Sidebar news

I've added two new personal blogs in the sidebar. They're quite different. One is Zach Dickie's Unveiling The World, where you can see magic tricks and read sporadic posts about Zach's travels, mostly in Romania. The other is The Stupid Way, the blog of a translator and Zen priest, with links to many of Dogen's writings.

Taking back our language

Dick pointed out to me when we were leaving the "Winslow Family 4th of July Celebration" that we should have known we'd be subjected to something distasteful because the word "family" was in the name of the event. He's right, but I hadn't given it much thought for I only cared about seeing a large fireworks display. He reminded me that every year there's a nearby bluegrass festival with the word "family" in its name, and when one goes to the website, one discover it's a Christian event.

"Family" has become a codeword for Christian, and extension of the Christan right's idea of "family values", supposedly wholesome, anti-gay, and anti-choice.

Just calling oneself a Christian has become problematic. If you're an Episcopalian, a Presbyterian, a Catholic, well, saying you're Christian could give someone else the wrong idea. Christian has come to mean you're born again, nothing less, and certainly much more.

The word "values", too, has been taken hostage. During the election, I was polled on the phone and asked how important values were to my voting on a scale from 0-10. I answered 10 and the minute I hung up the phone knew that I'd be counted amongst the "values voters", assumed to be right-wing Christians, of which I am neither. These values do not include my values. They did not even ask what they might be.

I'd like to take back the words "family" and "values" from the far right. For me, family means just that, a family, but my idea of family is broad, including both families of friends, married gay people, and the family of all of humanity. My values cherish everyone, not just American fellow-Christians who believe in the same exact things as I. I value life, but I'm more concerned with those now living, and don't think the poor's lives are so cheap as to entice them so shamelessly into military service for the price of one year of community college or some such. My values include ensuring that all people have access to proper health care, and that that's much more important than ensuring our children are told that evolution is a theory. My values say all of us are equal, no matter what our sexual orientation is. My values include finding it disturbing that many of our children are brought up to practically worship guns and violence. If I was a Christian, I'd be concerned about the connotations that the name of my faith now hold, and even as a non-Christian I'm bothered. I am concerned with how the rest of the world perceives us still, as a young country filled with religious fanatics who know nothing of history and the rest of the world, and are obsessed with magical thinking about the rapture, ghosts, and guilt-driven sexuality (and atonement).

I don't have to point out that language is quite important. We call a soldier a "troop", which distances us from the death of an actual person. Torture became enhanced interrogation. . .the list is very long. We should start calling things what they really are and speaking out when our language is used as code or to shield us from reality.

Photo note: I needn't point out that indoctrination starts young. When I think back to my early schooling, I'm shocked at how some things have gone backward. We had sex ed every year, good science classes, and even an elective bible study class which caused no stir.

The price paid for fireworks

Last night Dick and I went to Winslow for "Maine's largest firework display". It was pouring when we left, but we got a call from a very excited stranger that they were happening, rain or no rain. So, we went, with umbrellas and rain jackets in tow.

The "Winslow Family 4th of July Celebration" went on for 4 days, but we didn't see any of it, 'cept for the fireworks. They were good, as rural fireworks go. As I had written, I love my fireworks, and the finale was fabulous. We had a clear shot to the place where they were being set off, and that always thrills. I'm a bit of a firebug, I'd say.

The thing is, while this event was free, it wasn't entirely. We were not prepared for the price of propaganda, which put a larger damper on the show than the rain. If Obama is president, one wouldn't know it from last night's extravaganza. The fireworks, as many are these days, were accompanied by music, most of country, all of it patriotic, and loud quotes. It wasn't on the radio. It was being blared by giant speakers. It felt vaguely creepy, being subjected to this, and folks singing along, not to the national anthem, but to the country songs, with lyrics like "the guilty will pay!"

And then there were two long George W. Bush quotes. His voice, which I hoped I'd never hear again, and his justifications for the war in Iraq.

