My blog of late has been taken over by bot traffic and so with that in mind, I've taken down most of the content to try and mitigate some of the damage.
Social media can be a scary and confusing animal.
To any of my family or friends who might have been regular readers I apologize.
Thursday, October 31, 2019
Sunday, October 20, 2019
Que Sera Sera
I miss Doris Day...
Maybe it's just the fact that I can no longer say my favorite actress is still living. I always found it comforting thinking of her on her California ranch taking care of all her beloved dogs and cats.
Someone once paid me the compliment of saying I reminded them of her. I never asked, but always wondered why? Okay, we were both blondes, both born in Ohio, both cared for the company of animals better than people, and it has to be admitted, both always fell a little short in the love category. Yet Doris was so much the Hollywood star, she was glamorous and pretty and I only wish I possessed the vocal chops and acting prowess she did. She was always my cultural touchstone, many times I found myself thinking, 'what would Doris do?' when faced with a situation that I imagined she might have faced.
One thing we definitely seem to have in common is that we've both known the pain of unrequited love. Doris would ultimately have four (4) husbands but in interviews frequently lamented the one that for reasons she never specified, she really loved but couldn't be with. In each of her marriages, it seemed, she married the one who pursued her the most, but stopped short of being the 'one'. Her third husband famously spent all of her earnings on failed investments (never telling Doris) and his final act before dying was to commit her (without her knowledge) to a television series. Ever the trouper, Doris made good, but after that left Hollywood and the business permanently. She did try at love one last time with a man who won her over by giving her the meat scraps for her dogs from the restaurant he worked at but in the end he too left her, giving snide interviews to the media stating that she loved her dogs more than him. Justifiable.
I often think that if Doris came of age in the digital era, she and I would have the same love life only through online dating and like me, meet some duds like husband 3 or maybe some decent guys but never the one she (we) really wanted.
My friends talked me into a disastrous stint on one of the popular online dating services, I am not going to tell you which one, but rest assured my profile is no longer there. That one landed me a real winner who claimed to be Swedish and work for a international group that sent him on humanitarian missions all around the world. He didn't and I learned firsthand about internet fraud and trickery. Another guy yelled at me for the sin of liking cats and complained bitterly about the dating site for daring to match him with someone who liked 'poetry from the 16th century' saying, "I mean who cares about poetry from dead guys!" ( I do) One memorable match had a photo of what I can only describe as a room filled with copious amounts of stuffed animals. Just...no.
After this, I began wondering if 'taking the habit' was an option for me, despite not being Catholic. Wounded, I retreated for a bit to lick my wounds. Then recently, I met, through mutual friends, a very nice man who has some of the same interests and we had tentatively been forging a friendship but I hesitated. Too long...and he found someone else that didn't have the same introverted fears.
Yet, like Doris, I am tortured by the fact that it feels like all of this, all my efforts to try to put myself out there are to cover up the fact that I doubt of the 'one's' existence quite frankly. To me though, to stop believing, is simply what I can't seem to do no matter how I try.
So...as Doris once famously sang "Que Sera Sera...whatever will be will be. The future's not ours you see. Que Sera Sera".
I miss you Doris.
Maybe it's just the fact that I can no longer say my favorite actress is still living. I always found it comforting thinking of her on her California ranch taking care of all her beloved dogs and cats.
Someone once paid me the compliment of saying I reminded them of her. I never asked, but always wondered why? Okay, we were both blondes, both born in Ohio, both cared for the company of animals better than people, and it has to be admitted, both always fell a little short in the love category. Yet Doris was so much the Hollywood star, she was glamorous and pretty and I only wish I possessed the vocal chops and acting prowess she did. She was always my cultural touchstone, many times I found myself thinking, 'what would Doris do?' when faced with a situation that I imagined she might have faced.
One thing we definitely seem to have in common is that we've both known the pain of unrequited love. Doris would ultimately have four (4) husbands but in interviews frequently lamented the one that for reasons she never specified, she really loved but couldn't be with. In each of her marriages, it seemed, she married the one who pursued her the most, but stopped short of being the 'one'. Her third husband famously spent all of her earnings on failed investments (never telling Doris) and his final act before dying was to commit her (without her knowledge) to a television series. Ever the trouper, Doris made good, but after that left Hollywood and the business permanently. She did try at love one last time with a man who won her over by giving her the meat scraps for her dogs from the restaurant he worked at but in the end he too left her, giving snide interviews to the media stating that she loved her dogs more than him. Justifiable.
I often think that if Doris came of age in the digital era, she and I would have the same love life only through online dating and like me, meet some duds like husband 3 or maybe some decent guys but never the one she (we) really wanted.
My friends talked me into a disastrous stint on one of the popular online dating services, I am not going to tell you which one, but rest assured my profile is no longer there. That one landed me a real winner who claimed to be Swedish and work for a international group that sent him on humanitarian missions all around the world. He didn't and I learned firsthand about internet fraud and trickery. Another guy yelled at me for the sin of liking cats and complained bitterly about the dating site for daring to match him with someone who liked 'poetry from the 16th century' saying, "I mean who cares about poetry from dead guys!" ( I do) One memorable match had a photo of what I can only describe as a room filled with copious amounts of stuffed animals. Just...no.
After this, I began wondering if 'taking the habit' was an option for me, despite not being Catholic. Wounded, I retreated for a bit to lick my wounds. Then recently, I met, through mutual friends, a very nice man who has some of the same interests and we had tentatively been forging a friendship but I hesitated. Too long...and he found someone else that didn't have the same introverted fears.
