accomplishments and creativity

ok, now that I've performed some Internet Magic and gotten my standard blog-writing window back, I have some Very Important News to share with all of you.

...wait for it...

(1) I taught myself how to splice a rope (line in the parlance of People Who Like Boats) this weekend.

(2) Also, I aced the Online Census Taker Qualification Practice Test.

Since I do not live in an 18th century fishing village and my parents no longer own a sailboat, I don't think item 1 will significantly affect my life in any way. However, in view of my current badnewsbears employment situation for next term, item 2 could prove to be a potent catalyst of change. And by change, I mean both the kind you put in your pocket and the kind that makes a difference.... awww....

But basically, adding 1 + 2 in this case makes me reconsider my self-conception. Both accomplishments involved skills, logical thinking, and puzzle solving. Both were somehow immensely satisfying. But even though item 1 resulted in the creation of something that did not exist before, it is not really a creative act, the splicing of lines. Neither is needlepoint- something I've been spending a lot of time on lately and finding (oddly) satisfying. My hands like to be busy. I like to make new things out of other things. The sense of satisfaction is higher when the original things are things that might otherwise be thrown away, like concocting a yummy dinner out of odds and ends, or re-purposing the material in old clothes to make new clothes, but even the basically skill-less process of needle-pointing a (kind of stupid and pointless) needlepoint thingy which will eventually be turned into a throw pillow (which is kind of a stupid and pointless item of home furnishing in and of itself) has been pleasurable, soothing and rewarding of late.

While I'm proud of myself for taking the initiative and attempting the Census Exam, the skills that the exam is designed to test are very basic. So it really is ridiculous to have this sense of accomplishment for totally owning that sucka'. But I do. I feel proud of myself. My brain liked the exercize of being faced with those 28 tiny challenges and solving those problems. None of which required ANY creative or truly critical thinking at all.

Basically, I guess I'm saying that I used to always think of myself as a creative person, but it turns out that I just really like busy work.

confessions

i kiss my cat on his mouth.
i actually like it when my friends' dogs lick my face, even though sometimes i pretend not to.
i hate flossing my teeth.
i hang the clothes in my closet sorted first by type of clothing and then by color within each type.
i think Goethe is over-rated, and I'm not actually that fond of Dickens, either.
i don't like apple pie.
i think that pulp mills and feed lots smell WAY worse than skunk spray.
i think that cow poo smells nicer than some types of men's cologne.
i only own one Radiohead album, but i own several Disney soundtracks.
my favorite JD Salinger character isn't Franny Glass.

Identifying The Roadblocks and Progressing

I'm in this class. It's an interesting class, but I kind of don't care. I haven't actually learned that much new stuff in this class. And the new stuff that I've learned is peripheral to what the actual focus of the class is supposed to be. So I've procrastinated a lot this term, and done Stuff That Is Important to me. Really Important Stuff. Like knitting and watching all of the back episodes of Grey's Anatomy and snuggling the kitties.

And I've just NOW realized that I do not have to feel guilty about this. This is something that normal people do all the time- they make choices about what is important, about how they are going to spend their time, and sometimes, school isn't their number one priority, and even if they are capable of getting an A in a class, they just plain don't want to jump through all of the A hoops and do all of the A work, and they would be happy with an AB or even a B. And they know that when they choose to do this, the world will not end.

Draw from this little anecdote what lesson ye will. I'm going to go make out with my own mediocrity, and maybe paint my nails or something.

This is romance:

Walking over a pedestrian bridge over a river alight with the reflections of streetlamps on a slightly overcast night with just enough rain sprinkling down to dust some rain freckles across your nose. Holding hands with your loved one, eyes wide, taking in the majesty of skyscrapers, exchanging glances, shy smiles, a fresh breeze in your face.

This is romance on drugs:
walking over said footbridge, same environmental conditions as described above, except your loved one is several yards ahead of you because he is a Very Fast Walker, and you are corralled between a lovey-dovey couple who found happiness with eachother in the process of divorcing other people on one side, and a older woman in very tight leather pants walking along with her teenage daughter in front of you, both are clad in very expensive clothing. Someone catcalls.
The mom replies back, in supposed defense of her daughter, "You couldn't handle her, she's too expensive."
The daughter protests, "mom! I'm not!"
The mom replies, "I'm telling you what I tell Rebecca! You're expensive. You need to own it!"
The mom swishes her tush and encourages the daughter to saunter.

John Keats rolled over in his grave, and probably about 50 lovebirds around the world dropped dead for no apparent reason AT THAT VERY MOMENT.

I'm still deciding if being a witness to this instance makes my life richer or poorer.

A Simple Lesson in Economics...

Consider a spherical cow. Or rather, consider the given that I Like Brussel Sprouts.

At the Farmers' Market, a pint of Brussel Sprouts costs 2 dollars.
A giant stalk of Brussel Sprouts costs 4 dollars.
The lady farmer selling the Brussel Sprouts says that one giant stalk can yeild up to several quarts of Brussel Sprouts, but that she sells them already trimmed off of the stalk for people who don't want that many or who don't want to do the work of trimming themselves.

I say "I have a knife and a freezer, and I'm not afraid to use them!"
We buy the Giant Stalk of Brussel Sprouts.
J. trims them, and blanches 1/2 of them for the freezer while I go shoppingrun errands.

Dudes, my life is made of so much win.

National Post Something Daily Month... or Whatever...

So, it's National Post Something Every Day Month. I was all on board and psyched up to do it, and then I messed up already on day two. meh.

So what did I do yesterday instead of posting something silly on teh Interwebs?
I gave a kick-ass lecture! In front of like 160 people... well, ok. That's how many students are officially in the class, and there were a lot of empty seats, but still- it was a Very Large Audience. And I did a good job! Yeay me!

And then instead of diligently doing work for class, I went to the bookstore and drooled over beautiful pictures of tattoos. I am getting one. Soon, I think.

Juxtaposition

It's Sunday, and I'm heading to a downtown coffeeshop generally populated by quiet folk getting work done. I, too, need to get some work done. The sun is bright and the wind is brisk, and it's Sunday, so there is free on-street parking, which is a nice variation from the dungeon-ality of the public garage so I emerge from the car directly into light, walk through light, and try to simultaneously absorb the beautiful day and prepare my mind for the darker diligence of the cafe and the lecture I need to write.

An older woman, slight, stands on the sidewalk. Her head is bent, she's wearing all black, and a few wisps of iron grey hair dance outside of the sheer black scarf she's got over her head. She's all alone, and facing the building on my left in some sort of quiet contemplation. Drawing closer, I see it's the cathedral rectory. Is she praying? She appears to be praying. Why is she outside the rectory and not in a church, or inside the rectory talking to a priest or something? I think about how, if this were Bavaria, there'd be a church open for her to reflect in and she wouldn't have to stand out here in the cold. I wonder if she's praying for forgiveness, or if she's praying for the well-being of the local bishop.

The sight of her apparently steeped in some sort of unidentifiable ritual appeals to my sense Romantic fancy, but she's also an anachronistic, geographically-displaced mystery to me here in the pragmatic Midwest, where I've yet to uncover any sort of mystical local lore or myth, apart from an almost-rabid devotion to sports and the fact that People Actually Do Stuff On Easter.

I feel a strong desire to murmur some comment of acknowledgement of benediction as a pass her. Completely innappropriate, as I don't believe in Catholic God, and I'm just assuming that she's even involved in some kind of spiritual act - I mean, she COULD just be looking at the architecture, or studying a certain configuration of light upon the blades of grass in the lawn.

But the moment makes me wish for a world less devoid of ritual and contemplation, a world where it would be possible to expand one's own positive and healing energy towards complete strangers who seemed in need of it... in a way that was sheerly compassionate and humane.

It makes me sad that in becoming part of Middle-Class White America, my ancestors relenquished rituals and other aspects of their specific ethnicities. I wish for peculiarity and a sense of belonging.

I cross the street, and the sun glints on a shard of a green Heiniken bottle. It's like an emerald, like a sign of Shangri-La, like a glimpse of innocent whimsy. I think of the tales of America that circulated amongst potential immigrants in the Old Country- riches abound- all you have to do is stoop and scoop and put them in your pockets. Why is paradise always imagined in terms of precious jewels and wealth? The colored glass in the sun is vibrant, glorious, an intense speck of color against the detrius in the sidewalk crack. I don't stoop to pick it up, but somehow it's the perfect compliment to the pathos and mystery of the old praying woman. Not opposite, not simile or metaphor for, not synonomous symbol, just... compliment.

the great lakes tour, take two

Ohio is made of Jell-o and clouds and beautiful arts-and-crafts period bungalows. Also, Lakewood, OH (a suburb of Cleaveland) has cobblestone streets and a coffee shop that makes mochas with chocolate milk!

Michigan has lots of roadkill. Possibly even more than Oregon. Mostly I saw dead raccoons. Raccoons are charming and cute unless they are eating the eggs out of your cooler when you are camping. Or dead and gory on the side of the highway. Sad dead raccoons. Also, I drank copious amounts of Folger's Coffee while I was in Michigan. I think when they put the bad taste in that stuff they take the caffeine out, because it didn't do much to wake me up.

We stayed in this awesome little cheap road-side motel. I've been a lot of different little cheap road-side motels... not for any illicit reasons, just because I am cheap. This road side motel seriously took the cake. It was scarier than the one I stayed in in a random town in Wyoming that had shag carpet and dark wood paneling and mattress that was probably of the same vintage as the decor. The motel in Michigan did not have a deadbolt or a little door chain on the inside of the room. Instead, it had a little loop of vinyl-coated cable (think like a skinny bike lock cable) that you could put over the doorknob to keep the door closed and secure against any intruders. J tried to tell some jokes about chain saw murderers and Hitchcock films, but I stuck my fingers in my ears and refused to listen.