Earlier in the day, there was also "Maine's largest parade" and I just discovered that a local peace group was not allowed to participate, which raises many issues for all of us, about a public event, funded by both private donations and public taxes, which cherry picks the local community for what they consider to be "only that which is pro-America." I didn't know that questioning the deaths of our young people to an unpopular war is exactly what one would call un-american.

All those country songs about giving lives, limbs, eyeballs even, to live in peace and freedom, and a fairly large local group isn't free to give their point of view on a day celebrating this freedom.

The entire thing rankles me.

A highlight of the evening was overhearing a boy say to the girl whom he had his arms around all night, "Y'know, we're only American 'cause we were born here by luck. What's to be proud of?" To that, someone said, "Aw. Shut up dude." This was an ordinary-looking kid, not some "weirdo", and so it made me feel good that someone was thinking, especially when he looked far more interested in getting his hands under her t-shirt than anything else.

I still can't shake the voice of the former prez. Well, in spite of my little patriotic post yesterday, I'm glad the 4th is now over. But, I'll never drive through Winslow again without feeling shadowed by the sound of Mr. Bush's words and his absurd speech on the rightness of the war in Iraq.

I'm in a hurry: no visuals for this post.

Independence Day

I must admit, the 4th of July only means a few things to me, and none of them are deep. Fireworks is at the top of the list, followed by barbecue and hokey parades.

When I used to be a Quaker, I never went to Friends Yearly Meeting (which is sort of like summer camp for adults) because it always included a day on the 4th of July, for Quakers aren't supposed to celebrate war. Of course, that's the quick and dirty explanation. But seriously, missing out a such a day of fun seemed silly to me. I adore fireworks!

Dick is making some barbecued ribs and he said something that brought me back to childhood. Now, I'm thinking about the Holocaust.

It's interesting for me to note that thoughts of childhood usually bring up thoughts about that, and it reminds me that I didn't grow up around here. Around these parts, I doubt there were many (if any) people who had concentration camp numbers tattooed on their arms. But I grew up surrounded by people who did have them, and many families who had few relatives because of the Holocaust. That was my milieu. In elementary school, we played "Nazis and Jews" right along with Cowboys and Indians. I wonder just how many schools this game played out in; my guess is the answer is "not many", but I could be wrong.

When I was a kid, we knew, for the most part, which adults did and did not talk about it, which adults were emotionally scarred, and which ones were not. We heard stories about pre-Holocaust times, when many of our families came to this country to get away from the pogroms in Poland, Germany, and Russia. One of my great-uncles, I'd heard, had walked all the way from his burning village to the coast of France at the age of 12 or 14, and then got on a boat to the U.S. I have no idea if this story is true. There were many secrets. I don't think it was intentional. A kid also mixes up all this kind of history; it takes on a mythic quality and at some point all the stories fold up into a handful of heroic and tragic tales.

Whenever I hear the latest Holocaust denier go on and on, I think of my childhood. I knew two people who had been part of Dr. Mengele's experiments. I know these people did not make up such stories - why on earth would they?

And this is why people say "We can't forget." I don't go around thinking about the holocaust all the time, thankfully. But, I suppose it's people like me, as the survivors die out, that keep the memory of the truth alive.

On this independence day, I realize that living here, in the U.S., I am a very lucky person. There are many things about this country I do not like, but all in all, I must be grateful. I could go into a long semi-patriotic spiel right about now, but I'm not in the mood. You can guess what I've got to say.

Happy 4th of July.

I prefer the smell of damp sheep

I've been knitting a sweater with a plain off-white wool. When I first purchased the yarn, I hesitated, for it smelled like nothing. I love the smell of sheep. As knitting has gained in popularity, finding wool that smells of sheep has become increasingly difficult. For whatever reason, the new knitters have voted with their pocketbooks that they don't like the smell of lanolin.

I hadn't been doing a lot of knitting lately. On these damp chilly evenings of late, my knitting called to me. I was delighted to discover that the project that had sat in a plastic bag for a few months had gotten damp, and with the dampness, the smell of wet sheep blossomed. Hurrah!

