tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71021473099199112902024-03-12T20:41:23.637-05:00Perched Above the Mini-AppleWhatever I feel like writing about on any given day...or not...Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-47680308143014942392009-10-29T15:55:00.003-05:002009-10-29T16:12:37.243-05:00One Hot Day On The Porch -A Tale of Chuckapaw County<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black;"><a title="http://www.fanartreview.com/displaystory.jsp?id=" href="http://www.fanartreview.com/displaystory.jsp?id=58679"></a></span><span style="font-family:'sans serif';color:black;"><a title="http://www.fanartreview.com/displaystory.jsp?id=" href="http://www.fanartreview.com/displaystory.jsp?id=58679"></a></span><?xml:namespace prefix = v ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:vml" /><v:shapetype id="_x0000_t75" stroked="f" filled="f" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" coordsize="21600,21600" spt="75" preferrelative="t"><v:stroke joinstyle="miter"></v:stroke><v:formulas><v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"></v:f><v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"></v:f><v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"></v:f><v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"></v:f><v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"></v:f><v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"></v:f><v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"></v:f><v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"></v:f><v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"></v:f><v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"></v:f><v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"></v:f><v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"></v:f></v:formulas><v:path gradientshapeok="t" extrusionok="f" connecttype="rect"></v:path><?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:lock aspectratio="t" ext="edit"></o:lock></v:shapetype><v:shape style="Z-INDEX: 1; POSITION: absolute; MARGIN-TOP: 0px; WIDTH: 210pt; HEIGHT: 155.25pt; MARGIN-LEFT: 0px; mso-wrap-distance-left: 0; mso-wrap-distance-top: 0; mso-wrap-distance-right: 0; mso-wrap-distance-bottom: 0; mso-position-horizontal: left; mso-position-horizontal-relative: text; mso-position-vertical-relative: line" id="_x0000_s1026" title="http://www.fanartreview.com/displaystory.jsp?id=" href="http://www.fanartreview.com/displaystory.jsp?id=58679" alt="" type="#_x0000_t75" allowoverlap="f" button="t"><?xml:namespace prefix = w ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:word" /><w:wrap type="square"></w:wrap></v:shape><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;font-family:'sans serif';color:black;" ><a title="http://www.fanartreview.com/displaystory.jsp?id=" href="http://www.fanartreview.com/displaystory.jsp?id=58679"></a><a title="http://www.fanartreview.com/displaystory.jsp?id=" href="http://www.fanartreview.com/displaystory.jsp?id=58679"></a><a title="http://www.fanartreview.com/displaystory.jsp?id=" href="http://www.fanartreview.com/displaystory.jsp?id=58679"></a><a title="http://www.fanartreview.com/displaystory.jsp?id=" href="http://www.fanartreview.com/displaystory.jsp?id=58679"></a></span><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black;"><a title="http://www.fanartreview.com/displaystory.jsp?id=" href="http://www.fanartreview.com/displaystory.jsp?id=58679"></a><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"><em>Note: the blog is still on vacation this week as I am re-grouping from a writer's conference. So.. here's a story instead.</em></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“She is just trailer trash in brand new shoes!”<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">My cousin Lyannie was incensed. Outraged. She stomped her foot on the porch, drew herself up to her considerable height of just under five feet and glared at my sisters and me. I looked at Darlene, who looked at Arlene, who looked back at me as if to say “here we go again”.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“Can you believe it? That Siddalou Udderly just insinuating herself right into the Miss Chuckapaw County Pageant?”<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">I thought she might spontaneously combust right there before our very eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As the porch was wood, and dry wood this far into the summer on top, it might present a hazard. Now, none of us liked Siddalou, and liked the fact that we were related to her even less. The familial relationship between the Bodines and the Udderlys was not something we talked about, but they were family all the same. Lyannie, being a Boudreau and all, found the family ties unmentionable at best and roundly intolerable in the main. She adored us, though. I wondered sometimes if it was just because we were the only relatives nearby who were from the right side of the tracks. Granted, we were from </span><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:12;color:black;">alongside</span><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"> the tracks, but at least on the acceptable side. It was mutual adoration too, which was an odd thing, since neither my sisters nor I had much tolerance for the perpetually pretty and perky types.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“It is supposed to be about Beauty, Poise, Elegance and Charm-the Essential Qualities of a True Lady.” You could hear the capital letters in her voice.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">Darlene, Arlene and I mouthed the last three ‘essential qualities’ in silence along with her. Of course, none of us had any of them, but we were well versed in Lyannie’s philosophy, since she constantly tried to instill the said 'essential qualities' into us. A day out with my cousin always included some ill-fated visit to a dress shop or hair dresser where one or all of us would wind up assaulted by some shade of pink, as pink was Lyannie’s all purpose miracle remedy for the “underachievement of feminine potential”. Thankfully today nothing more painful than sitting on the porch yakking was on her agenda.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">Arlene was the only one of the three of us who liked pink. But, as Darlene would remind me: “She was the one Daddy dropped on her head.” I’m pretty sure that explained a lot of things about Arlene, including her insistence on spelling her name “R-lene”. But, family is family, as I’ve often said, and you can’t just deny them for convenience sake. Darlene once accused Arlene of having “aspirations of Boudreaucity”. I think Arlene just likes pink.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">Any-hoo, Lyannie was in a fine fit over Siddalou’s impromptu incursion into what has always been my cousin’s </span><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:12;color:black;">milieu</span><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">. (I like that word, </span><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:12;color:black;">milieu</span><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">). Why, over the years, she had held (in order) the titles of Little Miss Possum Prairie, Pre-Teen Queen of the Bovine Days Parade, Junior Miss Sweet Pea, Princess Nell of the Liberty Bell (twice, and that was just </span><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:12;color:black;">unprecedented</span><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">), and Miss Nayshan’s Car Wash. Her picture was up in several places at Jake’s Highway 29 Hash 'n’ Dash. Something of a local celebrity, really. But then, the Boudreaus have put the glamour into this part of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Chuckapaw</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place> since forever, I think.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“Lyannie.” It was Darlene speaking. “Siddalou Udderly doesn’t have a snowball’s chance. She has no talent, unless you call excelling at irritating people talent. She’s homely, and that’s me being generous on the ‘count of her being family, and her ass is so big it’s like she’s hauling a double-wide around with her all the time. I don’t know what the fuss is.”<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">She lit a cigarette, scrunched the now empty pack into a ball and set it on the porch railing. I watched it unscrunch itself and slowly stretch like a cellophane inchworm. Darlene smoked in front of Lyannie, even though she knew how much Cousin Boudreau hated the habit. I never did. It was an unspoken agreement. I pretended she didn’t know I smoked. She pretended she didn’t know either.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“It's the </span><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:12;color:black;">principle</span><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">, Darlene, and I'm just not having it. Marlene,” Lyannie looked at me in exasperation. “Tell me you understand what I mean by the principle.”<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“Sure,” I said, trying really hard not to reach for my own pack of cellophane-wrapped relaxation. I had no idea at all.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“Maybe you can explain it to me then, Marlene, 'cause I don't see what difference it makes. Siddalou's a cow, and I'm sorry to say that, since it insults cows and such, but she is, and folks are only going to wonder what the hell she's doing. Not like they're going to take her serious as a candidate for <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Miss</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">Chuckapaw</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place>. No sir.”<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">Lyannie looked at me expectantly. I shot Darlene the death gaze and waited for her to topple over, but nothing happened. Arlene just looked genuinely interested in what I might have to say.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“Well,” I said, then took a long pull from my icy cold can of Coca-Cola while I frantically tried to come up with some reason why it should matter what Siddalou Udderly decided to do with a Saturday afternoon in late August. I had nothing.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“Do any of you know who handles the address changes at the post office?” Arlene suddenly piped up. It was out of left field, but I was saved for the moment.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“Uh, no, Arlene. What does that have to do with Siddalou?” Darlene asked.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“Nothing. But I was over to the Hash 'n' Dash with Bobby Jack Petrie and on the way back I saw the announcement sign at the church, and I couldn't believe what it said.”<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“What did it say, honey?” Lyannie turned to Arlene, and I was forgotten for the moment. I said a prayer of thanks.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“It said 'Jesus lives here'. Pretty thrilling huh? I don't remember Him ever living here before. So I got to thinking, how's He going to get His mail now?”<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">Silence fell.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">Lyannie opened her mouth once, twice, a third time, but no sound came out. Darlene looked at Arlene like she'd suddenly grown a second head. I know my eyebrows were up near my scalp.</span><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“I don't think Jesus gets mail, Arlene,” I finally managed to say.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“Well, sure He does. Everybody gets mail, Marlene.” Somehow, she managed to make that sound reasonable and I felt like an idiot.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“But Jesus doesn't need mail. He's all knowing and powerful and stuff.” I wondered why that sounded lame to me.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“I know better.” Arlene sniffed. “Jesus gets mail and unless He changed His address He's gonna be missing some. And it might be important.”<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“I'm trying to remember now, Arlene,” Darlene said, “Did Daddy drop you just one time on your head or was it two?”<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“It was just the one time, Darlene, and I wasn't damaged. Well, just this little dent back here.” Arlene touched a spot under her hair at the back of her head. “But my mind is just fine, thank you. I can't help it if you don't know about Jesus' mail delivery problems. Maybe if you went to church more often you would.”<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">At least it had the effect of getting us off the subject of Siddalou Udderly and principles.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“Are you sure she's related to us?” Darlene asked me.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;">“I'm the youngest. I wasn't around for all that. I have to take it on faith.”</span><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" ></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" ></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" >“Arlene, do you think maybe you'd like to go in and get a cold cloth for your head? It’s punishingly hot today.” Lyannie looked hopeful.<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" ></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" >“I think I would, yes.” Arlene got up from the swing bench and looked at Darlene and <st1:place st="on">I.</st1:place> “But not because there's anything wrong with me. I know what's what when it comes to mail.”<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" ></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" >Lyannie and Arlene disappeared into the house. Darlene and I looked at each other.<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" ></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" >“Well,” she said.<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" ></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" >“Yep.”<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" ></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" >Then I began to laugh.<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" ></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" >“What's so darn funny, Marlene?”<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" ></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" >“Oh, I was thinking. What if there was some sort of heavenly post office? You know, sorting parcels for St. Peter, letters for St. Lucy. Think of the bureaucracy of that. Would they have 'disgruntled' workers like us? I can see them, changing the postage meters, stamping everything return to sender. God: addressee unknown. Laughing maniacally.”<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" ></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" >“I'm beginning to think Daddy must have dropped you on your head too, Marlene.”<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" ></span><br /><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:13;color:black;" >I grinned, and took out my nicotine comfort sticks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“Daddy was a butterfingers, that’s a true thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So maybe so, Darlene. Maybe so.