The water where we were staying was so luxurious and soft! My hair was flat, but my skin felt like I had been to a hot-springs spa.

All in all, I think I like rural Michigan.

Indiana wants you. Don't go back there. Specifically, Indiana seems to want you to Make Babies For The Lord. Drive through as fast as possible. If you want to make some babies, make them on your own terms.

Chicago is still the only part of Illi-noise that I know. oh, except for Rockford. We pulled off at Rockford to go pee and switch drivers, and wouldn't you know it, I got discombobulated and lost trying to get back on the interstate. Specifically, I got on the interstate going in the opposite direction that I was supposed to. Super embarrassing. On the other hand, whatever. At least I know how to plunge a clogged toilet.

The "Welcome to Wisconsin" sign is made out of rusticated logs - very faux Northwoods. It was oddly comforting and made me hungry for some cheese and summer sausage, although to be honest, at that point in time I was pretty hungry anyways, so it might have just been a fluke.

Did you know that East of Illinois on the Great Lakes Tour, they don't have KFC, they have Popeye's chicken? I wonder if they are owned by the same company or what the deal is. Is it too close to Kentucky for people to purchase something that is advertised with Kentucky?

Nevertheless, something about driving through the small towns, truck stops and fall colors made me crave chicken strips. I resisted, but only because J agreed to get pizza when we got back safe and home.

hilarious nerds on the high road

Scene: J and I are rumbling through Michigan in our beloved Kentucky Chicken Shack, returning from a Wedding Of Friends, when we hit a patch of rough road.

KCS: ka-thunk ka-thunk ka-thunk
Me: ouch
J: I wonder if in the future someone will invent some kind of material that will make roads that won't crack.
Me: sounds like a good idea. Maybe you and Ben and Nick and Dan will have to do some Experiments For Science.
J: ahhhh.... Science. We'll add a little Science to a test tube...
Me: *giggle*
J: ... Powder of Science or Liquid Science? Maybe a little of both...
Me: *cackle*
J: oh, whoops. We're out of Science. Guess we'll have to substitute some History instead.
Me: *guffaw*... oh my god stop. i'm going to have to pee again.

Overloading on Bliss

There are so many things I've been meaning to blog about lately... wardrobe refurbishing, my odd (to me) love of cosmetics, my new kick-ass blue boots, my wood-working project, etc. Not to mention that I never really gave a full detailed report on the skydiving, which I did, like, 2 months ago, or the Bike The Barns (1 month ago) or my first journey into The Rust Belt of America (2 weeks ago) or my first experience at a country club, and how I actually danced so much at that one party that I have bruises on my feet (last week).

Hold on to all of those thoughts, because right now, in this very moment, I need to focus on the bliss overload that is live music.

Last night I went to a show. Vienna Teng opened for Over The Rhine. I am still riding the high of the electricity they created together.

I grew up on folk music and campfire sing-alongs, with some oldies and classical thrown in for good measure. I went to my first "real" rock'n'roll concert at the tender young age of 13. It was a Christian rock concert, sponsored by my youth group, and I had a terrible time. It was too loud, the venue was huge, the sound so bouncy that it got messy, and my seat was up in the balcony, so not only could I not see the band, but the lyrics and melody were indiscernable from my vantage point. I suppose it didn't help any that I had never heard any music by that particular group before- I just wanted to go because opportunities to go to concerts were very far and few between in my small town. I think it says a lot about my experience that I cannot remember the name of the band even enough to righteously complain about how horrible they were.

Flash forward to high school. I was occasionally in the know about shows that local bands were putting one. When the stars were correctly aligned, and the show was part of an alcohol-and-substance-free festival, I was allowed to attend. I know that one is supposed to be greatful to one's parents for being strict, because it supposedly creates an environment where one can achieve great things. I knew I was not cool enough to be A Music Fan or A Show-goer. I had all the wrong clothes, flat, stringy, mousy hair that fell to my ass, and not enough black eyeliner. In retrospect, all the black eyeliner in the world would not have made me cool enough to fit in in the post-Cobain, wrong-side-of-the-state, small-town garage band scene. Sure, I had fun jumping around, sweating, screaming, and tripping over my too-baggy jeans and untied hiking boot laces in pathetic attempts to "mosh," but that music wasn't made for a girl who secretly daydreamed about playing acoustic guitar and tramping through wheatfields and along abandoned railroad tracks in a sepia-tinted world of wistful nostalgia and flowy, lacy, broomstick skirts and suede and velvet blazers. My head was full of naive romance and dark smoky candle-lit coffee houses. The music of that time and place was angry, pent-up young energy exploding into the lack of community and echoing off of the sagebrush, getting no answer from the bleak november skies as it repeatedly expressed confusion, disillusionment, desperation and disgust. I don't know if that music was making any actual demands or not; I don't remember any of the lyrics or any of the melodies. I just remember that we were all stuck in this place and we all wanted out, because if we didn't get out, the most exciting thing in our lives was going to be sneaking into the smoking section at Dennys, eating greasy fries after midnight.

In college I flirted with the idea of World Music, danced barefoot at marimba band performances in the park, took a West African dance class, stopped spending money on broadway soundtracks, and discovered The Indigo Girls, Billy Joel, and made a half-hearted attempt to collect downloaded mp3s. I also still adored Judy Collins and remeber informing my roommate rather bitchily one morning that it was too early for Modest Mouse or Blondie. Which is to say that I liked what I liked, was very, very Not Cool When It Came To Having Musical Taste. To be fair, I was at least cooler than my then-boyfriend, who loved The Braveheart Soundtrack and Loreena McKennit. I at least listened to music with words! And owned cds by The Cranberries! And Tori Amos!

I still had flat, stringy long hair down to my ass, all the wrong clothes, and daydreamed of acoustic guitar concerts played in intimate coffe-shop settings. Obviously, I attended very few live music events, and only moderately enjoyed the ones I did attend.

In grad school, I cut my hair and discovered iTunes. I had friends who played music I enjoyed while riding in the car with them make me mixes. I made a concerted effort to expand my listening range. I eventually forbade myself from buying any more Putomayo World Music albums. Now that I actually hung out in those coffeeshops I only used to daydream about, I got over my fear of the awesomely hip, tatooed women behind the counter and asked them what was playing when I liked it. I wrote it down and got myself copies. It is, after all, a well-known fact that baristas at independent coffee shops have The Best Taste In Music In The World.

In short, I discovered what it is to be passionate about music, and to have music create passion within me.

I went to live shows and learned what it is like to be reduced to a rapt presence of bliss and joy and adoration. I learned what it is like to have every fiber of my being caught up in the energy of a great performance while the waves of sound caress my ears and reverberate in my aorta. I want to make out with rock stars and be such good friends with musicians that I am thanked with inside jokes in the liner notes.

a little fed up...

-I have to write a response paper, but the prof didn't explicate which set of readings I'm supposed to respond to.
-I agree with the spirit but not the letter of the articles I'm currently reading. The changes in thinking modalities the authors are arguing for do not seem substantially different from present modalities to warrant a paradigm shift. Therefore I am having a hard time caring about the concepts proposed in these papers.
-I am afraid that this makes me jaded and a bad person.
-I am hungry.
-I am breaking out in really nasty acne.
-I feel a little lost.

Notes from my Little Black Book.

...So, I'm one of Those People who carry around a mini-Molskine journal and constantly jot in it. Mostly I make lists, but it also where I make note of random encounters with the world and gem-like thoughts. It matters not to me that my gems are more like rhinestones and less like diamonds; I'm going to save them for posterity anyway. And now I'm going to share them with you.

Awesome things seen on or around campus during 1st "week" of school:
-dude riding to class on unicycle.
-dudes flying a plastic Sesame Street kite on The Hill.
-stocky, bearded dude wearing actual revolutionary war-style tricorn hat made out of actual leather, walking down street.

Don't make me choke on my own snark:
- young undergrad dude walking past me, talking on cell phone ON TUESDAY: "... yeah, it's been a long week... thank god we've got a friday coming up soon..."

First World Problem of The Week:
I bought a (semi-costly) new refill for my (fancy, imported from Germany) refillable ball-point pen. The ink in the refill doesn't flow AT ALL. I realize that in the grand scheme of all social injustice everywhere, this is meaningless, but it's an important problem. to me. right now.

Best Conversation Ever:
Me: mmmmm... garlic and bacon sauteed together... it's too bad I missed the bacon train on liking bacon.
Him: huh?
Me: remember? The New Yorker said that bacon isn't the cool food to like any more.
Him: Oh yeah. Bacon totally sucks. Wonder what the next cool food to like is going to be?
Me: I dunno.
Him: Me either.
Me: Maybe little hamburgers?
Him: heh. sliders. yeah, they're kind of everywhere these days.
Me: I'm anti-little hamburger.
Him: ... well, I'm not pro-them.
Me: ... I mean, I wouldn't shiv one if I met it in the dark or anything... I just think they're dumb.
Him: I might eat one.

Also, I didn't hear what Kanye West did to make the world think that he is a dumbass, or to make President Obama say that he (Kanye West, not Obama) is an asshole, but I'm mad at him (Kanye West, not Obama) anyway, because I'm sick of being exposed to the media fallout about How Kanye West may or may not be a dumbass or an asshole.

The Morning After...

