Vindication

Did anyone else watch 60 Minutes last night? If you did you would have seen a piece on a man who has synesthesia-- a savant who can remember something like 23,000 numbers in a row. He is the only savant who does not have severe mental deficiencies in other areas, so neuroscientists are hoping to learn a lot from him. I'm going to look for the book he's written. Brain function is everywhere these days.

But what I really want to talk about is Andy Rooney's commentary on the State of the Union Address. His rant was very near and dear to my heart, because if there is one thing I cannot abide, it is mispronounced (easy) words, particularly by the leader of our nation. I've been going on and on about it much to my husband's chagrin. I was cheering with hands in the air to hear AR chastising Bush on national television. Here's a link. It's well worth the five minutes or so.

Andy Rooney

Burgeoning Talent

While I was looking for a binder, I ran across some old writing of mine-- very old, like the first short story I had ever written, called "Our Own Demons". Very dramatic, I tell you. The story moved between a stripper's daily life and flashbacks her boyfriend was having about Vietnam. While of course the war scenes were ridiculous and over the top, I found there were some touching moments and a few really great sentences. And my plot line was better than the stories I've been writing lately. Not bad for a person who had absolutely no idea what she was doing and purely working on instinct. I had sent this story into Glimmer Train, of all places (I don't even dare with my stories now), and they kindly wrote back suggesting I stick with writing what I know (apparently obvious I hadn't been to war or been a stripper), but that I should keep writing. This was over fifteen years ago. I read that story thinking, what if I had kept going at that point in my life instead of listening to the critics, the ones that told me I couldn't write, that I should stick to painting? Well, no sense wallowing in what might have been. I'm just happy that I finally decided I could do it. It was encouraging to see that even that long ago I did have a smidgen of talent. And I think you'll see what I mean from this poem that I will share with you, written by yours truly:
1
I jogged down-town
I saw a clown
He fell down
and made a frown
I felt sorry for that clown
2
I feel sick it
I can't lick it
I could kick it
If I flicked it
3
That makes no sense
but of course
nothing does
if you're dense

Friday, April 10, 1981

Pain in my leg

Well, as is typical in a relationship where you see someone every day, I have yet to pin down the husband in a discussion about evolution, so that will have to wait. The last few days have mainly been about logistics.

So, in a pinch, I’m going to talk about meditation. This morning I had great difficulty concentrating—nothing particularly new there, but today my focus was not pulled by random thoughts entering my head. Today I could not ignore my left leg that was asleep, increasingly asleep so that eventually I imagined that I was in a great deal of pain. Maybe I was. I shifted and rolled my spine, but I would not allow myself to fully change positions. That’s what I normally do: accommodate my body. This morning I fought that urge and oh was it hard. I thought that half hour would never end. Maybe the alarm wasn’t working? Maybe I would lose my leg to gangrene. Isn’t that what happens when there is extended circulation deficiency?

And, back to the breath. I ask myself what it is that I learned here. Well, certainly that you can recover from a leg that was asleep for a few minutes. But further, I think it is possible that we create so much drama around certain events that we lose sight of the big picture. That big picture is so elusive when pain is present, immediate pain, in our face pain. I can only hope that I will get better at staying with it. Maybe tomorrow.

Mixed Media

Around my house for the last couple of days the talk has been about the future, the role of the artist in it, and the overwhelming nature of an informational whirlwind. A friend of mine (a painter and jewelry maker) suggested that artists now struggle in a way that they never have, that everything is presented in a postmodern conglomeration and that there is no room for, nor any ability to develop an original art form. I argued that artists have always struggled with the concepts of meaning, identity and truth no matter what the age (existential angst is our thing) and will continue to do so in the unique way that our complex society demands (an aside- I was warned in a class on the Use of Metaphor last week that the word “society” was banned from the room, but I think it is an appropriate word to complete my thought [and I’m too lazy to find a synonym] so I’m using it).
My friend countered with the idea that there was a richness to life when people were forced to sit around a fire and discuss books, a richness that is often lost on today’s MTV multi-imaged, live-streaming, video-game playing generation. I did agree with that point, but disagreed that the life of the artist is hopeless or doomed. She then admitted she was a nihilist and had trouble believing in anything at all. I love my friends.

And next time on The Repeater:
My husband thinks that there’s no way that natural evolution can keep up with human invention so we’re eventually going to have to technologically enhance our bodies (silicone chip in the brain, etc.) Hmmm.

