Yes, I do have a chip on my shoulder. It started to form when I was a kid, when I'd go with my father to the homes of clients who had bought paintings. I don't know why he had a policy that he'd hang the paintings for these people, especially since it made him so angry every single time, but he did. Some people would make us come in the back door (the one for servants, if you don't know). Other people would make him stay for hours, unable to make up their minds where the painting would go. Some would argue over whether the painting was indeed straight (and why he didn't bring a level is beyond me). But the single most annoying thing was the people who wanted to return the painting when they discovered it didn't match their sofa.
The chip also widened as I heard about and saw many a fine artist not sell at all, while the worst crap imaginable would be snapped up.
Just now I saw something online that made me want to throw the laptop across the room, but I need my laptop and I'd only be hurting myself. That's the line policemen who talk people down say, isn't it?
What was this horror? A gallery of "scarves". Now, I love plain fabric, so I found the fabric to be quite nice. All the so-called scarves were dyed in shades of gray or light brown. That's great. No problem. But, here's the thing. They were just pieces of cloth. They didn't even have hems. Okay, I get that, too. The unraveling will add a nice touch. It's that post-apocalyptic look, which made watching the Matrix a visual treat (latex and ripped clothes. . .mmmm). But, sorry, I got very angry. A yard of fabric, plainly dyed, does make a scarf, but the idea of selling it, well, it makes my blood boil. It seems like "the emperor has no clothes" indeed.
And I keep thinking, yes, the cloth is beautiful and looks amazing hanging against the white wall of the boutique gallery. But I also can't help thinking of all the craftspeople who can't make a living, who put so much into their work, and then this person just dips some yardage in a pot and calls it a day. I would wear a scarf like this, no problem. I'd make it. And anyone, absolutely everyone, could make this scarf. So, I suppose I wouldn't be all up-in-arms if this "artist" (okay, that irks me too) had given people instructions on how to make one.
This reminds me that I once made the most raggedly look scarf one can imagine and a woman stopped me on the street, asking me if I made it or where I'd gotten it. She offered to buy it off me. I couldn't think of what to ask for it. We were standing in front of a gallery where there was an old lithograph that I liked. I said, "I'd like that for it." So, she bought the lithograph and I gave her my raggedy scarf. The print was almost fifty bucks. I felt like I'd ripped her off, but later that week someone in my knitting group said raggedy scarves were selling in Houston for one hundred and fifty bucks.
Ah, money and art. I have some serious issues with this topic.
Image note: I am not a total jerk, so I'm not posting a picture of said scarves nor providing a link. Instead, here's a labor of love that is quite something, brought to you by the International Fiber Collaborative. The Gas Station Project (hat tip to Mary Jane, knitter extraordinaire).
I don't know if I've been naughty or nice. Maybe it isn't very nice that I haven't been all that naughty, but I suspect you don't think of things like that, do you?
Anyway, you must be busy. I still don't understand how you deliver gifts to people who don't have chimneys. If you have some time after the holidays, I'd love to hear how you deal with this issue. If there's a team of elves who answer your mail, please forward this to them. I also presume that you do use e-mail these days. Hope I'm right!
Santa, I didn't believe in you as a child and I'm sorry. Blame my parents. They told me you were a myth when I was very young. But, I've changed my mind. You seem like a nice guy and so does everyone at the North Pole who works with you. I've heard you give bad kids coal for Christmas, but I haven't met anyone who's gotten a lump of coal in my life, so I think you understand that bad kids are just troubled.
Do you give adults presents, too? I'm guessing the answer is no, but I'm not sure. If so, what do you do about people like Charles Manson? Does he deserve a Christmas present? I think he's crazy, so I'm of two minds about this.
The other thing I like about you, Santa, is that you give presents to kids who aren't Christian. Are you a Christian? I've never heard anyone say that you are. I suspect you may be a pagan. You do hang around with elves and that's a dead giveaway. But again, you're a very busy guy and may not have time for matters such as these.
This year, Santa, I realize that I'm wanting more than I've wanted before, and I feel quite badly about this. I don't want to be materialistic. So, I'm not going to give you a list. Anyway, there's lots of kids with lists and they get first priority.
Hope you have a good holiday and that Mrs. Claus and all the reindeer are in good health.
Sincerely, Julie
PS. How come visitors to the North Pole can't find your place? I'm still a bit bewildered about that one. Do you use some sort of cloaking device?
PPS. I feel kind of foolish. Santa means saint, doesn't it? Could you please explain this to me. Your wikipedia page has me thoroughly confused!
Image note: See, even in 1914, Santa Claus went to the homes of kids in Japan.
I'm sorry I've already deleted the over two hundred pieces of egregious spam I got in the last 12 hours. I could have posted the names of some of them. I applaud these spammers for one thing: they come up with pretty good fake e-mail addresses.
