I'm just going to delve right into this and skirt around the fact that I haven't blogged in 5 months. We planted our vegetable garden, finally. It's the most gardenest garden I've ever planted, actually using up all 3 of our big raised beds, versus the sole one last year (that mostly failed) and the miscellaneous small patio pots from our past. I feel like I know only the basics about growing food, and most of those basics I just picked up from word of mouth. This worries me. Now, we don't have fancy cable, so when I say "This worries me," it is in the voice of Bill Hader doing an impression of Tim Gunn, rather than Tim Gunn himself. I think I'm better off.
Anyway, so, in the interest of increasing the word of mouthiness of my grower success, I'm going to list what we've planted and ask for input, anecdotes, warnings, and whatever else. Just tell me everything.
A blueberry bush (ozark). Lorien already told me blueberries like acidic soil, so I got some coffee bean husks from Caffe Forte, where they roast their own beans. the husks are more acidic than used grounds, apparently. I just kind of randomly sprinkled a few around the base of the plant and then maybe a day or two later, put some compost on top? Not sure how often to coffee-husk it. Also, will I need to somehow net or cage this from birds?
Malabar spinach. This was a seedling that we transplanted from City Farmer's. The leaves are already 3" long or so. It grows in a vine. One day, Ollie picked a leaf and ate it whole. This is the child that hates the feel of leafy greens on his tongue and will spit them out in disgust.
Basil. I planted this from seed, and whatever, they're doing fine. I actually planted a TON of seeds, and am now regretful that I didn't use the space for something more... bang-for-your-buck-y. These are now sprouting and looking decent. I'm pretty sure I'll have to thin these, like, pull out entire seedlings, as they grow up. Right?
Crookneck yellow squash. Boring, squash. However, we had the least successful zucchini plants in all the land last year, so let's not underestimate my ability to screw up something so simple.
Strawberries. I realize now that this was a mistake. I'm thinking we should pull up this little "6-pack" seedling (from City Farmer's) and put them in a low/wide container, because apparently strawberries are crazy spreaders? And the fruit will rot if it spends too much time touching the soil. Hmph.
Swiss chard. We eat a lot of chard in our house, so hopefully we can keep up with the three long rows of chard I planted. I planted this from seed just over a week ago, and all of them have sprouted now. They started sprouting after 6 days. Cute. Today, though, Ollie managed to drag his rake through a few of the tiny unsuspecting sprouts. Ugh. I think they'll survive. Afterwards, Ollie said very matter of fact-ly, "I hurt the little chard sprouts."
Pumpkins. Our very own pumpkin patch! I just assumed these would take forever to grow, but the sprouts were up after 5-6 days. One sprouted before our eyes, which was kind of magical. Now I'm worried that we'll be done with pumpkins by august.
Abe Lincoln heirloom tomato. This was kind of a whim choice. It was a seedling from City Farmer's. The leaves smelled good and the little binder they have described them as very red and juicy so I salivated and bought it. It's also apparently quite resistant to disease. We planted this in our third bed, as far away as possible from where our old cherry tomatoes breathed their last.
Peas. Oregon peas, apparently. These were seeds. Well, peas. Ollie had fun putting the little dried peas in the holes I made. I planted three short rows (the width of the bed), right next to...
Beans. I can't remember the type of bean. It's a pole/string bean. I planted 2 short rows, but used quite a few seeds. I'm not sure about those rows. The seed packet said to do 6 seeds per foot, but then they were all "plant spacing after thinning: 6-10" apart." Anyway, I put those next to the peas because I assume I'll need to build some sort of pole/trellis/vine thing for them.
Sweet potatoes. Well, we haven't planted these yet, but we dug a hole for them in our third bed and will plant them as soon as City Farmer's get some or the neglected potatoes on my counter start sprouting (although I can't tell if they have been cut at all). I think we need to try to dig a little deeper, but we'll see. The soil down there is such crap.
A baby. Obviously we didn't plant this one in the garden. Currently halfway sprouted. Due 9/28. I have a delightful midwife, Karly Nuttall, who was actually at Ollie's birth, and she even comes to our house for my prenatal appointments. Dreamy. This one I kind of have down; it's the vegetables I need help with.
Tonight, briefly, I stood slightly in-the-way in a church kitchen surrounded by old-ish people and their macaroni and cornbread, while I got ready to head over to campus. A priest shared his plastic cup of beer with me, Arrogant Bastard of all things to find in such a setting.
He and I then left for campus, where seven of us sat around a makeshift altar and shared a quiet and beautiful eucharist service, probably the most intimate one I have ever experienced. The musician played some Sufjan, "Like a father to impress/Like a mother's mourning dress/If we ever make a mess/I'll do anything for you," and the wind rustled our pages and the eucalyptus leaves. It was cool and dark and otherwise silent, the campus still and collectively cowering in the dark recesses of their minds, or maybe just in the libraries, on this finals-eve. Part of me wishes we had hundreds of people attend, or at least tens of people, but the other part of me realizes that then we would never in a million years have the type of experience we had tonight.
I have been struggling with my faith and feeling lost and answer-less, un-engaged, for so long, and only tonight have I realized that I have just been looking in the wrong place, to the wrong people, to the wrong person. I assume I will write more on this one day but right now I'm liking being obtuse.
It's not very often that I get to share a beer and the cobwebbed corners of my soul with anyone, much less do so in a church kitchen or an empty nook of a college campus.
Neutral Milk Hotel, "In the Aeroplane over the Sea." This, my friends, this is about as punk as I get.
I should say that I am relatively out of touch with music these days, so you have to imagine the happiness in my heart whenever I walk into Krakatoa and the baristas are playing this CD. I'm all, "dude! I HAVE this!" and somewhere, somehow, my indie fairy earns her wings.
I vividly remember buying this album, probably late 2004, at the old Second Spin records in PB (no longer standing). I had read something about the band that caught my eye, so I blindly bought the album without listening to it, even though Second Spin used to have that little listening station in the front. As I paid for it, the deliciously scrawny indie rock clerk said, direct quote, "This is an amazing album." Not only did this serve to validate my purchase, but it kind of validated my taste in music. Another pair of indie fairy wings!
I didn't love the CD at first. It was too raw and punk and uncomfortable, and I was too into Iron and Wine or Sufjan Stevens so I wanted all my music to be silky smooth. Cat Power was as edgy as I got. But, NMH grew on me. Holy hell, did it grow on me.
And thanks to You Tube, you too can listen to some of it without spending money. And you can stare at the album cover the whole time. This song is "Ghost," which is one of my favorite songs on the CD. I mean, there are so many quintessential "In the Aeroplane..." songs, including the title track itself and Two Headed Boy, and maybe because of this, songs like Ghost kind of get overlooked.
But you should also listen to "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea," too, because it is incredible. All secrets sleep in winter clothes with one you loved so long ago.
National Blog Not-Posting Month: a Post in Two Parts.
It looks like I not only failed at NaBloPoMo, I pretty much boycotted it. !!. Julia loves a good boycott. But, why didn't I just hold out another week? Well, I am tired of trying to stay away from you, Bella.
Basically I have two major and unrelated things to post about. Instead of doing bullets when I am feeling all disjointed and incoherent, I am going to do separate subheadings like a good little recovering technical writer.
TTC Yes, dear friends, there is an internet acronym for deciding to start or increase your family. "trying-to-conceive" just has way too many letters and that pesky i-before-e-except-after-c thing you would always have to remember. This way, we can most efficiently be all OMG ur TTC m2 EWCM! I'm not going to explain the last acronym because we're in mixed company and I'm too classy for that.
Erik and I decided to get serious about trying to get pregnant again this last month (do you see how much shorter that sentence could be if I could force myself to use "TTC" as a verb?). We really haven't been avoiding it for a while now, but we certainly weren't "trying." And, these things being as they are, this month also yielded the first disappointment, the first un-success. I had assumed that because I am in a much more relaxed and prepared headspace than when we were trying to get pregnant with Ollie, that the disappointment wouldn't sting as much. But I swear, it's like it picked up almost right where we left off. The only thing I'm missing is the underlying fear that I would never have any children. But, oh, the sting, tempered only with the slightly distracting dull ache of cramps, those little bitches.