I wanted to upload a photo but of course blogger is giving me trouble

A long week of seminars and workshops. I want to tell you there are some smart people out there. They are witty and wise and are doing their best to cram information into this thick skull. I am hoping that just walking around in Cambridge is enough to soak my skin with some liquid intelligence. But while I was walled in my ecru tower it appears the global political scene exploded once again. What are we doing invading an embassy? Has the whole world gone mad? Are there no rules that our power-monger of a president will not break? He’s a spoiled child who wants his candy. He’s the angst-ridden teenager that didn’t get enough love from his father so he’s going to rob the liquor store just to show his family. Just to show them. (Oh, a distraction for a moment- some cuddly cuddly panda’s on the news. Are they the cutest?) I’m on the web trying to find out exactly what happened with all this and it’s darn near impossible. Now our military’s shameless behavior is buried in the news of some kidnapped boys being returned to their homes- fantastic in itself, but I feel so out of touch. What’s going on when there is snow in the Northwest and children are hanging themselves because of a publicized execution? I’m all muddled up and jumping from thought to thought. I’m hopping on a plane once again, gaining a couple of hours that I’m praying will give me the time I need to sort this all out.

Football Sunday

Am I an asshole for making fun of a quarterback? In the silent moments when my friends turned to look at me, all eyebrows furrowed, all mouths turned down, I wondered if I was. People are fiercely loyal to what they perceive as “their team” (fans use the term “we” loosely as if somehow the spectators are responsible for the plays, as if personal superstitions have anything at all to do with “their team” winning). I tried to explain to my sour company that the joke was not in any way directed at “their team”’s quarterback: I was making fun of football players in general. For some reason this did not placate my friends. I had apparently trampled on holy ground.

Let me just ask this question: does it not seem ridiculous that the media continues to interview players after the game? We all know what they are going to say: “Well, we just like to go out there and play the best we can. You know, team work is everything. I knew we would come through if we persevered.” Oh, strike that—persevered is a pretty big word for a football player.

Maybe I am an asshole.

Whole New Year

Oh, how very predictable of me: a new year, a new face on the blog. It's a softer Repeater, misty and clean. We'll see if it lasts. There are so many moments to discuss, so many adventures on the open sea to be shared, so many high-falutin' ideas to be contemplated. I'm overwhelmed. Where to begin? This week I'll be sorting it out and back with you before you know it.

Bye for a while

Obviously, I can't keep up right now. I could use the typical excuses: The Holiday Season, Personal Writing Goals, School Work, but...well, those actually sound good so I'll use them. I'll be reading up on what you're doing,Bloggers, but I don't believe I'll post for a while. Life's got me busy as busy can be. I may join you again soon if I can feel like I've actually accomplished something. Until then, please keep me entertained with your lives. And please buy Product (Red) if you're consuming.

Snow Day

It’s a winter wonderland up here in the Northwest, something we’re not quite sure what to do with. We’re all agog, wandering down snow-covered lanes with brand new mittens and kicking at the powdery ground with our fur-lined boots. Every time it snows out here, you would think it was the first time in history, such a rare event it is. Adults throw snowballs, cars rear off the road into ditches. It brings us great glee. The city shuts down; a snow day for all. Only the cats are distressed, staring perplexed out the cat door, unsure what is causing the glare. They touch their tiny paws to the ground, and then run back in the house, not caring for change.

Goddess Envy

The question in this week’s Sunday Scribblings is “Do you have a nemesis?” I did have one at one time, a nemesis such as we use the word today: an enemy, an opponent, a source of harm. She was supposed to be my best friend. But that’s another story.

I want to talk about Nemesis, the goddess of vengeance. Daughter of the Nyx, the goddess of night. Nemesis rides in a carriage pulled by griffins (part lion, part eagle). She is the pursuer of the wicked, she will bring down justice. Nemesis punished Narcissus for being so conceited. She is sister to the Fates. There is something deep inside me that longs to be Nemesis. There is a need in me to see the world ironed out, even, fair. Plus she wore only indigo. I look good in indigo.

Nemesis also wore a sword (one of the few Greek Gods to do so), but she is not merely a source of evil and power. Think of her as the teacher of the tough lessons, disciplinarian to wayward humans. The embodiment of Karma. Nemesis is a necessary force. She is part of the balance of the universe; teaching us right from wrong and making us pay for going off the path of righteousness.

Now I’ve done it, now I am treading the waters of morality and religion. Karma and divine justice. Who is to say what is right and what is wrong? Is the world really so black and white? Unfortunately having a batch of opinions and a pocket full of indignation probably doesn’t qualify me for such a lofty position. While I’m studying up on my theology I’ll just think of myself as a Nemesis in training. I’ll keep my opinions to a minimum and keep trying to do the right thing. Someday maybe I’ll wear that sword.

Photo Day

Feeling a little uninspired. Feeling a little down, sad, call it what you will. I'm in the midst of the doldrums, I'm in the thick of the void, I'm staring at the walls waiting for inspiration to arrive. I'm feeling a bit like this guy without the sunshine.


And so I give you photos I took in Asia last year: blinks of the artist eye, work I can feel good about.


Bangkok on the river

Hiroshima temple

AND........