And of course, since they change their e-mail names daily, I can't fully block them. If it weren't for the fact that sometimes perfectly legitimate e-mail winds up in my spam folder, I wouldn't look it over. Maybe I should just tell people that I may not get your e-mail because of the spam situation. Truth is, I may not get your e-mail, I've discovered, because even if I do look through that spam folder, on days where it's filled with over 300 pieces of junk, there's a good chance I'll miss the real mail.
Here's what I have to say to at least 3/4ths of my spam senders:
Where's my FREE STUFF?
I should own at least 1000 laptops by now, according to these messages. Congratulations, you've won a free Dell laptop! Congratulations, you've won a $1000 Target shopping spree! Congratulations, you've won a gas card, free movie tickets, a subscription to a magazine, dinner at countless restaurants, a cruise. . .and I'm one step away from winning 10 million dollars or a luxury car.
Wow, I'm overwhelmed with excitement!
I almost trashed the invitation to receive free books from Amazon because I assumed that wasn't real, either, and it was. So, maybe I did win a contest. Do you think I'm going to look over every single one of these e-mails? No way.
Does that mean I may have won a free laptop? Eh, probably not.
I dare one of these companies to actually send me my free laptop. C'mon, fulfill your promise! I have, I admit, years ago, responded to a few of these e-mails, and followed the nearly endless pop-ups for products and services I neither wanted nor needed in order to reach the prize. Of course, like most people, I gave up. I don't need a glucose monitor (though some marketer still thinks I do). I don't want to go to that on-line "university" nor do I want them to send me any information. You know the drill, if you've ever been gullible enough to at least give this a try.
I hear some people have actually gotten their "free" laptops, but they've all contacted lawyers in order to do so. Last time I checked, a lawyer's services were so expensive that it made more sense to just go buy yourself a laptop than fight one of these hucksters. But, it's the principle that's at play here. I understand that.
I'm sure that by writing the word "laptop" many times in this post, I'll get even more spam than yesterday.
Just in case anyone wants to make good on their promise:
I'd like the red Dell laptop, please, though I'd be fine with whatever color you send. I'd prefer a Mac, but I've only received a smattering of prize announcements for one of those. Just in case, I'd like the one with the largest screen, okay?
Let's see: I wrote a mildly bad review of a Maidenform bra and received an e-mail from the CEO of the company the very next day. I bought some propane and contacted the governor's office on energy and have heard nothing in four days. I would guess it's been about a week since I asked to be on the blogroll of Allmediocre. Someone asked me to submit a piece of writing for an anthology back in July, I did, and I haven't heard back from him since.
Maidenform wins, no doubt about that. It figures. It's the least important of all of them. Allmediocre, well, I see they don't update their blog every day, so I'll let that slide. Anyway, if they call themselves that, I shouldn't expect much. The fuel oil thing? I would have expected something by now. And lastly, the fellow whom I sent two pieces of writing to, well, it's just rude. It's been almost six months, which I'd say is "not getting back to me." Like the girl who is still waiting for that guy to call, I'd have to say, "Gee honey, he's just not that into you."
I dislike rudeness. I really do. It's old fashioned of me, I know, but I think decent manners are nice. If you have to reject someone, just do it, and do it in a respectful way. It you can't get back to someone in a timely fashion, let them know you won't be able to. Hold the car door open for whoever is riding with you. It doesn't matter what gender they are. It's just a nice gesture. Don't let regular doors hit the people behind you in the head. Say thank you and please. It makes a world of difference.
Last week we had our neighbors over. I set the table as if we were having a fancy dinner, which I suppose we were. I noticed the kids were more reserved than normal. I realized that they may have been nervous. I thought it would just be good fun to light candles, serve juice in wine glasses and use fabric napkins, but it sent them the message that they better be on their best behavior. Not my intent. I wouldn't have cared if they put their elbows on the table or burped. After all, it was just supper at my house.
I put my elbows on the table most of the time. I don't know the rules of multiple forks or bother to eat my soup spooning away from me. This stuff is just silly, most of it. It's a way of separating the savages from the cultured.
But, plain ol' courtesy just makes life a bit nicer. Just my opinion.
Addendum: I am now officially mediocre. See links to the right. Note that there are sidebar changes. You can donate rice to needy people just by participating in a vocabulary quiz. The link to books on Amazon is gone. Noone ever used it. Too bad, for there were some obscure and worthy books on there. Now I have to do the work of posting on these topics in order to bring attention to some books?! Okay. Make me work, go ahead.
I had thought I was not up to writing anything today. I then wrote a response to an e-mail. It was rather interesting, watching sentences form in front of my eyes. I wouldn't have believed I could string a thought together.
Seeing it was possible to form a coherent thought was reassuring. I'm in quite a bit of pain. Pain blots out so much, makes one's world very small. I've used the word "miasma" to describe how I feel. Here's the dictionary definition:
mi·as·ma 1. A noxious atmosphere or influence: "The family affection, the family expectations, seemed to permeate the atmosphere . . . like a coiling miasma" Louis Auchincloss. 2. a. A poisonous atmosphere formerly thought to rise from swamps and putrid matter and cause disease. b. A thick vaporous atmosphere or emanation: wreathed in a miasma of cigarette smoke. [Greek, pollution, stain, from miainein, to pollute.]
