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"What the hell--?" "Stop." "But I mean-- what on earth--?" "I said just stop. IT never happened. Turn around. Go about your business. And goddammit Jake -- don't snort at me!" "I wasn't snorting." "Yes, you were." "It was a good natured chuckle." "Which came through your nose?" "Maybean, what on earth is going on here?" And then he stood and looked and there I was still on my knees with the dustpan, refusing to blush even though there was plenty to blush about, covered as I was with gallons of unbleached white flour, ten gallons to be exact, which I new because it had been a new ten gallon tub when I'd started. And there I was, so covered with flour it took Jake plenty of time to figure out that I was naked under all that, stark naked except for my Wednesday panties, which I wear every Sunday. It's kind of my little joke with God.
Because it was Monday morning, Joseph knew he was close to death. He lay on his futon, aching everywhere, doomed by the HIV / brain tumor / H1N1 / plague that he'd contracted overnight. From where he lay, about 8 feet from the kitchenette, he could see fruit flies hovering around the half apple he'd left out of his pink refrigerator the night before. He'd swear he could hear them buzz, but "I heard a fly buzz when I died" had already been taken. He'd have to think of something else, and quickly, before Melissa woke up. There was no point in having chosen your last words if there was nobody there to hear them. He just hoped he'd last that long. It was a drag crashing at his older sister's place, Joseph thought, and wondered if there might be some possibility there in that verb. "Like a computer loaded with Window's '95, I crash," he croaked dramatically. Didn't quite cut it. He rolled over, feeling the spears of hostile aliens probing his brain. His feet poked out of the not-quite-long-enough comforter, and he noted that his toe nails needed painting. Black this time, he thought. It would suit his mood. Not that he was Goth or anything. He didn't have to be. There *was* nothing more gothic than getting through a Seattle November, even if he never left this futon again, which at this point seemed highly likely. The loud and obnoxious sound of the Bangles emanated from his sister's room. Melissa had different alarm tones for every day of the week. Monday's lyric "If I had an airplane, I still wouldn't make it on time..." blared out and he groaned. Maybe "I'm catching the early train" would be good last words to whisper in his final moments. Particularly if he died this morning, at the tragically young age of 19. "Rise and shine!" Melissa bounced out of her room, perky as ever. She worked as a receptionist downtown, and "perk" was more than just her 9-5 persona. Joseph couldn't imagine how they'd come from the same parents. Maybe they hadn't. Maybe (he thought, for the millionth time), he'd been given away by his real parents, genius scientists who were kidnapped by a hostile foreign government. He groaned. "Headache?" Melissa asked with a smile. She bustled to the kitchen and got a plastic bag, tossing it to him as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows. "Make sure those get into the glass bin -- the pick up is tomorrow." Perfect. She'd been harping on to him about his bottle collection for weeks and she'd chosen now, the hour if not the moment of his death, to insist that he get rid of it. Something about glass maybe? He remembered something about being immortal until the second glass of wine...but maybe that was "mortal". He couldn't remember. He listened to Melissa getting ready for work, and sat up when she brought him coffee. "Thanks, " he said. He took a sip. He couldn't think of any good dying words this morning. Probably best to go on living until he was more inspired.
Sun, Oct. 25th, 2009, 08:25 am
Deep Sea Diver
Assignment: A deep-sea diver brings his work home with him. Done in the style of Agatha Christie.It was 7:00 in the evening, a time that the inhabitants of Louisiana call "moss time". Long strands of green reached through the dusk to whisper across Maybelann's cheek as she tottered her way across the back yard to the porch. Crickets had given way to the deeper buzzing sounds of oncoming night. The thump of her cane sounded loudly across the raised porch. Maybelann used the sound to warn away snakes as she cast an interested eye over the curtains framing her back door. Something dripped from the corner of the yellow gingham; something green and ominous. She did not grimace. There was no disgust in Maybelann, she simply did not like dripping green things. She opened the door to the kitchen and screwed up her rheumy eyes to look about her. The warped cabinet door on the eastern wall hung open, revealing a missing Kerr's jar. The kitchen sink was empty and dry. Water and mud streaked the white and yellow linoleum of the floor she'd scrubbed that morning. Maybelann cautiously maneuvered the slippery spaces as she made her way to the living room. She would prefer to use lady-like tones and avoid foul language, but she had learned long ago that in this native, wild land, only savage talk could be heard. "God-dang it Horace!" She yelled. "I done told you and told you to clean up after yourself!"
God no, I don't force myself to laugh politely. I LOVE corny jokes--the cornier, the better! Did you hear the one about the jump rope? Skip it. What I don't have the patience for is those jokes that are constructed like stories, and you have to pay attention through a long set up to get to the punch line. Even if they're good and the story is interesting, somewhere in the second minute of this long, winding set up I start getting bored and tuning out. And sometimes I resent having my time wasted with a story that doesn't matter to the person telling it, that isn't about them or how they live their lives or see the world. Oddly, I don't mind having my time wasted by sit-coms. But the patter on sitcoms is faster moving and there is usually a pay-off every...what?...30 seconds or so. I don't know why I should resent jokes so much. I guess it's because I know I can turn off the tv at any time, but once a joke has started I feel trapped until the punch line comes. Usually then I laugh out of sheer relief. Also? I hate getting jokes by email. But I love puns.