This evening I ran out of wool and had to wind up a new ball. When I picked up the skein out of the basket it was in, it smelled like the worst sort of cheap potpourri. You know the kind - it's sold in crinkly plastic bags and is dyed in the worst sort of fake colors. Bright reds and pinks for roses, unnatural brown for vanilla, yellow for hmmmm (I can't think of what). . .anyway, it was simply awful. I don't own any cheap potpourri, so I couldn't imagine why the yarn smelled like it had been steeped in such disgusting scent. As I wound up the yarn, my nose started to feel irritated, my eyes felt heavy, and my tattoos started swelling up. These are all signs of allergy, of course. But why?

Once I started knitting, the smell lessened, for I had the big half of a sweater already done sitting in my lap. But once done, I looked at that overflowing basket and figured the offending culprit must be inside. What on earth could it be?

What's there? A leopard print crumple of tissue paper. Huh? I wouldn't buy that! I picked it up and out fell two carded samples of Serge Lutens Serge Noire. I sniffed the cards. Not wonderful, I must admit, but not the offending smell. But I wasn't done yet, for the leopard skin tissue felt too heavy. What's this? 12 samples of perfume? Yesterday I amended my samples list to 201 and now it's suddenly up to 213! What the heck is inside this ziploc bag, anyway?

I see Chanel Sycomore. Ormonde Jayne Osmanthus. . .but wait. . .I'm opening it right now. . . there's a leaker! It's, it's. . .it's leaked out so much I can't read anything but D___fume Sage. Ugh. You perfumistas out there - what do you think it might be? I want to take it outside and be rid of it! It has ruined my wool and made me feel ill. It's on my fingers!

I put the entire bag in another room, leaving this investigation for another day. The vial looked full. Maybe something else leaked, and I don't want to subject myself to any more vile smells from tiny vials.

Over 200 scents was the breaking point, eh?

Nah. Time once was that an episode like this would put me off fragrances for a good long while. Not any more. Fighting smell with smell, I just brought the unfinished sweater to my nose and inhaled deeply. That's better.

This is rather synchronistic, for earlier today Dick said he liked the scent on my wrist, which was Ginestet Le Bois, which smells of smokey woods, spice, a bit of warm booze, and vanilla. He wanted me to make a mental note that he liked it. He owns one eau de toilette and I think he's ready for something else. Sure, I'd be happy to get that for you, Dick, for I love Le Bois (and I'd be even more happy to share!)

A little while later, he popped his head in and said "What do you call a scent that smells like wood?" "Wood", I answered. He laughed and replied, "I'd like a perfume that smells like wood that's been sawed." I immediately thought of CB I Hate Perfume and Demeter.

I scanned CB's perfumes and found nothing, but then I looked at the accords list. There was Wet Sheep. Fantastic! Finally, a solution to all those odorless new yarns. Sadly, I'll have to go to Brooklyn to get some Wet Sheep. It's only sold in the Gallery, but I'm thinking next time I go to New York a trip to Williamsburg would not be a bad idea. But what about the wood? CB's got three kinds of cypress, for goodness sake. . . where's the freshly cut wood? There's Bonfire, complete with hot dogs! I am not kidding you. Well, if you know Christopher Brosius' work, you're not surprised, I'm sure. After all, the guy does sell Roast Beef accord.

I did find Pine Saw Mill. Dick says that sounds good to him, even though he did say "not pine" in the first place. The words "saw mill" sealed the deal, I'd say. We're going to Brooklyn, baby!

So, what does all of this prove? Nature wins? I dunno. This is another one of those posts where I thought I had a point to make, but lost it somewhere along the line and it just peters out. . .

I forgot about Demeter in all the fuss. There's no freshly cut wood, but there's Giant Sequoia, Poison Ivy ("without the itch!"), and Cypress (but only one kind).

Image note: The mosaic I made for my desktop earlier in this perfume crazed week.

Ugh. My hands still smell like whatever it is that I'll have to deal with another day. It's time to scrub.

The bride wore hangtags

Of course, I've abandoned my side blog "Just Looking." Before I wave goodbye to it, I wanted to post this photograph. This is why I still find haute couture fun.

