So I, for one, don't blame her! Ah, pray make no mistake, We are not shy; We're very wide awake, The moon and I! Ah, pray make no mistake, We are not shy; We're very wide awake, The moon and I!"

...what's funny is that the above kind of IS bubblegum pop, albeit from almost 130 years ago.  It's lyrics from one of the songs from the comic opera The Mikado, by Gilbert and Sullivan.

(Which reminds me: see Topsy-Turvy!) (Which reminds me: I've recently seen De-Lovely. Anyone else see this? Thoughts?*)

ANYWAY. I know this song because of the movie Brick, which is a fantastic movie that everyone should see immediately. (Entrepreneur hasn't ever seen it, which is especially wonderful because now I get to be there when he watches it for the first time.) (Unlike Jack of All Trades, which is altogether a different story.) (Pun intended.)

Where was I? Oh yes, Brick. Brick is a fantastic movie, as I was saying, and in it, at a party, a character recites part of "The Sun, Whose Rays Are All Ablaze". See clip:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8jWXE3diiEw

Speaking of clips, may I just say that I love the internet? LOVE the internet? Because it provides space for people, in their spare time, and for no pay or recognition, just for the love of creation, to take hours and make things like this:



SO GOOD. So good. I dare you not to start laughing.

AND FINALLY. While looking for "The Sun, Whose Rays Are All Ablaze", I found this:

Bricklayer Love

I thought of killing myself because I am only a bricklayer
and you a woman who loves the man who runs a drug store.

I don't care like I used to; I lay bricks straighter than I
used to and I sing slower handling the trowel afternoons.

When the sun is in my eyes and the ladders are shaky and the
mortar boards go wrong, I think of you.

 

-Carl Sandburg

 

Carl Sandburg is probably my favorite poet, which is a statement I can make with confidence only because I'm not familiar with the work of very many poets, and Carl Sandburg is also the poet through whom I first even became INTERESTED in poetry. I pulled out a slim volume of his work at Elliot Bay Bookstore when I was in middle school; I remember it vividly. The smell of Elliot Bay Bookstore, the placement of the poetry section in the old location in Pioneer Square, the creaking of the floorboards, the fact that I read four poems from the book without stopping and bought it, and also a book of love poems and a book of William Shakespeare love sonnets, and I have no idea right now where any of those books are, given that they're in boxes, but I read the Carl Sandburg volume cover to cover and still REMEMBER the cover, although not the title. 

 

*mutter, mutter* I'm sorry, what was that? Oh, thanks, Internet, that was great. Here's the volume I fell in love with. 

To give credit where credit is due, I was looking for Carl Sandburg because we were studying Imagist Poetry in my summer literature** class, and the style spoke to me and fascinated me, mainly because it wasn't very long and I didn't have to slog through pages and pages of ABAB rhyming that wasn't even Shakespeare (which is what we were doing in my normal public school classes) and I couldn't see the point. 

As Pratchett says, way better than I do: (gods love you, Internet)

 "In theory it was, around now, Literature. Susan hated Literature. She'd much prefer to read a good book. ...It was a poem about daffodils. Apparently the poet had liked them very much. Susan was quite stoic about this. It was a free country. People could like daffodils if they wanted to. They just should not, in Susan’s very definite and precise opinion, be allowed to take up more than a page to say so."

...which reminds me of this quote, for my poor, beleaguered, Entrepreneur:

"She got on with her education. In her opinion, school kept on trying to interfere with it."

ANYWAY. Imagist Poetry and Poets, yes.  How I discovered Carl Sandburg, etc, although he's not technically an Imagist. I read Ezra Pound first, I think, and I liked him, too. And I believe that may be the end of this post for today.


(If you have time, DEFINITELY read that Imagist Poetry Wikipedia article. I didn't realize until I read it how much the style and movement affected, and generated, so many other styles and areas of interest that I like, including Sappho (I bought a book of her poetry not long after) and T.S. Eliot, who, to bring this full circle, was discussed during the Time On The Mountain yesterday, specifically The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock.)


(And if you have MORE time, definitely find a copy of The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock and read it.)

Happy 35th Birthday, Love.

Entrepreneur and I celebrated his birthday by taking the Subaru out on mountain roads and spending several hours exploring, taking short hikes, scouting places to camp and shoot, and just generally breathing the sharp mountain air. We agreed on everything we discussed, from big things to little things, having one of those days in which you're just on the exact same page as someone else, and we were pleased about it.

Regretfully getting off the mountain, driving home, then stepping out of the car on the warmer and more humid temperatures of sea level--and we live almost on top of the port, so the difference is especially noticeable--I felt that my soul was full. It wasn't like the intense joy of skiing, or the intense tiredness that comes after that--it was a more calm feeling, one of...satiety, maybe. It was a more inner happiness, made all the better because I was with someone who was experiencing the same thing. I had been on The Mountain again.

Psalm 121:1. "I will lift mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help."

Skadhi was pleased, I think.

Errata

I'm always inspired when I take a moment to read a few pages of 168 Hours: You Have More Time Than You Think. I'm working through it slowly, not because it's difficult to read--it's absolutely not, it's very accessible--but because there's so much to digest, and all this great material is hidden in plain sight, by such short words, that I have to take a lot of breaks. It's the opposite of not being able to see the forest for the trees; it's more like intentionally taking the time to make a complete study of each tree, not caring if you get all the way through the forest or not. A lot of her points simply MAKE SENSE to me, and then I have to go away and think about them for awhile before I feel ready to come back and read a few more pages.

Then again, I'm a sucker for this kind of writing style; I LIKE ideas that seem simple at first and then rattle around in your brain so much that you have to put the book down and really give that simple idea the meditation it deserves. Paradoxes, koans, one-sentence statements connecting the large and the small, the meta and the minute, and using thoughts expressed in those particular ways to attempt to classify and sub-classify human behavior into easily-chewable chunks; that's a style that both makes sense to me and fascinates me. (Just ask Entrepreneur. I tend to go on and ON about it at dinner.)

Back to 168 Hours: The mixed reviews on Amazon may mean I'm the only one who likes this writing style; no matter. It speaks to me, not only because I like the general idea communication style so much, although that's a terribly clunky phrase, but also because of its subject matter; I NEED this kind of simple style more than ever on certain subjects, like...time.

Everyone knows that ADD kids have a weird relationship with time, and meditating ON time--how to actively feel the seconds pass, how to expand a minute so that it contains the whole world--is a happy notion in the abstract but, like many meditative exercises (at least for me) sometimes the same result is achieved, and also more practically emphasized, by an accompanying small action, like Buddhist monks climbing the 314 stairs to the prayer room daily as a form of active meditation. This idea--of actively tracking minutes, hours, etc--is completely fascinating to me.

In the book she recommends keeping a time log on a piece of paper, and she has some very plain but quite fine examples of these kinds of logs, but really who can POSSIBLY carry a notebook around? Instead, me being me (duh) I found two apps, one web-based (Yast) and one app-based (Time Recording) and I'm OBSESSED. It's. Just. So. Fascinating. Why?