It's not that I'm having regret about my decision, exactly, it's more that I don't really know what to do with myself and can feel the depression and inertia gnawing at the cracks of my being. So I slept in until 9, picked a passive-aggressive fight with J about how he has The Disgusting Sniffles And Is Not Taking Care Of Them And Now I Am Getting Sick And It's His Fault because I am really just that kind of winner (read: terrible) person and spouse. It's true though, that after only 2 contact days with the kiddoes I've got a hoarse throat and sinus issues and I am not pleased. Time to break out the Neti Pot and the Airborne. And to stop picking on J for not liking to take medicine for his allergies, I begrudgingly concede, but in all honesty, is there any sound less sonorous and soothing than the ssnnnoourrrrrwwaaakkk!!!!! snorking of snot from the sinuses to the glottal chamber of the upper esophagus? ew.

Also, the milk I poured into my coffee this morning curdled, and the heel end of the loaf of home-made bread is nasty and stale.

The energy that filled me as I made this decision was fire; scary and freeing, like skydiving (which I know I still have to write about), like getting on the night train to travel solo to Prague when you are 20 and don't know a single word of Czech. That energy is sapped now. I seem to have used up my quota of brave. Can I borrow some of yours?

Or will you at least come and sit with me and hold my hand while I figure out who I am behind the looking glass?

Two Roads Diverged...

...and I had no clue which one to travel by.

What am I going to do with my life? I do not like research. I would like to feel that there is a point to what I do, and right now I feel like there isn't. I would like to feel that my daily activities help others in some way, and right now, I feel like they don't. I am disillusioned and dissatisfied with our education system.

Also, I recently watched the movie "The Freedom Writers" which is another story about a extrordinary teacher who works with disadvantaged pupils and turns their lives around. Basically, it was the same story as "To Sir, With Love" and "Dangerous Minds" except for that in this particular version, the female teacher is so incredibly driven and dedicated that she works 2 extra jobs to purchase classroom supplies, and becomes alienated from her husband, who eventually leaves her. The only other two teachers that the movie depicts are racist, classist snobs, who are more concerned with maintaining the hierarchy of seniority within the department than with actually educating the pupils.

Somehow I found this movie to be really unsettling. I dislike the implied message that if you are to make a difference in your job, or in the lives of others, you must be completely self-sacrificing. I also thought that the film did not place enough criticism on the system that denied the students educational materials, and made the choice of the teacher to supply the materials herself too simple. As if that is what we should expect of all teachers - that if the system doesn't provide them with the tools they need to do their job, they will provide the tools themselves, instead of insisting that that the system be modified or improved.

Wisdom?

Cool rainy weather makes the cat's heart grow fonder.

Rash Behavior

I have a heat rash. It is located on a body part that is Inappropriate To Discuss On The Internet, so I will call it my "groin" because that it what it really is. At one point in time, I may have referred to my rash as "leprosy" because that is way more amusing and far less embarrassing than a rash, which, let's face it, has all kinds of nasty connotations about one's personal hygiene. It turns out, people get REALLY worried when you start talking about the leprosy you have growing on your skin, so I decided stop being embarrassed by the rash and just be amused by it. Hahaha! Isn't this the most delightfully blotchy skin you have ever beheld? Aren't you exceedingly diverted?

The thing about this rash is that it's not just hideously ugly, it hurts. So I tried a lot of different creams and salves on it. Creams and salves that I own because I have ridiculously sensitive, dry skin. Creams and salves that usually make my stupid skin feel better. Guess what? The damn rash did not feel better. So, about 5 days after I first notice the rash, I think, oh, maybe I should just google this. Because possibly some random idiot inside of the computer will have advice that is superior my own first aid training and experience with my own skin. Guess what? There are these people called 'doctors' who write stuff on the internet! They said to stop using creams and salves and to use powder. I did, and my rash finally feels better. I guess everything you read on the internet must be true.

How I Went To Minnesota....

... it wasn't actually that much of an adventure as far as adventures go, unless you maybe cast it in the light of 'Adventures in Adulthood'.

[Backstory: There was a time when as a naive child, I thought that weddings were made out of the same stuff as fairy tales and golden glitter. Then I became a jaded angry feminist, and while I still believed in the values of love, commitment and partnership, I thought the whole marriage thing was completely over-rated. Then my boyfriend and I decided to get married, and I discovered that the whole wedding industry is kind of a crock and a sham and a Big Giant Rip Off. Now that I'm (still) happily married, I like the legal rights that marriage allows me to have, I like that I publicly committed myself to my husband, and I like that the budget for my wedding was a frugal one; even thought it wasn't the prettiest wedding, it was a lot of fun. I love going to weddings and tearing up as couples commit themselves to each other in rituals that are meaningful to them, but as much as I love being a witness to that, and partaking in the free booze and dancing that generally comes after, I still think that there is probably a lot to be said for eloping, and I think that it is total crap that gay couples don't have equal marriage rights.]

Ahem.

So, it was a whirlwind weekend, because we'd been invited to a wedding here in town and a reception for a wedding that happened in February in Hawaii in Minnesota. That is to say, the reception was held in Minnesota - there is no actual 'Hawaii in Minnesota'.

The first wedding was a blast. I got emotional (surprise!) and may have even allowed myself a few sentimental sniffles. I partook liberally of the viands and edibles. I wore a new pair of fantastic red leather pumps and was a superstar on the dance floor with J. We twirled and whirled and attempted the merengue, we tripped over our own toes a minimal amount of times and had a record low of zero dancefloor disputes about Who is leading and Where are we going and What the hell are you even trying to do and Why are you yelling at me and making me feel like crap and I'm not good at this but I'm trying for you so don't treat me like an idiot and This is easy and Why don't you know how to do it five minutes ago. Which is to say that there was definitely some gold glitter flying through the air. Maybe I was the only person to see it, but that doesn't mean it wasn't there. STOP TRYING TO RUIN MY HAPPY STORY ABOUT BEING HAPPY.

The next morning we woke up early! And then we drove and drove and drove and drove, and then we got to the reception. Which was hosted in someone's home and very lovely and relaxed and laid back. Except for that it was in a really fancy neighborhood! With shrubberies! And limited on-street parking! So we parked our banged-up dusty subaru illicitly in the country club lot and I tried to ignore the niggling worries that Our Car Would Be Towed, and sat and ate and chatted and played with a cute baby and generally beamed at the world because My Friend Got Married And She Is Happy And I Am Happy, Too, (Even If I Didn't Get To Go To Hawaii).

It was good to see my friend again, but sad to only get to see her for a snippet of time. However, the convenient thing about Minnesota is that it is miraculously located Right Next to Wisconsin (where I live), and Much Easier To Visit Than Hawaii, and so if would just commit myself to planning more things in advance, I could see my friends who live there a lot more often. Which is what I vowed to myself to do as we were leaving the reception. Yay!

Then there was an ice-cream meet up with another dear friend from summer camp, and more cute baby holding and beaming.

Then there was a quick dash in to the Mall of America so that I could buy some expensive shampoo.

Then there was a drive down to Northfield from the Twin Cities to visit another friend who just got a tenure track job at a liberal arts college there. There was also a torrential rainstorm, which was very scary.

Northfield is where J and our friend went to undergrad, so we had to order gyro pizza, and I got to listen to much reminiscing and jibing, as our friend got a job at The Other liberal arts college, and not his and J's alma mater. Gyro pizza is not that good, and since I have no school spirit or team spirit whatsoever, I tried to ignore the jibing.

The next day, we woke up late, ate a delicious greasy breakfast of eggs and hashbrowns, hung out with our friend, and hit the road sometime in the early afternoon.

We drove and drove and drove, and during a 4 o'clock coffee stop, I fell in love with the town of LaCrosse Wisconsin.

There was some more driving, some mocking of the "ski resorts" along I-94, some driving, and then we were home! Beer and a Law and Order marathon for everyone!

To write about...

-skydiving.
-innocence and experience.
-revolutionary road and your own personal paris.
-how having heat rash is a crappy way to spend the last week of summer before prepping for the semester becomes an absolute necessity.
-preserving fruit and other Hannah Housewife adventures.
-a weekend of weddings and sitting in the car (or, How I Went to Minnesota And Ate A Lot Of Food And Hugged A Lot Of Friends).
-evoking "place" and finding "home".

All in a bowl of blueberries

I am back from a glorious visit home, but not done processing all the things I learned and experienced while there. I feel reconnected to my extended families again, after years of feeling like the inconvenient and unwanted wierdo relative. I am mourning the fact that I still live so far away from them and that this flush of emotion and bonding will likely pass all too quickly. My desires to move back to the NW have been intensified, at the expense of my desire to do other things... I'm hoping to energize myself with a local adventure sometime in the very near future.

J is coming back from St. Louis this afternoon. I'm trying to tidy the house a bit before he gets here in the hopes that if I tame my clutter a bit, my crazy alarm won't go off when his clutter gets plopped down on the floor. It's amazing how my chaos expanded to fill the void.

I had blueberries, greek yoghurt honey and sliced almonds for breakfast. What is it about berries that makes them such a soulful and decadent meal? One of the things I did while on vacation was read a copy of the children's book Jamberry to my two-year-old cousin. I love that book. If you know any two or three year olds, please make sure that they own copies of this book.

Two things:

1) When Jesus promises that there is a place at his father's table for all true believers, does he mean like at a dinner party? And will there be quesadillas?

1.5) Is hell a plate of cucumbers that continuously refills itself, combined with the inability to spit back out what you've already eaten?