Yet, like Doris, I am tortured by the fact that it feels like all of this, all my efforts to try to put myself out there are to cover up the fact that I doubt of the 'one's' existence quite frankly. To me though, to stop believing, is simply what I can't seem to do no matter how I try.
So...as Doris once famously sang "Que Sera Sera...whatever will be will be. The future's not ours you see. Que Sera Sera".
I miss you Doris.
I feel like you were the one person who'd understand. Thanks for all that you left behind of yourself, for being the epitome of class and work ethic and for that ear-splitting grin that warmed up the whole world.
Sunday, September 22, 2019
The Art of Note Folding
A guy I know, recently had eighty-four (84) people post on his Facebook timeline for his birthday. Incredulous, I mentioned to a co-worker that I wasn't certain that many people would attend my funeral or wedding, whichever comes first. To put it in perspective, I think I had a mere sixteen (16), post on my timeline for my birthday, many of which I hadn't seen in this calendar year.
It kind of became a thing with me, a yardstick to measure my supposed failure. Finally another co-worker, probably exasperated with hearing about it again for the 3rd or 4th time, said, "Jill, c'mon Facebook friends aren't real friends anyway, I mean who has personal contact with 84 people continuously!"
I thought about it still further sitting around a high top table with my work colleagues the other night, having drinks for the first time in so many months. It felt good sitting with my tribe, looking around at their faces, these people who probably know me as well as my own family. They see me at my best and they see me at my worst and as the saying goes, "know where all the bodies are buried."
They who know that behind the kind façade is the Jill that isn't so sweet, who is shrill when someone jams the copier again or swears revenge on the unfortunate soul who dropped the call she was waiting for, they've heard my angry voice reverberate down the hall when a rep dropped the ball on an case I'm working on. They know that while I'm usually the mild mannered Bruce Banner, I can quickly turn into the Hulk when provoked.
It occurred to me that none of these people are Facebook Friends. The people who know me best, who know what I'm like when I've had a few drinks, or how awful I look when I'm sick are not my social media friends.
I pondered...friends and communication.
Communication in this wired age is so different than the world in which I grew up. Friends were real people who you went to school with, who lived in your neighborhood, who knew your siblings. They weren't this nebulous group of people who meet you at a watering hole or a class and three (3) hours later, you get a invite to 'friend' them.
In the world I grew up in, your friends were the gatekeepers, your pre-work colleagues. They knew you because you spent time with them, countless hours talking on the phone, shopping at the mall on the weekends, roller skating, you lived in and out of each others' houses and lives. If you wanted to initiate contact with the opposite sex, for instance, you wouldn't think of doing it without your friends' direct involvement. As in, "you know that guy I like, Jeff M, y'know the one who has hair like Andre Agassi (a mullet) "... to which your friend, if they were any kind of friend would reply, "oh yeah his sister is in my 5th period Bio class, I'll slip her a note and see if he likes you..." which was the perfect opening to communication the way I grew up with it.
The note.
The all-important, intricately folded, heart-dotted i's, doodled on, stickered, SWAK'ed note. Any self-respecting Gen X'er knows all about the crucial importance of the note. We didn't have cell phones, social media or texting, heck, most of didn't even have pagers at that point. The note was critical. It served as your entrée into whatever social clique you inhabited, it functioned as invitation (to the all important sleepover or party), an IOU (hey I'll hit you back for the .50 you loaned me for that Coke Classic), promissory note (you still have my purple sweater that I wanted to wear to the 7th grade dance on Friday), and was the matchmaker of its time. You couldn't function in society without it.
Yet, the note was not without it peculiar rituals. For instance, there was an art to the folding of the note. Unless you were some kind of philistine, you never merely folded it into a square package. No indeed, there were intricate geometrical patterns to fashion and then there was the all important tuck, so that the receiver would need to use a little ingenuity to unwrap the note and glean its contents.
In the same manner the passing of the note was not without its particular shibboleths and rules. There was 'the palm' where the note was folded tiny enough to fit in one's palms and was surreptitiously passed from hand to hand under the cover of desk until finally it was slapped home into the waiting palm of the receiver. There was the "yawn and throw", this one required some acting ability, good aim and the blessing of providence. In this one, the note passer feigned a huge yawn stretching his or her arms above their head with the note 'palmed' and with arms outstretched over his head, he dropped (threw) the note at the feet of the intended receiver. Probably the easiest, safest and least likely to get you disciplinary action was the "locker insert". It's just like it sounds, the note passer happened by the locker of the recipient and after a cursory look to the right and to the left to ensure he/she wasn't being observed, took the note and slipped it into the locker via the air vents on the locker door. The one caveat with this one, was the compulsory check with the receiver, as in, "did you get the note I slipped in your locker?" You prayed for the nodding head and dreaded the vacant stare where the receiver in his/her haste to grab his lab manual, doesn't see said note and it drops unnoticed to the ground to become the general property and gossip of whomever happened to spy it laying there and picks it up.
I always half expect someday to happen upon a TV documentary about Gen X, where some Richard Attenborough type stares into a camera and holds up a folded piece of loose-leaf notepaper, so old that the blue lines and writing are hard to make out, folded into a rectangle with a triangular shape flap, saying,
"Note how some of the letters are bubble-shaped and have polka-dot serifs at the ends, clearly this was some sort of tribal ritual meant to enhance one's social status. This missive appears to be some kind of census-like instrument. Three lines that say, "Do you like Jeff M? with a box for yes and a box for no. If, yes, will you go with Jeff to the dance in the gym on Friday? Note again the boxes for yes or no. Finally, we come to, Can I borrow your Guess sweater? There again two boxes with yes or no responses. Clearly these questions had great social import for the receiver!"