Announcer: Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Johnson's Wax Radio Theater as we present The Beasleys! <applause> Announcer: Tonight: Horace and Madge Beasley have a meeting with Billy Boy's teacher, Mrs. Crabtree. Audience: Ooooooo. SFX: footsteps across a wooden floor, followed by rustling of papers Mrs. Crabtree: Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Beasley, please come in and have a seat.
Horace: I have a seat right here. Madge: <tittering> Oh Horace, you're awful. SFX: rustling and scraping of chair against floor Mrs. Crabtree: I hope you don't mind. I've called you here to talk about Billy Boy-- Horace: That's my boy! Mrs: Crabtree: Yes. And he seems to have uh, a problem-- Madge: He's always been terribly shy-- Horace: Right. <snorts>. If S is for Sporting, H is for Handsome and Y is for Youthfully Bright, that's our Billy Boy!
<audience laughter> Mrs. Crabtree: Yes, well, shyness isn't exactly the trouble. I'm not quite sure how to put this-- Horace: Straight up with a side of whiskey's always nice.
<audience laughter> Madge: <tittering> Oh Horace, you're awful! Mrs. Crabtree: It's that he's-- Madge: He's always been a little afraid of girls. And he gets tongue-tied and stutters. I don't think he's ever-- Horace: Now, Madge. Anyone would have been afraid of that tomboy Janie Nolan. Especially after she landed that punch on Billy Boy's shoulder. Madge: He was sore for a week. Horace: But I don't think he's that afraid of girls. After all, he's my boy! Madge: <titters>
<audience laughter>
Mrs. Crabtree: Well, no. See, girls aren't the problem. The problem is that he's taken to-- Horace: Practical jokes, I'll bet. Why, when I was his age there was no end to the pranks I'd come up with. Remember Madge? When Lester Snorton and I found that slingshot-- Madge: Don't remind me. Mrs. Crabtree: Well, no, it isn't practical jokes. It's that, when I'm trying to teach something, he-- Horace: I'll bet you're a heckuva teacher, Mrs. Crabtree. Madge: I'm sure Mrs. Crabtree doesn't want to know-- Horace: I mean, I bet you get a lot of apples, heh heh. Madge: Horace. Horace: What with them apples…
<audience laughter> Madge: Oh, you're just awful. Mrs. Crabtree: Mr. and Mrs. Beasley, please. Billy Boy isn't pulling practical jokes, he doesn't have a problem talking to girls, and he isn't particularly shy -- I just wanted to tell you-- Horace: Then why are we here? Mrs. Crabtree: You're here because -- Madge: He's really such a good boy, our Billy Boy. I don't know why you would have a problem with him. Mrs. Crabtree: Because-- Horace: It isn't like he's backwards or anything? Mrs. Crabtree: No!
Horace: So what's the problem? Mrs. Crabtree: Because I can't get a word in edgewise! Madge: <gasps> Mrs. Crabtree: Every time I'm up at the board and trying to talk to the class, Billy Boy-- Horace: --interrupts? Heh heh. Madge: <tittering> Oh Horace, you're awful.
<audience laughter> <music> Announcer: Join us next week on Johnson's Wax Radio Theater with the Beasleys, when we find out what Billy Boy's actually been doing with that troublemaker Timmy behind the old clubhouse. <applause>
I have a performance review this afternoon. I'm a little nervous. I'm going to take the writing suggestions from the Juggler's Challenge post in order, one every day or so, until I run out. Feel free to add additional challenges as they come to you. I'm wearing black clothes that are way too big for me today. And black shoes. And white socks. Yes, I look like a noob. Or a person in search of a pirate costume who has no boots and no good accessories. I got a walk in at lunch. So chances are I'll be less depressed this afternoon than this morning. Or maybe not. I feel bleh. I'm going to watch Season 1, eps 5-6 of True Blood tonight. Can't wait. I want to call in sick tomorrow, but probably won't. V.