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Lighting up, I took a long delicious taste of tobacco.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It would be worth whatever pink penance I’d have to do later.</span>Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-42676671448600112192009-10-09T17:42:00.001-05:002009-10-09T17:46:50.477-05:00Absurdity and Insectoid Drones<p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">On the absurdity scale, with one being “slightly askew” and ten being “no really, tell me, where are the hidden cameras?” a recent happening in my life hit about an eight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A few weeks ago I got an e-mail from the human resources department at my job, informing me that there was a “mismatch” on the information they had and what Social Security was telling them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Or at least what a Social Security computer was telling them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Namely, that according to Social Security, I was a man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Oh really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>News to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Very big news to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>How come I never noticed this about myself before?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The other thing was, oh yes, I needed to provide documentation that Social Security no longer believed I was a man or my employer would be forced to remove me from my job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Apparently Homeland Security has a vested interest in being <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">absolutely sure</i> that women of a certain age really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">are</i> women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">Once I managed to get my eyes unstuck from where they had firmly lodged when I had rolled them, I called the local Social Security office listed on their website, since a perusal of said website did not reveal any online way to get a sex change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The faceless, and ultimately brainless woman I talked to (of course, how do I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">know</i> if she was really a woman or not) asked me all kinds of questions about previous addresses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was not prepared for this walk down <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Memory Lane</st1:address></st1:Street>, this stroll along <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Recollection Boulevard</st1:address></st1:Street>. I mean, who really remembers all the addresses of the places they’ve lived?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Well, maybe some do, but I don’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I managed to remember enough to convince her I was really myself and she clicked keys on a computer for a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Eventually she told me that the “paperwork was started” and that the situation should be resolved within thirty days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I wanted to laugh about any government process taking only thirty days, but I figured I’d better keep my levity to myself.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">I should have known better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Somewhere deep in my subconscious I probably did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Time passed, and one lovely fall day I received another e-mail reminding me that I had “x” number of days to resolve the issue regarding my Social Security mismatch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In other words, to prove I was not a man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was kind of like a non-musical, unfunny, non-dancing <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Victor</i></st1:City><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">, <st1:state st="on">Victoria</st1:State></i></st1:place> experience. Sort of. Maybe not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">I decided to call the people at Social Security again “just to be sure” all was going as planned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Notice I did not say “faceless insectoid drones”, but I thought about it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This time I talked to a man (or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">was</i> he?).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I explained my issue and what I had been told before and I could hear him looking at me like I suddenly grew a second head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If you know what I mean by that completely incorrect sentence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was informed that things could not be changed over the phone, but that I needed to present evidence in person at the Social Security office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Present evidence? Like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">what,</i> I wondered, yank open my blouse?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Ohhhhhhh… bring my birth certificate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Then the faceless insectoid drone asked me “Were you born a man?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I wonder if he heard me look at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">him</i> like he’d suddenly grown a second head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A second insectoid drone head with a huge proboscis and waggling pincers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I shrieked “No!!!” This whole thing was just too bizarre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Then he asked me “Will it say that on your birth certificate?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was so astonished at the question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“Yes!!!!” I shrieked again, finding all of this a little horrifying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I imagined the conversation continuing:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">“Did you ever <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">wish</i> you were a man?” asks <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Insectoid</st1:City> <st1:state st="on">Man.</st1:State></st1:place><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">I thought about this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Technically yes…like when on a long trip and the sign says “1000 miles until the next Rest Area”, or when the monthly Festival of Femininity makes its visit, but I get over it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">“No.” I say firmly.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">I was brought back to the unreality of the reality by Insectoid Man telling me that he did not know of any documentation that would be available after I presented my birth certificate, that maybe the other Insectoid Drones would know when I visited the hive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I mean office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">Later that day I continued my part in this circus act by jumping through the hoops necessary to obtain a copy of my birth certificate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Then I waited.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">It only took about a week to arrive, and so I girded my loins and prepared to meet the Insectoid Drones in the hive. Office. Office. Office.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">Surprisingly, the Insectoid Drone was a very pleasant person who clicked merrily away at the keys on his computer with his waggling pincers. He examined my birth certificate, and thankfully that was indeed all the proof I needed to provide. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In a short time I was finished. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I asked about “documentation” and this time I could actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">see</i> the reaction to the second head that had to be growing out of my neck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He told me that there really wasn’t anything for “documentation”, and that the folks who needed to see the documentation could look at it “on the computer” because that is how they would have been informed of the Gender Question in the first place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He gave me a waggle of his pincers in farewell and I was on my way, a new (albeit the same) woman.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">At least until some other Insectoid Drone decides otherwise.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-3532037720865968532009-10-02T17:02:00.001-05:002009-10-02T17:05:45.380-05:00Sometimes I Have To Wonder What The Thinking Is<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> Every once in a while, I come across a book that is so mind-numbingly dull, so lackluster in execution, so obvious in plot, that it makes me want to heave it across the room in a fit of gall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>No, I’m not going to name names, though I could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What boggles me is a question I have no answer to: how the bloody h-e-double hockey sticks do the things get published in the first place?<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> Yes, sometimes, I know, a title can be published on the strength of an author’s selling power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Yet I have to say that not every word that comes out of someone’s head needs to or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">should</i> be published. Myself absolutely included.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>it’s my blo-og and I’ll write what I want to, write what I want to, write what I want to. You can blog too if it feels right to you…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Ok. Enough of that.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> I have talked to agents and other people in the business, and the talk is always about how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">quality</i> is looked for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So much competition for so few opportunities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Impress</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">show them something different.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Is just plain BAD so different that it passes for something new and interesting?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Or is it that culturally we have become so dumbed-down that mediocre writing is the level expected? Some might say that writing to a “certain level” is fine because “at least they’re still reading”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Maybe, but I wonder if it keeps the culture from sliding any further down the road towards pond scum. Perhaps if expectations keep being lowered, it could send us cart wheeling all the way down that same road.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> To be honest, I’m not impressed by books written to impress either. I suspect that some titles that have made the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">NY Times Bestseller</i> list actually just spend a lot of time on coffee tables (note that I say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">some</i> … I am not denigrating literary fiction, I happen to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">like</i> literary fiction unless it is so self-consciously <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">literary</i> that it makes my nose bleed).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Nothing “impresses” like a book neither the owner of the coffee table nor the guest have any intention of reading but can appreciate for the air of sophistication, sheen of “cool”, or cachet it gives someone who bought it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Personally I have better things to do with my book-buying budget.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> So what do I want? It might seem like all I want are books that fall into my own defined sense of art and interest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I want well-written books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Books that enchant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not in the Disney sense necessarily, one can be enchanted by a dark as well as a light tale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I want books that don’t send up flares illuminating the plot so that it can be seen 100 miles away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I want books that are not so ponderous and weighty that they make me seriously wonder if their real purpose is as a doorstop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I want books full of real characters, not carnival cardboard cutouts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I want neither heavy-handed fiction nor feather-handed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I don’t want to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">see</i> the hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> Most of all, I don’t want to read another piece of refuse book and marvel at how it exists in published form while I still toil to get it right so that I don’t throw my own book across the room before turning it into a doorstop.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-48856026179006237772009-09-25T17:20:00.000-05:002009-09-25T17:21:47.961-05:00Never Could Say Goodbye<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">Some goodbyes are poignant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Some are with relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Some can be with a hearty “good riddance” or “don’t let the door hit you on the way out”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Some are reluctant, others welcomed, yet others engender a curious combination of emotions that can hit you like a pineapple anchovy pizza.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The goodbyes I think about the most are the ones never said; the times when circumstance or misunderstanding did not allow for it, or when the opportunity was simply denied.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">I never got to say goodbye to my father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He died in March of this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The week before he died, I had called him to thank him for my birthday present.