Today is shaping up to be a day for the sharing of random things. Hey, everything is interesting - bridal fantasies and their pricetags (just how much is that Christian Lacroix?!), the surprise of a crowd of boys head-banging to cellos, more gray skies, my cold feet (literally), the way the red umbrella is leaning towards the red flower on my deck, the sound of Dick moving around the house (so different than the way I move), the stickiness of a floor four days after one has cleaned up the spilled maple syrup, and now, the sound of a vacuum cleaner. I'm glad it's not me vacuuming, however. I do not find that interesting, only tiring. And it brings back memories of my father lifting his feet as my mother cleaned beneath him. When Dick asks me to do the same, I feel guilty.

Wait, there's more. . .

Boundaries fall away.

Nothing else matters

It's that kind of day. See TMC's blog.

Stories of scent

This seems so trivial after my last post, but life is in the details, at least for me.

In haste, I dabbed my wrist with Serge Lutens' Un Bois de Violette right before I went to sleep. I had never sniffed it before. Even though I seem to have completely different taste than Luca Turin's (The Guide, again), I was seduced by his loving words for this scent. I was hot, sticky, and the idea of violets beckoned.

What I got instead was this bedtime story:

When I worked at the cafe, there was a man who came in every day at exactly 5:45. I could set my watch with him, if I had worn one. I had first thought he was Tom Wolfe, in his white suit and shoes, but I never knew who he was. I only waited on him once, after Jenn had finally had enough. He looked harmless and never spoke in a loud noise, so I really had no idea why she looked sour every time he walked in.

He always ordered top shelf single malt scotch, no ice, and sipped it slowly before ordering a small salad. He was what I think of as "persnickety", a word I would not utter aloud and looks silly in print. This man made much of everything - the proper placement of the white napkin on his lap, on top of his white suit, of course. He dabbed at the corners of his mouth continually as he slowly ate his salad. It was at neat as the scotch he drank before the meal.

I didn't work there every day, but I knew he ate there daily, always had, and yet no one knew who he was. He seemed otherworldly, rather like a Michael Jackson, who, of course jumps to mind since his death. I doubt I thought of him then. But this man was different than others and held himself aloof. He never had company. He tipped, but it was exacting. Exactly 18% was what I figured out. Not a penny more or less.

As I already mentioned, Jenn always waited on him, and she thought him distasteful, but she wasn't gossipy. Even though I figured he was gay, or asexual really, I assumed he had hit on her. She was a willowy thing whom all men seemed to fall for. And she was sweet, so no, she could never bring herself to join in fully with the busboys and waitstaff who loved to moan and gossip about our loyal customers, of whom we seemed to collect quite a few. It was a homey little cafe, a neighborhood place that served decent food and had a full bar with a good collection of Scotch. So, maybe we just attracted the Scotch drinkers in the neighborhood. I never gave it a thought. I hated waitressing, even in a nice place like that.

When Jenn left New York, I only stuck around another few days. I had thought of quitting since the first hour I started working. No matter how nice the customers were, for me, being a waitress felt like one long groan of humiliation, especially with women customers who gave lousy tips and treated you like you must be an idiot loser (for why else would you be waitressing?)

So, I waited on that man in white for a few nights. There was nothing wrong with him really. He was only a pretentious little man, who reeked of booze and Choward's violet candies. And he could really stand to brush and floss his teeth. He was polite, well-mannered, but the smell of him, well, it was too much, even if he was perfectly clean looking in all white. I used to eat Choward's violet candies too, come to think of it, after I took a smoke break. I wonder if they smell terrible on everyone's breath?

I found out later that Hans had put him at that corner table permanently after the first week he had turned up and seemed determined to keep coming back. He said, "No one should have to smell that man's breath. Prissy alcoholics should stay at home." But, he was a good customer, so Hans would never have turned him away. I wonder if he still eats there. Nah, he's probably dead by now.

Photo note: Tom Wolfe

And the other topic was. . .

. . .my increasingly firm belief that the only way to "cure" mental illness is through spiritual practice.