That defintion both hits the mark and doesn't. It's interesting, though (to me) how when I feel quite bad, I have a feeling of contagion, even if I'm not contagious. I just received a call, "How are you feeling?" "Like crap." "I guess you don't want a visitor then." "No. I'd love some company", was my response.
Afterwards, I thought perhaps I should have said "stay away." Why would anyone want to spend time with someone who emanates a poisonous atmosphere? Well, I hope I don't do that. I'm easily distracted and while probably unable to tell jokes today, will easily laugh.
People do keep away from those who are sick and in pain. It makes sense that we would prefer to be with happy, healthy folks. So, us folks who aren't, perhaps need to prove that we can keep our miasma under wraps and be cheerful when people visit. I will try!
I had intended to post this only to write this simple thought: If you're feeling lousy, unable to do much of anything, figure out something that you can do that proves you're not in as bad shape as you think. That's what writing seems to do for me. I felt completely unable to think or form a sentence. I was wrong, and it was very good to find that out. If I had just gone back to sleep and not responded to my e-mail, I would not have discovered that there's still a functioning part of me.
Painting note: I just stumbled upon this artist, Julie Heffernan. This painting is entitled "Self Portrait as Dead Meat II" (2006). For more about her, click here. Harper's magazine seems to have a number of articles about her, but one needs to have a paid subscription to read them. Drats.I am intrigued. I am generally turned off my any art that has surrealism or fantastical elements in it. There is something in this women's work that draws me in deeply. I'd like to talk to her.
I haven't tried Dianne Brill's perfume. I just received a sample. Here's the thing: I don't want to like it. Isn't that awful?
Reason #1. Just read the first sentence of the ad copy:
Diane Brill's lifetime up to this moment provides the inspiration for her signature fragrance.
I am not a stickler about the English language, but honestly, with all the money that goes into developing perfumes and cosmetics, don't you think that this opening salvo could have been better written?
It's such a badly written sentence. I don't know why it sticks in my craw so much. It's causing all sorts of snarky responses in me. What if they left out "up to this moment"? Thus; Diane Brill's lifetime provides the inspiration for her signature fragrance. That's a perfectly good sentence. I suppose it sounds like she's dead. Ah. That's why someone threw that "up to this moment" bit in there. I see it now.
Okay. I'll let that one slide.
But wait, here's sentence #3: Dianne Brill's Perfume is the essence of Ms. Brill's philsophy, which is to deliver a feeling.
This stuff reads like the bad English put out by Japanese companies. Ms. Brill's company is not in this category. What's up with their writers?
As to that philosophy, yeah, I agree. It's really good to want to deliver a feeling. What feeling exactly are we talking about? I suppose it doesn't matter.
Oh sorry. There is a next line, so the question will be answered.
The feeling that you get when you open a present of lingerie, jewelry or exquisite bonbons.
That was it. What feeling is that? It depends, doesn't it? If someone gave me one of those S-shaped diamond necklaces, I'd be speechless and stupefied. Well, that's not exactly a feeling, is it? What if a stranger gave me a diamond engagement ring? I might be scared. If I received a gift of lingerie from a relative, I'd be shocked. Bonbons? Does anyone give bonbons as a gift? Well, I like those Lindt chocolates with hazelnuts inside. I suppose they are bonbons, so if I got some of those, I'd be pleased.
Ms. Brill, am I to believe I will feel all the emotions of a lifetime by wearing your perfume. That is what you mean, right?
Somehow, I think not.
Dianne Brill was the nightlife queen in the early 80's club scene. I remember liking her some, only because she wasn't thin and seemed to be totally okay with that. I was rather saddened to see, that on her website, she gave up being an proud big woman a while back.
I will try the perfume. Oh, how I want to hate it!
Photo note: Diane Brill and Elvira Bobby Sheehan, 1977-82 (unspecified)
Addendum: I felt a bit disturbed after posting this. It was the photograph that created this uneasy (queasy?) feeling that I have. The black and white photograph above reminds me how innocent "we" were thirty or so years ago. Elvira was someone who was fake. Look at her, how truly fake she is. It's a fun fake, like Dianne Brill or Amy Winehouse's bouffants. And Diane B. back then? Honestly, I love her weight. She looks like a real person, all dressed up and having fun.
Go over to Dianne Brill's website (link above) and look at the photographs of her today. Oh, sure, she "looks good." No, I'll disagree with that statement. It's creepy for someone to look younger at middle-age than they did when they were twenty-something.
Last night, I watched the original CSI for the first time in at least a year. The woman who plays Katherine, whatever her name is, looks younger than when the show started. I watched her forehead during the entire episode. Did it move? Not really. Botox strikes again. So much for having models of good looking older women.