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Never a man given to talking a lot, he was even less gregarious than usual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He said he had a cold, and he did sound terrible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I probably should have known, as Dad was always Mr. Impervious to discomfort or pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Something that would put mere mortals out of commission would be brushed off by my dad (he once went to work in steel-toed boots the day after having ingrown toenails removed).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My brother remarked once that Dad could be standing on the moon in his shirtsleeves and not think it was cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I myself am not made of such strong stuff.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">Technically, I never got to say goodbye to my mother either, but at least I was able to make it home to be with her briefly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was sick myself when my dad passed, so I was unable to travel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It makes a difference. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">When I was in graduate school some odd years ago, my dad had a heart bypass operation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was unable to get home, but it scared me pretty thoroughly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I wrote him a letter telling him that I wanted him to know how much I loved him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was surprised to get a letter back telling me that it was harder for him to express feelings than it was for “you girls”, but he told me he loved my mother, and me, and my brothers very much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Whenever we talked on the phone (which wasn’t often or long, him being not very talkative as I mentioned), I always told him I loved him and he always said “I love you too, kid.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It always made me feel good, because I knew it was true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Just like I knew he was proud of me overall, even though I managed to make some monumentally stupid moves down the years.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">Being an orphan stinks, to put it plainly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>However it has had one effect that I did not anticipate or suspect:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I find that I try even harder to accomplish my goals because things truly are up to me now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There’s no mommy or daddy to run to even when I have times (as I still do) when I would like to. No place to go, nowhere to hide when the Masters of the Universe engage in a cosmic smack-down. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">I would say this to him if I could: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I still can’t say goodbye, Dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m still working and trying to keep you and Mom proud of me, and I won’t quit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-15717169489051271792009-09-18T17:13:00.001-05:002009-09-18T17:16:08.702-05:00Rude New World<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> Is it just me, or does it seem like people have gotten really rude in the last few years?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Have civility and manners become outmoded fashion?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Does expecting people to behave themselves with at least a modicum of respect for others make me a relic?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Ok, I know that there have always been badly behaved people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But seriously. Lately it seems to be epidemic. I’m not talking about Emily Post and which utensil one uses with the aspic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I don’t really care about that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I know it might drive some people up the proverbial wall, but if someone uses the inside fork for the first course, it doesn’t cause the fabric of my cosmos to tear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>However, people running off at the mouth when they ought to use their brain first, does bug me.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> I’ve been noticing this less than attractive trend for a while now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It happens everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When did people decide that their loud cell phone conversations everywhere from a restaurant to a coffee house to sometimes even outside in close proximity were at all interesting to anyone else?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When did people decide that sitting in a legitimate theatre or a movie theatre and talking like it was their living room is acceptable? Are people shopping at the local supermarket so myopic that they can’t see that their conversation with their neighbor while blocking the access to one or more aisles is incredibly annoying?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Do the parents of overly active and under-restrained children honestly think that everyone finds their little darling jumping up and down on seats or screaming in the store endearing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If I hear “now, now” one more time… I may throw my own tantrum.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> This last week the trend was highlighted publicly and embarrassingly by the actions of both Serena Williams and Congressman Joe Wilson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Now, I of course, don’t personally know either of these people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And let me say right here right now:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m not discussing politics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Politics are not the point. Neither is race. What I know about Ms. Williams is that she is a phenomenally gifted athlete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What I know about Mr. Wilson is that he is need of a serious hair stylist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That’s pretty much it. What I saw through the magical medium of television, since I was not privileged to attend either the U.S. Open or the joint session of Congress, was, however, appalling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What was even worse was the lukewarm “My emotions got the better of me” statement from both of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m not saying that their apologies were not sincere, because I have no way to know that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I can say what it looked like was two people just going through the motion of an apology.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> I suppose I ought to be grateful that much was said, since most of the time people respond to being even gently confronted about their rudeness with a mixture of: 1) disbelief that anyone could find their behavior objectionable, 2) anger that anyone would dare to even mention it and 3) a defensive posture that would serve them well in the WWF.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m all for assertiveness and standing up for oneself, but acting like an arse just because one has a constitutionally guaranteed right to isn’t the most attractive option that can be taken.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> I’d like to think that manners still count.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That manners are still taught. That manners are still a concept.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That civil behavior is not just something from an old movie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I could just be harboring this naïve hope in the face of the Rude New World.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I hope not.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-74863693298907592212009-09-11T16:42:00.003-05:002009-09-11T16:47:53.264-05:00Friends, Orbital Rings and the Masters of the Universe<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">It seems to me that the subject the Masters of the Universe have been nudging me to think on this summer has been friends and friendship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’ve been reunited with friends after circumstances either technological or just plain idiotic separated us for long periods of time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This has been wonderful, and I value these people in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Now that summer is sliding gracefully into autumn, I am looking at some other friendships that have not and are likely not to be renewed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There is a curious mix of feelings that accompany this: some confusion still, as the circumstances were such that I never had any say in anything. I was, for reasons still unknown to me, suddenly persona non-grata. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There is a memory of fondness for these people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Surprisingly, there is little sadness and no anger at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I have an amazing capacity to compartmentalize, and these folks have been shut securely away in the box I guess I need to keep them in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Mostly I don’t care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That is where what little sadness I feel comes from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I would like to feel more bereft, but I don’t really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">When I was growing up, I was never one of those girls who participated in the mean girls’ game of backstabbing and gossiping about my friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My mother taught me very early how important friendships were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Some would just happen, but still it was important to choose carefully, and important to maintain them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She told me it wasn’t ever a good idea to have a falling out with a girlfriend over a boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Eventually the boy would be yesterday’s news and another would come along (she was right, you know). True friends are much more rare and valuable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She taught me a very specific definition of friendship: one that counted honesty, loyalty and honor to be highly valued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Consequentially, I never had a huge “entourage”, or gang of friends, but the friends I did have were truly my friends. I was, however, quite guilty of slipshod maintenance, mainly because as a creative person, I tend to get lost in time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I could blink and realize that weeks or months have gone by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not everyone understands or has the patience for that.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">In later years, I came to think of non-romantic relationships in terms of “orbital rings”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not because I have such an inflated opinion of myself that I think I am <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">the sun</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">a nucleus</i> or anything, but because the image makes sense for how I think of things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Those who are closest to me occupy the innermost ring; those slightly less close, the next outer ring and so on until the “acquaintance ring”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Everyone else is just out there in the space somewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Most of the time trouble would come from someone on a more outer ring competing with someone on an inner ring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The oddity of it was that every time, the inner ring dweller didn’t engage with the one trying to compete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>For myself, I could never understand what was so great about me that would make someone want to compete in the first place, but it happened several times.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">I know that this orbital competition happens for other people too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This last year, someone from a mid-way ring for both my best friend and I and <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>whom both of us <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>have known and been fond of for a very long time caused chaos in the universe when they decided that they could no longer abide my being on my best friend’s inner orbital ring because it was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">their</i> rightful place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was ugly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was unnecessary. It caused a lot of people a lot of pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In the end, the person who attempted ring-jumping was jettisoned out into the deepest reaches of space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A lot of years gone up in smoke.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">When I think on the actions of this now former friend, and on the actions of the former friends who exiled me, something else my mother taught me comes to mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She used to say “don’t expect people to sink to certain levels, but don’t be surprised when they do”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I try to keep that in mind, but sometimes I<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"> am</i> still surprised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Maybe because I have tried to choose carefully when it comes to friends and so when things like this happen it makes me question my judgment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Maybe because despite all the evidence to the contrary in so many walks of life, I want to believe that other people have the same definitions of friendship and code that I do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I don’t know.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">What I do know is this: I have reached a point in my life now where my inner orbital ring is stable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Time and experience have taught me much, and I do not take for granted those I care about and who care about me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I force myself out of the creative universe and onto terra firma to ensure that I feed and water the friendships I have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As for stability in the more outer rings?