I'm not charting at all (there is NO WAY the little morning person in our family would allow me to leisurely take my temperature every morning before getting out of bed), and we're not really doing anything special besides resuming all the herbal teas and tinctures that are supposed to do things like lengthen your luteal phase and balance your hormones. The only reason I paid any attention to the dates this month was because cycle day 1 happened to fall on November 1st. With Ollie, I got a faint faint positive line on a pregnancy test on cycle day 25, so with November 25th rolling through yesterday, I have to say I definitely had my hopes up, way up. A 25 day cycle is pretty average for me, maybe even a little long, but it means that the little hippie tricks I was doing to lengthen my luteal phase (the second half of your cycle, after ovulation) probably didn't work.
Before we started to try, we had thought a lot about child spacing, and I guess we had even given ourselves a year+ range that we would consider ideal, and even then, it's not like it wouldn't be completely awesome to have two children spaced out however long. We are a little behind in that year+ window, but there is still plenty of time. It could take us another six months, or it could be longer. Or it could be next month. I know that I'm 100% okay with any of these scenarios, but I don't know if I will ever be able to forget this feeling of disappointment and failure at the end of the cycle. It's as fresh today as it was almost three years ago. Typ. I can quickly forget how painful contractions are, but this I can't seem to shake?
Twilight On that happy note, lets move on to something even worse. I have whispered about Twilight quite a bit on here, I'm sure, fully owning up to the fact that I indulged in the books, and now the movie. As I read the books, I was annoyed by the pathetic writing (unadventurous word choice, redundant word choice, and annoying word choice, to be specific), the cloying narrator, and the obvious author-proxy fantasy that involved someone whose tastes in literature were stuck in the 11th grade. (Note, I found the movie a huge improvement). BUT I still loved reading the stories. I thought it (it being Twilight, the first book in the series) had a great concept: girl meets vampire, girl loves vampire. Vampire meets girl, vampire wants to kill girl, vampire loves girl. Kind of Buffyish. Oh wait, exactly Buffy-ish. Stephenie Meyer claims to have never seen Buffy. That said, she kind of laughs in the face of traditional vampire legend, and does so so uninhibitedly that you assume she did it on purpose?
[Listen. I know the kind of writer I am, and when faced with the option of painstakingly researching centuries of legend and lore versus just making my own shit up however I want, I know which option I'd choose to make a quick buck or two.]
But, then I read more of the books. Concurrent to reading the rest of the books (this all took place over a 5 day period), I also started devouring some of the criticisms and, uh, mockeries, online. And it was at this point when the frightening, blood-curdling world of Twilight fans was revealed to me. Oh, mercy. Hold me.
One blog in particular completely defines my Twilight experience.
Everyone, meet Cleolinda. Here is her blog: http://cleolinda.livejournal.com BUT WAIT, don't go there yet. Start here, at a special Wiki table of contents thingy for her blog. !!. That should link you right to the "Twilight Book Discussion Entries." Make yourself a cup of tea, find a cozy corner, and watch yourself start to think in strikethrough font.
Next up is someone I discovered last night, who isn't as endearingly original as Cleolinda but maybe I wouldn't think that way had I stumbled upon this "LDS Sparkledammerung" series first. Okay, so back to the sparkledammerung. Whatever, we don't try to understand these things, we just pass on the facts. This person has gone through all of the books from a Mormon perspective. Nay, not just that, but they shed light on all of the parallels and symbols for LDS things and doctrines in the story. Here it begins: LDS Sparkledammerung. It starts off a little choppy but who am I to judge?
[Also, it turns out, somebody has written their masters thesis on Mormon tenants in the Twilight series. It's a PDF file, by the way. This is all good and well, but I kind of prefer to read about this stuff when they're not forced to use intelligent language and nice phrasings. I want someone to use bad words and photoshop to layer on some sparkles.]
All in all, I have learned a few Key Takeaways from my time with Twilight, but nothing more striking than this: NO, I am not underestimating the Youth of America by saying that they are smarter than this, that they are not going to eat this stuff up. The movie made $70 million its first weekend. SEVENTY MILLION DOLLARS.
This is not going to be the end of my discussion about this. I am still trying to wrap my brain around this and decide how I really feel, because even though they were enjoyable books and an enjoyable movie: WTF, I say. What the fuck.
I have to admit that I am only lagging on this project because I am a lazy HTML-er and never feel like looking up the links to the other entires in the series. But, you're worth it!
This next installation has the shortest message in my entire yearbook, and also another one I almost overlooked, because it wasn't in the blank pages at the front or the back of the book. Rather, it was on page 3 of the actual dorky introductory photos and inspirational quotes. In fact, Greg scribbled (I almost made a pun that only people who know his last name would get) his message over some 40 point text that says, "We didn't just touch... We felt." Which makes it so much better.
Greg apparently remembers the first time I rode on a school bus. That makes me cringe so much, although he thankfully glossed over any details of how awkward and ridiculous I was.
Dixon, I remember seeing you ride the bus for the 1st time in middle school. Then you became popular. I have really honestly enjoyed meeting you and being your friend. Remember Pride and Prejudice and the presentation we did. Also, remember the times we spent in Middlemas's class making fun of her and me listening to you talk about Mr. Mitchell. The best of luck to you in el futuro and we will see each other again, I know it, Love, Greg S
There we go again with the listing of "intimate" details which are really not that intimate. Remember Pride and Prejudice! OMG!
Interestingly, we have yet to see each other again. He is a very good person, so I hope he was right.
And here is the shortest message in my entire yearbook. The best part is that I have no idea who this is, which is even more fail because of the message's content. The only Ryans I can remember had signed the yearbook in other places, and included their last names.
Here is my life these days, neatly packaged in a bulleted list.
Ollie is officially singing, as of last Tuesday. SINGING. His first real-song-that-we-noticed is a Music Together song from our current class, called Palo Palo. It's in Spanish! My bilingual musical genius! Actually, while I was singing it to him, he sang, "Baw-oh Baw-oh, Ay Ay Ah" and then did a happy dance, which perhaps only a mother could hear as "Palo, palo, palo, palo, palito palo ay, ay ay ah, palo bonito palo ay." But he definitely tried to sing at different intervals, in a high pitched sing-songy tone.
That's right, it's a song about a stick. A pretty little stick. Ay Ay Ah.
Tonight, he sang "The Wheels on the Bus," which is usually a big hit around here, what with it's wheel-ness and bus-ness. He sang "wee-ah [muffled two syllable placeholder for "on the"] bus" first, and later added "round and round." Well, "rah [muffle] rah."
Notable: Ollie's word for "wheel" sounds exactly like his word for "willy." "wee-ah." Yes, we are calling it his willy. I know I should really be anatomically correct with him and call it a penis, but I can't help myself. Besides, I am English, and all English penises are willies. They just are.
I am currently rereading one of my top five all time favorite books, "The Virgin Suicides" by Jeffrey Eugenides. I have probably written about this book an awful lot, but I recently found this old post, mostly about the way the soundtrack, the movie, and the book work together in my head, which got me reading the book again. I had forgotten about the amazing narrative voice in the book. I think this is probably my third or fourth time reading, and I still can't get enough of it.
However, it's a brand new copy (my original one has long since been loaned and lost), which kind of makes me sad in a "Perks of Being a Wallflower" copy-significance sort of way, but I do love cracking open the binding on new books.
For the last few months, I have been making my own espresso at home, nearly every morning. This is not because I am too cool for normal drip coffee; it's because all I have is an espresso machine. This is not (entirely) because I am too cheap for my beloved Krakatoa or Calabria lattes; it's because I seriously cannot survive long enough without coffee to actually get the both of us dressed, ready and out of the door to buy some.
Ollie can point out what happens next in the espresso machine set-up and usage.
I finally tried Dreena Burton's Autumn Puree recipe, and OMG. Dude. That is some deliciousness. I admit that I shied away from it for so long purely because of the word "puree." People, this is not puree. THIS IS MASHED POTATOES. But (unsweetenedly) sweet. And autumnal. It's a mixture of sweet potatoes and butternut squash (or other winter squash), baked nearly whole (in my case, with copious amounts of coconut oil and some cinnamon) and blended up with some non-dairy milk (hemp milk here) and some spices that I probably can't list without violating copyrights. But they are... autumnal.
After writing about it just now, I was about to go into the kitchen to start making some more, but it kind of takes a while what with all the baking, and it's kind of 11:30 pm.