"More curious still is that all the I's are dotted with little hearts, clearly some sort of 20th century cuneiform indicating the level of affection from the writer to the receiver... Our researchers have yet to puzzle out the meaning of a few words that are utilized quite frequently. For instance, the abundant use of the word 'killer' when we could not discern any clear nefarious intent. The writer also frequently uses the injunction 'totally'. We wondered if this was a political reference but discovered that her government was still very democratic at this point. Clearly in this age, one's brand of legwear and sweater were a very important indication of their social standing..."
Sitting here in my mid 40's it all seems somewhat unreal, our mode of communication. Although, to me, nothing matched the excitement of receiving that folded piece of paper, wondering what it might contain. Unlike text messages, it was tangible, you could run your hands across it and yes, if Jeff M did confess his undying love (or as much love as a 15 year old was capable of) for you, slip it under your pillow, empirical proof that someone cared, that you were desired.
Yep, I miss the note. I miss the heart dotted i's, the stickers, the SWAK on the outside. I miss the innocence, the fact that we wrote in sentences with punctuation (albeit a little heavy on the exclamation point) that you could express yourself without typing and that we really did write.
One thing stays true though, despite the mode of communication, your friends are important, whether they are work friends or someone you've known since the 10th grade. Cherish them, and hey maybe for old times sake, grab a piece of notebook paper from your kids (I guess they still use it?) and drop them a note...
It'd be totally killer...
It kind of became a thing with me, a yardstick to measure my supposed failure. Finally another co-worker, probably exasperated with hearing about it again for the 3rd or 4th time, said, "Jill, c'mon Facebook friends aren't real friends anyway, I mean who has personal contact with 84 people continuously!"
I thought about it still further sitting around a high top table with my work colleagues the other night, having drinks for the first time in so many months. It felt good sitting with my tribe, looking around at their faces, these people who probably know me as well as my own family. They see me at my best and they see me at my worst and as the saying goes, "know where all the bodies are buried."
They who know that behind the kind façade is the Jill that isn't so sweet, who is shrill when someone jams the copier again or swears revenge on the unfortunate soul who dropped the call she was waiting for, they've heard my angry voice reverberate down the hall when a rep dropped the ball on an case I'm working on. They know that while I'm usually the mild mannered Bruce Banner, I can quickly turn into the Hulk when provoked.
It occurred to me that none of these people are Facebook Friends. The people who know me best, who know what I'm like when I've had a few drinks, or how awful I look when I'm sick are not my social media friends.
I pondered...friends and communication.
Communication in this wired age is so different than the world in which I grew up. Friends were real people who you went to school with, who lived in your neighborhood, who knew your siblings. They weren't this nebulous group of people who meet you at a watering hole or a class and three (3) hours later, you get a invite to 'friend' them.
In the world I grew up in, your friends were the gatekeepers, your pre-work colleagues. They knew you because you spent time with them, countless hours talking on the phone, shopping at the mall on the weekends, roller skating, you lived in and out of each others' houses and lives. If you wanted to initiate contact with the opposite sex, for instance, you wouldn't think of doing it without your friends' direct involvement. As in, "you know that guy I like, Jeff M, y'know the one who has hair like Andre Agassi (a mullet) "... to which your friend, if they were any kind of friend would reply, "oh yeah his sister is in my 5th period Bio class, I'll slip her a note and see if he likes you..." which was the perfect opening to communication the way I grew up with it.
The note.
The all-important, intricately folded, heart-dotted i's, doodled on, stickered, SWAK'ed note. Any self-respecting Gen X'er knows all about the crucial importance of the note. We didn't have cell phones, social media or texting, heck, most of didn't even have pagers at that point. The note was critical. It served as your entrée into whatever social clique you inhabited, it functioned as invitation (to the all important sleepover or party), an IOU (hey I'll hit you back for the .50 you loaned me for that Coke Classic), promissory note (you still have my purple sweater that I wanted to wear to the 7th grade dance on Friday), and was the matchmaker of its time. You couldn't function in society without it.
Yet, the note was not without it peculiar rituals. For instance, there was an art to the folding of the note. Unless you were some kind of philistine, you never merely folded it into a square package. No indeed, there were intricate geometrical patterns to fashion and then there was the all important tuck, so that the receiver would need to use a little ingenuity to unwrap the note and glean its contents.
In the same manner the passing of the note was not without its particular shibboleths and rules. There was 'the palm' where the note was folded tiny enough to fit in one's palms and was surreptitiously passed from hand to hand under the cover of desk until finally it was slapped home into the waiting palm of the receiver. There was the "yawn and throw", this one required some acting ability, good aim and the blessing of providence. In this one, the note passer feigned a huge yawn stretching his or her arms above their head with the note 'palmed' and with arms outstretched over his head, he dropped (threw) the note at the feet of the intended receiver. Probably the easiest, safest and least likely to get you disciplinary action was the "locker insert". It's just like it sounds, the note passer happened by the locker of the recipient and after a cursory look to the right and to the left to ensure he/she wasn't being observed, took the note and slipped it into the locker via the air vents on the locker door. The one caveat with this one, was the compulsory check with the receiver, as in, "did you get the note I slipped in your locker?" You prayed for the nodding head and dreaded the vacant stare where the receiver in his/her haste to grab his lab manual, doesn't see said note and it drops unnoticed to the ground to become the general property and gossip of whomever happened to spy it laying there and picks it up.