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Tell the Masters of the Universe that I’m working on it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-51888561201868089982009-09-02T18:08:00.000-05:002009-09-02T18:09:43.197-05:00Benevolent Monarch<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">A sure sign of the seasons beginning to change has come to my house this week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>His Royal Catness Prince Mabon has begun consuming food in mass quantities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He is “bulking up” for winter, even though he has already got plenty of bulk at eighteen pounds. Winter ought to be in quotation marks as well, as his entire experience of winter consists of sitting by the window in cozy warmth and gazing out upon the snowy domain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>While, I, human serf to the Royal One, risk freezing eyelids, frosted lung lining and potential Bambi-on-ice displays of grace all in the name of working to keep him in The Style To Which He Has Become Accustomed. You would think he would be grateful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Appreciative, maybe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>You would be wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">The cat world view is quite simple:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>humans exist to serve their superior furry feline overlords.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Humans are tolerated as long as and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">only</i> as long as they fulfill this function to perfection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Any failure is responded to with a display of disdain as only a cat can manage: what I like to call the “kitty finger”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Cats are adept at showmanship, and the kitty finger is no exception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They turn their back to the disgraced human with a flourish of tail, then sit, studiously ignoring, flicking the tail back and forth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The length of tail, velocity and interval of repetition of said tail flick indicates the level of displeasure one is under.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>No amount of sweet-talking, cajoling, suggesting of things to play moves them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The human must undergo the punishment for as long as deemed appropriate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Or until you go out into the kitchen and open a can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A can of anything will do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Suddenly, all is forgiven!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As with any fickle and capricious monarch, a person’s fortunes rise and fall with astonishing rapidity. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">This is not to say that we serfs receive nothing in return.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They have an uncanny sense of when we feel sick or depressed, and so they sit with you (or more often on you) to comfort you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Or so you think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Actually they are continuing to exert their domination by deigning to show what passes for affection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This is the cat version of “bread and circuses” known as “snuggling and purring”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>You can choose whether or not you wish to be fooled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I choose to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I actually buy into the happy chirpy greeting I get when I come home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">HRC Prince Mabon is a benevolent monarch,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>even if he does eat through the equivalent of the GNP of several small nations.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">Winter approacheth.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-10795069176674280212009-08-27T17:27:00.002-05:002009-08-27T17:30:09.980-05:00American Mythos<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">John F. Kennedy was assassinated when I was 18 months old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was six when his brother Robert was killed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I have no memory of the first incident and only a very hazy recollection of the second; mainly that something bad had happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In the couple of days since the death of Teddy Kennedy, I have been reading and hearing a great deal about the “end of an era”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It has me thinking about the concept of the American Mythos and the appetite of the crowd.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">We are a young country, as those things are counted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We have never had a king.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Well, maybe some who thought themselves king-like, but never any <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">official</i> king.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The fact is that culturally, our foundations were laid by those who had never known anything <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">but</i> monarchy, and even though they fought valiantly to be free from that particular yoke and succeeded, there remains in the American character a fascination with royalty, nobility, whatever one chooses to call it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We are fascinated with the perceived glamour; we just don’t want to be slaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In some ways, we’re a bit schizophrenic too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Two opposing states of being comprise our most powerfully compelling myths:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>the self-sufficient loner, and the glamorous surrounded by entourage fabulously wealthy_____ fill in the blank (captain of industry, athlete, actor, musician, etc).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Add to this our love of the Horatio Alger sort of rags-to-riches dream, and we have quite a mix.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Just don’t fail to live up to what we expect, even if you don’t know what those expectations are.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">The character of Jack in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Titanic</i>, we liked because he represented some of the things we like to think best in ourselves: resourcefulness, independence, pride without conceit, making a way in the world on his own terms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The flip side is the never-ending fascination and criticism with every move that Brangelina or Britney Spears make. Or, heaven forbid, the Octomom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We raise up heroes onto pedestals only to rush to rip them from those heights with a glee and eagerness that is dizzying. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We like our heroes to be human, because we can relate and share in our own way some of their glory, know that success.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We just don’t want them to be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">too</i> human, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">too</i> like us, because then we see reality, our own failings reflected, and the mirror turns ugly.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">I think that Teddy Kennedy spent the last 25 or so years of his life trying to overcome his mistakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I don’t know if he succeeded, time will have to judge that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It might be because of when I was born, but I was never caught up in the Kennedy myth. I recognize that they were, and to an extent still are, the closest thing we have had to our own home-grown royalty, and so have been accorded the fascination and the adoration as well as the speculation, and the burden of living up to what expectations have been placed on them by the very culture that anointed them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">can</i> say that I’m glad I’m not one of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I wouldn’t have it in me to stand it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-60179117602125051512009-08-19T18:22:00.003-05:002009-08-19T18:24:34.198-05:00Lengsfeld and Merckle: Quite a Pair, Apparently<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">There are a lot of great combinations in this world:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Spaghetti and Meatballs, Bogie and Bacall, Rum and Coke<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">, Law and Order</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There are a lot of not-so-great combinations in this world: well, mainly broccoli and anything.Then there are the eternal classic combinations: Death and Taxes, Man and Remote, Hamburgers and Fries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This week I’ve been getting miles of amusement out of another eternally classic combination: Sex and Politics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span></i> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">Time</span></i><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> magazine ran an article I saw regarding the upcoming elections in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Germany</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As riding the coattails of Chancellor Angela Merkel’s popular CDU party in a <st1:place st="on"><st1:state st="on">Berlin</st1:State></st1:place> district dominated by the Green Party was not going to be a successful strategy, candidate Vera Lengsfeld, 57, has taken a more <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">upfront</i> approach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Her campaign posters, plastered everywhere feature a composite photo of herself and the Chancellor in low-cut attire, over a slogan that simply proclaims: We Have More To Offer.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Ja vol!</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">If mammary serves, cleavage gets attention (ok, that was bad).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s Mother Nature’s publicity, a fact that apparently has been used in this case to mostly, though not completely positive feedback. The posters are a good humored trick in a way, but walk a very fine line between being taken seriously and not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Now, I don’t ascribe to the Frankenstein-villagers-with-torches-and-pitchforks <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">we’re going to take back her feminist credentials</i> point of view. I’m also not a man, so I don’t ascribe to the drool-hey-look-dopey smile <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Cleavage!</i> point of view either. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I do, however, wonder if Ms. Lengsfeld had considered running under the auspices of the Benny Hill party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I suppose it might be hard to discuss climate change while patting short bald old fellas on the head to the accompaniment of jittery music, though. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">The entire episode has had me laughing, true, but there is another question I find myself asking as well. Why do we (and I mean an in general “we” as western culture) view a woman striving to rise as either a bollocks-busting hellion with PMS, or a game playing vixen?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Despite all the advances women have made in careers, politics, and life in general, there is always this undercurrent of derision. “Well, we know who wears the pantsuit in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">that</i> family.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A woman’s strength is an honorable and appreciated thing within a culturally acceptable context?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Like on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Little House on the Prairie</i> or something?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Or for others, her strength is only considered valid if she scowls at men who hold the door open for her? It’s positively schizophrenic.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">Naw, don’t believe any of that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If I did I’d have to eschew my own culture for ever. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>You don’t have to choose, as a woman, between the vixen and the pantsuit, unless you buy into the argument that you have to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That’s the only way any of it changes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Granted, evolution happens at a glacial pace, but if women decide not to accept either version for themselves and instead become <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">people</i>, both sexual and strong, there won’t be the need for women to make clear How Much More We Have To Offer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And still enjoy the fact that a man holds open the door for us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-82869222553245574242009-08-12T18:13:00.001-05:002009-08-12T18:17:38.505-05:00Nope. I Don't Think About Smoking. Ever.<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">Two years ago this coming November, I quit smoking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In fairness to myself, or what may be the tiniest bit of remaining denial, I didn’t smoke a lot and I had not been a long-time smoker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Just a few years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There was something calming about the habit, and few things were more enjoyable than a smokey treat accompanied by a cup of good coffee just as the sun was coming up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>For some reason, coffee at the break of O Dark Hundred has lost its appeal. Haven’t touched a cigarette though, since the day I quit. Besides the unhelpful effect it has on my health, there are people lined up who would kill me faster than you could say “lung cancer”. <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">Somebody who works where I do, but not in the same department, saw me heading out of the building and asked me if I was going for a smoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I blinked in surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Normally, I don’t really give the bygone days of smoking much thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I don’t dare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I don’t dare give it<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"> any</i> thought at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In fact, I am taking a risk <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">right this very moment</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">My best friend, whom I shall refer to as the Sicilian Hurricane (and who I will just say here and now loves me a whole lot), had an issue with my smoking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I knew she didn’t like it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I knew she knew I knew she didn’t like it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I knew it worried her, as it did some others of my friends and my brother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>For a long time I would pretend she didn’t know I smoked, and she seemed to pretend to be unconcerned or even aware that I had the habit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I became adept at the prestidigitation of lit cigarettes whenever she would appear on the scene, as well as other acts of a covert nature surrounding my habit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Actually, I was an abysmal failure at said prestidigitation, or any covert act, much to the howling delight of my other friends with whom I felt no need to do this silly dance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>An oft-retold story amongst them involves me hurriedly placing a lit cigarette in a soda can that was sitting on a railing directly above and behind where I happened to be sitting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I thought the soda can had soda in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>More fool I.