I can't even begin to write about how I feel about Obama's victory, but until then I will touch on the total buzzkill that is Proposition 8. Erik sent me this op-ed piece from Joe Solmonese, the president of the Human Rights Campaign: http://www.hrc.org/11522.htm. I found some of it a little hard to attach myself to in this sort of middle ground in the essay's rhetoric, a straight person opposed to prop 8, but overall it is a really powerful and crucial statement. Particularly this:
In recent years, I’ve been delivering this positive message: tell your story. Share who you are. And in fact, as our families become more familiar, support for us increases. But make no mistake: I do not think we have to audition for equality. Rather, I believe that each and every one of us who has been hurt by this hateful ballot measure, and each and every one of us who is still fighting to be equal, has to confront the neighbors who hurt us. We have to say to the man with the Yes on 8 sign—you disrespected my humanity, and I am not giving you a pass. I am not giving you a pass for explaining that you tolerate me, while at the same time denying that my family has a right to exist. I do not give you permission to say you have me as a “gay friend” when you cast a vote against my family, and my rights.
This was going to be a Facebook status update but it got too grammatically vague with the third person (ARGH), and we all know I'm too wordy for Facebook status updates to truly satisfy me. I am at Filter coffee shop in North Park right now. I just had to stop searching for help with my Twilight Halloween costume, because I was too self-conscious of what all the other* emo-punk rock mac users were thinking of me as all the Twilight fansites loaded on my screen.
That all said, this is going to be my worst/best Halloween costume since the year I was Ann Coulter. The best part will be watching the recognition on all of the closeted Twilight-readers' faces at the party.
____ * = other as in, not including me. I am not remotely emo or punk rock, although I do love Neutral Milk Hotel. And I have a Mac. But really? I am only here without my toddler because he is at babysitting co-op at Nelwyn's house. I am *so* hard core. Oh, and see also: Twilight fansites loading on my mac.
Yesterday, I said, "There is nothing Christian about this ballot measure," and wanted to clarify. I mean, for those Californians (and, you know, all humans) who happen to believe in Jesus, this debate is most definitely a religious issue. But the actual proposition, promoting discrimination and intolerance? Not a chance.
In many churches around the country today, the gospel reading included (I believe) the section in the 22nd chapter of the book of Matthew that reads: When the Pharisees heard that he had silenced the Sadducees, they gathered together, and one of them, a lawyer, asked him a question to test him. “Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?” He said to him, “’You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”
Jesus would not stand for such intolerance, inequality, and hate. He would not stand for creating new legislature that promoted discrimination. In fact, Jesus healed the centurion soldier's "pais," a boy slave used by the centurion soldier for sexual purposes (in both Matthew and Luke). He did so without warning, without condition, without pause, and even said that he was amazed by the devotion from the slave. And I say with great certainty that any occurrence of anti-homosexual text in the New Testament (and possibly even the Old Testament but I haven't really studied that one) is entirely due to the political bias of translators for centuries. (If you are curious about this translation issue, here is an excellent source from the World Policy Institute.)
But all that aside, and even Separation of Church and State aside, it comes down to the fact that Jesus is telling us to love our neighbors as ourselves, above and beyond any other law that tells us otherwise. No person should add discrimination to the state constitution, certainly not someone who follows Jesus. I guess when I say "there is nothing Christian about this ballot measure," what I really mean is that this proposition challenges our common life, our common toil, our shared existence in our communities. It threatens our equality and humanity. It attacks respect and tolerance. That right there is enough to oppose this measure. But it also happens to go against exactly what Jesus said. And not just some random, out of context parable or musing, but exactly what Jesus said was the most important thing he would ever say.
I'll be back with the rest of the local and state ballot measures soon.
It's no secret that I can't vote. It's also no secret that voting is probably THE most important right and responsibility afforded to a citizen. And despite that, I'm increasingly realizing, voting is probably not enough. We need to talk about the issues, talk about how we will vote, talk about the things we're not sure of, and, in my case, just talk.
On November 4th, my husband will take my First Generation American son to the polling station, and instead I will probably go to Melanie's house and do shots to fend off the nervousness. Here's how I would vote, on the major things. I also have some thoughts on the less covered, less exciting stuff, and will post that soon enough, too:
President of the United States: Barack Obama
In my relatively short lifetime, I have never been so inspired by a political leader as I am by Obama. I have never felt such a drive to truly change my country rather than complain about it. The mere thought of the direction of our country under his leadership gives me hope, and makes me feel at peace. I could go on and on.
No on Proposition 8.
In my mind, there is nothing redeeming about this ballot measure. There is nothing Christian about this ballot measure, so don't go there. Jesus would turn water into wine at a homosexual wedding, FYI. Despite what some of the supporters of Prop 8 say, it will not require that our 4th graders will study homosexuality in school. That is such fearmongering. 4th graders don't even study heterosexual marriage. And, to tell you the truth, I kind of wish my kids would be exposed to this level of equality in school. It's important to me that Ollie grow up in a world where he and his neighbors are free to be with the people they love, to spend the rest of their lives together, fully recognized and supported by the state.
District 3 City Council: Stephen Whitburn
This is a hot race right now, between Stephen Whitburn and Todd Gloria. We get at least two mailings each day. District 3 covers Hillcrest, University Heights, North Park, South Park, Golden Hill, City Heights, Kensington, Talmadge, and Normal Heights. Basically, my favorite parts of San Diego, and Stephen Whitburn lives in North Park, my (obvious) favorite part of District 3. Stephen Whitburn has nabbed critical endorsements from the Democratic Party and the Sierra Club. Whitburn and Gloria are both plenty liberal (and also, both are openly gay), but I have to side with Whitburn's stronger stance against excessive development and in favor of smart growth and infrastructer, and a stronger campaign focus on education. The Sierra Club endorsement also sealed the deal for me. Actually, Erik voted for Whitburn in the primary, and that's probably what really did make up my mind.
City Attorney: Mike Aguirre (incumbent)
Mike Aguirre is (and feel free to kill me for using this word) a total maverick. Our City Attorney since 2004, he is a hardworking, courageous badass and will not back down, will not pander to the city council or mayor's office, and will not rest until the people of San Diego are well represented. The amount of material this guy publishes is ridiculous. He is constantly working. Also, he runs the Rock and Roll Marathon every year in San Diego, every single one since it was established in 1998. Only having done it once, I have no idea how he manages to train for marathons year-round (something like 23 total marathons) without fully sacrificing his professional and personal life, but NO, he continues to be one of the more prolific public figures San Diego has ever known. Like I said, badass. He probably has to force himself to go running at the end of the day lest he light stuff on fire or explode. Mike Aguirre will be one of the new characters in next season's Heroes.
Aguirre's opponent, Jan Goldsmith, is supported by developers, Republicans, and the Union Tribune. Oh, also, the Log Cabin Club? His entire campaign platform is to just kind of snark on Mike Aguirre, so that's annoying. Like, every line is "I will do such and such, UNLIKE SOME PEOPLE."
No on Proposition 4.
Prop 4 changes the CA constitution, mandating parental consent (and a 48 hour waiting period) for minors receiving abortions. The limited allowances and exceptions in the ballot measure are insignificant. Having once been a 14 year old girl (paraphrase credit to Jeffrey Eugenides), I will tell you that Proposition 4 will undeniably increase the risks associated with abortion in teenage girls. Alone, Prop 4 will NOT decrease the amount of teenage abortions. It will send them to Mexico. It will result in them trying dangerous methods to attempt to end the pregnancy, and I'm not just talking about the stereotypical coat hanger. I'm also not just talking about young women who fear physical abuse from their parents. I'm not just talking about young women who were raped. I would also like to add that opposition for Prop 4 is not just about fear and safety, protecting teenager girls - it's about trusting them. It's about treating them as human beings.
I also want to add that I fear this proposition is being opposed not because of the rights, health, and safety of teenage girls, but because of opposition to abortion in general. Believe what you may about abortion, but I can't imagine a more at-risk group of individuals than teenage women to deny unbridled access to all their options. It would be so devastating, so dangerous, and ultimately, so ineffective in reducing abortions.
Yes on Proposition 2
I know you're probably writing me off here, the crazy vegan. Hear me out. I understand that the critics assume that, in particular, poultry farming will be pushed out of state due to a financial ability to meet the new requirements. I do pity the farmers and their families that will be required to adjust to safer, more humane, and more environmentally friendly and sustainable practices. However, I do not support inhumane and non-sustainable farming to the point that I do not consume the products of these methods. If we have to have that kind of farming in order to keep farmers employed, then something is wrong. Hopefully Prop 2 will fix this.