2) When Niel Diamond calls Cracklin' Rose "a store bought woman" does that mean that she's a prostitute or just that she had a boob job and wears a lot of makeup?

2.5) Apparently Paul Giamatti is in this new movie about characterizing and anthropomorphizing people's souls. Read all about it in the New Yorker. Willie Nelson's soul is an ear of corn. Dolly Parton's soul is a humming bird. Paul Giamatti says his soul is a slightly ugly painted porcelein frog. What is your soul like? What do you think my soul is like?

A long December,er, July.

St. Louis was great. If you go there, check out the art museum (free!), especially for its amazing collection of 20th century German artists. They have a whole room dedicated to Richter, and another whole room dedicated to Max Beckmann. It was overwhelming, and I almost cried.

St. Louis is made out of bricks and humidity. It was fabulous to see J again and to visit with the sparse family I have down there. We sadly did not get around to eating any barbeque, but since I don't really like pork, that is ok. We did find some pretty good Japanese food, though, which was exciting.

I've actually been back for over a week and just have not bothered to update on my adventures. To be honest, it wasn't really that adventuresome of a trip. We hung out, did some crossword puzzles, had some good food, some good conversation and gazed goopily into each other's eyes and all that romantic stuff that people do. Coming home to an apartment devoid of people was hard. Having good friends around for the next weekend was amazing. This weekend I'm headed out west to visit the family. Good times all around.

Frankly, I haven't been doing too much out of the ordinary lately. Went to a Mallards' game. We lost, but some strange dudes sitting next to us helped balance my legs when I basically dove over the fence to grab at a T-shirt the Rightfielder (Go Scotty!) had chu(n)cked our way. Discovered what an amazingly cool place the Monroe St. Bistro is to be on a Sat. night. The French Bistro Cuisine isn't as refined and as well-articulated as the food at Brassierie V (which is just down the road) but who can say no to a happy hour special that lasts ALL NIGHT, especially when there is good, cover-free live music and a super-friendly bartender? Nobody, that's who. And now you all know where to find me on Saturday nights from now until the end of time.

I have no good reviews of films or books to offer you, nor do I have tales of romantic adventures to relate.

So, my dear Internet Friends, I leave you with this: 1) there are some awesome things on the GAP clearance rack right now, and Land's End is selling pants for $7.50, and 2) I learned how to play euchre tonight and totally kicked butt.

3) Sometimes it's the little things that make life worth living - sometimes it's the promise of a quesadilla after all the little things are over.

PS:
The Harry Potter movie was good and really scary during that one part. I apologize to anyone who may now be suffering ruptured eardrums as a result of my terrorized shrieking. They probably heard me in Iowa. I'm sorry, Iowa. I hope your eardrums get better soon.

Inarticulate Rage and Frustration

My sleep schedule is off-kilter, meaning that instead of being productive, I am sleeping late and being slothful, but that is only part of what is bothering me.

I am so overwhelmed by my situation right now. I had so many plans for productivity this summer, so many fun little projects I wanted to do around the house to surprise J when he got back from St. Louis. My wheels have gotten bogged down in a mud patch, and they keep sinking deeper and I'm tired of spinning them. I am so mad at myself because I can't even keep up with the chores required to keep the house tidy when I am the only one living in it. I am mad at J for being in St. Louis (even though I know intellectually that this is completely irrational and unfair, I'm not going to lie about my emotions...). I'm mad at the cats, because they need my care when I am too disgruntled to even care for myself. I'm mad at everyone who ever told me that it would be a great experience to be on my own for a summer. I'm mad at myself for not having a great experience being on my own. I'm mad at myself for being a Person Who Is Dependent On Her Partner. This is not the person I used to think that I was, or the person I used to think that I wanted to be. What the fuck happened to the me I used to be?

I moved around a lot when I was a kid, so "home" has always been more about the people than the place to me. I cringe at the sentimental thought that "J is my home now," but I guess it's true, if not an exclusive condition.

I'm trying to get back to the NW to visit my family. To hug my mom. To see the ocean, mountains, desert and river that I love. I am mad that I don't get to go to the NW very often. I am mad that I live so far away from my family. I am mad at the world because the tickets are expensive. I want to go- it's my grandparents' 60th wedding anniversary! I haven't seen the Pacific Ocean in 3 years (waaaayyyy too long!) But I feel like in order to make it worth the cost and the inconvenience my parents will go through to host me, and to schlepp me back and forth across the state. I should go for a week, and not just a weekend. But I don't really want to go for a whole week. I don't have so very many close friends in the NW anymore (yet another thing to be mad about, although I know I haven't done the best job of maintaining these friendships over time).

A week is a long time to spend just with family. What will I do? Will I be more lonely there than I am here? Who will watch my cats? Will I get any more or less work done there than here? I don't really want to go for that long.... Or maybe I do? I don't know what I want right now, and it's making me cranky and crazy.

Random Wish

It would be cool to live in Russia or some other Slavic-speaking language, because those languages have the BEST nick-name forming diminutive suffixes. EVER. And in general, that language family has lots and lots of different slide-y silibants and different kinds of c/ch/ck sounds that are fascinating and fun, and tickle the inside of my mouth when I try to say them.

For example, how awesome is the name "Katyushka"?
Very, very awesome. Far more awesome than the rather-less-spit-inducing English equivalent "Katie." No offense intended to all the Katies out there. You have a perfectly lovely name. But I think that everyone should have something in their lives named Katyushka. I think I'll name my iPod Katyushka, or perhaps I'll just hang onto the name until I convince a certain someone that I absolutely need a baby hamster. I think that Katyushka would be a great name for a hamster.

Do you name your inanimate objects? I do. My laptop is Eloise and my bike is Maude. What do you think the best name ever is?

Ugh.

It's hot. And muggy. I will need to turn my AC on soon.

Mantra of Wisdom

Do not get in mud fights with pigs. Do not get in mud fights with pigs. Do not get in mud fights with pigs.

*sigh*
Maybe someday it will sink in and I will have learned.

Some days some of the more illogical Pro-Life people make me want to stab a fork in my eye.

Psychopharmacuticals, I love you!

I'm currently trying out a new combination of medicine to help me combat my depression. Yes, at the behest of my doctor. Yes, under the supervision and advice of a professional psychotherapist person. So far, I LOVE the newest ingredient in my "sanity cocktail"! I have felt so focused, so determined, so confident ALL DAY LONG. My thoughts have not been this clear since I-don't-know-when. I am superwoman. I am Maniac-Brainiac McGee. I am on the ball, on top of the tallest tree in the forest, balancing serenely. Got any shit, world? Just throw it at me, and watch me cope with it in an efficient and competent manner!

Don't worry, I will only use my newfound superpowers for good. I will leap tall trees, write coherent and intelligent papers, save puppies from drowning and dance my booty off in the privacy of my living room every night from now until the end of time.

(I am totally going to regret this public jubulation, aren't I?)

If you could be the patron saint of something, or of some group of people, what would you be? For example, St. Jude is the patron saint of Lost Causes, but there are also specific patron saints for blacksmiths, sailors, actors, and television.

For example, I coud be St. Regina, patron saint of Tone-Deaf People Who Sing Kareoke, or St. Regina, patron saint of Thrift-Store Shoppers.... or, or, or... The possibilities are endless and endlessly amusing. So, what or whom would you be patron saint of? Choose carefully, because this is something that could totally make or break your resume!

Stuff Going On In My Life...

1) We went camping again last weekend up on the Door County Peninsula - the little strip of land that separates Green Bay from Lake Michigan. It was so amazing to look out across water so big that I could not see the other side, and to feel wind in my hair, and to hear the rhythmic crash and roll of the waves. At the same time, however, it reminded me of how much I miss the ocean, which I have not seen in 3 years. I am so excited to go home in August and smell the salt water and go tide-pool exploring.

1.5) There are pictures from camping, but as of yet, I have been too lazy to get them developed/post them on the Interweb. This should not surprise you.

2) I wish I had a dog. There is a beautiful collie waiting outside the coffee shop where I am typing and I really want to pet its soft fur and get some puppy kisses on my hands. Too bad I live in The World's Smallest 2-Bedroom Apartment and thus would need to get a miniaturized dog, were I to get a dog at all. There are never any "good" kinds of miniaturized dogs at the local animal shelter (I am not really a terrier kind of person). Wah wah wah wah, etc.

3) The CSA has blessed us with an over-abundance of jerusalem artichokes lately, and so we are having a fancy-restaruant-style Artichoke Festival at my house tonight. 3 courses, 3 different preparations of sunchokes. If I am feeling ambitious (or perhaps just stupid) I may even try to make an artichoke-based dessert. This sound gross, but my brain has been popping with possibilities- what about shredded artichoke in the coating of a Fried Ice Cream? What about timbales of sweetened artichoke puree, flavored with warm spices and served with plum sauce?It's gonna be a full-out night of Iron Chef at chez moi!

Affirmations:

Ideas Come From Writing. The More You Write The More They Will Flow.

Write First, Edit Later.

Get The Content Out Of Your Head And Onto The Page.

This Is Possible And I Am Capable.

I Am Doing This For Me.


...wash, rinse, repeat as needed...

On the celluloid screen...

So, after the marathon, J and I watched a lot of movies. He was exhausted, and I was sunburned, and it was Memorial Day weekend. What better way to remember our dear beloved departed than by sitting on the couch, drinking cold beers and letting the tv rot our brains? In fact, our brains were so rotted by the end of the mini film fest that I decided to move furniature, re-organize the house and swamp out the storage space. Hahahahaha, what was I thinking? Stupid tv, tricking me in to doing actual housework! Bah!