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I sat there having a lovely and pleasant conversation with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">l’uragana minuta Siciliana, </i>while behind me, smoke was rising in a slow, lazy curl from the soda can like a miniature version of a quaint and rustic chimney.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Of course, none of my friends tried to warn me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>How could they? Why<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"> would</i> they?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Forsake amusement? That is not in our creed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I would have left any of them hanging in the breeze myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The Hurricane never batted an eye, and I was completely clueless of my backdrop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was not until later, when hilarity ensued that I grasped with mortified embarrassment what had taken place.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">The Masters of the Universe have a perverse sense of humor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A week after I quit smoking, I was <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>hospitalized due to a pulmonary embolism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I had wondered why I felt <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">worse</i> after giving up my smokey treats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The Hurricane lives in another part of the country than I do, but she called when she found out where I was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Smart woman that she is, she knows a captive audience. She had things to say and she was going to say them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Did it matter to her that I had already quit? Not a whit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Did it matter to her that I had decided I wouldn’t smoke again? Surely you jest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Did it matter that the embolism had scared me but good?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Served me right. I lived through the vigorous expression of her opinion, (perhaps some might call it “spirited”),but barely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Strangely, my ear felt like I had been pulled around by it for about twenty miles, and a friend of mine who happened to be in my hospital room still says she wishes she had video of my face during the “conversation”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m surprised I don’t have a permanent wince engraved on my face. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">For a while, I had dreams about having a smoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Or tried to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They were always the same:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I would be standing on a little dock somewhere on a pristine lake, enjoying the peace and quiet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A perfect time for a smokey treat, which would then miraculously appear in my hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I would smile, delicately sniff the wondrous golden leaf and then the Hurricane would appear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In the middle of my dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Tapping her foot, arms crossed and a look of “oh you had better not” in her dark eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Every darn time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Sigh. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">Sometimes I would have a craving and the phone would ring, the Hurricane on the other end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Spooky just like when someone you’re thinking about suddenly calls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">So you see? I don’t dare think about the enjoyment, the minty taste,the mellowing effects. Even the fact that I’ve ever heard of a cigarette. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My phone could ring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Shhhhh.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-42050792507968644652009-08-05T17:41:00.001-05:002009-08-05T17:43:53.399-05:00My Mother, the Yardstick and the Feminine Hero<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">My mother died a few years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Losing her was the most devastating thing I have ever been through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Perhaps it isn’t for some people, or a lot of people, but it was for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is only very recently that I have been able to include her in things I write about.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">For years I have measured my success or lack of it in life by my mother’s yardstick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not any of the usual yardsticks mothers and daughters measure by, but one I created on my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Listening to her stories of how she survived as a divorcée with two small children during a time when it was considered a shame, or a failure and men looked at her with knowing looks and assumptions regarding her “availability”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The difficult time before she met my father. She was independent, fearless, triumphant. I cut the wood for the yardstick, trimmed it to size, sanded it, applied the proper markings and varnished it over and over until it shone with an impossible gleam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>By my mother’s yardstick, so many times I have felt that I failed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I have been obsessed with “measuring up”, and never, to my mind, quite up to the task. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My mother would have been the first to disagree with me, but that never stopped me from building this <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">über</i> image of her in her life before my existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Friends who can be more objective point out that my mother had some help from my grandparents and that she had to have felt as idiotic, out of her depth and worthless as I have felt those times when I have done something spectacularly catastrophic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The brilliantly shining yardstick has always blinded me to those truths.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">Lately, I have been reading Ellen Burstyn’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Lessons in Becoming Myself</i> (Riverhead Books, 2006). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I have found her recounting of her journey from her difficult childhood in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Detroit</st1:place></st1:City> through tragedies and triumphs on her way to realizing herself on her path as a Sufi fascinating on so many levels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Yesterday, I came to a passage where she talked about her desire to make films that dealt with feminine heroes, instead of the classic myths focusing mainly on male heroes with women as auxiliary plot devices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She writes: “I’d read somewhere that a hero goes out into the world, meets his enemy, prevails, and founds a new order, while a heroine simply endures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I felt that a feminine hero goes out into the world, meets her enemy, which in one form or another is the limitations imposed on her by her culture, and she not only endures, she also prevails and founds a new order” (pg. 336).<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">All I could then think about was my mother, and how she was a true feminine hero.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She never understood the women’s liberation movement, telling me more than once that she had been liberated all her life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My mother never looked at the world as a place that could imprison her in any defined space, never accepted that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She began working in hospitals pre-World War II, when she was 12, and was smart enough to graduate from high school by age 17.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Desiring to go on to nursing school, she was disappointed by their refusals to admit her at an early age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So she married.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But she never gave up on what she wanted, and when the marriage turned out to be not such a good idea, she went back and she became that nurse, and she was one for the rest of her working life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When she wanted to do something, go somewhere, she did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not because she had no regard for anyone, but because she was a realized, free person and she never conceded to any other designation. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">Always, she told my brother and me that we could be anything we wanted and to never let anyone tell us we couldn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I don’t think she could have foreseen that the one who would tell me that I “couldn’t” was me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The obsession I should have is to live my life in fulfillment of my heroic potential. The lesson I should have learned, is the lesson of the feminine hero, the yardstick I should have crafted was the yardstick that proudly shows me my own progress in becoming one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Just like my mother taught me to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It has just taken me a long time to see it very clearly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-63632471097795984682009-07-29T17:30:00.004-05:002009-07-29T17:54:01.188-05:00Age Is Just A Number, Right, Edna?<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;">Sometimes I forget how old I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not in the sense of denying my age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I literally<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"> forget</i> and have to do the math.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This forgetfulness could be ascribed I suppose to the fact that I have never spent a lot of time in my absolute age group.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In school, I was skipped ahead, so I was with kids older than myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>At family gatherings, I was always much more interested in what the adults were talking about than in playing with my cousins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Ok, I was not normal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It didn’t end there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>I started going to college part time in addition to high school when I was fifteen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>For years, I was always the youngest one in any group I was in at school or at work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m not sure when that came to a halt, exactly, only that I begin to notice that people I was around were younger than me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That was shocking at first, but then grew into a bit of a satisfying state when younger people would ask me for advice and I could pretend that I actually knew anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Was this how it really felt to be an official adult?</i> I wondered, as I carefully kept up my façade of wisdom. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Amazing,</i> I thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">all I have to do is listen, then tell them what I think, and because I’m older and not their mother, all of a sudden I’m “really smart”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Adults have had a good gig all this time and I never knew! </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span><?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;">I noticed all of this, but somehow my actual age was always this nebulous factor that I never really thought about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Birthdays would come. “So, how does it feel to be ______?” I got asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“Umm… the same as it did yesterday?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I would answer, not sure how I was supposed to feel, but knowing I didn’t feel any different at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;">There have been moments of Oh My God, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Like the time I was in the break room at a place I was working, and the cover of the AARP magazine someone had left on the table bore a brilliantly smiling Cheryl Tiegs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Yes, something in my chest did convulse for the briefest of moments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But I moved on, unaffected after that split second.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Or the time more recently when I found myself referring to a person younger than myself as a “whippersnapper”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Whippersnapper?</i> Where did <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">that</i> come from?