I always half expect someday to happen upon a TV documentary about Gen X, where some Richard Attenborough type stares into a camera and holds up a folded piece of loose-leaf notepaper, so old that the blue lines and writing are hard to make out, folded into a rectangle with a triangular shape flap, saying,
"Note how some of the letters are bubble-shaped and have polka-dot serifs at the ends, clearly this was some sort of tribal ritual meant to enhance one's social status. This missive appears to be some kind of census-like instrument. Three lines that say, "Do you like Jeff M? with a box for yes and a box for no. If, yes, will you go with Jeff to the dance in the gym on Friday? Note again the boxes for yes or no. Finally, we come to, Can I borrow your Guess sweater? There again two boxes with yes or no responses. Clearly these questions had great social import for the receiver!"
"More curious still is that all the I's are dotted with little hearts, clearly some sort of 20th century cuneiform indicating the level of affection from the writer to the receiver... Our researchers have yet to puzzle out the meaning of a few words that are utilized quite frequently. For instance, the abundant use of the word 'killer' when we could not discern any clear nefarious intent. The writer also frequently uses the injunction 'totally'. We wondered if this was a political reference but discovered that her government was still very democratic at this point. Clearly in this age, one's brand of legwear and sweater were a very important indication of their social standing..."
Sitting here in my mid 40's it all seems somewhat unreal, our mode of communication. Although, to me, nothing matched the excitement of receiving that folded piece of paper, wondering what it might contain. Unlike text messages, it was tangible, you could run your hands across it and yes, if Jeff M did confess his undying love (or as much love as a 15 year old was capable of) for you, slip it under your pillow, empirical proof that someone cared, that you were desired.
Yep, I miss the note. I miss the heart dotted i's, the stickers, the SWAK on the outside. I miss the innocence, the fact that we wrote in sentences with punctuation (albeit a little heavy on the exclamation point) that you could express yourself without typing and that we really did write.
One thing stays true though, despite the mode of communication, your friends are important, whether they are work friends or someone you've known since the 10th grade. Cherish them, and hey maybe for old times sake, grab a piece of notebook paper from your kids (I guess they still use it?) and drop them a note...
It'd be totally killer...
Friday, August 2, 2019
No Man Is An Island
"No man is an island..." the poet John Donne said in those now-immortal words in 1624.
I love his poems. I'm drawn to him because he asked the big questions, he pondered things, he wasn't afraid to be overwhelmed by doubts on occasion. Mr. Donne struggled with the government of his day, the Catholic church and endured more than his share of personal tragedy. I know his poetry wasn't written with a 40-something single woman living at the dawn of the 21st century in mind, yet somehow I relate with him. Lately, I've been in sort of a Donne phase. I just can't seem to get enough of his words, I love the archaic language, the sense that he has all of the time in the world to spin out his thoughts, the melancholy and the rapture when some idea bursts through his subconscious and he writes as one enthralled, possessed with the need to commit it to verse.
This happens in my life quite frequently. I go through these phases of time when some particular artist captures or calls out to me based on some circumstance of my life. Several years ago, I went through a painful breakup and I remember it was the composer, Franz Schubert that was my security blanket. I had at the time, an impressive collection of classical music CD's and for some reason, maybe liking the look of his picture on the jewel case, heaven knows why, from amongst all of the Romantic composers, I selected the Schubert and he stayed on repeat as I cathartically cried, shouted, huddled cocoon-like in a blanket and generally spent myself over a period of some weeks, I don't know, feeling my feelings, I guess. To this day, when I hear Schubert, it's as if some balm has been liberally poured over my soul. I'll always be grateful for the comfort his compositions afforded me when I really needed it.
A few years before that, after a particularly hideous disagreement with my mother and sister and the resulting year or so of non-speaking terms, it was Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" that occupied the repeat on my CD player. The song made sense to me. I realize that the lyrics suggest casual drug-use more than anything and that is the antithesis of my personality but it was the sense that I at the time was in fact, comfortably numb. I wanted to be numb. I was so tired of caring, trying to make things work, being an eternal 'fixer', it was at this stage of my life that I decided to quit fixing and just be numb, no more pain, no more trying. Nothing...numb.
Which brings me back to the Donne. I'm going through some stuff. Call it a delayed adolescence or maybe the true realization that no man really is an island. I've always been such a solitary creature. So when you do get social and put yourself out there more, for me there is the resultant sense of wariness, uneasiness. Then sometimes there are little heartbreaks when you feel you've been marginalized or overlooked. Sometimes I think that perhaps I'm too awkward or anachronistic to ever really 'fit in' to a society and while I'm quite content with my own company sometimes I long for that of others, but I don't know exactly how to relate to them. Unlovable, outcast and I guess maybe flat undesirable is what I've felt.
Donne's poems have been that balm my soul needs. He knew about heartbreak and loneliness, and questioning. I've never been agonized by non-belief. I know that the God in whom I place my trust and belief is for me, however the organized church has been a constant source of disappointment and distrust. I don't even want to get started on government and social issues, yet that is another source of heartbreak and breaking of trust.
Life was easier when I was numb, when I was that island unto myself, listening to Schubert and not caring about the greater world beyond that of my own reach. So what now...
"No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind."