The lemon cucumbers looked especially good today. She reached a gnarled hand slowly toward the display and cradled one round, spiny vegetable in her palm, drawing it into her cart. It had been a long time since she'd had a cucumber sandwich, and longer still since she'd had one with a touch of the spicy cranberry jelly that he'd introduced to her. Holding on to the handle of the cart, she moved slowly up toward the end of the produce aisle. Her feet, as always, ached and she had to move slowly, stretching now and then in a futile attempt to ameliorate the pain shooting from her hip to her knee. She liked to imagine that she still had some grace. Everything is a dance, she remembered him saying back in the days before Martha Graham was a household name, before the Alexander Technique became just another module in a student's schedule. Everything is a dance. And even now, decades later, she was mindful, knew where her feet was and could feel the floor through them, knew the hum of theater in the people around her. She no longer leaped across half a stage from one partner to another, but she danced with every iota of her being, with her fingers, now feathering across the fennel, with her cart as she moved to let a younger woman pass. Posted via email from mysticsavage's posterous
When I was in college I became a fan. A huge FAN. A scary, stalkery, hanging-out-at-the-band's house stoned kind of fan of a band called Heend. Fortunately, the band was this group of three guys who were all a little, I don't know, better than other people. The kind of people I hang with regularly now, for example. These guys, particularly Adrian and Andrew, were maybe the first people I'd met who were actually more creative than I was...more off-the-wall in their thinking, for sure, and putting the work out there in a risky way. Heend would do these shows called "Juggler's Challenge" shows, when they would play any instrument in any key or time or riff on anything that the audience could suggest. One night, for example, someone challenged them to jam in 13/7 time. And they pulled it off. I don't remember them pulling it off particularly well that night, but that challenge became a song they called "Prime". People would shout out key changes, themes, ask for specific kinds of songs, and the band was so tight they could do it. Mostly pretty damn well. One of the guys in the band--Andrew--still plays in various musical ensembles, and from time to time they do Juggler's Challenge revival shows at Mr. Spot's chai house in Ballard. More about those here. So: time went on. We left college. Terry left the band to do his own thing up in northland; Adrian moved to Portland, and Andrew and Tina became a couple of my closest post-college friends for that first decade out of school. They now live in West Seattle about a mile from me, and once in awhile if I see Andrew downtown at a bus stop, I can get on his bus and ride out to his house and visit their wonderful tiny baby daughter and eat sandwiches with them at the Husky deli and then they'll drive me home. Well, ok, I did that once this year. The point being that I'm not a huge scary stalkery hanging-out-at-the-band's house stoned kind of fan anymore. But I still love the idea of juggler's challenge shows, which is why I'm issuing a similar challenge here: throw me some balls to juggle in my writing. or drawing. (one caveat: that it be something I can do in 20-30 minutes). give me a theme. or three words or phrases that you think will trip me up. tell me you want me to write a haiku about your special fandom, or a country song in which Spike proclaims his love to Harry Potter. Ask me for a paragraph about a 65 year old diabetic cop in Phoenix or a pencil drawing of my childhood home, or a story about one of my latest sexcapades done in 1950's bodice ripping romance writer language. I'm curious and eager to meet these challenges....so bring it on, babies. Let's go!
Tue, Oct. 13th, 2009, 03:47 am
Echo
Narcissus met Echo during Ultimate Frisbee tryouts the first week of 8th grade. It wasn't her glittery purple sneakers that caught his attention at first, it was her chest, which he dodged to avoid as she crashed into him with a triumphant yell, snatching the frisbee from the sky. While Narcissus was trying to keep a low profile this time around, Echo, obviously, had made her own different choices. She grinned at him briefly and flicked the frisbee away, bounding after it, leaving him lying stunned in the grass.
What I should do is exercise, educate and exfoliate eliminate what looks like hate embrace my fate and epilate. What I wanna do is to mellow down kinda mess around with the easy sound want drug my head spend some time in bed wake up two days later in an elevator going up and up never stoppin' -hunh-- takin off for heaven where there's a 7-11 and I buy a slurpee and piece of beef jerky and I fall in love with a 3-piece dove: one piece is man and one piece is demon the last piece takes me where I'm flyin' but for now I'm jakin stop this fakin get my sh** together for all kinds of weather got to do the laundry, the dishes, the floor and that's all I'm writing -- there ain't no more.
Melody is superstitious -- she's always admitted it. Whenever she hears a snatch of music on the street she knows it is going to be a good day. She has decided that all omens are good. When she sees a penny, she might pick it up or not, having changed the last few lines of the old verse to "see a penny, let it lay, you'll have good luck anyway." Also good luck for her: sitting in an odd-numbered row from the front at a movie theater, having a leaf fall on her head, a pigeon cross her path, or a panhandler ask her for money. She often says no, but she always sees the request as a blessing. She doesn't go out of her way to walk under ladders, but she doesn't avoid them either. She knows that they could be bad luck, but if you hold your breath while you're under a ladder and make a religious sign or symbol with your hands you turn the luck to good. She has lots of religious symbols. She crosses her fingers behind her back or makes a cross over her chest, or taps her third eye three times with her ring finger. She's not odd. Well, not visibly odd. She looks like everybody else, has an office job, two children. Her thighs are fat. She's often in a hurry, carrying her purse and her lunch in a plastic Target bag because she keeps forgetting to buy cloth. She's not a hippie. She's not a pagan. She doesn't dance naked under a full moon (although the thought makes her grin). She likes football, and notices that the Seahawks win whenever she goes to a game. She doesn't go to many games, but never feels like she jinxes it by being there. If anything, she can almost make a touchdown happen if she drinks half a beer and leaves the other half under her seat. Lots of her superstitions involve leaving things: she leaves a dollar in the violin case of the guy who plays outside of Pacific Place. She leaves sticky notes all over her desk at work: on the arms of her chair, on the monitor frame, on the telephone. And she's never had problem leaving people. In fact, she's good at it. She used to be able to end a relationship within half an hour of deciding it was over. There. All of her belongings would fit in two milk crates and a suitcase, and she'd be back at her Aunt Bethie's house, in the room she stayed in when she was between things. Having children changed that, though, and she finds herself now, surprised, having lived in the same neighborhood with the same man for the last six years. Just as she's thinking this, she feels the sticky tack of gum under her shoe. She grimaces as her foot comes up from the sidewalk. Maybe it's time to leave something else, she decides, and before she has time to second guess herself, she's slipped off both shoes and is walking in her socks down the sidewalk toward her bus stop. The pavement is cold and rough under her feet, and she thinks maybe that is a good omen too. It's important to stay in touch with the rough edges.