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Is there an entire vocabulary that suddenly springs forth from your mouth when you reach a certain age?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;">I used to tell my mother that I had this theory about old people and names.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The theory was that people got names like Edna and Earl when they got old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They weren’t born with these names, one day they just were saddled with them, and everybody who knew them suddenly began calling them by those names as if they had always had them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My mother looked at me dubiously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“Well, think about it,” I said, “Do you know anybody named Edna who isn’t old? Or Earl?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She had to admit she didn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I remember smiling with the proof of my point.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;">A few days ago, I got notice that my 30<sup>th</sup> high school reunion is coming up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Thirty years?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The word that comes most readily to mind is: eeeeeeek!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I attended my tenth reunion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was pretty uninspired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My then fiancé (who had not gone to the same school) summed it up by saying “You can already see who peaked in high school.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He was right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>I don’t remember what was going on when my 20<sup>th</sup> came around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In fact, I don’t even remember it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">coming</i> around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So the 30<sup>th</sup> sneaked up on me and body checked me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In the same week, one of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">whippersnappers</i> I work with sent this email with a virtual jukebox containing the top 20 hits for several years from “back in the day”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The most “recent” collection is from 1979, the year I graduated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I looked at it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Sister Sledge’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">We</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Are Family</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">My Sharona</i> by The Knack. Donna Summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Michael Jackson was just coming into his own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It all put me in mind of that lyric “ain’t it funny how time just slips away?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Funny. Strange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Never noticed it until I woke up feeling like part of me has been in an oblivious time warp while the other part was busily and actively engaged with the world.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;">They say that age is just a number.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Why can’t I ever remember that number?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;">I wonder how soon it will be before I awaken to a new day with all the whippersnappers calling me Edna.</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-32706561708623607582009-07-22T17:36:00.002-05:002009-07-22T17:47:28.997-05:00Anna, the Romanovs, Madness and Me<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma; FONT-SIZE: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">I’ve heard it said that one definition of madness is the repetition of the same action while expecting different results.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Lately, I’ve been wondering if that applies to reading a novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This last week, I read both <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">The Kitchen Boy</i>, by Robert Alexander, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">What Happened to Anna K.</i>, by Irina Reyn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Since the time I saw the film <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Nicholas and Alexandra</i> when I was a kid, I’ve been in love with the Romanovs and Imperial Russia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Granted, I never had to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">live</i> there, and if I’d had to, I would likely be more on the serf end of things than the white-gown-and-sash end of things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But one can fantasize, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Why, yes, Count Handsomovsky, I would adore to dance the Mazurka with you.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Sigh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My father had this book called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Treasures of the Kremlin</i>, a gigantic, coffee-table kind of book with pictures and pictures of the most wonderfully beautiful things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I used to look at it for hours at a time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>To me, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:city st="on">Leningrad</st1:City> was blight on the luster of <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">St Petersburg</st1:City></st1:place> and I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">never</i> used that name.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma; FONT-SIZE: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma; FONT-SIZE: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">In college, I discovered Rachmaninov and Tolstoy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I remember one time playing a new recording of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini</i> at home, and my mother said “The man who wrote <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">that</i> was in love.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not the last time she said something like that about music, but she could not have expressed any better how that beautiful piece felt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Of the Tolstoy I read, none reached in and grabbed my secretly romantic heart like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Anna Karenina</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>How I loved her, and wept with her and raged at her not to be such an idiot, all the while understanding what could make a woman be just such an idiot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma; FONT-SIZE: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma; FONT-SIZE: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">I devoured everything I could read on the Romanovs and Imperial Russia, from the scholarly to the, shall we say, more speculative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The story made me sad, but so fascinated me at the same time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Like Anna, fatally flawed with some really silly tendencies when you got right down to it, Nicholas and Alexandra as well as the children captured my imagination for years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There are great parts of it they still hold dominion over.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma; FONT-SIZE: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma; FONT-SIZE: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">So, to the question about the madness of a repeated act.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When I was reading the novels I mentioned this past week, I realized something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I kept hoping, with a desperate hope, that somehow, the Romanovs would be saved, that they would not meet their end in that dreadful basement of the Ipatiev house. (Despite differing conclusions, of course, there are still some who maintain that not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">all</i> of them did perish in the middle of that July night in 1918).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Watching Anna K. walk every step towards her appointment with the train just as Tolstoy’s Anna did was heartbreaking and wrenching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Something in me kept hoping that maybe, this time, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">this time</i>, Anna would come out the other side of things. But I couldn’t turn away, couldn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">not</i> be her witness. I still wanted to save her. But, it was not to be. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Nyet.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma; FONT-SIZE: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma; FONT-SIZE: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">This happens every time I read a book about the Romanovs, every time I see a film version of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Anna Karenina</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"> know</i> what will happen, but I just can’t help myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Is it a sign of diminished capacity on my part? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A sign that my secretly romantic heart is not so secret?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Maybe it’s that part of human nature that is drawn to the misfortune of others, simultaneously empathetic and grateful to not be in that position. Something grand and beautiful fallen into tragedy and destruction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Something within us that resonates with that joy and that pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That particular feeling called “alive”.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-84553872997790737082009-07-15T16:38:00.004-05:002009-07-15T16:48:31.416-05:00Scientific Proof of The Obvious<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">“Cats Do Control Humans, Study Finds”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> That was the title of a “news item” I read the other day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Someone actually needed to do a<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"> study</i> to determine this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Kind of like having to do a study that finds that the sun rises in the east. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Of course</i> they control us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The ancient Egyptians admitted it, so why can’t we?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> I long ago gave up any pretense of who actually runs the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Hands down (or that should probably be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">paws </i>down), His Royal Catness Prince Mabon does. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">(Note to prospective cat “owners”: be very careful what you decide to call the cat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They tend to manifest the qualities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“Banshee”? Really bad idea).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My friends have seen various ways in which Prince Mabon exerts his powers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>For instance, if people are over for a visit and the time reaches ten p.m., he proceeds to parade back and forth before the assembled guests and meow at them until they leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Closed doors? He’s not having it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>One speck of bare bowl showing through his crunchies?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Disaster that must be immediately rectified.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not to mention the required petting, brushing, and the fact that I must be within his eyesight at all times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If he could figure out a way to imprison me 24/7 he would.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Actually, I am not altogether sure he isn’t hatching such a plot as we speak.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> There is an international conspiracy of cats, if the truth were told.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">study</i>, published in the July 14<sup>th</sup> issue of the journal <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Current Biology</i>, is only a hint at the vastness of the influence held by the furry felines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>At the risk of endangering my own well-being, I will let you in on some of the secret things I know about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Cats For An Illiterate World is a global organization.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The members of CFAIW carry out their mission by immediately hopping up onto desks, kitchen tables, lap boards and just plain laps whenever reading material is present.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The only exception to this is if the reading material is cat related.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Their mission? I think that is obvious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Sinister, but obvious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Keep the Big Ones ignorant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Let them toil in their delusional state and never let them awaken from it! </i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> But wait, there’s more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Behind every cat that uncannily knows the one person in the room with an allergy, which rug is the most expensive, just exactly how to knock over that planter, is a secret society so ingenious, so pervasive, so diabolical <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>that even Dan Brown would be at a loss to fully appreciate it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Yes, I am talking about The Bast Society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Long ago, the first Grand Catster disseminated amongst the faithful the Keys of Mind Control and the techniques for The Yanking of the Chain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This last can be very serious, just read this excerpt:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Be sure to choose a time when you are alone with a Big One.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Better still if darkness abounds outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Be companionable and sit in a cozy fashion with the Big One.