I was thinking this as I drove home tonight from my Zen meditation group. Then, I promptly forgot all about it.

About an hour ago, I found out that a person I had known briefly, but well, committed suicide. I'm thinking about her, and all the other people I have known who have done the same (too many).

I've been at the edge of that abyss, but I always knew that I'd never jump in. There are many things that have stopped me. The most trivial of these is the reason I call this blog "everything is interesting." No matter how depressed I've been, if there's something new to discover, I must keep going. And of course, there is always something new to discover. If I'm in the middle of a book, I want to finish it. I want to see the next good movie. I want to discover a treasure in my mailbox. I want to see what blooms in the garden, or what bird returns to my feeders.

But, none of this would matter if I didn't firmly believe that suicide is immoral. Yes, immoral.

Please don't mistake me; I do not judge those who choose to end their lives. Their decision was not immoral.

And yes, that is a conundrum.

I can understand wanting to put an end to ones' pain. But, as one persons' pain has ended, others' pain begins.

During the winter, there was another suicide I knew, and I remember a friend of hers, angrier than hell and hurting, telling me that she couldn't forgive, for she had been there for her, all along her path of recovery from a previous attempt. Was her friend lying about feeling better? Anger. Hurt. Sadness. From one person to another. It does not end with death.

We all suffer. I think there is always hope. I think there is always the possibility of change, and because I think this is so, suicide is not an option, even for the worst of situations. When every moment is an opportunity to be fully alive, even to pain (the ultimate learning tool), suicide is just not an option.

I'm sad for those who can not see any other way. I wish they could have felt what is the truth. Even the smallest life has meaning, touches others, sends ripples out in all directions, for we are all connected.

That is what makes our suffering, and what we do about it, a spiritual condition. Our interconnectedness is broken, irrevocably, even for one instant, when even one of us chooses to take our own life.

Painting note: "Ophelia" Paul Albert Steck 1895

A few more thoughts:
1. I hesitated using this romanticized depiction of a suicide; the beautiful young woman, finally "at rest."
2. I rail at the notion of finally being at rest in death. We can find rest in life. As long as we continue to push or believe the notion of pie-in-the-sky-when-you-die, people will continue killing themselves and others, whether it's for 72 virgins or solace.
3. I am sorry that I am unable to clarify the idea of "spirituality" cogently. I will continue to try. Life is abundant and transcendent in a speck of dust. That is spiritualty for me. And as long as that holds true, life is always interesting, and worth living.

Proof that celebrity doesn't buy one taste or even a decent tattoo.

Um. . .

I opened my laptop, thinking "which topic? I can't decide!", promptly got caught up in e-mail, and now. . .well, what was I thinking about before?*

Was it just the weather?

Some of it was. The weather is not unimportant. If I was a farmer, I'd be quite concerned. I might consider growing rice considering it's rained 30 out of the last 31 days and will continue, unabated, for who-knows-how-long (the weather guys are keeping mum).

I really don't mind because I am not growing hay, and whatever happens to my flowers, well, they're just for pleasure.

I really don't mind all this so-called gloom. It occurred to me this evening that I had a sense of relief, actually, that the longest days of the year were blunted by the overcast skies. I find these long days rather oppressive. I know I'm "supposed to" like them, but I really do not. In fact, I tend to get depressed at this time of the year, and I'm feeling more than fine right now.

Long bright days weary me. I feel an obligation to get out and do something. I don't like bright sunlight for too long. There's the threat of burnt skin. I feel oppressed; I must hide out as if I was a fledgling vampire. I always feel odd because, once again, I'm supposed to like it. I'm not a summer person.

It's not raining too hard to keep inside, and it's not sunny enough to need shades, sunscreen, or feel like a nutcase for wearing long sleeves in July.

What is everyone (outside of the farmers) complaining about? One can be outside on a gray day. It's not like it's so dark one can't see. The fog is beautiful. The grass is brilliantly green and glistening. The frogs are having a great time, judging from their vocalizations.

What am I saying? I know nothing of a frog's emotional life.