Anyway, here is a rundown of what we saw:

Angels and Demons:
We always see a particularly stupid movie right after the race. This fit the bill. I think the popcorn and the diet pepsi were more memorable than the movie. Blah blah blah, conspiracy theory mystery, blah blah blah, I guessed the villian half way through the movie, blah blah, beautiful renaissance artwork, lame riddles, ewan macgregor, blah blah.

Season One of Showtime's The Tudors:
I love fancy costumes and period pieces; I dislike gratuitous sex scenes, flat characters, and Jonathan Rhys-Meyers cast in a completely unsympathetic role. This is bad TV, yet it is strangely intriguing at the same time. It paints Catherine of Aragon in a very positive light, and it goes on beyond the 'Anne Years' to tell the stories of the other 4 wives, which is interesting and kind of unusual (in the US, we love to love QE 1, thus we love to love Anne Boylen). However, my mind rebells at the portrayal of Henry VIII as vain, insane and completely played by his courtiers. The historical Henry VIII couldn't possibly have been that stupid!

Marley and Me:
The puppy is naughty and cute; the people love him; the end is sad. You're supposed to cry a little, and I did. The main character is a non-alpha-personality, who doesn't go out on a limb, sort of envies the success of his friends, and surprises himself by finding happiness and success in a different way than he had once dreamed of. This movie was sweet, charming, and probably only rates a B-, but it was very, very thought-provoking in tandem with The Wrestler. If watched in tandem with The Wrestler, it probably gets an A-.

The Wrestler:
a man must choose between practing his art and dying (in glory) or abandoning his art and existing as an outsider in a world that does not value him. It just so happens that his art is professional wrestling. This film is unique, well-executed and has an honest vibe. The wrestling scenes are a little... um... grotesque (think staple guns), and if you are not really into huge displays of violence (like me), you may not find this film visually appealing, but you will fall in love with Randy 'The Ram', and your heart will break (in a very cool, sophisticated and ironic way) as he and his love interest Cassidy fail to navigate the frail division between reality and spectacular realm of fantasy.

We Gotta Get Outta Cape Cod Tonight, and other random thoughts.

Vampire Weekend is so stuck in my head right now. They are sound like what the love child of Death Cab For Cutie and a steel drum calypso band would be, if said love child were to be cherished and loved and dressed in handmade clothes and given balloons, instead of being made to sleep in the fire grate and scrub the stairs. I love them.

J ran the marathon on Sunday. I followed him on my bike for a good part of the route. It was such a feeling of joyful anarchy to ride my bike on streets that are normally not bike-safe against the 'regular' flow of traffic. The marathon people provide water and gatorade at regular intervals, but we were unsure how hot the weather was going to get, so I had a couple of otter pops in a soft-sided cooler in my backpack to offer J in case he got overheated. He did not, but we certainly enjoyed the otter pops after the race. Friends met us at the finish line to congratulate J and make the requisite post-marathon visit to The World's Largest Brat Fest.

I enjoyed Brat Fest less well this year than I have in previous years. Now they have one of those transportable carnival midways set up, which makes things a lot more crowded and noisy. I hate carnivals. This probably makes me un-american and thus ineligible to be featured on a postage stamp some day, but I do not care. I hate them. Carnies are creepy, the games are always rigged, the prizes are made in sweat-shops in poor Asian countries, and I do not like rides. Rides at Disneyland and permanent amusement parks are ok, but I am always afraid of the traveling carnival rides. For one thing, you can see the rust. For another thing, who is to say that the carney who bolted it togeter this time wasn't drunk or high? At Disneyland, the rides stay in one piece the whole time, so you know that none of the bolts are poorly fastened. And they have safety inspectors. And if you die, you actually know the name of the actual company to sue in order to pay for your funeral.


Damn, I'm either a total chicken or a conservative grown-up.

There and back again

County roads through the Wisconsin Driftless Area are windy and make me nauseous.

Our campsite was isolated and overlooked a lake. Raccoons visited nightly and each time I was terrifically torn between the emotional desire to snorggle their cuteness and the knowledge that Wild Animals Are Not For Petting And Probably Have Rabies. (Raccoons are less scary than Possums.)

I couldn't find the sunscreen the first day, despite knowing that I'd packed it. My burn will fade to a tan, and that pleases me. When I think of myself in my mind-mirror, I am tan, and I like it. It's good when the mirror me and the me-mirror match. My shoulders feel a bit leathery and every time I get a new freckle-mole, I think thoughts about skin cancer. Much aloe vera is in order. Next time I'll pack my straw hat.

If it were not so cliche and hyperbolic, I'd say I have a sore gut muscle from laughing so hard. Instead I'll say the truth, which is that I laughed a lot, but that my sore gut muscle is probably from eating so much delicious food cooked over a fire.


I know I'm the overly emotive, touchy-feely one of the bunch, so please don't laugh when I say that I wish we had ended the long weekend with a group hug. I will try to convince myself that our round of beers at the Grumpy Troll was an equivalent in the parlance of the collective.

My apartment still seems oddly eerie and foreign. What is this thing called a ceiling, and why do I hear exhaust fans and not birdsong? My bed, however, is divine.

My coffee this morning was acrid and strong. I tempered it with cream leftover from the adventure. I'll probably cry a little when that bottle is empty.

Let's go camping again, and soon!

Another List

Ok, so here are some things I have been wanting to blog about. I don't have time to discuss them today, because I have to go buy cookies and decent coffee beans for Kaffeestunde. (I don't know why I volunteered to organize the last "coffee and chit-chat in German for undergrads" session of the year - this one is 2 hours long instead of just one hour, and I am excruciatingly bad at making small talk... I always feel so awkward and stupid!)

(ok, to be honest, I was one item in to making this list, and then the power went out, so now it is several days later and I don't remember what it was that I was thinking about before).

Anyway, my list:

Stellit Licht - The Worst Movie I Have Ever Seen. Three hours of Mennonite marital angst interspersed with scenes of Pure Mennonite Porn. Plus an excitingly confusing plot twist at the end where the one lady we all thought was dead comes back to life, and the movie changes from a weird-and-boring drama to an utter farce. I want those three hours of my life back.

The Runner-up Worst Movie I Have Ever Seen: How Pancho Villa Invaded The US With A Mariachi Band. I swear this movie exists. I do not know what the actual title of it is, but we watched it in one of my high school history classes. The stereotypes and type-casting of the Latino/a characters is embarrassing and ridiculous. However, I think the movie was made in the 60s or 70s, so it is not completely surprising. The mariachi band is surprising and also ridiculous.

What is everyone else planning to bring for meals for camping? What should I plan to bring?

Why are possums so scary and gross? Who even knows? but I bet we could have an essay writing contest with everyone making up their best-guess answer. I get to be the judge, and the winner gets a dead possum, or maybe just some whiskey or hot cocoa.

Feeling bloggy, but not much to say.

I finally have a tan. I bought it at the Farmers' Market, along with ramps, spinach, arugula, asparagus, fresh pasta and breakfast.

List

Things I hope to procure before the Camping Extravaganzaaaa

-sleeping bag for j
-new stuff sack for my sleeping bag
-tent stakes, as mine all seem to have gone missing
-cooler
-cups for coffee (our cute picnic dishes will do fine for plates and utensils, but the set only came with plastic wine glasses, and those are not so great for coffee...)
-jeans
-a daypack


Things I need to find/remember to take along

-bandana
-pocket knife
-first aid kit, including bug repellent, sunscreen, safety pins, band-aids, anti-bacterial goo, anti-itch stuff, athletic tape, rolaids, advil, good chapstick and gauze.
-bird book
-binoculars
-camera
-batteries for camera
-camping chair
-picnic/camping blanket
-sunglasses
-flashlight w/ batteries
-water bottles

Spring and Fevers and Other Cliches

It's difficult to tell if my self-diagnosis is correct- I've been feeling blah and discontent with my self and my life for the past couple of months. Yet as the weather grows warmer and it becomes ever more evident that despite my best intentions, I will have to buy new and larger shorts yet again this year, my delight at the soft green buds on the maple trees and the soft yellow feathers of blooming forsythia that grace Other People's Gardens is not as absolute and transporting as it has been in years past. It does not displace my malcontent entirely. That still sits bleakly in my heart like a bald-headed vulture or a flaccid leftover parsnip discovered at the bottom of the vegetable drawer. Ugh. There is, however, a new and restless quality to my grumbly and petty unhappiness. Instead of wanting to roll up into a little hedgehog ball of prickly misery, I want to grow wings and escape, to get the hell out of this situation called adulthood where responsibility and decision-making lie heavy on my shoulders, and I am paralyzed by the knowledge that I must soon take a step and by the anxiety that any false step could seriously jeopardize my future well-being.

Do you think that if I followed the second star to the right and went straight on 'til morning I'd really find Never-Never Land?

Well, if I can't, the next best thing is surely a weekend spent camping in the woods with friends! I wasn't able to participate in the last two adventures, due to medical issues and school, but I am so excited about this one. I really, really need a change of scene and a chance to reconnect with friends and get inspired by their energy and bouyant hopes. (I promise to try not to be too much of a Debbie Downer.) I wish we were going this weekend... well, actually no, I don't because then I would miss the Super Awesome Sale at my favorite yarn store and the opening weekend of the new X-Men movie, but still!