I left the house today at 2:00 and took the bus to Traveler's. I was to meet Chuck at 4:30 at the convention center, and wanted to groove around downtown for a bit before I went. So: I wore my lucky vest, and went to Traveler's (which is always lucky) and drank a cup of their chai (which is beyond luck -- it's actually magic, that chai). I sat there and soaked up the atmosphere for awhile and went into the shop part of the store and looked around, not needing to buy anything but just happy to be there. Exchanged a few words with Liam, the proprietor, who recognized me although he doesn't really know my name. But we have a distantly pleasant relationship and I like him a lot. Left Traveler's and went around the block to Babes in Toyland and then to Edge of the Circle. Again, no need to buy anything. In fact, in Edge of the Circle I looked at all the magic books and all the spirituality books and just had this moment of recognition that after thirty years of reading about all that stuff, I'm really tired of reading about it. So I left and continued down the hill. Stopped in at a furniture store that I'd never been in and had no intention of staying in, but was there for quite awhile because they didn't have just furniture, but also really cool candles and fans and desktop fru-frus and cool greeting cards. It was a good place to explore. Stopped in at a coffee shop, Uncle Elizabeth's, which I pass on the bus every morning and have always been curious about. It's one of those places that's cooler on the outside than the inside, and I won't need to go back again, but it was a good place to spend ten minutes and the espresso, while nothing to write home about, wasn't too bad. Continued down the hill. Got to the convention center about an hour early, so headed up to the lobby on the second floor and hung out and read. The security guard passed me once but decided I was well dressed enough he wouldn't hassle me (although I didn't have a convention badge). I'm reading "Digging to America" by Anne Tyler and it's really good. Went down to the meeting place with about ten minutes to spare and didn't have to wait too long for Chuck. And had a very, very happy time catching up with him. We sat and talked for a minute or two and then walked toward Wild Ginger, where we were seated at Table 9, which, as it turns out, is the same table I've been seated at the last two times I've been there. Wild Ginger isn't a small place -- it has easily -- what? 40? 50? tables...more? So it's quite a coincidence to be at this wonderful booth where I have good memories. Chuck and I had a good meal -- a tuna thing and a chicken thing and a wonderful bok choi thing, and I had a mango daquiri and a vicodin and the conversation was mellow and loving and interesting and as always when I'm with Chuck I fell in love with him. It's impossible not to. I defy anybody to spend an hour or two with Chuck and not fall in love with him. I don't think it's possible. It's not that he's terribly suave--in fact, he's not. He's sincere and has integrity and he's thoughtful and there's just something undeniably super wonderful about him. After dinner, we walked to Bartell's where he picked up some headache medicine and I shopped for makeup and chatted with the clerk about skin care products. Her secret is to mix baby oil with grains of sugar. Mine is oatmeal. Her name was Amy. We had a great conversation, enhanced no doubt by my general feeling of well-being from being with Chuck and feeling like we're in a good place with each other. So...we walked toward my bus stop and kissed a little bit while waiting for the bus, and I gave money to a guy whose sign said he just wanted money for pot, and money to my favorite busker (a drummer who is often outside of Nordstrom's at rush hour--the blond guy with the beard who plays a variety of drums and rhythms from different parts of the world and is pretty damn good. Also, he looks like Jesus. The blond Jesus.) And after another fifteen minutes, my bus came and I kissed Chuck good bye. It was the perfect Saturday afternoon/early evening date. I ran into Frances and Anna on the bus and we talked about writing and work parties and cohousing until we got to Duwamish. Disembarked and walked with them through the community, and found myself at Kevin's house with Kevin and the kids, sharing the lovely biscotti Chuck had brought me with them, and talking about family stuff with Penny and Sar. Kevin and I are on the same page with parenting more and more these days. It helps, I think, that the kids always make it pretty evident to us when things aren't good for them (eg, too much tv). Anyway, made a plan for hanging out with them tomorrow and that was a wonderful cap to the evening. Got back home around 8 pm, and am now updating this before I do my creative writing for the night. Love to all ! V.
I am a blind hamster on a creaky wheel. I am the weight at the bottom of a sack of drowning kittens. I am your overdue taxes with thirteen attachments and nine different forms. My life is mud. It is a paradise for sickly toads and preying swampthings. I slog through it like, I dunno, like a nine hundred pound woman climbing a flight of stairs. What do I want? Everything. Ocean sounds echoing off the walls of my sanctuary. Soft cushions topping heaps of treasure. Hot tea in a rainstorm. Lovers from here to Mazatlan. Seven angelic children singing like bells at Christmas. I want to stay young. I want to be young, younger than I've ever been -- I want straight shoulders and hairless skin and white teeth and perfect eyesight. The grace of a dancer. The vision of a priest. The life of someone starting over, wisdom remembered, energy building, all in love with skylines and jet trails. Mostly, I want your eyes meeting mine and telling me I'm not alone in this. Notice me -- and show me what joy is. Love me, as much as I love you.