Apparently, it will cost farmers 1 cent per egg to switch from confined cages. But, correct me if I'm wrong here because I'm no economics whiz, but wouldn't the price to consumers decrease as more cage-free, humane eggs were available and on our California grocery shelves? Increased supply. right?
Jobs will not be lost, quite the contrary. Mexico will not suddenly develop an egg export surplus and become a primary supplier for California. It will NOT make our food less safe.
The consequences of crated, caged farming are not worth it.
And that's all for now. I know, I know, so much for my self-instituted ban on political blogging. I just couldn't help myself.
Yeah, it looks like I'm going to talk about something I never talk about on here: music. Today, I dusted off Red House Painters' "Songs for a Blue Guitar," which I have to say, is probably one of the best albums ever made. As the first strums fired up in the first song, "Have you Forgotten," I felt this really amazing warmth and familiarity, a good and faithful old friend.
I also then remembered blogging about the song something like five years ago. A few days ago, in the Iron and Wine Trapeze Swinger post, I told you the only other time I posted lyrics in full on this blog was for another Iron and Wine song. Well, I was wrong, and I just wanted to own that.
I suppose if there's anything to rival Iron and Wine's imagined lyrical sovereignty on here, it might as well be something from Songs for a Blue Guitar.
This absolute gem is from Ali, one of my dearest and oldest friends. He recently moved back to town and good times ensued. Although it's really messing with me to switch back and forth saying Ollie and Ali.
I'm not even going to introduce this message, because it is just *that* awesome.
Julia, It is 11:53 am June 11, 1996. We're sitting here at lunch. Ryan is eating nachos, Nick is sucking on bread sticks, and I'm signing your yearbook. I'm glad you chose UCSD because I prophesized [sic] it on the back of the picture I gave you. I'll see you over the summer and next year at school. Later, Ali
So heartfelt, and I'm so glad he specified what he was doing.
I've been trying to do a little more creative writing lately. I am so far from the writer I would like to be, or, even more frustratingly, the writer that I sometimes think I am, while flickers of an image or a story quickly slip away from me as I sit paralyzed at the keyboard, unable to translate. A few months ago, I started writing (in fact, I even got halfway through) a story but have recently concluded it is a big suck. Sorry to everyone who read bits and pieces or even entire chapters (or the whole thing, Sarah). Maybe one day I'll wrap it all up and we can resolve some cliffhangers. Regardless, the time I spent on that story was an amazing experience, and it probably improved my writing. Mostly, it just felt good to create and besides a major screenwriting contract (wherein I have a clause to oversee the soundtrack too), that's really what I want out of writing.
Then I started wondering about what I could do in a blogging space. First there's the obvious problem I have that whenever I get remotely inspired and try to be fancy with words, I end up just talking about music. But we also have to contend with the boundaries of a blog: public, supposedly unfiltered, and supposedly real life, non-fiction. I have written some pretty obscure stuff on here, mostly because I was burying something significant at the time and needed an outlet, an anonymous outlet. For better or for worse, this blog is nowhere near as anonymous as I had originally intended, and only occasionally does that really bother me. Usually it's a blessing, in more ways than one, to the point that basically everyone I know [but am not related to] knows it exists. If you tell my parents I will cut you. But because this outlet is no longer anonymous I just had to make what I painted on the canvas unrecognizable.
[There was also the time a few days before I got married where I clearly didn't think to sugar coat with "creative" obscurity, writing, and I quote, "all my friends hate me and only talk about themselves."]
And on the other hand, sometimes I just want to pull something out of thin air.
Anyway, there's one thing I hate more than blogging, and it's blogging about blogging, so I won't speak of it again (tonight). So without further ado I think I might start peppering this "website" with random little dalliances in creative writing, tiny outbursts of fiction (however ambiguous), little practices (however excruciating).
***
This is a conversation she didn't have with me.
"I love it when the moon is like this," I said without pointing.
But she couldn't see anything, squinting through the windshield in search of some giant, pink, low version, the type of moon that usually makes her breath catch. Finally, she caught sight of it. A tiny slice of crescent, thinner even than the silver wedding ring draped around her finger, flashing in matching intervals with the overhead street lights.
"Oh, I almost didn't see it," she answered clumsily while her thoughts were flooded by the greatness of so delicate a moon and the greatness of me watching it too, next to her. She wanted to say more, to own the beauty in the sky, to share it with me somehow, but she held it captive.
Then, it was gone again, behind a building or even a leafless branch. It was, after all, easy to hide.
She drove away from that moment hoping I just assumed that my love for the moon was profound enough to silence her, not that she didn't care. About it, about me. Or, she tried to hope that I didn't think anything of it at all and that should probably be her best option.
Later she stood close to me outside the tall building that somehow still felt low-slung and wide, the night quiet and easy between us.
"I'm drawn to you," she wanted to say, and the air was no longer easy. The remaining few trickled out, sometimes greeting us but sometimes hurrying past, her thoughts excited and proud that someone might think there was something between us. We talked hushedly about meaningless things, things which could have been overheard but maybe both she and I craved the whisper.
She didn't want to talk about meaningless things.
And she didn't want to say goodnight first. She didn't want to leave. But perhaps even moreso she didn't want me to say goodnight first and have to respond quickly and awkwardly with something like, "oh yeah, sure, I should get going too," so she did say it first. But this is about what she didn't say. And what I then couldn't say back to her.
Just now, I realized that for this shameful blogging project, I should probably get the rest of my high school yearbooks and, HOLD ON FOR THIS, my middle school yearbooks from my parents' house. Unfortunately I was up there today and walked away empty handed.
Today I will have two relatively mild ones to hold you over until I finally get around to typing up the high school boyfriend's message, wherein he lists the contents of his bank account. One will actually be a non-cliche-ridden note. This is from Courtney, who was, if I recall, valedictorian. Or one of them. Whatever, she was brilliant beyond comprehension. And delightfully sarcastic. And a huge Tori Amos and No Doubt (in the early 90s!) fan. I would say this message doesn't really fall into any of the categories, but what can you expect from an indie rock valedictorian?
I have also noticed that we all address our yearbook message recipients by name. To distinguish it from other messages in their own yearbook intended for someone else?
Julia, I'm the priveleged [sic, yesssss, a flaw to her intellect!] first to sign your yearbook! I've always lusted after your shoes, y'know. It's too bad your evil Satanic imp of a boyfriend (just kidding) [I'm guessing she was at least partially not kidding] stole you away from us this year. Without you, cheese muffin loading before track meets wasn't the same. I hope you find happiness (and great shoes) wherever life takes you. *heart* Courtney
The second is an all-encompassing, all-category affair from Kirk (barely, but category 4 was saved by inviting himself over to my pool). He was dating one of my best friends. Unfortunately this one isn't very anonymous because everyone knows exactly how many Kirks there were in our class.
Julia, My friend, my Pal, My Love... Shhh! Don't tell Nika! (J.K.). You are a really great person. You are always fun to be around and do stuff with. Nick is a good man and you should stay by his side. Over the summer you should invite me over and we'll go swimming in your pool. That would be fun! Don't hesitate to call or come visit me at UCLA. Good luck at UCSD and be sure to have lots of fun. See ya later! -Kirk
Well, that is all. I'm going to have to post some other non-yearbook-related-stuff soon, but will eventually resume this series and get to some of the gems. And, I promise you, I will soon break out the 8th grade quality well-wishes. AND, since Elaine asked, I am definitely going to plan a Dramatic Public Reading night.
I'm starting a new series here. Behold. Last night, I had some old high school friends over, and, somehow, my senior yearbook (1996) made an appearance. Eventually, we started reading the messages that people had written me out loud. Let me tell you, those are some fine works of poetry. We started on my high school boyfriend's message to me, but that one is far too golden to start with. You'll have to wait until we adequately warm up.
There were several themes in my yearbook and most of the messages seem to fit into those. Four, that I can count.
1. Comments about me being sweet, the #1 all time high school yearbook adjective, primarily from girls. These ones usually don't reference Nick at all, probably because (in retrospect) those girls usually weren't fans. Or in a small handful of cases (two?), I'm pretty sure they were in love with him themselves. 2. Comments or snarks about Nick, or even just well wishes. 3. Fabricated references to lewd acts, primarily from boys. And then a comment about Nick. 4. References to band and cross country. And/or my parents' pool.