When I was a teenager and my mother started her flipping-out-over-I'm getting-old-and-undesirable phase, watching the changes in her were upsetting. I thought I was just a selfish little brat, wanting my mom to stay the same. In retrospect, I think there is some of that in there, but there was a larger issue. I wanted to see her grow old gracefully, for then I'd know I could do it too. I would have also been less worried about her mental state, but that's another story. I basically missed the last year of my mother's life because of her face lift. She didn't want me to see her until she was all healed.
I kid around about how I'd like to get a chin job, a neck resurfacing, a bit of surgery on my lower belly (and if I think about it, a whole host of other places). Heck, I don't have kids. Why should I be a decent role model? But why should I care at all? This is my body. It's falling apart, both on the outside and the inside. Gravity takes it course, as it should. My grandmother's boobs hung so low that they rested on the top of her apron waistband. That was what grandmothers looked like in my mind. There was something almost reassuring about it.
Why do we have to look perpetually young? Greater minds than I have asked that. I've read about this subject in so many places, yet not one person has written about why the youth standard has become so imperative right now. Maybe it's those aging baby boomers. They were in love with their youth and don't want to give it up. I think that may be part of it, but it certainly isn't the whole thing.
I want to admire old crones, women with creped skin and white hair. Why should any of us spend our whole lives worrying about what we look like?
It's odd. I didn't think I'd be someone susceptible to this. I never thought I was attractive and certainly didn't use my looks, such as they were, to any advantage. Youth was never an advantage to me, anyway. I "suffered" from the opposite problem of many. I actually looked too young for a good amount of my adult life. It was hard to get people to take me seriously. I looked like I was a high school student until I was in my late thirties.
What is the standard? It's Miss America, still, after all these years. That age is neither too young nor too old. Let's call it the perpetual 29. That sounds about right.
Yes, I removed some blog entries. It wasn't that they contained anything oh-so-bad. It's just that I am keenly aware of how my physical state is affecting my mood and I know I'm not thinking clearly.
Thank you, everyone, for your kind words and support. I need to chill. Watching stand-up comedy seems like a good idea right now. So, that's what I'm going to do. See ya!
I leave you with the tenth card in the Rorschach series. I'd be most pleased if I come back and see what you make of this one! Again, I'll post my response if you do.
And to all those who never leave comments: c'mon, leave one. It'll do you good.
If you haven't read Helen and Margaret's blog yet, click here.
I have written extensively on this subject. Just read any post about NaNoWriMo (see tags - I'm too lazy to supply you with a link right here).
I found a website that I can realy get behind and now have a link to it on the sidebar. It's allmediocre.com. See, I'm so lazy right now that I'm going to force you to amble over to the sidebar if you want to see the site. Big hint: the button is green (and I wish it was a different color). Now, the folks at allmediocre didn't even make that a clickable icon, but I did. Is that because they're mediocre? You'd have to ask them. I'm surprised I remembered how to turn a graphic into a link, 'cause I thought everything I knew about html was lost, along with any knowledge I've had of any other languages I've studied.
The sidebar has gained a mediocre link and lost the Amazon begging-for-donations link. Amazon has ended that program, which is just as well. I received exactly $2.61 in donations. I don't blame anyone. What with the zillions of blogs out there, why would you donate to mine? Don't blame me for trying, though. And I thank whoever that one person was for their donation.
It seems fitting that the begging bowl is gone and the admission to mediocrity is up. Sure, like every other blogger, I want to be special, but it's like I used to say about people getting tattoos, "I want to be special, just like everyone else." Well, I do think we're all special, actually.
It's just that I enjoy blogging so much that I really want to justify it with some income. I can justify it by saying (and this would be true) that it's enriched my life. I adore the people I've met through this blog. Truly. I don't know why, but the folks who've left comments here all seem to be people I truly like (yes, I said adore, didn't I?)
That in itself should be enough, and it is, for the most part. Of course, since I'm unemployed, I need some income. But, looking for it in this arena is a pipe dream that an awful lot of other folks have. I might as well just play the lottery every day.
I'm not going to become the next "Things That White People Like" blog turned into best seller. No way. I have no gimmick and no hook. That's a problem. I can't even figure out what to tag my posts. What kind of tag is "something about us", anyway?
I like that tag, but it means nothing in the blogosphere. I just can't help being who I am. I really don't think I'm all that mediocre, but I sure don't fit into a neat little box that can be sold easily. And I did get a 7.3 on blogged.com (those jerks!) That's mediocrity!
This post is fairly pointless, isn't it? I have some things I'd like to write about, but I'm tired at the moment. I just wanted to bring your attention to the sidebar changes. And of course, Julie has a hard time getting to her point, every time.
Should we worry that I just spoke of myself in the third person? I'm not turning into George Bush, don't worry. I was just trying it out. I don't like it and don't plan on doing it again. Promise.