I just did my 10 minute creative exercise for the day, which gave me this. Warning: lots of the f word. Also warning: you can hear the twang. ( One last f-- )
Sun, Sep. 20th, 2009, 07:58 am
Chain writing.
In yesterday's writing marathon we did a chain writing exercise, wherein the last word of one sentence becomes the first word of the following sentence. I think we did this one for 30 minutes. Here's the result. Writing is the last word. Word to your mother. Mother picks up a lighter and fumbles in her purse for a cigarette. Cigarettes aren't good for you, she's said, and on the commercial people sing "we mind very much if you smoke". Smoke curls up from her hand in a lazy ribbon around her face. Face it: you want to smoke too. To try smoking just once. Once you went behind the haybales behind the archery practice field and thought you might try a cigarette with Shelley Beers. Beer cans littered the area behind the hay bales--someone had been there before you. You waited with a quickening heart, but before she could pass you the cig a hand fell on your shoulder. "Shoulder you the responsibility" you heard in your mind. "Mind your step" said the counselor who caught you and her voice was disappointed. Disappointed was the teme for the day---from your counselor, your parents, evenyour brother. "Brother, don't smoke that," you hear from a different time in your past. Past that voice is a grey street climbing out of a fog bank. Banking left your memory veers from cigarettest o pot now, a green plant someone has taught you to call "kind". Kind of a joke that, an obvious one. One day you are hacking on rough smoke and the net you find the world far to harsh without it. It becomes how you breathe, how you see, how you touch people, kindly, gently, through a cloud, all rough edges blurred. Blurred, too, are the expectations. Expectations are too sharp, take up too much room here. Here you are soft-voiced, velvet-footed, present -- you are without pain. Panes filter the light into an amber benevolence and sound mutes itself into soft music. Music means so much more than it used to, every word significant. Significant is the fact that you have no one to speak to. Two of your friends have confronted you, come and gone, and you have barely heard them. "Them" is a construct you examine, like "us" -- but as the amber afternoons glide by, more and more join "them" and "us" dwindles to almost nothing. Nothing is worth this, you think and you stop using and try to rejoin the world. World-weary in a day, or if not a day a week, you stumble into whatever is next. Next stop, Wonderland. Wonderland without Alice, or the white rabbit, or the simple escape of saying "you're just a dream". Dream on, little princess, and put your crown aside and tiptoe away. A way to find yourself somewhere else, on a path, with or without other people. People are a mixed bag. Bag those rabbits and toss them into the root celler with all theother rejected throughts. Thoughts cross your brain every now and then, but you're not arrogant enough to call that thinking. Thinking is for other people, like your brother, who is in law school. School is over for you and you still don't know where to be. Be here, whispers something inside of you. You listen. Listen harder. Harder than a baby bid pecking is way through a shell you listen. Listen to the voice that says: be here, be now.
I found ten minutes on the street yesterday--a shiny, bright, new chunk of time just there under the new metal bench a the bus stop at 4th & Pike. I found a brand new ten minutes and I didn't know what to do with it. It was not enough time to work out--change into yoga pants, get on the treadmill, go, go, go for only what? a minute? and then to have to shower and come back out to rejoin my day. It wasn't enough time to write--barely enough time to frame a couple of paragraphs--at most--about a protagonist and then I would have had to abandon her there at the bus stop. It wasn't enough time to get my nails done, not properly, and they wouldn't have been able to dry. It might have been enough time to meditate, but it was not enough time to decide how to meditate -- transcendental? zen? visualization? visualizing nothing? -- and by this time it had dwindled, and there was not even enough time to go to Starbuck's a block away and get a cup of coffee. In the end I dropped it and watched it blow away, skittering down the sidewalk in a sudden gust of wind, getting smaller and smaller in the distance. My bus came and I boarded it. Twenty minutes from downtown to work. How would I spend that time? Posted via email from mysticsavage's posterous Fri, Sep. 18th, 2009, 11:08 am
Autopsy Video
WARNING: icky and gross parts ahead: Just saw the video of an autopsy that is shown to PATH 521 students prior to their observing an in-person autopsy. Was thinking about seeing a real autopsy, but am now undecided. The video was fine; but it was a lot of information to absorb, and it took only about 40 minutes whereas a real autopsy takes much longer. Parts of it were distinctly icky (as expected) but mostly it was just interesting. The method used was the Wirkow method, where the organs are examined in the body first before removal. I did feel a little sick when they got into the lungs -- the woman had emphysema from being a long time smoker, and she basically drowned in her own mucous. When they expressed that mucous I felt faint and had to look down at my notebook and take a notes for a few minutes before I felt like I could look up again. The body fat was also gross, even though this woman wasn't fat. Thinking about how much fat there is in my own body kind of squicks me out. The brain seemed beautiful when they removed it -- I was unprepared for that. Feel much more invested in my health now & (typically narcissistic) hope that when I die the inside of my body looks good -- organs in good health, clear arteries, not much fat, etc. Much work ahead. Feel like I should go for a short walk now.
or rather, for me, today...we're doing a media black out at home. No computer, tv, iPod or electronic games. I heard the morning went well for the kids without media. Sar made himself toast for breakfast and then made a car track with Sam. Penny hung out in bed and read. There wasn't any of the stuff I was afraid there would be -- you know, like setting stuff on fire. They didn't have a huge fight and wake up Karen at 6:45. It was just calm.