I love his poems. I'm drawn to him because he asked the big questions, he pondered things, he wasn't afraid to be overwhelmed by doubts on occasion. Mr. Donne struggled with the government of his day, the Catholic church and endured more than his share of personal tragedy. I know his poetry wasn't written with a 40-something single woman living at the dawn of the 21st century in mind, yet somehow I relate with him. Lately, I've been in sort of a Donne phase. I just can't seem to get enough of his words, I love the archaic language, the sense that he has all of the time in the world to spin out his thoughts, the melancholy and the rapture when some idea bursts through his subconscious and he writes as one enthralled, possessed with the need to commit it to verse.
This happens in my life quite frequently. I go through these phases of time when some particular artist captures or calls out to me based on some circumstance of my life. Several years ago, I went through a painful breakup and I remember it was the composer, Franz Schubert that was my security blanket. I had at the time, an impressive collection of classical music CD's and for some reason, maybe liking the look of his picture on the jewel case, heaven knows why, from amongst all of the Romantic composers, I selected the Schubert and he stayed on repeat as I cathartically cried, shouted, huddled cocoon-like in a blanket and generally spent myself over a period of some weeks, I don't know, feeling my feelings, I guess. To this day, when I hear Schubert, it's as if some balm has been liberally poured over my soul. I'll always be grateful for the comfort his compositions afforded me when I really needed it.
A few years before that, after a particularly hideous disagreement with my mother and sister and the resulting year or so of non-speaking terms, it was Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" that occupied the repeat on my CD player. The song made sense to me. I realize that the lyrics suggest casual drug-use more than anything and that is the antithesis of my personality but it was the sense that I at the time was in fact, comfortably numb. I wanted to be numb. I was so tired of caring, trying to make things work, being an eternal 'fixer', it was at this stage of my life that I decided to quit fixing and just be numb, no more pain, no more trying. Nothing...numb.
Which brings me back to the Donne. I'm going through some stuff. Call it a delayed adolescence or maybe the true realization that no man really is an island. I've always been such a solitary creature. So when you do get social and put yourself out there more, for me there is the resultant sense of wariness, uneasiness. Then sometimes there are little heartbreaks when you feel you've been marginalized or overlooked. Sometimes I think that perhaps I'm too awkward or anachronistic to ever really 'fit in' to a society and while I'm quite content with my own company sometimes I long for that of others, but I don't know exactly how to relate to them. Unlovable, outcast and I guess maybe flat undesirable is what I've felt.
Donne's poems have been that balm my soul needs. He knew about heartbreak and loneliness, and questioning. I've never been agonized by non-belief. I know that the God in whom I place my trust and belief is for me, however the organized church has been a constant source of disappointment and distrust. I don't even want to get started on government and social issues, yet that is another source of heartbreak and breaking of trust.
Life was easier when I was numb, when I was that island unto myself, listening to Schubert and not caring about the greater world beyond that of my own reach. So what now...
"No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind."
Thursday, July 25, 2019
In the wee small hours
When I get asked what kind of person I am, day or night, it always half amuses and half annoys me. The good people of the world, I rationalize are the morning people. The ones that throw back the covers and leap out of bed eager to take on the world. When I wake up in the morning, I check the clock by squinting really hard (glasses off) to see what kind of bargaining leeway I have. As in, 'oh it's only quarter to 5, I can still get another 1/2 an hour to potentially 45 minutes if I dry shampoo my hair and skip contouring around my eyes, yeah and if I eat breakfast in the car I might be able to carve out another 15 minutes...' Then and only then when I can no longer bargain and the time on the clock makes it imperative that I get up, or my cat Gordon senses that I am not fully asleep and begins crying in the vernacular of his people do I shade my eyes and switch on the light. Gordon and I blink at each other, I slip on my glasses and I say the first words of the day, the same words I almost always say, " Yeah G, I know, that's brutal, okay let's go get you and Jamie some breakfast..." And then I say nothing (except for off key singing in the car) until I am at work and the first person spies me and says 'Good Morning'.
Yep, I'm not a morning person and I generally feel bad about it. Heaven knows I've tried. I read books, tried morning Zumba, yoga, positive affirmations, and some concoction of apple cider vinegar honey and cinnamon that my uncle swore by. I've taken echinacea, vitamin b, c, d, e, and k. I shocked myself with really loud music and explored existential conversations with Alexa. Nothing.
I get through mornings by adhering to an airtight schedule. In fact, I have everything timed in such a way that if anything is off by more than 2-3 minutes, I panic because I am so dependent on doing everything in such a way that guarantees me nearly the same leaving time.
I think very little in mornings, I do everything on sort of an auto-pilot, leaving very little time to have deep thoughts or hear dialog in my head.
By contrast, I'm the opposite at night. I'm almost a different person. I ruminate, I consider, I rationalize, I romanticize, I conceptualize. I ponder, expound and illustrate. I read, I write, I listen to music and dance. Sometimes I just simply watch great old movies and laugh or cry. I recite poetry out loud, mostly the Romantic poets but sometimes a little John Donne or my favorite Sonnets from the Portuguese. I always feel somehow that poetry read silently is just wrong.
I always wish there was someone here to talk to, to dance with, to recite poetry. Most of my best conversation is probably at around midnight to 3 a.m, if I was awake that is. Sometimes I am, it's as if my brain had such a great thought or there is something in my soul that will not allow slumber until I acknowledge it. The best or most inspired writing I've done has always been in the late evening or early morning hours.