Painting note: Julian Schnabel, Untitled (Los Patos del Buen Retiro), 1991, oil, gesso on velvet, 457 x 457 cm What does Julian Schnabel have to do with this post? Let's see: First, he's got one of the biggest egos of any human being I've ever heard speak. Noone can say a negative thing about Schnabel (see this past week's 60 Minutes). I admire his films quite a bit. He's an excellent director. His paintings? My opinion is so colored by that ego of his, that I can't say I have an honest assessment. The prices his work command is another issue (3 million dollars for an eh painting?) Whatever he does is golden. I doubt he's ever thought anything he's done in his life is mediocre. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there's an insecure little boy inside that body somewhere. I certainly have to examine why he irks me so much, that's for sure.
I suppose it's pretty obvious. Last night, I was scratching my lottery tickets while thinking "I hope I win enough to buy a new mattress" over and over again. A new mattress?! Wow, I have big dreams, don't I? But I need a new mattress quite badly and I can't afford it. Meanwhile, Schnabel can sell a scribble on a napkin for the price of the mattress I can't afford. Not to mention all the starving children that need to be fed (big leap of thought here, I know). . .
Is embracing mediocrity a good idea? Yes and no. Yes, in the sense that it seems to free me up to be more creative. But then, I have to believe in what I've done and not call it mediocre, right? I have to practice all this. It's new stuff.
Addendum: I just realized I don't even know if allmediocre has even accepted me for their "mediocre blogroll." Geez, what if they don't? I will surely be embarrassed!
If you live in Maine, please be aware of what happened to us: We received 30 gallons of propane from Maritime Energy, our usual company, on Friday, December 5th. We had to pay in advance, which is a change from the past.
We just got the receipt in the mail. We were charged $4.05 a gallon for the propane. According to the Associated Press, the Governor's office states that the average price for propane in Maine on December 1st was $2.85.
I don't know how many other companies are ripping off their customers. Here in Maine, you can't switch companies easily if you use propane. You use a particular company's tank. It belongs to them. Another company can't come fill it up. I could have asked the price, but I had no suspicions that I was about to be ripped off. If I had known, I would have had to ask them to remove the tank, call another company, and have them install theirs.
Here's what they have to say for themselves on their website: "Maritime's Mission: To provide friendly, reliable service and quality products at fair prices to assure customer satisfaction and loyalty."
Addendum: We'd like to report this to whatever authority one reports such things to. I guess Maritime Energy doesn't use Google Alerts! Maidenform most certainly must. Their customer service is excellent beyond the call of duty and I will write about it at length some time. I wasn't even that "upset" about my non-optimal bra! But, I am angry about being ripped off by my local propane supplier. Have I heard from them? Not a word. I was a bit anxious about posting this. Dick and I double checked the facts above, just in case they had any issues with me writing this. I have written the facts and just the facts, ma'am. Of course, I have also written that I'm bothered by the facts, but there's nothing wrong with that, as far as I know.
Perfume. Just the word conjures up the trivial and superficial in most people's minds. What could beat it, in the category of superficial? Mascara beats it hands down. Those weird contraptions that curl one's eyelashes. Having a discussion about the relative merits of hair gel versus styling putty. . . Oh, the list is endless. What's the most trivial thing you can think of (and what's the most trivial thing that interests you greatly)?
Well, today, perfume lifted my spirits considerably.* I am not wearing something I'm all that thrilled about, but still, just thinking about perfume instead of my personal suffering was a sign that I could transcend my drama. I even got myself to walk a little further than I felt I could go, just to get my hands on some Guerlain Jicky, which wasn't right at my fingertips.
Jicky, which I've written about before, sometimes is a disappointment. It's quite refreshing, but can bring to mind the scent of Lemon Pledge. Once I think of that, like getting a bad song stuck in one's brain, it's hard to shake.
Perfume certainly can be trivial. It isn't to the companies who make it, but I don't care about that. And I don't particularly care for the celebrity scents (okay, I dislike that phenomenom tremendously). But, perfume is somewhat like watching birds for me. The stuff has the power to lift me out of my mood, to transport me to another place, and even to disgust me, which in itself is no mean feat.
It occurs to me, that if I lived in New York City, I might have walked to Aedes de Venustas, even if it practically killed me, to raise my spirits. Unfortunately, a stroll to the Freedom General Store would not have the same affect. Eau de Whoopie Pie? Vienna Sausage Pour Moi? Non!
Hey, I do have a couple of scratch tickets in my bag. I'd forgotten! I got them from my big ten buck win on Friday. I'll go scratch them. I bet I don't even win two bucks, but who knows? If I hit it big, every one of you will get a wonderful gift. I'll be back.
*As did some wonderful people who helped me when I cried for some help. I can't thank you enough. Really. It's remarkable, really, for without the Web, it wouldn't have been possible.
ADDENDUM: I won five bucks. Not enough to buy a new mattress, unless I traveled back in time. Perhaps I'll figure out how to do that if I stay up late enough.
I'm scared, and that might be worse than being in pain. Hell, I can stand a little or even a lot of pain. But, from reading various articles on line, I am bewildered by the lack of care I am getting, though there are so many people without appropriate care that I shouldn't have a scrap of bewilderment in me.