I'm having trouble staying away from my sites. I've put my computer in the closet at home, but have compulsively checked facebook several times this morning and accidentally got sucked into Mafia Wars once. I'll have to be super careful about that.
Don't know if the media black out extends to not updating LJ. I miss writing. Might do some paper journaling for awhile.
The weekend, while I have your attention--I went to PAX (the Penny Arcade Expo) and though I was only there for four hours, I met Jonathan Coulton and Paul of Paul & Storm. I was not impressively intellectual. In fact, I burbled and all but swooned. But it made my weekend...heck, maybe even my year.
Next week I start working ten hour days. This week I'm just trying to get organized and be uber productive.
And now, my lunch hour is over.
Peace. Fri, Sep. 4th, 2009, 08:15 am
Friday morning
Need coffee, so this is going to be short.
Had the meet-and-greet for both kids' grades yesterday at different times. It was exhausting. I like Penny's teacher a lot and have reservations about Sar's (his expectations seem high and although he has 23 years of teaching experience, he's never taught kids this young before). We'll see how it goes.
Today is work; tomorrow is PAX. I'm already getting panicked about going down there and dealing with the crowds. I have a ticket and hope I go, at least for awhile, but the idea of not going is becoming more appealing. We'll see. Helps, actually, that I'm not obligated to meet up with anyone down there. That way I can cruise around and bail when I need to.
Glad the weekend is happening. So, so, so very glad.
Virginia Thu, Sep. 3rd, 2009, 09:15 am
School!
School starts next week and we met Penny's teacher last night when she did a home visit. I'm so impressed that a public school teacher would actually schedule visits and go meet each member of her class before the first day (or as many as she can). She said it really helps the year go smoothly -- she's already established a relationship with each kid, she's got a context for their stories, and I'd imagine they don't compete as much for her attention in the first weeks as they otherwise might. She's also a delightful person in her own right, so I think I'm going to enjoy volunteering in her classroom very much. One big relief -- even though Penny & Sar's school will be getting an influx of a hundred new kids from another school, Penny's class is going to have only 22 kids in it. They added 3 classrooms in the 2-3 grade band, so there will be 7 classrooms full of 2nd & 3rd graders, but they've worked to keep the teacher:student ratio low. I'm hugely, hugely relieved, as I'd imagined that her class size would double. Later today, we'll attend the meet & greet both for Penny's grade band and for Sar's (K-1). I'm excited to meet Sar's teacher as well, and some of the other parents and classmates. I think it's going to be a very good year.
I was riding the bus this morning up Capitol Hill and looked out the window to see a slant of sunshine highlighting a leafy tree against a beautiful old brick building. My first thought was "Wow! The graphics are awesome!" ...That can't be a good sign. Posted via email from mysticsavage's posterous Sat, Aug. 8th, 2009, 07:05 am
Dear LJ:
My interior life is busy, but I'm having less of a need to write about it than I have in the past. My exterior life is still mundane, for which, after all the losses experienced by friends and family in the last few weeks, I am grateful. Hope you are all well. I'm still here and will post when I've stopped being consumed so much by addictive online games that don't require any self-reflection. Virginia PS: I miss John Hughes. PPS: A shout-out to ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) iguanahey who came to Seattle and bought me dinner last night. I enjoyed spending time with you. :) Mon, Aug. 3rd, 2009, 05:38 am
Damn. My checking account is overdrawn again. Nothing I can do about it--I've already scrounged the change from the bottom of my purse and I won't be paid for another week. Now comes the fun part: watching the penalty fees pile up over the week. Note: I'm not blaming anybody here. I have fairly impulsive spending habits, particularly online. Thought I had this pay period under control though. Forgot about Netflix.
In other news, I have the kids tonight -- all of them. It's Karen's & James's anniversary. And tomorrow I'll be attending my first disciplinary meeting as a union steward. So there's plenty of evidence of responsibility to balance the evidence of irresponsible spending. And really -- not worth ruining my day over.
Hey all -- The Seattle Times has a great article about the biological differences between someone acclimated to heat and someone not acclimated to heat experiencing the same 103-degree day. It's awesome. Go here.