I'm going to withhold the last names to protect the innocent. Spelling and grammar errors, however, will be maintained in the true documentary spirit.
I'm going to start with a Category 1 post. This is from Jess, who was a junior when I was a senior, and in my math class. She was probably, randomly (i.e., not in band/track/nick's friends), one of my closest friends that year, and it all began with that famous crayon note, which I undoubtedly still have. She was completely rad (tm 1996).
To my wonderful twin, Julia-
I think you're great! This is not some cheesy, insincere message, this is totally 100% I love you message. I think you are the coolest and I am so glad that you think that of me as well. I can remember that first time in math when you looked sad and I wrote you a pretty crayon note asking me [sic] not to think I was strange and that began the legacy - there was the CIF locker, the x-mas locker, miscellaneous math notes, tent party, and then coco's. Oh, and swimming in your pool and running into you at Top of the Cove oh and our homecoming picture. I really like spending time with you - you're so sweet and nice and complementary [sic, maybe, unless she was being profound] and understanding. And besides, you're blond - who can go wrong w/ that. I am so glad you aren't really leaving because I look forward to tons of stuff in the future with you like bagels & milkshakes. Just in case you lose it (which you won't) [which I did]: 675-####. I LOVE YOU! -Jess
AWESOME. My favorite part, and this seems to happen a lot in yearbooks, was when she started to try to list the inside jokes, but then the sentence kind of fell flat or the things really weren't that unique. I have no idea what "and then coco's" means. Maybe we had bagels and milkshakes at a Coco's restaurant?
Oh, damn it, I almost can't stop. I had to literally close the book lest I just type them all up right now.
Six years ago this month (a few days ago to be precise), I started this little blog. I'm kind of amazed and proud that I have stuck with it so long.
Every year I remember to blog about the anniversary I probably warn everyone to PLEASE GOD DO NOT GO BACK AND READ THOSE EARLY POSTS because they are seriously, undeniably awful posts and I can hardly recognize the person writing that stuff. But I can tell you're going to do it anyway, especially now that I've forbidden it. I'm still mourning the loss of the first two years of comments, too.
I guess when I really think about it and deconstruct why I have kept this up, it's because I am happy and thankful to have this website in my life. It's seen me through a lot, and looking back, I'm pretty sure there have been a few times that this blog has written me.
Last week, Erik and I joined Tessa and Chris to go to a concert! Live music! We saw Iron & Wine, and The Swell Season (the Once movie peeps). It was incredible. Iron and Wine opened (!!), a mostly solo set, and he was, as usual, absolutely stunning. His music, his remarkably lyrical imagery, and his voice, literally filled the place and my entire self and soul, beginning with the first few words of his first song. (Which! I had never heard before. It turns out it is a somewhat hard-to-find B side and will post the lyrics for you in a minute.)
We all assumed that The Swell Season would pale in comparison, but they held their own, differently. But maybe it was just because time was passing since Iron and Wine's opening song. Tessa and Chris will tell you that Glen Hansard's seriously neurotic storytelling skills kind of ruined things a bit, but I still really liked their set. What I did not like was all those scantily dressed older women having the same taste as me. And also two particular scantily dressed older women stage dancing, but I am trying to repress that so it won't be discussed.
But back to Iron and Wine. You should know that I have only ever posted the lyrics to one full song in its entirety before, and it was another Iron and Wine song, the amazing Upward Over the Mountain. I tread very carefully with the lyric spewing on here, so trust me on this. It starts out so simply and universally but then weaves itself through this complex path of interconnected images and I think, most significantly, death. Sam Beam, I swear, he is my favorite poet. Also, as an aside, my next trick will be to count the appearance of dog-related imagery in his songs.
But, this song stole the entire night, and I was reminded of it in particular this afternoon amidst a particularly hefty dose of nostalgia. Nostalgia is so intense to me, reflecting on lives and loves lost or given away. It sometimes consumes me. Not the people, not the actual things that happened, but dealing with my memories, processing what the relationships, the friendships, the love, the hurt, the everything... what it all has changed in me, and who I am in its stead.
Read, listen, whatever:
THE TRAPEZE SWINGER. -Iron and Wine
Please remember me happily by the rosebush laughing With bruises on my chin, the time when we counted every black car passing Your house, beneath the hills, and up until someone caught us in the kitchen With maps, a mountain range, a piggy bank, a vision too removed to mention...
Please remember me fondly, I heard from someone you're still pretty And then they went on to say that the pearly gates had such eloquent grafitti Like "we will meet again" and "fuck the man" and "tell my mother not to worry" The angels with their gray handshakes, always done in such a hurry...
Please remember me, on Halloween, making fools of all the neighbors Our faces painted white, by midnight we'd forgotten one another And when the morning came I felt ashamed, only now it seems so silly That season left the world and then returned but now you're lit up by the city...
Please remember me mistakenly in the window of the tallest tower Call and pass us by but much too high to see the empty road at happy hour Gleam and resonate just like the gates around the holy kingdom With words like "lost and found" and "don't look down" and "someone save temptation..."
Please remember me as in the dream we had as rug-burned babies Among the fallen trees but fast asleep aside the lions and the ladies Who call you what you like and even might give a gift for your behavior A fleeting chance to see the trapeze swinger high as any savior...
Please remember me, my misery, and how it lost me all I wanted The dogs that love the rain and chasing trains, the colored birds above their running In circles 'round the well, near where it spells on the wall behind St. Peters So bright on cinder gray with spraypaint "who the hell can see forever?"
Please remember me seldomly in the car behind the carnival My hand between your knees you turned from me and said the trapeze act was wonderful But never meant to last, the clowns that passed saw me just come up with anger And filled with circus dogs, the parking lot, had an element of danger...
Please remember me finally and all my uphill clawing My dear, if I make the pearly gates I'll do my best to make a drawing Of God and Lucifer, a boy and girl, an angel kissing on a sinner A monkey and a man, a marching band, all around a frightened trapeze swinger
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=raVzi_y6XWI (I know, I know. TOPHER GRACE is smirking right at you the whole time. At least Dennis Quaid is mid-life-angsting at the ground.)
I have been listening to Jeff Buckley's "Grace" lately. Like probably 95% of the western world, I have this intense adoration for the song "Hallelujah," so that regardless of who is covering it I just completely shut out the rest of the world and hide inside the lines, sometimes repetitively. On the morning of 9/11, I was in fact repeating the song over and over again for my entire commute to work, so I had no idea of what had happened that morning until I got to work and found everyone frantically trying to get internet news sites to load. In a cowardly, escapist way, I was glad to have found this psychic, preemptive solace in the song.
But my renewed affection for "Grace" had me randomly hunting around on the internets, and I found this, via Slightly Lively. When Leonard Cohen was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in March, two of my favorite things collided: Damien Rice and Hallelujah. Watch it on full screen when he sings "her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you." That is music.
Behold:
And I can't embed this one, but while we're treating ourselves with our song, why not watch Jeff Buckley sing it, too?
I haven't blogged much about our England trip yet, mostly because it's taking me months to upload all of the pictures. The Flickr uploader and I have a turbulent, on-again, off-again relationship, you see.
But I have to break the silence to tell you about Haystacks. Haystacks is a mountain above Buttermere, a lake in The Lake District National Park in northern England (my birthplace).
a cairn marking the summit of Haystacks
Our hiking party included Erik, Ollie, me, my dad, my uncle, my brother-in-law, and one of my dad's old friends. I'm going to have to be very vague about this because they got back in touch this year due entirely to google, and holy goodness, if my parents found this blog I might throw up. But this friend happened to be a long-time member of a certain highly esteemed local volunteer mountain rescue squad. Note: try to always hike with your own personal mountain rescue personnel. He had been involved with the rescue squad since before his parents had a telephone, and the local policeman would go knocking on doors of fellow squad members to gather them for the rescue. Awesome.