I have areas of complete numbness in addition to pain. This sounds bizarre, but I can stick a fork into my right foot and not feel a thing. There are other places where I am totally numb, too, but I'm not going to sit here sticking sharp objects into my skin to check them out.
According to what I have just read on line, I have at least three conditions that call for an immediate consultation with a neurologist. Yet, I don't have a doctor's appointment for 13 days, and I know that this appointment is only to arrange for a referral to another doctor. Just knowing this is frightening to me. I'm living one hour at a time, in essence, and there are a lot of hours until the 22nd of December.
Pain renders me stupid. I have no idea what to do. I can see that my physical inactivity is not good for me, but there are so many movements that cause such excruciating pain that I really can't motivate myself to get up off of this sofa and away from my heating pads.
By the way, the judgment of "non-functioning" was the "Quality of Life" assessment. I don't agree that I'm a ZERO on quality of life, but by their standards, I am.
I have nothing further to say (noted later: fat chance of that). I promised there'd be no more diary-like entries. Okay, I'm nearly desperate, so I broke my word. If there's anyone out there with any suggestions, I'll take them. Please don't suggest that I consider euthenasia.
I wanted to find a contemporary artist's work to grace the top of this post. I found an interesting site called the Pain Exhibit. It would not allow me to copy any of the work.
It's snowing outside and is quite beautiful. I watched the birds for a while. The juncos, which were written about so well (as per usual) on Turn Outward yesterday, were a lovely sight in the snow, as they always are. The dark gray of these birds is a magnificent color. It could easily be described as black, but it is not. I find this color quite rich. I note as I look around the room I am in, that I've painted the trim the very same color. This gray is the color of impending storms, slate, dusk, dust, and the tip of my cat's tail. Maybe I'll just post a square of gray. It is also the color of my mood, if you remove the beauty. I am moving in and out of the black hole of despair. The juncos, on the other hand, even if they are dark gray, are the opposite of despair, though who knows what goes on in their little brains. They are plumped up today, looking much bigger than they are. The temperature may have risen to a whopping 18 degrees from the -6 of last night, but the wind is blowing. It amazes me that the birds can survive in this. I saw some goldfinches, which I do not remember ever seeing at this time of year. I just flashed on these little birds wearing tiny down jackets, but hey, they are covered in down, now that I think of it. Duh.
Image note: Cy Twombly Unititled #19 Sorry, I don't know the year. Always loved what I think of his "blackboard paintings". Don't know why. Analysis is hopeless today.
I had just spent a good part of an hour poking around Netflix to find some movies to put in my queue. Vague thoughts about the sheer volume of violent films I've watched over the years wafted in and out of my mind. When I finished, I checked in at Bittergrace Notes, where I read Maria Browning's latest entry, on the play "Black Watch".
A word of caution (or an excuse, perhaps): My thoughts are muddled tonight. I am wary of writing, yet the urge is there, and noone is paying me to do a good job, so I shall proceed. . .
Some years ago, I took the 6:00am bus from Bangor, Maine to New York City. This particular bus line shows movies and serves snacks. The movies are usually comedies or Christmas films if it's the season. It's family fare. I don't recall many of the names of films I've seen on this trip, but suffice it to say, there's usually something with Adam Sandler in it. You get the idea.
On this snowy morning, I boarded the bus and immediately fell asleep. Upon awakening, I looked up at the movie screen and saw a rape taking place. It was 9:00am and we were watching "Rob Roy". Here is some of what Amazon's "essential film" review and synopsis says of this film: ". . .the intelligently scripted story takes place in Scotland in 1713. . .a tale of courage and valor destined to become an enduring movie classic." There is nothing to warn us, here (or on any other movie site), of the rape that we will witness.
The protracted rape scene was as beautiful, in my memory, as the rest of the film. How many beautifully choreographed rapes have I seen on television and in films? Too many to recount. I'm not going to mince words: most of us enjoy watching. Not because we like rape and murder, but because this is entertainment. The bad guys are killed, caught or punished, and so, we can feel okay about whatever enjoyment we derived from watching.
One movie stands out as an exception: Boys Don't Cry. The rape scene in this film is gut wrenching and painful to watch, as it should be. When I saw it in the theater, I could see people squirming in their seats. I have met more than one person who said that they did not want to subject themselves to this film or that they fast forwarded that scene when they watched it on DVD. If you haven't seen it, do so. Force yourself to look. Feel the pain and fear. See rape as it is - violence. We should be repulsed.
At the other extreme is the 1989 film version of Hubert Selby Jr's book"Last Exit to Brooklyn", where, if you read this New York Times review (along with every other review I just scanned) you'd be surprised to discover a slow-moving gang bang of the beautiful Jennifer Jason Leigh by a seemingly endless line of men in a vacant lot. As shocked as any viewer may be, I have heard from more than one person, and I will admit myself, to all the flak I may get, that there was something beautifully seductive about this scene of true horror.