What???

Let it Shine

Another sunny day that lifts our gloomy mood. Sitting atop the roof looking out over the land, surveying the trees as the owls do at night, their particular screeching cat-yowls, the most frightening sound at midnight. Another calls back in a hoot that echoes out across the darkness. This land is beautiful in its crisp autumn sunshine. Unlike the dark days of winter. I’m working very hard at pulling things together. I’m trying to be good, to focus, to get things down, in order, in place. I’m ahead of the game and want to stay that way, feel I’ve been granted a particular freedom: a lightness, a warm breeze, a chance to rejuvenate, pick my head up. All this the power of sunshine.

Ouch

Yesterday I had a dentist appointment. You all know: it can never be pleasant. It just can’t. The skill level of the doctor factors in only slightly. There are few things in the natural world more humiliating that having your mouth propped open by a rubber and steel instrument while you are being asked questions you can only answer by a particularly meaningful squint of the eye. Few things outside of intentional torture, that is.
My dentist is excellent. He is professional, efficient, and funny. But somehow all that matters very little when you cannot feel the right side of your mouth and are watching globules of spit fly up out of your mouth and onto the dark glasses they have provided. You feel a drop land on your nose, but no one is wiping it off for you. Why isn’t the hygienist wiping it off for you? You obsess about that drop of spit on your nose, imagine what your face looks like, stretched wide open and covered with blue rubber, that shiny bit of spit across your nose.
You have never looked more ridiculous. They must be laughing at how you look. The hygienists must talk about it in the lounge at lunch.
You know it is only making the situation worse, focusing on that spit and so you try to let it go, try to concentrate on your breathing, but then the whine of the drill, high pitched and chilling. You wonder if the Novocain is going to work, maybe it isn’t strong enough, maybe he missed and that drill is going to be more painful than anything you have ever experienced. Your hands clench tight around the copy of Newsweek on your lap, open to a story you will never finish reading about a man executed in Texas. Did he feel like this, strapped to the table, awaiting the lethal injection?
Oh for god’s sake breathe, you cannot feel the drill. But the spit is still there, on your nose, though it is dry now. You wiggle your nose, lift a fist to your face, but the dentist tells you to lie still, almost there. The hygienist laughs and says you have the loudest spit she’s ever heard. What does that mean? Doesn’t everyone’s spit sound like that when they suck it up the tube? Now you can only hear the spit, nothing else. The sound of the spit drowns out the drill, the chit chat they are making so close to your face, the two of them prodding and poking, laughing. You have the loudest spit. Stop it spit, stop it. Stop making that noise. You try to shift the tube with your tongue, but it only makes the noise louder and it seems to echo in the tiny room.
There is nothing that can be done about this; nothing but to accept that you have loud spit, accept that you are ridiculous and numb, drooling and distorted. Your muscles relax and you sit defeated in the chair.
“Okay,” the dentist says. “You’re all set.”
“Thanks,” you mumble, and wipe your nose.

I Don't Want to Be a Passenger in My Own Life

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is a quote from writer Diane Akerman.

The scenery is shooting by at an alarming rate. This morning I thought I would take a nice peaceful train ride. I would not have to think about the insanity of the highway, gas burning, the possibility of a debilitating crash. I did not want to worry about flat tires, oil leaks, engine fires. I boarded the train so that I would not risk a pebble flying at the windshield, a jack-knifed semi sliding across the median, triggered air bag, concussion.
Here I am in my safe cushioned seat, first class ticket, power outlet below me for my laptop, a conductor who comes to me for proof I have paid. I have paid. But we are moving too fast for my eyes to see what it was I wanted to see. I had desired scenery, a backdrop for my thoughts of life and death and the Holidays upon us. I am thinking of learning and children and cooking and health and I sought a pastoral view while I pondered this forest of ideas. Not a blur of shapes and colors. Not a continuous, nauseating smear.
This is not what I had in mind. Stop this train! I look around in a panic, but the other passengers seem comfortable,seem content with this rocketing speed. Up above me I eye the red emergency stop button and my hand trembles towards it. I don’t want to be driven if I have no control over the pace, the direction, the destination. This ride is not for me. I stand, staring at the button, and ask myself: Do I dare?

Prompt Part 2-
Favorite quote:
“Opportunity is missed by most people because it’s dressed in overalls and looks like work” Thomas Edison

I've Been Meme'd

Okay, bug, I looked up the term:

meme (plural memes)

1. Any unit of cultural information, such as a practice or idea, that is transmitted verbally or by repeated action from one mind to another. Examples might include thoughts, ideas, theories, practices, habits, songs, dances and moods and terms such as race, culture, ethnicity etc.
2. A self-propagating unit of cultural evolution having a resemblance to the gene (the unit of genetics).