It's almost impossible to think about Haystacks without invoking the name of one Alfred Wainwright, hand-written trail guide writer/legend. He once described it as the best of all the lakeland fells. Wainwright wrote in "Memoirs of a Fellwalker":
"All I ask for, at the end, is a last long resting place by the side of Innominate Tarn, on Haystacks, where the water gently laps the gravelly shore and the heather blooms and Pillar and Gable keep unfailing watch. A quiet place, a lonely place. I shall go to it, for the last time, and be carried: someone who knew me in life will take me and empty me out of a little box and leave me there alone. And if you, dear reader, should get a bit of grit in your boot as you are crossing Haystacks in the years to come, please treat it with respect. It might be me."
tarn, potentially the innominate one. that bump of a mountain right in the middle, the most distant peak, is Sca Fell, the highest mountain in England
Wainwright's ashes were indeed scattered at the top of Haystacks, by the Innominate Tarn, after his death in 1991. Haystacks is quite a detour from the traditional Coast-to-Coast route (devised and written by Wainwright himself), but many hikers make the pilgrimage to see its glory and pay homage to their rambling hero.
I didn't read that passage or learn about Wainwright's ashes and the fame of Haystacks until a few days later, which in a way helped me better experience Haystacks and the breathtaking Innominate Tarn. I saw it fresh; I felt this crazy energy like I might have been the only person to have ever noticed it and decided it was beautiful.
Haystacks, from the way down, looking out into the Buttermere valley
Speaking of paying homage, I'm going to cheapen up my post here by including this picture, where apparently Tommy himself scrambled up this exact little river in the movie version of the Rock!Opera Tommy. I filled up my water bottle right there and drank in a little Roger Daltrey.
Also-apparently, my dad once camped out in those fields in the valley there in the above picture, just before the lake, for months and months one year with a buddy. It was right after college and they drove in to work every day, for no reason other than to do it. They had otherwise perfectly good housing available to them. The guy we hiked with even summoned this when introducing us to people like the local farmer and his kin. Like, "he was one of the two who camped here for the summer and drove in to [company name]," AND EVERYONE REMEMBERED, without ceremony. We're talking, what, 35, 40 years ago? Greatness.
Ollie at the top, more Sca Fell in the distance
My instinct is to announce that Haystacks is probably the most beautiful place I can remember, and maybe only from my lens of history in the Lake District did it manage to eke out the Yosemite Valley on your right and Half Dome on your left as you head out from Glacier Point on the Panorama Trail at sunrise. But maybe nowhere is more beautiful or more resplendent than any other sacred natural place, and our attempts to compare them are entirely in vain. I certainly thought of nothing else, nowhere else as I wandered over Haystacks, fingertips grazing dewy ferns and skin and soul warmed by the summer sun. Nothing compares to that place, nothing.
"Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one's ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York."
I bought my copy (first American edition!) in a used book store in San Francisco, back in my slightly-publicized hunt for an authentically used copy of The Dharma Bums. I bought that copy of The Bell Jar not necessarily for the fact that it is a first edition, but because it had DAWN MERCER written in giant lettering on the first page, but then, slipped between the pages, a newspaper clipping announcing that DAWN MERCER and her boyfriend had finally broken up. I'm assuming DAWN MERCER'S boyfriend had some better ideas for her beloved antiquated book collection and they ended up at goodwill with a little calling card. Dawn, what did you DO to him?!
The Bell Jar was a sad, sad read, but when she floats her entire wardrobe off the top of the building, it's such this beautiful, freeing, lunatic moment.
If Jeremy Davies' character in Million Dollar Hotel, Tom-Tom, jumped off a building in his triumphant lunacy moment to a soundtrack of U2, then Esther Greenwood threw her clothes to some scratchy, dark, bass clarinet number with a tired, lilty soulful voice breathing a descant and I might have felt something like hope as I read or watched. But there was none.
I've been listening to Joni Mitchell's "Blue" this week, pretty much constantly while in the car. It replaced the new Sigur Ros after I had to finally return my spare copy to its rightful owner, and so now I only have one rightful copy of that, and am listening to it pretty much constantly in the house. But, Blue. Ah, Blue. Such a solid album. However, Today I started skipping the depressing songs, so it's a pretty fast listen. A really fast listen.
Blue is undeniably my Number 1 All Time Most Influential Album, ever, and I'm sure I've blogged about it ad nauseum. I was introduced to Joni by my high school friend Zwickler's dad one day when we were in his car the summer after graduation. Zwickler's dad said something like, "Oh, you'll love this. I can't believe you haven't heard of her, Julia." And I felt happy knowing that people cared enough about me to consider my musical tastes. And especially to consider that they were good tastes. Anyway, Zwickler's dad was right and I entered into a decade plus of adoring, worshiping that album.
Since that afternoon, I have also held track 9, "Case of You," as my favorite song ever. Number One All Time. This is occasionally replaced, depending on my mood, with Sufjan Stevens "The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades is Out to Get Us!" or Iron & Wine "Upwards Over The Mountain," or Sigur Ros "Glosoli," but I always, always come back to "Case of You." I hate having a favorite song, because I feel like professing favorites is just a way to be all: hi, I am really exceptional because I picked out something exceptional that someone else created. But I can't help it.
With all this High Fidelityesque chatter about my All Time Top lists, I'm going to have to describe the song autobiographically to you. I had a strange urge to tell you what the lyrics meant to me, but then I envisioned someone scrolling down the page(s) on their google search results for "Case of You lyrics meaning" and finding this post and invading my thoughts, my version of the song, and that made me feel dirty and stolen. So autobiographical it is. Although "Case of You" has been very timeless to me, making me feel sometimes like I'm not even myself, not the person sitting there listening to it, it still has always had a tremendous hold in my real life. Mostly, in one particular instance.
Once upon a time, a very long time ago, not too long after first discovering Blue, I fell in love with a boy who lived in Kentucky, and I put "Case of You" on one of the many mix tapes I calculatedly constructed for him. I painstakingly figured out how to play it on my beat up guitar so I could sing it to him over the phone. And when he came to visit me or I went to visit him, I'd play it for him in person. He was a much better guitarist than I, but he managed to humor my barely-mediocre arrangement. I mean, wouldn't you? The song is hauntingly beautiful and all tricksy up the neck of the guitar and various octaves and I think I might fall over if someone ever played it for me.
Once, at a restaurant in Cincinnati, I laughed out loud at him and he said, "you know, I've never seen you laugh before," and he sat back and soaked me in for a while but I think he must have realized right then that we couldn't really stay together, apart, if we weren't going to see each other laugh for months at a time, and I must have agreed with him. A couple of weeks later I went home and never saw him again.
Don't get me wrong, the song also went on every other mix tape or CD I made for every other boy I might have been remotely interested in, and maybe even that one I made for my friend Katie, but it was always in a sort of recreation of what that song meant for me in that single strange relationship. I wouldn't even say we shared any special connection to the song; it was just me and Case of You, all aimed at that guy.
But a not so very long time ago, thanks to the Internets, he randomly and unrelated-to-me recited a line of the song: "I'm frightened by the devil, and I'm drawn to those ones that ain't afraid," and I thought something like, "Oh god, I think my heart just skipped a beat hearing you say a line from that song," but said something a little more put-together, and he said something coolly like, "Oh yeah, didn't you introduce me to that album?" and I wondered what else I had clung to in that relationship and after that relationship that hadn't even phased him, that he'd forgotten.
In a way, it's as if that little interaction has freed the song from his hold, and now it's just mine again, a crazily poetic, glorious song with a distant suggestion of my old sad but pretty story in the background. I am as constant as a northern star.
Sorry my writing is such a disaster. I've been reading Sylvia Plath so I'm feeling all 1960s hurriedly tortured. Which is probably why I dug up the CD in the first place.
I recently stumbled upon a website where you can announce to the Internets which book got you hooked on reading. It's called First Book and although there's some sort of vote-to-get-books-sent-to-some-place thing going on, that's not really why I'm posting.
My "first book" was Matilda, by Roald Dahl, my favorite children's author. It obviously wasn't the first book I ever read - far from it. But it was the first time that I wanted to bunker down and reread over and over again. Not to mention the fact that I wanted to be able to move objects with my mind tricks. Matilda was probably the first book I was obsessed with, which led me into a Roald Dahl obsession. I read everything he wrote, including his not-really-meant-for-9-year-olds autobiographies. Oh, how I was scandalized by the nudists on his cruise ships! I'm guessing on the age, by the way. I assume I was 9, because that's when my copy (first edition!) was printed. I just checked my book, and it unfortunately must have been past the stage in my life where I documented my age and absolute ownership of the books, writing "This book belongs to Julia, age 7" in everything, in total chicken scratch, and sometimes right below a similar proclamation by my older sister, scribbled out by me *evil laughter*.