As for me, my emotional life is just fine. I've discovered that I just love this weather. So, I'll continue to say "it's perfectly nice out" to all those who are complaining (which seems to be just about everyone).

I'm rather dreading the return of the normal weather. Hmm. Is there still such a thing as normal weather?

Photo note: Not much more to say. However, I'm reminded of how, once, when I was in the midst of doodling a 3 by 3 block of gray squares, my roommate walked by, stopped, and commented on how beautiful they were. He said he could never "get" abstract art, but that now, while seeing someone make so much out of nothing, he did. I love doodling little squares. A lot of heart goes into them, oddly enough. Give it a try. It's something of a meditation and anyone can do it.

*I was just reminded of one small thing, that Newsweek's "what to read now" #1 book is Trollope's "The Way We Live Now", which has been on my mental top ten list of books for a very long time. It's been so long since I've read I don't remember why I loved it so. So, I must read it again, I'd say, but I can't find my copy. I bet there will be many people suddenly buying it, but I wonder if they'll actually read it, and I wonder even more whether they will enjoy it, for 19th century literature isn't exactly popular, is it? Would be a wonder if it caught on, now, in the 21st century. . .21st century. . .I still can't fathom that it's that.

What money doesn't buy

I can only imagine how much time, energy, and money went into the development of a Hermes scent. Chandler Burr did the research that gives us a glimpse into this exactly in his "The Perfect Scent."

What I want to know is how, after all this time, energy, and money, does Hermes' Eau de Gentiane Blanche smell exactly like a dryer sheet? Mind you, if it was a dryer sheet, I'd use it. But at 145 bucks for their smallest bottle, I'll pass.

Image note: From the "Secret Garden", which you can read, free, as an eBook.

And one more for good measure

Serge Lutens has just announced a new addition to their exports line - Fille en Aiguilles, a "woodsy-oriental fragrance in which pine needles meld with vetiver, frankincense, fruit and spice notes." The mixture of anything pine-like with frankincense gets this woman all a-flutter.

Photo note: This is a bell jar of Lutens' Mandarine Mandarin. I only posted it because I find it beautiful. All the bell jars are beautiful, and someday (someday!) I hope to own one. Just one, mind you. One will be enough. Having just written the words "I want" once again, well, it's getting a bit ridiculous. If I was writing about handbags, one would certainly judge me harshly, but since it's perfume, somehow it makes it slightly better, for it's a form of art. Right? Then again, handbags, shoes, jewelry, all these objects are also art, at their best, so. . .

Never mind. The craving for "stuff" is always problematic.

surrounded by water, I'm thirsty

Okay. I'm on my third attempt to write this blog entry. This is the first time that's ever happened. I don't know how many entries there have been on this blog, but I know it's not a small number, so I have to give myself a pat on the back for hundreds of free flowing words.

So, the topic tonight is perfume. Not the analysis of perfume, but the amount of it. I catalogued my collection of fragrances yesterday and I have 197** different scents in my possession. Don't be too shocked (though a few of you, I know, may be saying "is that all?"); most of this collection is stored in tiny 1 milliliter vials. But still, I was surprised that I had that much.

I'd been thinking lately that I really needed more scents to smell. I wanted more. And I still do.

Oddly, my desire for more came after discovering I had in my possession a gem I didn't realize I had - Parfums de Nicolai's Vie de Chateau (thank you, Nika). I spent a sultry day repeatedly reapplying it, not because it was weak, but because I was in love with its top notes. I kept lifting my wrist to my nose, ooh-ing and ahh-ing and generally driving Dick crazy with "aw, smell this - it's intoxicating!", over and over again. It didn't intoxicate him. "It's nice" was about all he said (half-heartedly).

The thing was, even though I was happy that I'd finally found something new that moved me so, all it did was make me wonder why I hadn't smelled everything put out by Parfums de Nicolai. A few days later, I found an old vial of half-used Annick Goutal Neroli and re-discovered how much I liked that. Then, I started thinking of how I had not collected many green scents since my disenchantment with the reformulations of Chanel Cristalle and No. 19. I was craving bright scents, clean scents, flowery scents. . .maybe it's because we haven't seen any sun in an entire month. I don't know. My desire for more, more, more, was (and still is) a bit obsessive.