10 wonderful things that start with L:


* Life
* Libraries. "L"s are too easy.
* L-Dopa (an amino acid, precursor to Dopamine, synthetic form used to treat Parkinson's disease)-ooh, seems I did learn something with all that studying.
* Laughter
* Language
* Lesley University
* Lady's slipper, a most stunning orchid
* Legends- they keep us going.
* Lingering. Just the sound of the word is enjoyable.
* Love. Of course.

Five bad things that start with L:

* Lewis "Scooter" Libby. Too wrapped up with Cheney et al. Don't like him.
* Lint. Does it serve a purpose?
* Land mine.
* Lap dances (sorry guys, it just looks wrong)
* Liposcution. Nothing right about that.


Hey FC, if you're around, I'm requesting a Q list from you (should be challenging, but I'm sure you're up to the task)

Issues

There are certain subjects that need to be addressed with ferocity. People need to speak up when the loudest voice being broadcast is so completely offensive. Bibi says it better than I could in her post Dear Rush Limbaugh

The other subject I want to prompt you to explore is that of the impending war with Iran. Yes, that's what I said, no typo, no dropped q-- war with Iran, which is what ex-weapons inpector Scott Ridder says the Bush administration is planning on pursuing. He was brilliant on the PBS program I just watched. This man should be president, but alas, I fear he is far too rational.

Here's what my local PBS station has to say:

Scott Ritter This week on KCTS Connects, Scott Ritter, former United Nations weapons inspector in Iraq, joins us to talk about his new book, "Target Iran: The Truth About the White House's Plans for Regime Change." In 2002, Ritter became a lightening rod for controversy when he cautioned that the U.S - with its plans to invade Iraq - was on the verge of an historic mistake. He warned that Iraq did not have weapons of mass destruction, and criticized the Bush administration of disguising its policy of regime change with spurious claims of threats to U.S. national security. In his new book he charges the Bush administration for following the same disastrous model in Iran as it did in Iraq, and argues that "the path that the United States is currently embarked on regarding Iran is a path that will inevitably lead to war."

So, I feel the need to stay wary of our questionable leader once again. We cannot afford to invade another country, neither morally or financially--for any reason. I'll defer to my politically savvy husband for info on staying active on this one. There are times we cannot afford to turn our heads. I'll let you know what I find out...

The Trappings of Technology

Well, isn't that always the way. I was all set to jump into full blogging glory and my DSL is down and out. It may be from the colossal rains, it may be some sort of sign to cool it on the computer work. Whatever it is, it has forced me to an internet cafe (the only one on the island) to comment. This after half the day yesterday was spent on the phone to a technician in Manila who tried to walk me through fixing my Quickbooks. (A word to the wise, if you are thinking about starting your own business, try to stay away from the Evil Program that sucks you in, makes you dependent on it, and then charges you exorbitant fees to make it work). I have so much to say, so much to ponder, and yet, limited internet access once again. This seems a recurring theme. What does it mean???

No Need to Worry

Lest you think my bones are off bleaching in the desert sun, I write to tell you I am alive and fully saturated up here in the Great Northwest once again (in fact, thinking of building an ark as the deluge will not stop). Having finally come out of my sleep-deprived stupor, I am wading through miles of mail from the last three weeks and breathing a gigantic sigh of relief for having barely squeezed out my last submission for school. I guarantee I will be back with you all in full blogging glory by the end of the day... Oh, how I've missed you all.

Desert Tunes

It is high spirits and pumpkins galore out here in the desert. The stages are up and the bands are rolling in. Only waiting on the audience now. They are lurking on the streets of Las Vegas, awaiting the moment we open the gates. Crews are rushing around, putting up the last of the fencing, painting signs, and sound checking. My stage is right next to the Indian food and the smoothies—I’m in vendor heaven if I can find a second to sit down. Here’s to hoping the bands don’t have too much attitude and the generator doesn’t blow a fuse. Party on

Take a Look Outside

Oh, just a few more days in this lonely tumbleweed town. I can’t say I’ll hate to see the last of the Red Roof Inn and the Jack in the Box across the street. I can’t say I’ll suffer by forfeiting the Subway sandwiches and bad Chinese. I won’t miss the giggling twenty-somethings in the next room or the warehouse I’m working in. I won’t miss the mini-van I’ve driving around one tiny little bit (flat tire incident with the compact rental).
But somehow it is easy to get accustomed to a new routine. Just a few weeks and I am ready to accept the hassle of walking outside to the ice machine twice a day to keep the half and half for my coffee unspoiled. With that first hint of the crisp air hitting my face, I wander, body-blissed from a half hour of yoga, out into the morning. I’ve started to enjoy the image of the sun coming up in the mirrored building across the street, a shimmering pink and yellow reflection of itself.
When I get home I will have to remember to walk outside first thing. Funny that it took coming here.