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.