I love planning for adventures almost as much as I love the adventures themselves. Not that I don't like spontaneous adventures, but there is something thrilling about making a list of the gear you will need to pack, assembling said gear into (many) tidy little bundles and then leaving everything else at home and heading off into the blue. Yes, I am that sick, sick person who loves to organize the first aid kit, brings a lot of gear, and gets mad at her husband when he doesn't want to get ready for the trip 3 days in advance, but just wants to thow some stuff into a paper bag and head off camping without a water bottle, sunscrean, bug repellent, or a rain coat. What can I say, once a Girl Scout, always a Girl Scout. Don't worry. I won't lecutre you about knife safety rules and if you forget your flashlight and are scared to go to the outhouse in the dark, you can borrow mine, and I won't even say 'I told you so'.

A little bit bitter, a little bit bored...

So, I was clicking through my blogs that I read, appreciating the thoughts of my friends, but wishing that there were more interesting things to read on the internet, and that certain people (*ahem! Blythe! ahem!*) would update more often, and then I realized that I haven't updated in two weeks, and the last post I did was not even very meaty, but really more of a tease- telling you all that I'd read some books and seen some movies, but not telling you what they were or if I liked them.

oops.

I really enjoyed the posts Ben and Christine did on the books they recently read, and I always enjoy Katie's book reviews... so then I thought, why don't you do a book review, too?

but alas, even though I have been quite the busy little book worm lately, I've been mostly re-reading the books that defined my childhood, in an attempt to identify "who i thought i was and what influenced me to be that way" and to reconcile that person with the person I find myself to be today... psychobabble psychobabble psychobabble. Needless to say, the Gutenberg Project is awesome, because I can read many of the vintage children's classics that provided fodder for my youthful imagination online! For free! Without having to put on pants or leave the house! Magic!

I am sure no one is really interested in a dissection of the ideology I must have digested along with these stories, and an essay as to how this may or may not have affected my neuroses, and I'm proctoring an exam today and thus have a headache, so I will summarize.

Books by Louisa May Alcott: The Little Women books are good, in others, plot and character are overshadowed by firm messages about Rich Little Girls Being Charitable and The Value Of Having Old-Fashioned Values. Everyone sews all the time. The representation of Irish and African-American characters is racist and disturbing. You will never be as perfect as the people in these books.

The Five Little Peppers Series: These are terrible books. Never let your children read them. Everything is an extreme in these books. The children are either elated or despondant. They are either being extremely good or feeling extremely guilty for some small sin of omission, like not brushing their hair properly. Again, the representation of Irish and African American characters is racist and disturbing. Also disturbing is the fact that it is considered wrong to cry- on almost every page, someone is distressed and struggles to hold back tears, and usually only suceeds in doing so when they are reminded that if they cry, someone they love will either also cry or get sick.

Anne of Green Gables and other books by LM Montgomery: these are beautiful, beautiful books. No one is too perfect (except for maybe Anne after she grows up and gets married) and all the people who think that they are perfect are generally justly ridiculed. The nature descriptions are breath-taking and fanciful. Perhaps too fanciful... trees and plants are always a little too pristine.. there are never any bugs or critters in the woods that the heroines walk in... only imaginary faries and other sprites. These are humorous, sensitive, thoughtful, idealistic books, perhaps a little over-sentimental but soothing and enjoyable nonetheless.

Recuperating

So, over the weekend I saw 7 feature-length films at the festival, worked an exam, finished a dull novel that I'd been tying to read for years, read a fascinating novel, and graded some student papers.

It felt good to be inundated with narrative, to think intensely about art, passion, love and humanity, but I think I over did it. I'm exhausted. My brain keeps on going, like a hamster on a wheel (except for not that furry and cute!)... I'm questioning everything- the value of education, the different branches of critical thinking, my role as a teacher and a scholar, if it's even possible to teach foreign language in a classroom. Meanwhile, my wrists are shaky and I just want to turn off my brain and take a nap for a month.

Yesterday we went for a bird walk and identified 2 new-to-us species: Cedar Waxwings and the (female) Golden-Crowned Kinglets. It was the first time we'd remembered to take both our (new!) binoculars and our bird book with us. Birdwatching with binoculars is much more rewarding than without, and I am excited to add more species to our list as the weather gets warmer and we spend more time outdoors.

In his training runs, J has seen loons several times. This area is generally too far south for loons, so he must have just seen some stopping over on their way further north. I am jealous that he saw any at all. I miss the Bemidji loons.

Film Festival, Part 1

It's the Wisconsin Film Festival this weekend, and I am ebullient. Or I would be if I hadn't had a long, emotionally harrowing day of self-criticizing thoughts, and I didn't have to be at my other job by 8 am tomorrow morning. Yet, I did and I do, and even though it's closer to tomorrow than it is to today, I'm aglow enough to be up, typing away, because I saw an amazing movie today.

I went by myself. Now, I generally do not feel wierd about going to a movie by myself. I've often done so - sometimes I've wanted to see something that no one else wanted to see, so I just went. Sometimes I've wanted to see something that everyone else had already seen, but I don't want to wait to see it on dvd, so I went. The first situation is certainly better than the second, but that's neither here nor there. The point is, usually when I go to a movie by myself, it's nothing worth writing home about - just blah blah I was bored, blah blah free air conditioning blah blah.

Today I saw a movie that not only I loved, but as I was watching it, I knew that people that I love would also love it, but I was alone and could not really share it with them, and so the experience was multiply poignent. I don't know if 'Football Under Cover' will ever be in a theater near you, or if it will ever be released on dvd, but keep your eyes peeled for it, because it is one of the best movies I've seen all year, and I don't even normally get excited about documentaries.

What? I, Ms. Fiction-lover, Ms. Narrative-whore actually fell for a documentary?? Why yes, and I brushed my hair today, and hell froze over and several other rather unexpected things.

Basically, this movie is about a historic event in women's sports. There is an Iranian Women's National Soccer Team, but they've never played against another team. A team from Germany decides they are going to travel to Tehran and play the Iranian women. And so they do, and it is not easy. But it is oh so breathtaking when they get there.

I'm going to see 5 more films in the next two days, so I'm sure that this film won't remain 'the best mvie I've seen all year' for very long. But man, it was good.

It is too late to write a conclusion.

Nerds in love

J and I went for a walk today in the chilly spring rain. We invented a new binary system. It is not monotonic.

Things that are cuter than a baby duck:
Kittens
Puppies
Baby Bunnies
Lambs
the word 'lollipop'

Things that are not cuter than a baby duck:
Other types of baby birds
Baby polar bears
Elmo
Poodles
Baby seals

I'm not really sure what the value of a baby duck as a heuristic is. I mean, a baby duck is pretty darn cute, so I think this system sets the bar pretty high. It only separates the top 10 percent from the rest.

We were also pleased to identify goldfinches and house finches on our walk.

I am excited for spring and summer!

Fork in your eye!

Him: Y'know, I was reading about this physicist guy who does lots of great work, and is really brilliant, and he doesn't even have a phd.

Me: Yeah, people like him, the universe make them in order to mock people like us.

Him: Oh geez, what what his name? Ah well, I'm going for a run. Have a great day.

Me: I'm so blogging this.

*leaves*

Me: Wait, was he just talking about Einstein? Why do I suddenly feel stupider, as if the joke was on me instead of by me?

Resolved

I will be more productive for the remainder of the semester.

I will get all of the assignments currently in my possession graded by Friday.

I will exercise 3 times this week.

I will enjoy the Film Festival this weekend.

I will take Vitamin C every day this week.

A total crap day

Woke up in a panic. Tea and pancakes helped the panic subside. Did no grading. Went to Goodwill, tried on blazers. Blazers do not look attractive on my body. Despaired of ever being able to look professional and adult. Realized that I need a haircut. Cannot afford to go to my regular haircut guy. Purchased a copy of Watchmen. Realized have no time to actually read Watchmen, b/c must work on research. Took class on tour of art museum. Everyone showed up on time, but they did not really pay attention or take notes. I don't know how I will represent the information presented today on the exam. Started to freak out about writing exams and quizzes. Came home. Bus was full. Apparently am suddenly the crazy lady who smiles and talks to strangers' babies. Baby did not smile back. Am possibly quite monstrous and scary to babies. Had to sit on sideways facing seat on bus. Subsequently felt carsick. No interesting mail or email. Am here alone, except for cats. Have promised to prepare dinner, have no energy for making dinner. Panic has returned, full blast. May possibly throw up or cry. Joyous.

Wit escapeth me...

Last week was Spring Break. I did many productive things. Such as:

• Purchase a new bike.
• Ride said bike.
• Grade papers.
• Work on quilt project.
• Learn to knit lace.
• Read the final 4 Harry Potter books for the zillionth time.
• Sleep.

I blame the Harry Potter on the TV. Every once in a while, one of the stations declares that it is Harry Potter Weekend, and they show the first four movies, two a night. The fourth movie is so unsatisfactory compared to the book, that I always want to go back and read the book. And once I read the fourth book, I read the fifth book, and so on. Is there some kind of OCD that pertains only to consumption of narratives? Because I think I may have it.

Other than loving being on vacation, I've been feeling kind of blah lately. And now that vacation is over, I'm left with the blah, plus the guilt for all the actually productive things I promised myself I'd get done over vacation, but didn't. Can I have another week off, please? I promise I'll spend it in the library...

The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle... the PETA version.

It took me about 12 months to become a fairly strict lacto-ovo vegetarian.
It started with a lenten resolution. Going off to a fairly hippie college and becomming friends with a lot of vegetarians was the next step. The cafeteria mystery meat made the whole path easier. By the time the next spring had rolled around, not only was I not observing Lent, I was convinced that I would never want to eat meat again.