So, I catalogued and discovered I had more. But still not enough. White florals? There's good ones out there, certainly, but I eschewed them right from the start of my interest in perfumes. Rose? I found one I loved (Yves Rocher Rose Absolue), tried a few, hated them, swapped them away and then stopped bothering.

I want to try all the "girly" stuff I once couldn't care less about. I want something pink, with bows on the bottle. I want to sniff the old tried and true scents. I want to try more of the scents that are hated by perfume snobs. I want to try every single Madini, every Serge Lutens, every Frederic Malle, every. . .well, everything. And that crazy Thierry Mugler comfret of Perfumes based on the movie. . .at $750 (if you can still get it) for scents that smell like rotting flesh (and more!)*

I want every vial of fragrance I can get my grubby little hands on. And I want it now.

I really don't think this is about perfume.

I don't know what it is about. Really.

I have never been a collector. Is this what it's like? If so, there's something rather awful about it. Sure, it's fun, and collecting vials is not an expensive habit (thankfully). Swapping with strangers, who sometimes become friends, is wonderful. But this grasping, well, it doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel good craving something so strongly.

Maybe if it was love of another human being it would feel okay. But even if I'm not spending copious sums of money, or even hardy anything at all, it feels like some kind of crazy materialistic need that's suddenly spiraled out of control.

Last week a fragrance board went a little crazy with all the C.O. Bigelow stores going out of business. Now, I thought C.O. Bigelow was an old pharmacy that I used to get my prescriptions at in New York City. I live in rural Maine. No, C.O. Bigelow is a chain of fake apothecaries (or something, I haven't seen one). Many of them are going out of business and they were having huge sales, putting L'artisan and Annick Goutal perfumes out for 75% off, and while they didn't do this on line, they were taking orders over the phone. I came into this late in the game. Hundred dollar bottles of perfume for 25 bucks?! I got on line and found the phone number for every C.O. Bigelow store in the country and called them: "What do you have left?" Nothing. Nothing. Then, finally, one gal gave me a long list of Goutals, all in the worst American mispronunciation of French I've ever heard. Listening hard, I realized I didn't need or want any of them, but someone else I knew did. I sent her a message. One store left on the list, though. . .uh oh. . .it's past 9:00p.m. in Illinois! I call anyway: "Yes, we've got lots left. Call in the morning." I'm so excited. They've got L'artisans left!

The next day. I wait until 10:00. Pick up the phone. No one is answering! Isn't it 10:00 in Illinois?! They open late?! How dare they?!

All they've got left is Vanilia, which I hate.

Later that day, I look at the same fragrance boards. There's a three-hour sale at Beauty Habit! What's the code?! What's the code!!??

Then my internet connection goes dead. Hold on. I've got a copy of a Beauty Habit receipt from December in my documents folders. So, I call them; "You've got to become a follower on Twitter to get the code." My connection is down! No!

This is craziness. I've got better things to do then chase down perfume sales.

And, I'm beating myself up for not buying that bottle of Goutal Neroli I saw at Marshall's over the winter.

This post does not have a nice tidy ending with a moral. It doesn't even have an ending.

Photo note: A glimpse of the Annick Goutal shop in Paris. Just because it's pretty (and there's lots of bottles, which is a good thing, right?).

*If you haven't seen that site, go! It's a lot of fun, with good music, too.

**As of July 1st, the number is 201.

An eye for an eye, a bullet for a tv

I have a right to shoot someone who steps unto my property. In my view of things, this is simply horrible. What if that person was an old friend whom I didn't recognize? What if it's a new friend who I could have made?

But, sure, this unknown person, the nefarious other of our collective fears, is probably someone who wants to take my stuff, rape, or kill me, so I really ought to be hyper-vigilant and get a gun. Anything less would mean I'm some kind of liberal wuss who thinks the evil doers can just get away with whatever they want.