I've been playing with perceptions of heat in the last couple of days, and trying to feel the sensations without adding all the usual judgments I put on them. Can I feel the weight of the heat on my face, for example, without thinking "oppressive"? Can I enjoy -- or not even enjoy, but just experience the back of an un -air-conditioned bus and not think "horrible" "sweltering" and "gonna die"? I start wondering if even the experience of heat -- labeling this sensation "hot" -- isn't just another judgment? Because whether something is hot or cold is relative to the point at which I expect it to be otherwise. On Venus, this "hot" day would be cold. I've also come up with a couple of ways to be more comfortable. I've been soaking my t-shirt at night until the evening cools down. I've frozen a bottle of water at work and then carried it on the first bus, icing my wrists & neck all the way to downtown, and then drinking the water (now melted) on the second bus. I remember going to day camp in Kansas, and I used to soak my bandanna and wear it in imitation of my counselor, Mary Cook, who knew everything. The other thing we used to do was soak our heads before going on hikes. The whole group would pour water over our heads...really kept us cool, as I recall. And we had sno-cones in the afternoon. And once per summer, we'd get big blocks of ice put in the swimming pool and have what Doc called the "polar bear swim". So although it's been record-breaking temp here in Seattle, I've been, if not comfortable, not miserable. And even kind of fun. Posted via email from mysticsavage's posterous
Just spent a lovely weekend in Nooksack with iguanahey and wandawonka. Most memorable moment: drinking tea under an outdoor pavilion in a thunderstorm. Much goodness this weekend with their kids and our kids getting along very well, playing with rock band (kids & adults), just sitting and visiting and not trying to accomplish too much. Did get down to the river with iguanahey for a bit this morning -- there are some beautiful stones out there. Now: back, hot, getting unpacked, drinking iced water. Ready to rest.
Fri, Jul. 24th, 2009, 09:33 am
weirdness
I'm fearful today. Having trouble moving. Feel like a mouse in a trap -- uber paranoid. Acting normal. Keeping it together. Just scared. Don't know why. Something biochemical? No doubt. Or impending doom. But I have impending doom feelings a lot more than doom actually uh...pends.
Obviously, I'm not at the center of any of the events going on in people's lives around me, but I do feel a lot of change going on in the last week, what with Mom being in the hospital, Kevin losing his job, my Aunt Sandy losing her job, one of my coworkers being injured and in the hospital, and my Uncle Mike dying last night in his sleep. I know it's not personal or about me, but I've said a lot of prayers for other people in the last few days, and I'm not a person who prays habitually or lightly. Uncle Mike and I weren't close but he was very kind to me and a lot of fun to be around when I was a child. I haven't seen him in a long, long time -- not since my late teens/early twenties.
But still, as the events in other people's lives accumulate around me, I've started being real glad I don't have a dog or a pick-up truck. Mon, Jul. 20th, 2009, 08:14 pm
Pacemaker?
My mom needs to decide this week whether or not to get a pacemaker. (She was in the hospital for several days over the last week and is out today, but her heart isn't in a normal sinus rhythm). She's doing her research and wants to correspond directly with people who have pacemakers. If you have one, or if one of your close friends/relatives has one and would be willing to talk to her about their experience, good or bad, please email me at mysticsavage@gmail.com.
Thanks. Sun, Jul. 12th, 2009, 11:27 pm
Dialogue
Today was a day for spontaneous good dialogue at my house. For example: Me: I'm taking a mental health day tomorrow. Karen: Oh. I hope it works. Or-- James: (yells a warning to Buster Keaton as he's watching a DVD) Me: You know, he can't hear you. James: I know. Because it's a silent movie. And, while Karen was showing Natalie (12) her baby pictures as James and I are waiting to start Buffy, she shows Natalie a picture of the first time she ever had chocolate cake. Me: A loss of innocence. James: They should do that for vampires. Take a picture of their first taste of human blood. Me: (pinching invisible cheeks) oh, isn't he cute? isn't he a cute vampire? James: I'll bet he'd be mortified. Living with people. It can be entertaining. We introduced Natalie to Buffy tonight. Season 1. First three episodes. Since Natalie is extremely fashion conscious, it made me aware of how long ago season 1 was filmed. Eg: In the Harvest, Buffy is walking around in the sewers and a rat runs in front of her foot. Natalie: Ew! Me: The square-toed boots? Natalie: Yes! (beat) Well, and the rat.
Wed, Jul. 8th, 2009, 11:16 am
Office culture
Tabitha and I decorated Eric's desk area for his return to the office today. It was done along a "welcome back to the WEST coast" so everything is mid-70's groovy. We left peace signs on all his stacks of paper, covered up his files with a sarong, hung a bamboo curtain and a macrame plant holder (with string from the autopsy suite), and liberally scattered albums around on his desk--the Who's Tommy album, Earth Wind & Fire, Simon & Garfunkel, Jefferson Starship. Also left a tiger-print pillow on his chair with a hand-lettered sign that said "Keep on Truckin' -- Eric will be back July 8th". It looked a bit like this:  Oh yeah -- I forgot to metnion the half-melted wizard/tree trunk candle and the incense holder. Eric's reaction was great -- he felt "totally happy to be back" and said this really made his day. Yay!
Tue, Jul. 7th, 2009, 07:25 pm
Dragon House
This is our household FAQ, still in its draft stages. James & Karen & I have been working on it for the past few days. I've lived here since last September and though we started as mostly renter/landlords and friends, we've become more intentional as a community. I'm excited by how many of our values we share in common, and by how well things have been working so far (knock on wood). So, yeah, for those interested, here it is. What is Dragon House?