I know you've all read Matilda and loved it, but I know I had at least forgotten some of the fantastic details to the story and how perfectly every kid could weave themselves into her world (especially the "gormless" parents bit and wanting to have your sweet teacher invite you over for tea). Here's what is printed on the back cover - it makes me want to read it again right this minute:
Matilda is an extraordinary girl. She is sensitive and brilliant. Even before she is five years old she has read Dickens and Hemingway, Kipling and Steinbeck. Matilda's gormless parents are neither sensitive nor brilliant. They think Matilda is just a nuisance, and treat her as a scab - a scab to be endured until the time comes to flick her away.
As if this isn't enough, Matilda has to cope with the odious headmistress, Miss Trunchbull, who terrorizes the whole school, including Matilda's beloved class teacher, Miss Honey. When Matilda is attacked by Miss Trunchbull one day, she suddenly discovers she has an extraordinary power and realizes she can make trouble for the monstrous grown-ups in her life.
After Roald Dahl, there have been two other times in my life where I've gone and bought everything by a particular author and devoured it. The next was J.D Salinger. Le sigh. And then, Chuck Palahniuk, notably, uh, different than Matilda.
[whispers] Twilight doesn't count. It doesn't. Shut up.
...I'm going to pick this one. I just watched Season 1 Episode 1 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer ("Welcome to the Hellmouth"). Nelwyn, Adjunct Professor of Buffyology, very generously loaned me her director's cut ("chosen") box set, and by my crude calculations, if we average one episode per night, it's going to take us approximately 5.21 months to plow through it all.
But, I love it so. We're about to watch Episode 2 ("The Harvest") and I just had a dorky little idea of posting my favorite parts of every episode I watch, even if it's just one line at the end of a normal blog post.
So my "Welcome to the Hellmouth" favorite was definitely when the body fell out of the locker onto Cordelia's friend, mere seconds after they were bantering back and forth with "Pos!" and "Neg!" and maybe even a "Neg-ly!" Ah, 90s television at it's best.
One day I will fess up why I happened to start watching Buffy now, in 2008, at the ripe old age of almost-29 (okay fine, I'll fess up now. TWILIGHT is why. Eyeroll.) And another day I'll tell you about how I have two chapters written (very, very roughly) of a story (using the word "novel" makes me cringe). And yet another day maybe I'll write about England and show some pretty green and rainy pictures with Ollie in them.
Until then, I will sum up the last week and a half of my life with one word: VAMP. At least Buffy's vampires aren't sparkly.
Oliver and I leave first thing in the morning for England. We'll be back in early August. Erik will follow us on Sunday. We're going with my family, to visit more of my family and attend my cousin's wedding.
Four bags. Plus a carseat. Plus an umbrella stroller. Plus a Beco carrier. And that's just for Ollie and I. One suitcase is entirely diapers. On that note, tomorrow morning will officially break Ollie's streak of being exclusively cloth diapered. *tiny violins*. It's going to be several days before we arrive at the cottage in the Lake District (with washer! and dryer!), so there's absolutely no way we could deal with cloth in the mean time. Well, of course there's a way, but for the love of pete.
We're staying in Cockermouth, the delightful birth place of William Wordsworth and home to a killer vegetarian restaurant. Cockermouth is just inside of the actual lake-y Lake District, as opposed to the coastal developed parts where I grew up. Not that it's at all far away. But 20 miles is a long 20 miles on those roads.
I'm really looking forward to it. It has been a long, long time since I've taken a vacation without worrying about my work load (or even homework load) when I return, or that my coworkers were discovering my absolute lack of organization in my office files, or maybe someone tapped into my internet history. It's going to be very nice. Very nice.
I can't wait to see Oliver run around in the beautiful wild places, the Peter Rabbit landscapes, the secret river banks, the vast tree-flanked lakes, the vibrant green sloped rocky fells (peppered charmingly with "sheep balls," as we so fondly used to refer to sheep poop). I can't wait to take him to Thornhill to walk down our old dirt road past the abandoned railroad and through the fields to the beck. I remember we used to pick wildflowers and tiptoe past cow poo to try to get the cows to smell our little grubby bouquets (they were rarely interested). Maybe we'll just watch the cows from afar instead. "MMMMM"s, as Ollie knows them.
Sign. I'm going home. Or as the cumbrians would say: As ga'an yam.
[by julia 12:12 AM]
7.10.2008
Michele.
Today, I found out that my friend and former LLS coworker Michele Larson has passed away. I told you about her a while ago, when it was totally unfair that she had developed a secondary cancer, leukemia, as a result of her treatment for her original lymphoma. Since that post, she has had not one, but two additional battles with cancer. Four total. Four. My heart and my stomach ache thinking about the struggles her body knew.
Here is a video of Michele (embedded below), interviewed for a program called "Understanding Cancer."
Maybe in that short clip you might be able to begin to see how beautiful, strong, calm, inspiring, remarkable, and creative she was. She's the kind of person that you would interrupt mid-conversation to tell them how great and cute they are. I had seen this video quite a few months ago when it was first published, and watching it again just now as I posted the video was really hard. Her family members used Michele's email account to send out the details for the services, and a simple "Michele" and this video link were still in her old signature file, along with a quote about faith and impossibleness. That too, was really hard to see.
But, god, you're supposed to be ready for these things, right? When someone is in her fourth battle with something that could very well have killed her the first time around (and almost did), shouldn't you expect her to lose her fight at some point? Shouldn't you be relieved and peaceful that her body is no longer feeling or sourcing her pain? I don't know, I just don't know. All bets are off when you're as young as Michele. All bets are off when you're my friend.
I just sat here for about 10 minutes staring at the screen trying to think of something moving and well-written to write here about Michele, but then it just made me feel so sick to my stomach, like I would be getting some artistic jollies off of her tragedy so I'm just going to leave it alone.
I've been reading more lately. This is almost entirely based on the fact that Ollie usually needs to nurse for the entirety of his nap, or at least at the start, middle, and end and it's not like I could get up and leave the room because he's just lying there in the middle of our bed and would probably stand up all excited and run off the bed if he were to wake up alone. And no, he won't go in his crib for naps. So back to reading. Half the time, I nap with him. The other half, I read. I would probably play on the internet but the laptop is too tip tappy and he would probably reach his grabby little paw over in his sleep and hide firefox using only keystrokes, a skill he seems to do all.the.time but I have yet to master.
Yes, I'm going to be THAT blogger and link you to Powell's instead of Amazon. Amazon, however, had a cover image of the edition I read, so I had to steal the picture from them. I hate it when a book cover has a still from an adapted movie (like the edition at Powell's). Actually, my favorite book, The Virgin Suicides, has a movie still on the cover and I love it. Ahhhh, Lux.
Anyway, back to The Butterflies. Viva Las Miraposas! I highly recommend this one. Alvarez is a phenomenal writer, even though I just assumed that my college professors liked her because she was Multi-Cultural and Political Oppression-y and that's totally how our lit department rolled. But she's really, really remarkable. Note that I obviously didn't read this book when it was assigned. See also:The Faerie Queen by Edmund Spencer. Yes, that's right. 1,248 pages.
The Mirabal sisters were the hub of an underground revolutionary movement in the 50s/60s Dominican Republic. They were privileged, educated, courageous, and martyred (seriously, I'm not giving anything away there. It's on the back cover. And the first page. And in history.).
I only choked up once, at the end. It's a beautiful story, and completely inspiring. I think the best part about the idea of fictionalizing a historical story so powerful that it has achieved legend status, is that we see that the majority of their courage is just like the majority of normal people's courage: kind of faked. That's a nasty word for a (sometimes) noble thing. These women would not and could not let their sisters, husbands, families, and their country down by showing their fear. It makes it a little more believable, and you quietly understand that you even though you would still probably chicken out were you to be in their shoes, they just did what had to be done.
But did they have to have BABIES? Ay, mama.
Next up: The Faerie Queen? No. But rest assured I still own it.
Today I caught myself feeling a little left behind. Left behind myself, or my potential, or what I used to be, or my something else? I'm not really sure. I wave through moods like this periodically, and could probably compile dozens of partially-written blog posts where I give up after the first few paragraphs after I realize that I have no idea what I'm writing or even what I'm feeling. But it's almost like I felt (feel?) simultaneously trapped and freed, inhibited and empowered by being a mother, and that, my friends, is crazy crazy head space.