In a discussion about the inevitable end-times, when there's not enough to go around and I'm sitting here hoarding my last cans of soup, I should not even think of sharing. I've got to survive at the expense of others. Again, if I don't shoot that neighbor, they'll be drinking soup and laughing over my dead body, right? "Ha! That silly liberal city gal didn't have enough sense to shoot me! She offered me some soup. Now I've got her house, her soup, and her TV!"

Well, folks, you're welcome to it all. I am not killing you over a can of soup or a television set. Is this dystopian vision really worth killing for, anyway? Not to me.

I'm no wuss. I've been in a few dangerous situations, and they've all turned out well. When I picture all of those situations, if I'd reacted with violence, I probably would have wound up dead, or at least seriously harmed.

When I was followed home by a pack of drunk young men who forced themselves into my apartment building at 4:00am, I don't think their intentions were gentlemenly. If I had had a knife, a gun, or some mace, would I have been safer? I think not. Packing a weapon of any kind would have caused me to think of it as the line of first defense. I would not have had to think of anything more than how to use it, instead of thinking about how to diffuse the situation. Now, don't get me wrong: There are some situations that can not be diffused. But, the majority of situations can be, and when we're walking around in a state of defense, we tend not to see that. A threat is perceived and it becomes an opportunity to act out of our fears. If one is really concerned with safety, no matter what we see in movies, it is not the safest way to be. On guard all the time, afraid of the other; violence breeds in those waters.

The night those young men followed me up to my apartment, I remained calm. One thing about people in predatory mode is that they get off on fear. If you show them none, there's nothing to push against. It's mental Aikido. The attacker attacks nothing and is thrown off guard and off balance.

I looked those four men in the eye, slowly. I looked them up and down. Then, I asked them, "What do you want?" Luckily for me (yes, some of it was luck), they had consciences. If they meant to rape me, which I believe they did, they could not say it. They had followed me, pushed me into my building, pushed me into my elevator, and I did not feel or show fear. I did not yell at them. I did not cry. I did not even judge. I suddenly saw them as the ones who were scared. Not I. They were trying to prove something; their manhood, their power. . .who knows? But whatever it was, it wasn't going to happen.

I kept my gaze steady and continued to act as if I was going to invite them in as we rode the old elevator to the top floor. By the time the door opened, at least one of them was shifting his feet and staring at his shoes like a little kid caught stealing a lollipop. I walked out of the elevator and turned to them. I said something that I don't recall. I might have even said, "Are you coming or not?" I remember being slightly haughty, but not enough to make them mad. I remember feeling like smiling, but that would have been too much.

I don't know why most people think those who follow the path of non-violence are "suckers." No one has taken anything away from me. I know one person who's been mugged four times (at least) and has four broken noses to show for it. Each time, he refused to give up his money. How much did he have on him? Not much, I imagine. But it was "the principle of thing" for him, like it is for so many. I would not die for a couple of bucks, or any other inanimate thing. Yes, I'd defend myself if someone was trying to kill me, and if someone was trying to kill someone I know, I'd do whatever I could to save them, including sticking a knife in someone's back. Standing by watching is itself a form of violence. Taking a pure stance on anything seems to me to be a sure-fire sign of wrongheaded thinking.

I don't walk around in a state of fear, and for that I am glad. It's not because I live in bucolic Maine. It's because that in spite of the fact that there are some truly bad people out there, I believe most people are essentially good. Even the person who means to do me harm. And I believe if that person can see that I see them that way, the possibility of violence decreases automatically. That's been my experience.

Every man your brother, father, or son. Every woman your sister, mother, or daughter. If we all saw with eyes like these, the world would be a much more peaceful place. Impossible? Right now, it seems so. But I can always hope for the future.

Image Note: Instead of posting a photograph of Buddha, Jesus, Gandhi,or the Dalai Lama (or some dirty hippie flashing a V-sign, to all those who think this is simply airy-fairy stuff), this is a photograph of an unsung hero to me, Lawrence Apsey, who founded the Alternatives to Violence Project, of which I was once involved. For more about him, and the Project, go here.