Are we meant to feel guilt? I don't think so. When Pasolini's "Salo" (loosely based on DeSade's "120 Days of Sodom") was released, I remember, standing in the theater afterwards with some of my fellow (very young) art students. I felt queasy from watching this depiction of some of the most unthinkable acts of sadism. People were joking around, talking about how much they enjoyed the film, engaging in deconstructing it, completely unaware of what it's meaning might be, of Italian fascism, of Pasolini himself, of anything. It seemed cool to be able to watch this movie without flinching, as if the act of enjoying it was somehow a subversive act. What meaning does this have? That we are so numb to pain? Most of us were punks, and sado-masochistic themes were popular, but there is a chasm of difference between consensual sex play and enjoying rape, murder and torture, even if it is on film. There is pornography and then there is the pornographic.
We watch and read the news, see people beheaded, women shot in stadiums, watch endless shows about forensics. When we read or hear of Darfur, do we know that we are receiving information about reality? I think the answer to that is, perhaps, no.
We applaud films like Hotel Rwanda and Schindler's List, but when there was a Seinfeld episode about Jerry and his girlfriend making out while watching the latter, that was a brilliant piece of observation. Jerry's parents were shocked. But they shouldn't have been. It was just a movie. One of the film's subplots was the abusive sexual relationship of two characters (excuse me if I don't remember their names). It was something we should not have been able to watch, and instead it came off as something akin to an erotic S&M take on the relationship of Nazis and Jews.
Yes, I'm all over the map. I haven't seen "Black Watch". I probably won't. But when I think of all these beautiful men, as they undoubtedly all are, acting and dancing and singing, in spite of our right minds thinking of the horrors of war, we are again turning it into beautiful art.
I think of the boys (yes, boys) I've known up here in Maine who went to Iraq. They left this country with proud families and proud and strong hearts. They came back damaged beyond repair. They are not beautiful. Some of them cannot speak. Some of them do not want to speak. Their eyes are glazed. Their bodies are damaged. Their youth has been taken away. They have done and seen things that noone should have done or seen, and whether you think it was for nothing or for a good cause, it makes no difference. These boys I've known will not be dancing or attending plays. Many of them are just gone. If I were to write a play about them, I'd cast boys of all sizes and shapes, scrawny, brawny, short, tall, limbs missing, acne-scarred, bad haircuts, ill-fitting clothes, and set them on a sofa. There'd be little dialogue. Perhaps a television set would be on. Maybe CSI Miami would be on, and we'd see yet another beautiful woman who has been raped, tortured and murdered. The men who were once boys would not react, for hardly any of us do, and these fellows, a good many of them, are further numbed by prescription drugs, heroin and booze. This would not be a pleasurable play to watch. The conversation: "Pass me a brew, would ya?" "Get it yourself, you lazy douche." Someone might get it together to get up and go to the refrigerator or go take a leak. Maybe they'd watch a football game. It would be a pretty boring play. And it would, hopefully, be depressing. People might leave the theater. After all, we watch plays where dialogue is elevated, turned into art. Everyone is beautiful, or if they are not, they are charicatures of ugliness, beautiful people made into monsters. Reality is banal.
This ends with a whimper and not a bang. What can I say? I warned you that my thoughts were murky tonight. I feel strongly about these things. I'm not a journalist, nor an intellectual. I am unsure how to collect my thoughts. But maybe that's okay. I'm neither a film critic or an expert. I'm just a somewhat regular person who thinks a bit too much, and I have no conclusions to offer you.
So, that's it for tonight. I hope, at least, you'll think about these things. Maybe you'll have a conclusion or thought that I don't. In fact, I'm sure you will.
Painting Note: Artemisia Gentileschi (July 8, 1593 – 1651/1653) was an Italian Early Baroque painter, today considered one of the most accomplished painters in the generation influenced by Caravaggio. In an era when women painters were not easily accepted by the artistic community, she was the first female painter to become a member of the Accademia di Arte del Disegno in Florence.(Wikipedia)For an interesting analysis of this painting "Susanna and the Elders" (based on a biblical story), go here.
Addendum: All evening I have been racking my brain, trying to find the term for the type of art, such as that of Dennis Cooper, or David Lynch. I looked at these links, and others, to find the term. Is it merely subversive art? I think not. But I can not, for the life of me, conjure up what I know that I know. It is terribly frustrating. Please, someone, help me out here! And then, this discussion will grow. The topic of art, violence and sexuality is one I've been wrestling with for a long time. It's now on the table, but I'm missing a large piece of my vocabulary tonight.
Both a preface and an addendum: I wrote this on Friday and took it down sometime over the weekend. I felt badly that I hadn't thanked a number of people who have graced my life in person. I also thought "no more diary-like entries." Now I'm re-posting it, without any changes:
Today is my birthday. I woke up, had a shower, and Dick drove me to the emergency room. On the way there, I noticed I had a lottery scratch ticket in my bag. Once in a while I buy a bingo card, because they take some time to do, and I have a good time calling out the numbers if I'm alone or in my head if I'm not (okay, sometimes I do this when I'm not alone). I have never won my two bucks back. Don't get all excited yet. I only won ten dollars. But it seemed like a good sign.