I still don't observe Lent, not in the traditional sense of abstention and pre-Easter purification. But I have started eating meat again.

I stopped practicing regular lacto-ovo-vegetarianism a few years ago, and began occasional forays into the world of pescatarianism. However, I still publically identified as a vegetarian - just "one who eats fish" despite the fact that that term is self-contradictory, and that it used to make me really really angry. Why did I do it? For the same reason all the other people that I used to be so stinkin' self-righteous about did it - nobody knows the difference between a pescatarian and a muscatarian or a vascatarian or a secretarian, and the people of this world, bless their collective souls, are more able and willing to wrap their minds around a contradiction in terms than a new latin term. Also, I just got tired of explaining it all the time.


But, yes. Now I don't just eat fish-that-are-not-vegetables, I also eat meat-that-is-not-a-vegetable. Like cows and chickens and stuff.

It still bothers me that something has to die so that I may be nourished, but I am more comfortable now with the way that life circles.

The violent, inhumane way that most meat animals are treated in this country is still a problem for me, but I am comfortable purchasing meat from responsible farmers who treat their animals well.

I used to feel that I was making an environmental impact by choosing to eat low on the trophic scale. I now feel that I can make more of an environmental impact by trying to eat locally and with the seasons.

I am not any kind of a vegetarian any more.

I am scared to be public about this, because I do not want people to expect me to eat meat as a given. I'm certainly not a meatatarian just because I'm not a vegetarian. The smell of raw meat still squicks me out. I still don't like the texture and taste of some meats. I still eat mostly vegetables/grains, etc, but every once in a while, I eat some meat. A few bites of chicken or beef, a soup made with home-made stock, a few bits of some kind of salty, cured meat added to a stew for flavor? Sure, I eat that. But I would probably gag if I tried to eat a pork chop or hamburger.

There is no comfortable label for my new eating practices. I liked having a label. It simplified things.

It's rain-snowing outside, and to keep the melancholy at bay I've got a pot of spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove. Instead of melancholy, nostalgia comes rushing into my heart as the house fills with the smell of garlic, tomatoes, roasty olive oil and black pepper. I've been eating this same spaghetti since before I can remember - the picture from my first birthday party show me wearing it on my face. We ate spaghetti once a week growing up, if at all possible, then on a Thursday, we eat it for Christmas Eve, and now every time I go home to visit, my mom makes spaghetti to welcome me.

It's one of those organic family recipies - I couldn't tell you how to make it if I tried, because I don't measure anything - I just add this and that until "it looks right." Which is how my mom makes it. Which is how her mom made it. Which is probably also how her mother-in-law made it. It cooks on the stove all day, simmering, simmering and covering the countertops in about sixty gazillion little crimson splatters which will piss me off tomorrow, but today don't bother me a bit because they're a part of the game, and the spaghetti wouldn't taste right if I covered it with a screen while it cooked.

What do you cook when you miss home?

Neologism

Potluck Panic: The state of frantic and or frenzied dismay one finds oneself in when one has agreed to attend a potluck, but cannot think of something appetizing to prepare for the gathering. Condition may be aggravated by a) having relatively little edible food in house and not wanting to go to grocery store on a rainy day, and b) knowing in advance that another potluck attendee is bringing something fabulous, and wanting to ALSO bring something fabulous, but not something identicle to that which Other Potluck Attendee is bringing.

Condition in those overly prone to Caring What Other People Think.

Suggested therapies include:
a) Learning to Not Give A Fuck.
b) Going To The Grocery Store.

I think I will opt for a dose of B. Pride beats Sloth today in the Smackdown of the Seven Deadlies.

I am SO blogging this

Eloise (my new laptop) and I are out and about today, and so I have the fine opportunity for sharing some of the Very Valuable Things I am Learning About Humanity with all of you lovely people in real time. yeay.

For example, two rather egotistical undergrads are sitting in the cafe next to me, studying for some sort of Philosophy Of Science exam. They are spending most of their time Talking in Very Loud Voices about how much smarter they are than their professor, who is "Far too insistant about everyone else adopting his definitions for words." It should also be noted that their profesor "is British, so there's no way we can expect to understand him as if he actually spoke English." And that in general, they find his english to be "exceptionally poor."

Also, complaning about how the sample questions on the study guide are 'ridiculously vague' and proclaiming that when the professor is SO STUPID they Just Don't Care. Oh thank god, they have just declared they should stop studying because "At this point, it's just pandering," "well, there's not much difference between pandering and understanding."

Poor, poor undergrads. Their time is so wasted here at college, doing an undergrad degree. There really is nothing they can possibly learn here. It's too, too bad and sad that they don't immediately recognize the brilliance of Some People and admit them into grad programs straight out of high school.

I told Jesse that we should also Talk In Loud Voices About Stuff That Makes Us Sound Smart, and his response was "I like hot dogs." Then we spat our tangerine seeds out on the sidewalk and wiped our drippy tangerine-juice-hands on our jeans.

I am so glad that I am not 20 and an arrogant little snot-rag any more.

Also I am glad that I do not teach philosophy classes.

To be considered....

Do Carnies have children? Is the society of Carney-dom one that reproduces itself through propagation and sexual reproduction, or does it rely on recruitment a la the Shakers?

Case in point: there are people who are Carnies, but are there people who become Carnies?

But yet, have researchers ever identified a juvenile Carnie while doing field investigations?

Some traits typical to the population (small hands) may well be genetically linked. Other traits however (poor dental health/hygiene, fondness for cabbage) may just as well be a matter of socialization and social-economic position.

If, indeed Carney-dom is sexually reproductive, does one need to be concerned about genetic bottle-necking in the population? Is it likely that this is an exogamous population?

You were always on my mind

It's one of those days of false spring, when the snow is almost gone and the temp is reaching towards 50 degrees. I love and hate these days. Love them because, well, who wouldn't love a bonus day of not-having-to-wear-a-down-parka before April is officially here. Hate them because they are so tempting, so full of false hope. "Look, Spring!" they say to me. "Get out your sandals and get a pedicure. Pack away those winter things like hats and pants." After 6 years in the Midwest, I've learned not to listen too closely. One day of 50 is not a promise that my vitamins-D and -E deficient pasty skin will soon be fortified against acne with a healthy summer tan. It does not mean that it won't snow again.

It does mean that I can get my bike back out of the basement for at least one day of tooling around town. I'm a fair-weather biker. I have tons of respect and a little awe for the people who are crazy/dedicated/skilled enough to bike through Madison all winter long, but I like being reasonably warm, and reasonably not dead too much to contemplate doing it.

I love biking. I feel so strong and confident and capable when I'm out on my bike. I don't have to worry about finding a parking spot. I'm not reliant on bus schedules. It makes me feel free in that little-kid way of running across a sandy beach to get splashed by the frigid pacific waves and loving every sparkling, salty minute of it.

I've had the same hybrid for 6 years now. It's a good, sturdy bike. It was a great fit for me when I first moved here. It gets me around town, it's comfy, it built my confidence in my physical ability to be more than just an occasional rider of bikes. Now that 2+ years of yoga have strengthened my legs and improved my balance, I'm tempted by the idea of a road bike. A lot of my friends do a lot of long-distance riding during the summer. I went on one medium-distance ride with them last year - just 20 miles or so, and I loved it. It was the best Saturday ever. But my bike isn't built for longer distances than that - it's too heavy and upright, and so my muscles don't work very efficiently to power it. A 60 mile-ride is out of the question, unless I magically wake up one morning and find myself in better shape than Lance Armstrong. But I've got spring fever, and I've got it bad, and the idea of spending more glorious sunny Saturdays with friends riding along beautifully green bike routes to small rural towns for breakfasts and picnics, exploring and enjoying Wisconsin, is making me drool.

And so, I dream wistfully of road bikes, but tentatively so. I'm not the most adventurous person, nor do I always keep up with hobbies that I get interested in. See: pottery, stained glass, violin. Now the thing with the other hobbies, is that I could invest in them slowly, buying only enough materials or studio time for the current project, so when I lost interest, I didn't have a lot of residuals. But if I want to do more/ longer rides, I have to get a bike. I have to get a bike that fits my body. I'm not one to make big purchases on an impulse, so we'll see if it ever happens. But for now, it's on my mind a lot. Especially when I should be doing more productive things. Like grading. (gah).

I'm not sure if I'm disgusted or amused that I ate salad with my fingers tonight.

At least I used a napkin.

"When you grow up, your heart dies."

I wish there was a better translation for the German word "Mitgefuehl" ... It's close in concept to "Mitleid" - compassion, a suffering along with (someone) but encompasses a broader spectrum of feelings than just the rigors of suffering, Mitgefuehl is literally a feeling along with (someone). Okay, technically, it means 'empathy,' but that translation is imperfect, as translations usually are.

Now, I'm a sensitive and emotive person, and I tend to experience emotions as very present, and very extreme. I'm not exactly what you would call even-keeled. I'm exuberant or moody, but rarely just ok. I experience spontaneous Mitgefuehl sometimes, usually in response to the distress or delight of someone I'm close to. For me, it's an intense welling up of emotion, sometimes quite disconcerting because it can dislodge me from the tasks of my day and become the sole paradigm that I am able to inhabit until someone else comes along and shakes me back into reality.In general, I consider this a positive quality in myself, although I do realize that I am sometimes a little... intense, which may be off-putting to newer acquaintences for whom I (already) feel an affinity, or even to dear friends who are simply not as expressive about their emotions. What can I say - I am who I am, and in general, it works out ok for me.