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Wait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Be ever mindful of the temptation to nap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Be not sidetracked by the Nip or by shiny objects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When the time is optimum, suddenly sit up straight as an arrow, ears erect, eyes wide, and stare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Staring at a darkened window is best, but if one is not available, any direction will do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The more intent your stare, the more unsettled the Big One will become.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This is great fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> We cannot fight against this kind of superior tactic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And they know it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Somehow, they managed to get us to pay for a study to prove it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Hear them laughing their sinister little cat laughs?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> I understand they are working on genetic developments involving opposable thumbs.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> We’re doomed.</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p></o:p></span> </p>Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-55334214428619488582009-07-08T17:31:00.002-05:002009-07-08T17:54:33.454-05:00The Writer-Reader Collaboration<span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> <p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">For over twenty years I have been of the opinion that writing is a solitary art.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Sure, people read what you write, but they aren't involved in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It isn’t a collaborative process. Knowing that has made it easier to remain solitary in my fortress of solitude crafting solitary works.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I developed this point of view in college one summer.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span></i> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">The Ice Maiden of Esmeralda County</span></i><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"> is a play I wrote.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was produced during a summer theatre season.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Part of the play festival included opening night critique panels conducted by faculty of both the Drama and English departments as well as a drama critic from a <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Los Angeles</st1:City></st1:place> newspaper, and a television actress. One of the panelists from the English department was a literature professor whom I greatly admired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I had taken several classes from her that I didn’t need just because she was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">that cool</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She was from <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:State> and dressed in stylish tweed jackets and plaid wool skirts and wore scarves and I pretty much thought that anything she had to say about English lit from Brontë to Wordsworth was revealed divine truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I even toyed briefly with becoming a double major in Drama and English so I could learn more <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">seriously literary</i> things (whatever they might be) and adapt a tweed and plaid skirt wardrobe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I still wear scarves to this day, and not just because it’s necessary in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Minneapolis</st1:place></st1:City> half the year.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">The production went well, and I was eager and terrified to hear what the panelists might say, especially my goddess-like English professor. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The drama critic liked the play very much, praised my artistry with dialogue and said the play reminded him of a favorite of his, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">The Rainmaker.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The actress also waxed a bit on the play and said the love scene was one of the most beautifully written she had ever seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The Drama faculty talked the finer and not so fine points of my direction, the acting and the production.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So far, so incredibly wonderful…but what would Dr. Brilliant say? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">For the next several minutes, I listened in rapt disbelief as she talked quite eloquently about the wonderful symbolism I had used throughout the piece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Complete with examples.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I sat and heard all about what my (very successful in her opinion, by the way) intentions had been, how I had so skillfully rendered through use of language and imagery an iconic period in American history (the 1940’s) for a new audience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Dr. Brilliant thought I was gifted! I was Talented! Successful!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And I had absolutely no clue why she thought I meant or intended any of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Literally no idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I had never “intended” or even given the briefest thought to rendering iconic anything, certainly never cleverly thought out all that symbolism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>All I did was write down what the characters were saying in my head. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"></span></p> <p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">The conclusion I left with was that everything I had ever learned in literature classes about themes, and symbols and such in books was a load of horse pucky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The world shifted when I realized that just because a professor said something about a book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">that didn’t make it true.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>All the things we as students had taken to heart about books, poems, or plays, we had accepted because an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">authority</i> had<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"> </i>said This Is The Meaning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If Dr. Brilliant thought I had meant all she said I did, and she was so incredibly wrong, then anything said by any English professor about any book or poem or play was forever suspect. In my mind at that time, only the writer would really know what was meant or not, and any other stated "meaning" had to be, by default, incorrect.</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">I felt this way until just recently, when I was having a conversation with a friend about a book we had both read but had very different opinions on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What I think now is that writing is not a solitary art.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is as collaborative as film making or theatrical production.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We as writers craft something, but the reader completes the process by bringing their experiences, desires, biases, and emotions to their own interpretation of the work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As individual as each reader is, the ways in which our works are completed are myriad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A novel, story, poem or play does indeed stand alone when the writer completes it, but it stands so much stronger for the contribution made by the reader or audience.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma">Guess I’m not too old yet to learn some things.</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Tahoma"><o:p></o:p></span> </p>Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-19318855230815543272009-07-01T07:34:00.003-05:002009-07-01T07:40:28.431-05:00Mendacity SchmendacitySometimes my mind works on and niggles at odd things. This can be anything from the small, inconsequential though baffling hot dog-hot dog bun packaging disparity, to larger, more lofty odd questions regarding life and the universe. Most of the time, the things I ask myself about are somewhere between.<br /><br />When I was very young, I was taught that you did one of two things in any given communication. You were truthful, or you lied. As I got older, of course, I discovered that things were not so simple or black and white as that. During my teenage years, this discovery was the Fort Knox of Ways To Get Away With Things. However, just as Fort Knox is not easy pickings, lying in any or all shades of variation was not a very successful venture for me. I never could figure out how to short circuit that flashing neon sign over my head that screamed “LIAR! LIAR! LIAR!” Every part of me gave my dissembling away. Unless I was playing a joke on someone. Then I was as smooth, unruffled and believable as they come.<br /><br />I've been thinking a great deal in recent months about the role of a fiction writer as artist, scribe, interpreter and teller of tales. Because the word <em>fiction</em> is tacked right on at the front, this would seem to indicate that we are not necessarily truthful. One writer I know said we are unashamed, bald-faced liars. “But we do it for a really good cause” he said, and I wondered why it sounded like justification and why justification should be needed.<br /><br />A short time later, I heard an interview on National Public Radio with the actor/singer Terrence Howard. He talked about acting and truth. He said that actors have to work to be as true as they can because the audience wants that truth. A performance that isn't truthful fails. To me that sounded closer to what I felt to be true not only about my own work as a writer, but also regarding the books that had meant the most to me over time. Not literal truth, but something deeper, shared between writer and reader, between reader and reader. Common experience from just being human and alive. From the earliest times when our ancestors told stories beneath the summer moon or in a smoky shelter in the midst of winter, the absolute literal truth of those tales has never been important. The underlying, inner truth is.<br /><br />My friend Nichole, who is also a writer said “We tell the truth in a funny (i.e. strange or indirect) way.” She's right, too. Between the lines and layers of those things we as fiction writers fabricate is interwoven human experience, our own as well as the greater depth of it.<br /><br />I have come to terms with the dichotomy of lie vs. truth in fiction writing and see it not as a dichotomy at all but more of a reflexive, complimentary practice in the expression of common human experience.<br /><br />The novelist Khaled Hosseini (<em>The Kite Runner</em>), summed it up very elegantly by saying: “Writing fiction is the act of weaving a series of lies to arrive at a greater truth”. While I was musing on the question about lies and truth and deciding how to approach it in my writing this week, I came across that quote on a writing community site that I belong to (<a href="http://www.redroom.com/">www.redroom.com</a>). I grinned at the synchronicity of it all.<br /><br />I am in good company.Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-46834613363656601902009-06-24T15:38:00.002-05:002009-06-24T15:48:07.297-05:00Sex and the Single OctogenarianThis week “Obsession: An Erotic Tale” (HarperCollins), by Gloria Vanderbilt, is arriving on a bookstore shelf near you. Honestly, I thought the lady had passed a while ago. Apparently I am not as up on my “society” studies as I should be. Then again, I have a history of thinking people are dead when they’re not. For instance, I know that Jack Palance died at least twice before the final time in 2006. It was disconcerting to have him showing up in things when I <em>knew</em> he was gone. So the other day I blinked in surprise to read that the creatively creative Ms. Vanderbilt is indeed still very much with us and has penned what Charles McGrath in the <em>New York Times </em>suggested “may be the steamiest book ever written by an octogenarian”. I am still not clear if I was blinking more in response to finding out she was alive or finding out that she wrote an erotic novel. How many octogenarians have written erotica I wonder? Are there varying levels of “steaminess” depending on how “octo” an author was when they wrote? Was this particular book about octogenarians behaving erotically? That answer, at least, is no.<br /><br />Gloria Vanderbilt has always been on the artistic side. A prodigious artist and designer, probably best known for those jeans that everyone I knew in college tried desperately to squeeze into. Although she and her famous jeans have long since parted company, she continues to put her stamp on the printed page. “Obsession” is her third novel. I’ve read several opinions on the simple fact that she has written this book and found them to vary from grudging admiration to bewildered embarrassment to downright <em>oh, that just simply isn’t done</em>.<br /><br />I begin to wonder if the opinions weighing in on the embarrassed side of the scale have more to do with the fact that the woman is 85, or more to do with the fact that sex in general seems to embarrass a lot of Americans. We are a curious mix as a culture. On the one hand glorifying youth and beauty and whatever our broad definition of “sexiness” is at the moment, yet on the other hand, stampeding up onto moral high ground over any sexual expression deemed “not nice”. I am not saying there should not be some stampeding over pornography. There is a difference between erotica and pornography. Not that I am about to explain that here. All I will say is that if you have experienced them both, you know the difference. As a people, we tend to accept more easily things that are “safe”. This is understandable on some levels, but deadly dull on others. The seniors frolicking in <em>Cocoon</em> was a safe experience, even cute. Erotic novels, not so much. <br /><br />I don’t fall on the embarrassed side of the scale. I say good for Gloria. Why <em>not </em>write an erotic novel? Why <em>not</em> still succumb to adventure at 85? If you haven’t earned the right to do what you want by then, you never will. <br /><br />You go girl.Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-19612835745084738662009-06-16T16:03:00.004-05:002009-06-16T16:28:55.313-05:00Back from the cosmic lessoning. For good this time. I hope.Sometimes I get discouraged. Discouraged over life, the state of the world, etc., on microcosmic and macrocosmic levels. I’ve even thought I could write a blog and entitle it: <em>What the H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks is </em>Wrong<em> With People?,</em> and never lack for subject matter. While I know I’m not alone in this feeling, it isn’t something I enjoy. I also don’t find the thought that there might be camaraderie amongst the ‘discouraged’ to be a comfort.