Maybe it's time to make peace with this. To finally allow myself to quit feeling guilty for loving the night more than the day. It actually makes sense. I'm a closure kind of person. I'm always happiest when I lay down the completed file and cap my pen. To me beginnings (mornings) are kind of scary; I have no idea what the day will bring. The night brings the enchantments like my favorite time of day 'twilight' when the stars begin to come out and the moon peeks out from behind the dark curtain of sky. It brings completion, the relaxation of knowing you did all you could to make the day a success. At night, you can reflect on all the vagaries of life and shrug off the disappointments and rejoice in the victories.
At night, Sinatra makes more sense, dreams can become reality and the new day can be put off for just a little longer.
"It must have been moonglow way up in the blue. It must have been moonglow
that led me straight to you..."
Yep, I'm not a morning person and I generally feel bad about it. Heaven knows I've tried. I read books, tried morning Zumba, yoga, positive affirmations, and some concoction of apple cider vinegar honey and cinnamon that my uncle swore by. I've taken echinacea, vitamin b, c, d, e, and k. I shocked myself with really loud music and explored existential conversations with Alexa. Nothing.
I get through mornings by adhering to an airtight schedule. In fact, I have everything timed in such a way that if anything is off by more than 2-3 minutes, I panic because I am so dependent on doing everything in such a way that guarantees me nearly the same leaving time.
I think very little in mornings, I do everything on sort of an auto-pilot, leaving very little time to have deep thoughts or hear dialog in my head.
By contrast, I'm the opposite at night. I'm almost a different person. I ruminate, I consider, I rationalize, I romanticize, I conceptualize. I ponder, expound and illustrate. I read, I write, I listen to music and dance. Sometimes I just simply watch great old movies and laugh or cry. I recite poetry out loud, mostly the Romantic poets but sometimes a little John Donne or my favorite Sonnets from the Portuguese. I always feel somehow that poetry read silently is just wrong.
I always wish there was someone here to talk to, to dance with, to recite poetry. Most of my best conversation is probably at around midnight to 3 a.m, if I was awake that is. Sometimes I am, it's as if my brain had such a great thought or there is something in my soul that will not allow slumber until I acknowledge it. The best or most inspired writing I've done has always been in the late evening or early morning hours.
Maybe it's time to make peace with this. To finally allow myself to quit feeling guilty for loving the night more than the day. It actually makes sense. I'm a closure kind of person. I'm always happiest when I lay down the completed file and cap my pen. To me beginnings (mornings) are kind of scary; I have no idea what the day will bring. The night brings the enchantments like my favorite time of day 'twilight' when the stars begin to come out and the moon peeks out from behind the dark curtain of sky. It brings completion, the relaxation of knowing you did all you could to make the day a success. At night, you can reflect on all the vagaries of life and shrug off the disappointments and rejoice in the victories.
At night, Sinatra makes more sense, dreams can become reality and the new day can be put off for just a little longer.
"It must have been moonglow way up in the blue. It must have been moonglow
that led me straight to you..."
Thursday, July 18, 2019
Portrait of the Artist
Writers are supposed to write, so that's what I find myself doing this Thursday evening. Despite the fact that it was a really long day. One of those days where at 8:00 this morning, I already wanted to go home and the market wasn't even going to open for another hour and a half!
This was the kind of day I knew I'd just have to grind out and keep going by any means necessary. Some people survive on black coffee and bitterness. I drink peppermint tea and reward myself for work with cute cat videos.
This post has been gestating with me for some time. I am not really sure how it's going to go, but I've been feeling the need to say these things. The more out on the limb I get though, the less need I seem to have for writing prompts and Google searches.
Of late, I've been compelled to be more truthful in my writing, in everything I guess. For so long I have to admit, I didn't like myself all that much. It made it much more easy for people to take advantage of me because I was so needy. I wrote about much more mundane things, I was judgmental as hell and I sort of used this blog as a way to vent my colossal spleen at the way life was. In truth, it was more about what I was, how I allowed things to be, choosing to be a victim and cherishing and nurturing all my hurts and scars.
I don't want that anymore. I don't do that anymore. It seems though, the stronger and more independent I get, the more it seems that I alienate the very people that I want to be closest to. I don't know how to do small talk; I am a disaster at flattery and flirting and all of the social niceties that one is meant to so glibly toss around. I am starting to wonder if this condition is permanent. If I am incapable of changing and maybe most importantly, do I really want to?
When I starting taking improv lessons...acting lessons if you will, I was hoping that maybe that would lessen my torment and maybe through acting, I could become the kind of person one wants to have around. So imagine my profound surprise when after all of the work faded, the dust settled and I was the same person, albeit under better control. My friend at work, Diane said it most succinctly, "You really have no game do you?" when I came to her to ask why it seemed that I was so out of my depth with most people and in particular the opposite sex. Diane is famous for her extroverted personality and many of our clients don't consider leaving until they've seen her. She is the expert in all things relational, having before settling down, the distinction of dating several men all at the same time with none the wiser.
At my age, by my 40's, I was certain I would really have a handle on love, in both abstract and reality and that I would have finally sussed out relationships. In truth, the closest I am to understanding love is the framed Marc Chagall print (Sun and Mimosa) that hangs on my wall. In it, the lovers are encased in a bubble framed by an outsize flower arrangement out of which a blue bird tipsily tumbles from the top. It has always felt right to me. "Yep, that's the way love should feel", one encased with love in a bubble shut away from the world with an explosion of flowers conveying the deep romance felt between the subjects and a bluebird signifying happiness and fidelity.