I don't know yet how to ascribe the effect motherhood has had on my brain or my soul. I am in no major way the person I was 2 years or so ago. But little remainders here and there of a former girl insist to me one of two conflicting things. The first is that I am the same old, same old, just now arguably improved with lactation and a little person following me around and a little squishier in the middle. The second? I will never be the same again. I pretty much always lean towards the second.
When Ollie was a newborn, some (then-childless) friends of ours asked us "so what else is new," and I was amazed. Not because I might have felt inferior, or bogged down, or out of touch, but because it had not once occurred to me to devote an ounce of my energy elsewhere than on my sweet child and family. Why would I want anything else to be "new" or "up"?
However, I do struggle with frequent yearnings for authenticity, but at the same time catch myself because I can't imagine anything more authentic, more meaningful, more powerful than being a mother. When Ollie was a day old, Sasha described nursing a child as "doing not-doing" and I think of that often. Obviously it's easier to relate to those hour long nursing sessions in the early weeks, but I can definitely apply it to myself now. I don't get to have brilliant conversations with brilliant (well, grown-up) minds all day long anymore. I don't get to shut out the world so that I can focus on some creative pursuit - writing, music, doodling, daydreaming. I can't believe that I don't doodle anymore, for the love of pete! But my time spent with Ollie seems to undulate between really active and conscious parenting, and then those times where you just are there. Whether it's holding him, sitting with him while he insists on trying to get the square peg in the round hole (actually, these days it's the hexagon shaped block into the hexagon shaped hole but just not lined up right), nursing him, or lying next to him while he naps- it's just kind of sitting around and waiting. Doing nothing, so to speak. But the great thing is that it's work. The work of the mother. This taoist sort of not-doing, the wu-wei, is the kind of important work that moves mountains, or at the very least, rears children.
It all kinds of leads me back to my darkest moments this week, my biggest struggles, my weakest parenting, my crappy performance review. Patience. I found myself raising my voice several times this week, all for stupid things, and to no end. You can't yell at a 1 year old! You can't reason with him! It's so much easier to get behind the wu wei doing-not-doing when you can cuddle up with a wrinkly little newborn for hours on end. It's a totally different but just as important deal when they're actually little people doing things and saying things and throwing fits. Not-doing right now calls on the vast depths of patience, and I'm not very good at it. What's amusing is that the two people I'm closest to these days not counting Erik (oh, and Ollie) - Sarah and Nelwyn - both have recently commented that they think I'm really patient. I'm not sure if I'm off-gassing some sort of faux-patience or that maybe by the time they get to me, it's just some incarnation of exhaustion and defeat. But that said, patience is definitely the one thing I keep coming back to time and time again with parenting.
And back to my point. My recent philosophical or nostalgic or whatever stirrings and the week's struggles with patience have crashed into each other full speed and I felt it just now driving home from book club in the 80 degree night with the windows down and Air playing loudly on the radio. And the strange part? I'm just kind of at peace.
I recently saw a grandmother at the park, who is presumably the caregiver for her grandkids while the parents work. I remembered planning on having my parents watch Ollie (for free!) while I went back to work, and realized that holy hell would that not have worked out. To say this is the hardest job I've ever had would be a gross understatement. My days are emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and (most of all) physically draining. And you know what? To kiss my sad, wakened-up baby's head and eyes and cheeks and neck as I carry him to bed in the middle of the night, and then to curl up next to him, wide awake and all not-doing-y, and watch him sleep? Magic. I'm recharged.
Tonight, I slipped away and went up to the Bluefoot Bar in North Park, where my friend Mike Angell was having his going-away party. He's off to exotic places such as Utah, San Antonio, and SOUTH AFRICA. Then, to seminary.
Before I go on, I want you to know that Mike is one of the most phenomenal and amazing people I have ever met, and you would think that too. One day, ten years from now, someone will ask me who my Top Ten All Time Amazing People are, and Mike will be one of them, even if I never see him again (I will).
But the big news of the night is that I shook hands and awkwardly small-talked with a man who was just ordained into the Episcopal church last week. I know, a bar full of episcopal priests and seminarians: wild. And also, I want you to know that (to quote this dude), being ordained a priest (or a deacon) is always "significant." This man, though, just happened to be the very first homosexual ordained in the Episcopal Diocese of San Diego, ever*. And this happened last week. I don't want to be awestruck, because this really shouldn't just be starting to happen here in 2008, but I was nonetheless. I mean, I was just standing there with a piece of history while poking the leftover ice in my glass with the three little straws.
I also met someone who is permanent staff at Camp Stevens in Julian (our episcopal camp), and I wanted to be him. He coordinates the outdoor adventure stuff and lives at the camp. HE LIVES AT CAMP STEVENS. And eats their organic grown-on-site vegan food every single day. And I have officially renewed my dream of one day being permanent resident staff at Camp Stevens. Le sigh.
It was a pretty renewing night after all. And, cheap drinks!
_____ * = according to Mike, apparently, years ago, our Not Confrontational At All former Bishop once stepped aside and left the building so that the Definitely Confrontational At All Bishop Spong could fly in from Liberal!Newark! to ordain a gay man from another diocese in our cathedral. I don't think that really counts as being the diocese of San Diego's first; it was just kind of like renting out the building for an out of town wedding or something. But I still love that that happened here. Bishop Spong is a FORCE, man.
I want you all to know that I really want to change my blog name, and have wanted to change it for years now. But I left the raw photoshop file for the banner you see there on my old, old work computer (not that I was redesigning my blog from work, nope, not at all!) AND I no longer have PS on here since the great powerbook death of '08.
But the name is so annoying to me that I really feel the need to disclose my annoyance, just in case you think I relate to it much. But I DO still and always will relate to DADGAD guitar tuning. But I picked the blog title when I was in this wispy dreamy tense-y phase of my life just before getting married, blah blah blah, and now it's just kind of annoying to me to feel pinpointed to a single line in a single Sixpence None The Richer song. But DADGAD, I love you! DADGAD is to be loved!
Anyway, I don't want to just go about changing the title or picture to something lame, so we're just going to have to deal with it for now. I tried just getting rid of the picture/banner altogether and using minimalist plain text as the title but my blog looked so naked and text-y. So until then, just pretend.
All Firemen Have Mustaches And Other Selective Stereotyping.
Two parents: "Here, Ollie, here's the fireman!" "Firefighter." "[stare]. Okay, Ollie, here's the FIREFIGHTER." "No need to reinforce unnecessary stereotypes, you know." "[pause]. Anyway, it doesn't have a mustache, so it *must* be a girl-firefighter."
1. Line forms behind us. Barista doesn't make eye contact. Barista talks to her friend.
2. While we (finally) order, a baby in a small family starts whining. Flustered barista says to me, "Sorry, I don't have kids yet, I'm like, what is that HORRIBLE noise?!" And yes, I'm holding Oliver, horrible thing that he is.
3. We sit around and stand there and notice that people previously behind us in line are getting their drinks made before us. Granted, we have an order of 4 drinks so I could understand dispensing someone a quick drip coffee, but no, we're talking full on espresso drinks.
4. She pauses a half dozen times during the making of those drinks ordered after ours to talk to friends.
5. I go and stand near the counter, and see she's looking at our cups. But wait! Someone just walked in the door! "You want nonfat, right?" she asks the person who came in. She makes that person's latte. Nonfat. Then she rings them up, and asks them what's new.
6. Finally, other employees get there (who actually remember and like us). One employee takes over making our drinks and is having trouble reading the rude, stressed out person's handwriting on the scratch paper. I lean in and ask if I can help and ask her which one is decaf (for shawna)? And the rude barista butts in. And says, in all caps but not yelling: "I WROTE DOWN EVERYTHING YOU SAID. SHE IS MAKING THEM TO YOUR SPECIFICATIONS." like, totally deadpanned. And she doesn't even look at me as she chastises and condescends a paying customer. Oh, the swear words circling my brain right now. Sorry I gave you money and asked for something. Sorry for putting you out.
But, OMG. "Specifications"? I know I personally have a slightly demanding drink (that complicated soy!), but the rest of what we ordered was, like, "mocha."
I should also add that half of the doors were still locked (at 9:30 am), the sign wasn't even out on the sidewalk, and all of the patio chairs were stacked inside the cafe. Hello, disaster! Well, certainly not for her friends or the people in line behind us. They were happy. I normally love love love this place so I won't bastardize it's name on the internet unless you really want to know. I'll just hope that they fire this girl.
5.19.2009