Dragon House is our home. We are currently two nuclear families assembled into one chosen extended family. Full or part-time residents are 3 adults and six children. Dragon House is also the way we extend our home and family to others in our circle. Our honorary members are people who choose to contribute to our household by eating, working and playing with us. Why dragons?
Dragons in most traditions are fierce guardians of that which has value. Particularly in the Eastern traditions, dragons are guardians of people, land, and wisdom. They make terrific friends, but it is unwise to seriously piss them off (for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup.) Dragons are long-lived and have wings, letting them look at problems with the perspective of distance in both time and space. They are often introverts, living in solitary caves, but can also be extroverts in flights of dozens or hundreds of dragons. They shift shape and model flexibility and situational appropriateness.
The dragon's strength and ability to fly is related to its flame. In Dragon House we are deeply aware of and respectful of the power of human flame, anger. When wielded wisely and carefully controlled, anger is a source of power that we respect as a force for good. However, we are also deeply aware of the destructive power of uncontrolled rage. In Dragon House we strive to have the loyalty, the wisdom, and the perspective of dragons. We also strive to avoid the destructive aspects of fire and strive to keep our flames well bounded as a source of light, life, and flight. And cooking! We dragons are into good food. What are our interpersonal values?
We value and try to model for each other self-awareness, clear communication, effective problem-solving, respecting personal boundaries and courtesy. In addition, adults are expected to back each other up when interacting with children and manage significant disagreements with each other in private. Both residents and visitors are encouraged to ask questions about why we choose to do things a particular way and whether that is really serving our highest goals and interests. How does our home work?
The house is owned and the mortgage is paid by James and Karen. Other adults (that would be me right now) pay rent. Karen is the full-time kid wrangler and house manager. All members of the household contribute to the household by doing chores. We strive for "a labeled place for everything and please return it to that place after you are finished using it." (Sometimes we actually achieve this goal). When possible, house rules are written and posted. In general, rules apply equally to children and adults (ie: kids can remind adults to clear their place after dinner too). A rather impressive food pantry is kept in common and most meals are prepared and served in common. Silent hours are midnight to 6am (a running washing machine is fine, cleaning the kitchen is not). Quiet hours are 8pm to 8am (cleaning the kitchen is okay: power tools are not). Theoretically, breakfast is served at 8:30, dinner is served at 6:00, and lunch is sometime in between.
What do we hope for ourselves as a household?
We try to be a safe haven for people of all ages, from adult friends who need a crash space for a couple nights to neighborhood children who have accidentally locked themselves out of their house. We value slow living, recognizing what "enough" is, and questioning the dominant culture to determine what is authentic for us. We explore deep sustainability in very human terms, seeking to support the development of a culture that is healthy for body, soul, planet, and wallet. We model our household values and lifestyle to visitors, especially children, many of whom have no previous experience with homemade bread, raspberries that can be picked in the backyard, and clearly articulated values and boundaries. What is our house motto?"Light a damn candle" (or in Vulcan: Tanilau ta'hal; wafu ornat, which is literally "Provide illumination despite irritation"). Translation: It is better to light a candle than curse the darkness. However, we acknowledge that sometimes we may occasionally light that candle with a great deal of annoyance.
and my ass has been totally munched to shreds by this week, but I survived. (Cue: "Eye of the Tiger"). Awesome. And now: 3-day weekend, lots of time to write, no kids until Sunday night.
Already wrote at Solstice Cafe with Mara tonight after work. We may start doing that as a regular thing (Seattle-area writers, feel free to comment if you'd like to join us). We've gotten together a couple of times now for coffee and writing exercises...the aim of which is free-writing & generating story ideas and poetry. Feels good to write again. Tonight we did 5 two-minute exercises and then a 15 minute timed writing combining elements of the previous exercises. Mara said I should teach a class. I'm probably not going to teach a class, but I'm always willing to lead writing exercises if people want to get together and do them at a time when I'm available.
Today's Kevin's birthday so I stopped by his house and gave him a hug on my way home. Have I mentioned lately how much I love my ex-husband? Wouldn't want to be married again, but he's wonderful people. Wed, Jul. 1st, 2009, 10:37 am
Writing
The last two days have been the busiest since I've started working here, and now: JulNaWriMo. Am not going to be able to do much tonight, but will try to get a little puttering start...enough to build on over the long weekend. In the meantime: ACK! Posted via email from mysticsavage's posterous Mon, Jun. 29th, 2009, 02:00 pm
Panic Attacks
High anxieties and two panic attacks so far today. Have managed to keep them to myself for the most part. Just ducked under my desk and breathed into a manila envelope for awhile. Working at a training hospital -- this is our busiest time of year with the resident/fellow turnover, the end of the budget year, one faculty leaving for a sabbatical tomorrow and a temporary faculty and two visiting scholars starting on Wednesday. Also, my supervisor is going on vacation tomorrow and I'm formatting the gross room manual--90 sections of it at the rate of about 5 minutes per section IF there are no interruptions. So yeah, just a leeetle bit stressed at the moment. But productive. And managing pretty well.
You? |