<br /><br />The last couple of years have been rough. That is a polite way to put it. I last wrote on this blog in July of 2007, before my most recent round of cosmic battering. I believe that The Universe is actually run by a God<em>father</em> who keeps making offers I shouldn’t refuse. And when I do, the enforcers Snub Nose Louie and Ricky the Rat Bastard come around with their wicked clue-by-fours and…well… it’s just ugly. I’d like to think I learn. We’ll see I suppose.<br /><br />In the last few days, however, I have been struck by the resilience of friendships and the generosity of strangers.<br /><br />I had not spoken to my two oldest friends in…let’s just say… a very long time. Near the end of 2007, they had this idea we should meet for a weekend. The email was enthusiastic, and I would have loved to go. I never responded because I was being assaulted by the aforementioned Louie and Ricky. In fact, I forgot about it completely.<br /><br />And in the meantime: A Lot Of Things Unfortunate And Unpleasant Happened.<br /><br />Flash forward to a couple of weeks ago. Louie and Ricky have largely backed off and I continue to make my way forward. A movie that reminded me of my friends came on and I thought “Hmm… haven’t heard from those guys in a long---_”<br /><br />(Insert dramatic intake of gasping breath of realization here).<br /><br />For the next week and a half I worked myself into such a state of “they-hate-me-because-they-think-I-just-blew-them-off-and-they’ll-never-talk-to-me-again” that I broke out into sweaty hives just thinking about calling.<br /><br />Darn my parents for instilling in me a sense of The Right Thing To Do.<br /><br />Then there was the brief interview with a playwright who had a new play about Anne Frank opening. If there is anyone who ever existed who can point out how you need to ‘suck it up’ and look at things in perspective, it was Anne Frank.<br /><br />So I called. First one friend then the other. Both of them were so happy and relieved to hear from me. I was happy and relieved that they were happy and relieved. So much happiness and relief. They thought they had out of date information. They even tried to contact my brother but couldn’t. Never even entered their thoughts that I might have been “blowing-them-off-and-so-they-should-hate-me”. Joey Three Bells, the cosmic jester who works for the same boss as Louie and Ricky jangled his festive hat and scepter then gave me a dope slap to the back of my head. I, of course, grinned like an idiot. Another chance at a reunion weekend will be coming around.<br /><br />Before launching back into my blogging today, I checked on a message board for a writing group I belong to. I had posted a question regarding how long a certain bit of information would be accessible. I said I didn’t want to be one of “those people” (the ones that go on and on about their problems), but that things had been rough and so I had been away. There were two responses. One of my fellow writers gave me the information I needed. Another writer didn’t address the information question, but posted something that touched me with its generosity of feeling. She said that “one of those people” is a person experiencing life with all the ups and downs and that she hoped I’d have more ups now. She and I have never met before, and never communicated before (it’s a large group), but with that post, she brought a wonderful sense of warmth to my day.<br /><br />Both of these things might seem small or not very important. To me, they were refreshing and reaffirming of my faith in friendships and the generosity of people unseen and never met.<br /><br />I always say “I never make the same mistake twice. I just make new and interesting ones.” Right now, I’m hoping I’ve learned some things and won’t be receiving any visits from Louie and Ricky any time soon.Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-1592712965195606782007-07-03T15:16:00.000-05:002007-07-03T18:14:42.727-05:00Sometimes, ignorance is bliss. No, really! It is!<span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">Most of the time, I think of myself as being a rather observant person. A student of the world and the humanity that inhabits it. Apparently, however, I have a blind spot. It seems I'm so often so busy looking at things through a writer's eyes that I miss some things going on around me. Worse. Things directed specifically at me. My friends take great delight in this particular myopia of mine, especially when given an opportunity to point it out.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">The latest Tale of the Blindspot involves this man. He's kind of a goofy man. Strange-goofy I mean. But not like serial-killer strange-goofy. At least I don't think so, but there is the blind spot to consider. Some of my friends and I hang out at a particular coffee place a few times a week, and I go there to write on weekends (<em>the Bean inspires). </em> Mr. Goofy also frequents this place and has for at least as long as we have. My only opinion of him is that he is goofy. He looks "normal" in a kind of 45-year-old mamma's boy kind of way: weak chin, doughy skin, watery eyes. Wears a lot of sweaters that looked picked out by somebody else. Somebody female and considerably older. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">Mr Goofy is a religious man. This in and of itself does not, of course, make him goofy. I am as non-commital as I can be without being rude when he informs me for the eight hundredth time how much in esteem I am held by a certain aramaic-speaking offspring of the Big Man With the White Beard. It's a nice sentiment, it just doesn't happen to be part of my particular path. What makes him goofy to me are things like the fact that he constantly goes out to smoke cigarettes in his car like he's trying to hide it from somebody. No matter the weather. In winter, I can understand it. Not when the temperature is 90. And not every ten minutes. Between the smoking and the trips to the men's room, I'm amazed he gets any chanting done. (Oh, I didn't mention that he chants under his breath all the time? He does.) Ok, so none of this may seem goofy to you. That's ok, but it does to me.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">So how am I myopic about Mr. Goofy? A few weeks ago, one of my friends told me that she'd been noticing Mr. Goofy paying a lot of attention to me whenever I was in the coffee house. She kidded me that he probably had a crush. <em>Yeah, right,</em> I said, <em>he probably thinks I'm as wierd as I think he is</em>.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">Wouldn't you know it? Within a couple of weeks, Mr. Goofy began finding all sorts of reasons to try to engage me in conversation. I felt like an animal in a trap. All I wanted to do was chew my arm off and escape. Rescue efforts by my friends present have been sporadic and half-hearted. I'm not sure what I did to engender this penchant for watching me squirm, but I must have done something. Now Mr. Goofy talks to me all the time, smiling his dough-faced smile and showing me his odd little pointed teeth. And I never see him coming. It is just "poof" and he is right there. Or so it seems.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">My myopia is not just concerning Mr. Goofy, or men in general. Even bigger amusement has been had by my friends when they have observed me not observe women trying to hit on me. They let it go on and on, snerking at my obliviousness until they find the most supreme opportune moment to let me in on the secret. I gape in surprise and disbelief and they guffaw. <em>How could you not notice? </em>they ask me. I just never do. My mind is usually on other things, and since <em>I know</em> what team I bat on, I assume women know it too, so why would they hit on me? I have no problem with the other team. (And now, there really is no way to say "some of my good friends are on the rainbow team" without sounding stupid. But it is true, I do have friends on the rainbow team).</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">After each revelation of my myopic state, I long for the time just <em>before </em>I was let in on what was going on around me. Whichever team is trying to draft me, I don't want to know. I have too much going on. Novels to finish. Novels to begin. A really full queue on Netflix. Leave me in my oblivious, myopic nirvana. Please.</span>Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-55948315747693122152007-06-07T18:58:00.000-05:002007-06-07T18:58:37.957-05:00Bloodsuckers<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table><blockquote id="11c3da49"><div align="left"><table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" align="left" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" unselectable="on" width="100%"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><span style="font-family:verdana;">I have outstanding student loans. Outstandingly high amounts. I went through chiropractic school. I have the degree. I am <em>technically</em> <strong>Doctor</strong> Amadan. That and $4.75 will get me a Wild Cherry Mocha at Caribou. For reasons that are by turn semi-tragic and lightly comedic, I did not end up practicing that profession, but that is a tale for another time. A time when I have absolutely nothing else at all to write about. A time when generous amounts of Mr Jameson's special irish has been slipped into my Wild Cherry Mocha by persons of dubious character. A time I don't foresee anywhere on the horizon.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">Now, I don't dispute that the debt is mine. Oh, it is. I also agree that I need to pay it back. Sometime. Like when I have an income that will allow me to make payments that actually have meaning. I try not to think about the fact that the original only slightly disconcerting five-figure amount has grown to a gargantuan six-figure behemoth. Every payment I make doesn't even dent the interest piling on. I would make as much headway against this debt if I just set the cash equivalent on fire and mailed the ashes in. The loan has become a giant, inflated balloon casting its dark shadow over the parade of my life. The Bloodsuckers walk right along with me, the long tentacle-like tethers hanging from my debt balloon held tight in their cadaverous claws, their noses raised slightly, sniffing the wind for any hint that I might have a dollar or two more this week than I had last week.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">Every six months, I have to complete the exercise in humiliation otherwise known as a financial disclosure statement, in which I try to point out how the Bloodsuckers really <em>are</em> sucking my blood, and they show their pointy teeth and say "Oh, but it's really not that bad. It could be <em>vorse." </em>One of them really said that to me today. I think I added the bad accent in my head, but I'm not sure. She may have really sounded that way. Yesterday, I sent off my Papers of Poverty, my Documents of Destituteness via fax to Castle Bloodsuck, to await their decision on what amount they intended to suck out of my paychecks for the next six months. Sadly, I had entertained this fantasy that the amount I can barely afford right now might stay the same.. but.. <em>alas!</em> Countess Bloodsuck determined that because my last two paystubs showed I had worked a small amount of overtime, that meant that I had spare blood to give. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"But, Countess. It says 'Overtime' not <em>'Every</em>time'. And expenses have gone up, as I plainly documented." I thought I sounded reasonable.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"<em>Vellllll</em>...." the Countess drawled, if Bloodsuckers <em>can</em> drawl "But you live alone, at least you don't have family."</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"I couldn't afford a family, unless I had it in mind to live like Fagin." </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"Who?" I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that the Countess wasn't up on her Dickens.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"Oh, a guy who wore fingerless gloves." I said absently. "But he was a great one for assessing opportunity."</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Countess Bloodsuck informed me of what my new payment would be for the next six months. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">About another fifteen bucks a month. About three Wild Cherry Mochas. And I do owe the money. I just wish it wasn't all so futile. Making a payment only <em>looks</em> like I'm moving forward on retiring the debt, when the reality is Michael Jackson made more forward progress when he used to do the 'moondance' back in the day.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"Oh, but its really not that bad. It could be <em>vorse."</em></span><br /><em></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></em><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I'll try to remember that</span>.<br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr><tr unselectable="on" hb_tag="1"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div></blockquote>Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7102147309919911290.post-46658023470756512332007-06-05T14:25:00.000-05:002007-06-05T15:25:01.457-05:00It's my blog and I'll write what I want to<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" unselectable="on" width="100%"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><blockquote><br /></blockquote>I just titled the post that way because it amused me. It may amuse <em>only</em> me, but that's ok too. <br /><br />Soooo... this is my blog. I've never done a blog before, though I have looked at many of them, sort of the way one looks at different cars on the road and thinks "that might be a fun thing". Welcome to my little corner of cyberspace. Leave a post if you're so inclined, or not, if you are inclined that way. In the meantime I'll blather a little about what is on my mind today.<br /><br />Right now I have two literary agents looking at my novel. Well, I have no idea if they are looking at it <em>right this minute</em>, but I can hope. It is a bit nervewracking, I'll admit. You dream about it in between sweating over the keyboard and then the opportunity comes along and you discover just how scary it all is. My friends (who are all incredibly supportive and overwhelmingly positive in outlook) say to me: "what's the worst thing that could happen? they say no, and you try other agents." For me, my brain stops processing after the "they say no" part. I had to laugh the other day. I was reading an interview with novelist Christopher Moore, and he made a comment that writing was a mental cycle of "I'm a piece of crap!/I'm the king of the world!" Talk about something that resonates. <br /><br />I guess that's long enough for my first post.<br /><br />Cheers,<br /><br />amadan<br /><br />p.s. I feel much safer knowing that Paris Hilton is off the streets. Whew!<br /><br /><br /></td></tr><tr unselectable="on" hb_tag="1"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>Amadanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11148681682498569563noreply@blogger.com3