In fact, seeing that print for the first time at a charity auction several years ago was akin to the heady feeling of attraction you first feel for an attractive person. Seeing the colors brought a rush of emotion that I hadn't hitherto experienced from a mere painting, surprising and delighting me and from that moment on, I simply craved it, needing to possess it, wanting to have it on my wall and be able to conjure up that feeling whenever I desired. I placed my bid and waited. The night passed without any announcement and I assumed I had been outbid. I can scarcely articulate the feeling I had when the phone rang the next morning and a voice apologized for not letting me know that I had been the winning bidder the night before.
I often think to myself, 'if I can have that sort of emotion within me regarding a mere painting, why should it be so hard to translate that to a human being'? I am still uncertain of the answer, uncertain as to why it works with such ease for some, more than once in many cases, and I am still searching for my one "Chagall Moment".
Or even a "Picasso Moment" which would probably require even more soul searching than I find myself capable of.
I would probably even settle for someone just saying, "You are somewhat weird and quirky but I find that fascinating so let's talk some more..."
For now, I'll content myself with the vibrant beauty and breathtaking emotion that calls to me from the Chagall print, assuring me that surely love is alive and well in some corner of the world.
This was the kind of day I knew I'd just have to grind out and keep going by any means necessary. Some people survive on black coffee and bitterness. I drink peppermint tea and reward myself for work with cute cat videos.
This post has been gestating with me for some time. I am not really sure how it's going to go, but I've been feeling the need to say these things. The more out on the limb I get though, the less need I seem to have for writing prompts and Google searches.
Of late, I've been compelled to be more truthful in my writing, in everything I guess. For so long I have to admit, I didn't like myself all that much. It made it much more easy for people to take advantage of me because I was so needy. I wrote about much more mundane things, I was judgmental as hell and I sort of used this blog as a way to vent my colossal spleen at the way life was. In truth, it was more about what I was, how I allowed things to be, choosing to be a victim and cherishing and nurturing all my hurts and scars.
I don't want that anymore. I don't do that anymore. It seems though, the stronger and more independent I get, the more it seems that I alienate the very people that I want to be closest to. I don't know how to do small talk; I am a disaster at flattery and flirting and all of the social niceties that one is meant to so glibly toss around. I am starting to wonder if this condition is permanent. If I am incapable of changing and maybe most importantly, do I really want to?
When I starting taking improv lessons...acting lessons if you will, I was hoping that maybe that would lessen my torment and maybe through acting, I could become the kind of person one wants to have around. So imagine my profound surprise when after all of the work faded, the dust settled and I was the same person, albeit under better control. My friend at work, Diane said it most succinctly, "You really have no game do you?" when I came to her to ask why it seemed that I was so out of my depth with most people and in particular the opposite sex. Diane is famous for her extroverted personality and many of our clients don't consider leaving until they've seen her. She is the expert in all things relational, having before settling down, the distinction of dating several men all at the same time with none the wiser.
At my age, by my 40's, I was certain I would really have a handle on love, in both abstract and reality and that I would have finally sussed out relationships. In truth, the closest I am to understanding love is the framed Marc Chagall print (Sun and Mimosa) that hangs on my wall. In it, the lovers are encased in a bubble framed by an outsize flower arrangement out of which a blue bird tipsily tumbles from the top. It has always felt right to me. "Yep, that's the way love should feel", one encased with love in a bubble shut away from the world with an explosion of flowers conveying the deep romance felt between the subjects and a bluebird signifying happiness and fidelity.
In fact, seeing that print for the first time at a charity auction several years ago was akin to the heady feeling of attraction you first feel for an attractive person. Seeing the colors brought a rush of emotion that I hadn't hitherto experienced from a mere painting, surprising and delighting me and from that moment on, I simply craved it, needing to possess it, wanting to have it on my wall and be able to conjure up that feeling whenever I desired. I placed my bid and waited. The night passed without any announcement and I assumed I had been outbid. I can scarcely articulate the feeling I had when the phone rang the next morning and a voice apologized for not letting me know that I had been the winning bidder the night before.
I often think to myself, 'if I can have that sort of emotion within me regarding a mere painting, why should it be so hard to translate that to a human being'? I am still uncertain of the answer, uncertain as to why it works with such ease for some, more than once in many cases, and I am still searching for my one "Chagall Moment".
Or even a "Picasso Moment" which would probably require even more soul searching than I find myself capable of.
I would probably even settle for someone just saying, "You are somewhat weird and quirky but I find that fascinating so let's talk some more..."
For now, I'll content myself with the vibrant beauty and breathtaking emotion that calls to me from the Chagall print, assuring me that surely love is alive and well in some corner of the world.
Sunday, July 7, 2019
Last Days of 44
I've been kind of feeling around trying to decide what to write about for my next post. Looking at recent posts and feeling like there have been too many lately about people who died. I don't want this to become one big obituary or online memorial. There are sites for that.
Some part of me is appalled at my candor on occasion and some part comprehends that only through true vulnerability is creativity unlocked.
Going on in my life right now, Yacht Rock has returned to Sirius XM and up until this past week I'd been doing a lot of improv. On a more practical, but no less emotional note, I'm struggling to get my cat Jamie's insulin regulated and sometimes I feel guilty that somehow his diabetes are my fault. Did I feed him too much carbohydrate laden dry food? Sometimes I feel bad for being angry that the shots I have to give him tie me down. No matter how difficult it is to get up in the morning or how late I've been out the night before, at 6 a.m., he has to eat and I have to give him that shot. The same applies for 6 p.m. My co-workers don't even bother asking me out for happy hour anymore, they know I have a 6 o'clock date that I can't cancel. If on occasion, I move the time up or back to accommodate an event, the next day he's always a little 'off' and the guilt is worse.