It gets difficult, though, when there is no available outlet for these emotions of 'feeling along'. Just this past week I was confronted with such a situation. A person told me about a very distressing personal situation. I really, sincerely like this person, although we do not know each other well. My emotional reaction to the bad news was intense. I wanted to reach out, to care for this person, to offer any and every support they need that I could possibly give, to wrap them up in a protective layer of my caring for them, so that the pain of their situation would be lessened. Because the nature of my relationship with this person is a professional one, I could not do this. I could not do anything that felt meaningful to me, or that relieved the burdan of my feeling of concern. I do not know if the meagre actions I had room to take did anything at all to alieviate this person's distress.

Because I could do 'nothing,' my emotions continued to flow and flow and soon I was drained, exhausted, beat. I don't want to stop caring about the world that I live in or the people I encounter in it, but it is going to take me several days to refill my tank of emotional stability. Even now I am thinking - if only I could have done 'something'! This is not the most ideal of situations for me. Am I the much-belittled fool with the heart on her sleeve? Does everyone experience moments of feeling-along-with-someone like this and everyone else just knows how to manage it better than I do? How can I train myself to find and maintain a course of moderation, and y'know, have mature and professional relationships with people? How can I use my emotive impulses to create actual good in this world? How will I ever become cool if I keep confessing to nerdy falliabilities like this? Why does my foot hurt so much when it falls asleep? Should I even be writing on the internet about this? Can you become a grown-up without your heart dying?

Well Worth Watching - and Segues!

Have you seen Everything is Illuminated? No? Well, go and put it at the top of your Netflix queue. Right now. It is the best movie I have seen in a long time. A very long time. This movie has lines just a quoteable as The Big Lebowski. It is touching and heartwarming and tragic like Finding Neverland (except without the whole akward 'is James M. Barrie maybe a little too into that kid?' thing) and Wings Over Berlin (except shorter). Oh, and it's funny, too. How can you not love a movie with a dog named Sammy Davis, Jr. Jr. and a very memorable scene with a potato? Hi-larious hi-jinks, I'm telling you. And then there's that whole 'plot' thing, with its valuable 'themes' like identity, memory, family, the role of the past in our present understanding of ourselves and the world, and friendship and shared experience overcoming the barriers of linguistic and cultural misunderstanding. Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant.

Trust me. See this movie. You will love it.

I would like to read some of Jonathan Safran's novels now.

Currently, I'm reading The Master of St. Petersburg by J.M. Coetzee. It's quite complex and thought-provoking, but I'm not really enjoying it. Coetzee paints his geniuses so bleakly. Plus, novels set in Russia always make me cold. I actually don't know if I've ever enjoyed a Coetzee book... To be fair, I read Foe ages and ages ago and I never finished Waiting For the Barabarians so that just leaves Disgrace, and the sexual violence that fuels the plot of Disgrace is hard for me to stomach, so I will have to finish this one and sort out my thoughts before I make any proclamations.

On the other hand, I really, really love Regina Spektor's album Begin To Hope.

Oh what? You were expecting a cohesive blog post? On one singular subject? That does not meander? Too bad, so sad, it's too late at night for me to do that. You should consider yourself (yourselves? Does more than one person even read this blog?) lucky, because here is a list of relatively banal subjects about which I have refrained from waxing eloquent, even though the impusle moved me, JUST IN THE SPAN OF ONE MERE WEEKEND:
-Things Overheard On The Bus That Make Me Happy
-Why I Love My Kitty
-Why My Kitty Is The Best Kitty In The World
-Don't Go To Tar*Get On A Saturday Because Children Scream
-I Have Decorated My House Some More! Look At My Decorations!
-I Made Spotted Dick For Breakfast
-Why I Don't Like Grading
-My New Postage Stamps Are Cheap And Flimsy

Just kidding. I wasn't really going to write about that last one. I just made it up to be funny. Aren't you diverted? Didn't I say that I was only going to write wittily and elegantly/eloqently in this blog? What time is it? Why am I not in bed yet? Whose idea was it to drink coffee after 7pm? Stupid coffee.

Do you know how sometimes, when you don't have a lot of time, and maybe you are feeling kind of poor and/or low energy, and you just don't feel like making dinner, ordering in or going out? And maybe it's just all you can manage to eat some scrambled eggs and toast? Even if you don't really like scrambled eggs? And then the situation sort of magically becomes Officially Very Exciting once you declare that you are not just having scrambled eggs because they are easy and inexpensive and one of the few edible items left in your fridge, oh no, YOU hare having scrambled eggs because you are having Breakfast For Dinner, you lucky thing you?

Breakfast For Dinner is awesome and delicious! It's a celebration! It's dangerously and exhiliratingly close to (shhh, don't tell...) breaking the rules! Upsetting the norms! Etc!

Well, perhaps not too surprisingly, the same trick works when you are feeling tired and worn out and grumpy and not-necessarily-in-the-mood-for-going-out-or-hanging-out-in-a-large-group-of-people on a weekend. This bleak situation can be remedied by declaring a shockingly decadent Sweatpants Night! Break out the comfy clothes, the ice cream and a good movie! Nope, you can't make it should anyone try and tempt you out to the bar - you've got plans, you're having an Official Sweatpants Night with your sweetie. Your friends are free to join you, but they have to wear sweatpants and bring their own pint of Haagen Das and not talk during the movie, because those are the rules of Sweatpants Night. It's like the fun part of a slumber party, except for that everyone who doesn't live at your house goes back to their house to go to bed, so no one wakes up with genitalia drawn on their face -or if they do, at least it's not your problem. Magic. I am brilliant. People should pay me money to use this idea.

(Now you know what I really did this weekend.)

How to Annoy Me

When you are done with your cigarette, don't just drop it on the ground, drop it on the ground AND THEN don't make sure to stamp it out. Because while I am fully aware that Smokey the Bear is not overly worried about your cig catching the sleet-drenched February-pathetic lawn on fire, I REALLY WANT TO DIE OF SECOND-HAND SMOKE FROM THE SIDEWALK.

Second-hand smoke from some hip thing in just-right jeans, well, that's another story altogether.

Wintry Mix

Today I sat in the recliner and fell asleep over a Jane Austen novel while sleet and freezing rain fell outside. Coffee is supposed to prevent unplanned naps, but it was slacking off on me today. I woke up cranky and groggy, and promptly forgot to put the flour in the scalloped potatoes, which then of course did not thicken, so the hour I spent preparing dinner resulted in a gross, watery mess. To console myself, I made a clafouti, but that's still in the oven, so I've got my fingers crossed that it turns out ok, but I have my doubts. I'm going to drink some more coffee and grade some papers and wish that the weekend was here already.

Trees are not just for toilet paper.

When I was very small, I loved picking flowers. I lived in desert environments until I was in the first grade, and when my family had a garden, it was usually vegetables or berries. I was drawn to the colors and soft shapes of flowers, so every time we even went to a park, I was the kid who was picking the dandelions and clover, and then presenting the weeds like some precious bouquet to someone that I loved. My grandparents lived in a very lush and verdant area, and their yard had even more flower-picking opportunities. One time, my grandfather postponed mowing the lawn so that my brother and I could fill our the little red wagon with dandelions while the stems were still long. We brought them back to my grandmother, who cheerfully let us fill drinking glass after drinking glass with the soft yellow blobs.

It took me a little longer to appreciate trees. Trees are, after all, more boring than flowers, and a little less approachable when you are under 4 feet tall. The first time that I really noticed trees was the year that I lived in Munich. I lived close to a park, but in an otherwise urban setting - a big first for me. One weekend, a friend and I traveled together to a small town in the Bavarian forest and went hiking. I was so overjoyed and uplifted to be amidst giant stands of evergreens that I hugged one and kissed it.

Even now, when I return to the Northwest, there is a sort of soaring feeling around my sternum when I see the patterns made on the foothills by the upwards-reaching fir trees. The prospect is at its most breathtaking in autumn, of course, when the interspersed alders shake their round golden leaves, creating lacy, aquinious patterns all along the mountain passes. But even in the winter I think it's beautiful.

I'm slowly falling in love with the naked oak tree outside my office window; it's the kind of majestic thing that makes me think of Hesse's statements in Goldmund and Narcissus about the repetition and echoing of forms in works of art. This oak tree is a splendid tree, but in its skeletal state, it could also be a tumbleweed or sagebush painted larger than life across my horizon.

Post the first

Friends have long suggested that I "get myself a blog." I am a noted navel-gazer and meanderer, but will strive here for economy and wit. Haha. Frankly, I've been itching to join the ranks of the blog-havers for a while now, but have refrained. Partly because I'm not sure if I have much of a story to tell that others would want to read, and I already have several other options for writing into the void. The other part of why I have refrained is because certain family members of mine are pro-privacy and anti-blog - to the point in fact, that when the first Blogs were spawned on the Internets back in the day when it was powered by hamsters running on wheels, these certain family members of mine (who I love dearly) said some very negative things about the practice of blogging that sort of stuck in my head to the point that I'm still not sure how comfortable I am being entirely open in this very public forum. However, as certain other Wise People In My Life have known to say: nothing ventured, nothing gained. And I need practice writing for an audience, a creative outlet, and a way to stay in touch with friends that allows me to communicate more than two sentences at a time. Hence this venture.

Oh, and speaking of sentences, the title of this blog is derived from a Maximo Park song "The Coast is Always Changing," which was the third song to pop up on my iPod when I shuffled it in search of some good lyrics to turn into a title. It resonated with my goal of using this space for good (economical, eloquent) writing as opposed to scribbling, but it has other, weightier connotations for me as well.