The Stanley Cup was a little disappointing this year. Not one of my teams made it through the playoffs. The good thing is, there is always next year.
And then, there is the fact that I am coming up on another birthday...maybe that is the whole point of this.
Lately to quote Steely Dan, I've been reeling in the years. I am about to really hit middle age. No longer in my early 40's. Somehow I am full of dread. It's like...'Hmm...maybe Mom was right to worry that I'd never find the right guy...' Then there is my own reoccurring fear that I'll die alone and the only way someone will know is when there is an overwhelming smell of decomposition coming from my home, unless of course whatever cats I have at the time (I can't imagine NOT having a cat) eat my decaying corpse because there is no other sustenance available being that I am no longer able to feed them.
I try to focus on the positive, the things I do like about myself. I actually started to make a list and then quit becoming depressed when all I could come up with was, I have good hair, I am smart and I had never deliberately pulled the wings off a butterfly or used a magnifying glass to burn ants. Then, me being me, I started to obsess about all of the stuff that isn't so good. I suck at intimacy, my slight addiction to peanut M & M's and Twix, that I never really discovered what I want to be when I grow up.
Almost worst of all happened the other day, finding my senior picture and realizing except for the color (covering up the grey) and the length, I have almost the same damn hairstyle I did when I was 18!
The worst of all are the two perceived failures. You see, it doesn't really matter how many articles you read about the joy of being single, embracing your feminism, being assertive or any of that &*(#! On Thanksgiving Day, Christmas Day, New Years Day, Valentines Day, Mother's Day and your birthday, it is borne home to you that you are unmarried and have no children.
Actually, the children part I've made peace with. I realize perhaps, that particular perceived failure is a good thing, I've always been way more into animals than kids. Even when I was younger, I didn't really like babysitting, but if you asked me to walk your dog or feed your cat, I'm like,' I'd do that for free'.
I keep hoping that there is that right person out there for me. An animal lover, who'd understand my quirkiness, who'd be comfortable with my need for music at all times, my love of art and old movies and yes, understood my deep personal relationship with M & M's and Twix.
So Happy Birthday to me. I am going to embrace my late forties like I did my early ones, and maybe the next 5 years will bring me peace and the discovery that I what I am is what I want to be when I grow up.
Some part of me is appalled at my candor on occasion and some part comprehends that only through true vulnerability is creativity unlocked.
Going on in my life right now, Yacht Rock has returned to Sirius XM and up until this past week I'd been doing a lot of improv. On a more practical, but no less emotional note, I'm struggling to get my cat Jamie's insulin regulated and sometimes I feel guilty that somehow his diabetes are my fault. Did I feed him too much carbohydrate laden dry food? Sometimes I feel bad for being angry that the shots I have to give him tie me down. No matter how difficult it is to get up in the morning or how late I've been out the night before, at 6 a.m., he has to eat and I have to give him that shot. The same applies for 6 p.m. My co-workers don't even bother asking me out for happy hour anymore, they know I have a 6 o'clock date that I can't cancel. If on occasion, I move the time up or back to accommodate an event, the next day he's always a little 'off' and the guilt is worse.
The Stanley Cup was a little disappointing this year. Not one of my teams made it through the playoffs. The good thing is, there is always next year.
And then, there is the fact that I am coming up on another birthday...maybe that is the whole point of this.
Lately to quote Steely Dan, I've been reeling in the years. I am about to really hit middle age. No longer in my early 40's. Somehow I am full of dread. It's like...'Hmm...maybe Mom was right to worry that I'd never find the right guy...' Then there is my own reoccurring fear that I'll die alone and the only way someone will know is when there is an overwhelming smell of decomposition coming from my home, unless of course whatever cats I have at the time (I can't imagine NOT having a cat) eat my decaying corpse because there is no other sustenance available being that I am no longer able to feed them.
I try to focus on the positive, the things I do like about myself. I actually started to make a list and then quit becoming depressed when all I could come up with was, I have good hair, I am smart and I had never deliberately pulled the wings off a butterfly or used a magnifying glass to burn ants. Then, me being me, I started to obsess about all of the stuff that isn't so good. I suck at intimacy, my slight addiction to peanut M & M's and Twix, that I never really discovered what I want to be when I grow up.
Almost worst of all happened the other day, finding my senior picture and realizing except for the color (covering up the grey) and the length, I have almost the same damn hairstyle I did when I was 18!
The worst of all are the two perceived failures. You see, it doesn't really matter how many articles you read about the joy of being single, embracing your feminism, being assertive or any of that &*(#! On Thanksgiving Day, Christmas Day, New Years Day, Valentines Day, Mother's Day and your birthday, it is borne home to you that you are unmarried and have no children.
Actually, the children part I've made peace with. I realize perhaps, that particular perceived failure is a good thing, I've always been way more into animals than kids. Even when I was younger, I didn't really like babysitting, but if you asked me to walk your dog or feed your cat, I'm like,' I'd do that for free'.
I keep hoping that there is that right person out there for me. An animal lover, who'd understand my quirkiness, who'd be comfortable with my need for music at all times, my love of art and old movies and yes, understood my deep personal relationship with M & M's and Twix.
So Happy Birthday to me. I am going to embrace my late forties like I did my early ones, and maybe the next 5 years will bring me peace and the discovery that I what I am is what I want to be when I grow up.
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