The hospital waiting room was blissfully empty. I only waited five minutes before I was seen. I stepped out to use the restroom, and when I came back, the doctor was there. He said something like "you seem quite mobile" in an accusatory voice. I was immediately on edge. The night before, I was in agony, but I knew I could get through it, and honestly, emergency rooms are usually nightmares after midnight. I'd prefer to suffer at home.
I didn't feel all that bad this morning, comparatively, but I knew I was getting worse, not better, and as I don't have a doctor's appointment until the 22nd, it was back to the ER.
Around here, and I suppose probably all over this country, people go to the ER with headaches and backaches, just to get drugs. So, I suppose seeing someone who said they were in so much pain looked suspicious.
But, this particular doctor was listening. I explained what had been going and he took me seriously. He seemed positive that he knew what the problem was. He wasn't going to slough me off on someone else. He said he was going to give me an injection in my spine. I asked, "Will that hurt?" "Not to me", he answered. I had to laugh. I said, "When I was a tattooist, I used to say that to everyone." Then he asked me if I knew this old tattooist, who had died years ago, which I did, and we talked about him for a while. It occurred to me later that this guy was smart enough to realize that a person who's heavily tattooed would not complain of so much pain if they didn't mean it (well, unless they were looking for drugs). But I wasn't. I was looking for help. The pain and numbness patterns all told a story that he understood, because, for once, someone was really paying attention.
I got my shot ("I guess you must be really scared of needles") and as the medication spread into my spine, the pain went down a couple of notches, even in places where I can't remember ever not having pain. I have had this pain for most of my life, and I have never had appropriate medical attention. I got used to it. I did a lot of yoga. I stopped bothering with doctors. But then, it got so bad I couldn't do any physical activity.
You don't need to hear the whole story, do you?
The thing is, I had a lovely day. I really did. After we got out of the ER, Dick and I went to a real hole-in-the-wall Lebanese restaurant where the food wasn't dumbed down for Yankees. I felt like I had left the country for an hour. I had a falafel and hummus sandwich on home-made pita bread. It was spicey and tasted like there might be an entire head of garlic in it.
Afterwards, I got a haircut. I looked a wreck; pale, bags under my eyes, exhausted. My hair even looked exhausted. I've dyed it one too many times and it's been completely robbed of any luster. No hope for it at all. In the past, I would have just shaved my head (see last post) but I felt like doing something new. A real "style". Quite frankly, it's awful. I'll never be able to do whatever the hairdresser did with that huge round brush and a blow dryer. Eh, it's only hair. I had a good time having someone wash my hair with some insanely fruity shampoo and being around folks who all seemed so animated. I said that the shampoo smelled nice. "Do you want to purchase some?" "No, it doesn't match my perfume" I was exhausted when we were through. I suppose staring in the mirror at my lusterless hair and tired face wore me out. And, I had been at the ER for almost three hours. But, I had to stop and buy a hairbrush.
We made one last stop to for birdseed and suet and headed home.
My mailbox was filled with goodies; a bottle of Annick Goutal Encens Flamboyant and another free book from Amazon, "The Housekeeper and the Professor" by Yoko Ogawa. This looks like it's going to be the first of four books I've received that I can actually read. The rest have been duds. An awful lot of junk is published, and I suspect an awful lot of good writing is not. Who are these editors?
We ate avocados and sourdough bread for dinner. I adore avocados, and they seem almost decadent when it's twenty degrees outside. What a pleasure.
I discovered dear TMC put up a birthday wish for the entire world wide web to see. This touched me greatly. I have met many wonderful people on the Web. I read and hear so much about the "bad side" of the Web, but you can find something bad in everything. I want to give my thanks for all of you I've met here. You are all special, and have enriched my life. Hyperbole? Perhaps, but tonight I think not.
And with that, my day ends. An odd day, not one that is the picture postcard of what a birthday might be like, but it was a very beautiful day in its way. And I want to thank my partner, Dick, for being the kind human being that he is. He gave me a card with a photo of two young girls playing dress up. Inside, besides the personal stuff, he wrote, "I'm the one on the right." The personal stuff is personal. Yes, some things still are.
I just watched a nice little documentary called "Gender Rebel". The hype for the film is "Three individuals shatter the confines of traditional gender identities. Watch the entire show online right now!"
Maybe I'm not easily shocked, but I didn't see any shattering going on. Eh, everything's got to be hyped. Too bad.
Random thoughts:
When a young woman considers surgery to have her breasts removed, her father says he might disown her and her mother is very upset. Why on earth would a parent care if their daughter has breasts or not? What if she didn't develop breasts as a teenager? Would they have given her up for adoption?
I think there are a hell of a lot of people who are gender fluid or not "identified as" male or female. Now that there's a word for it, genderqueer, more people are coming out of the closet about it. But, I dunno. Is there really a closet to come out of?
Am I genderqueer? Let's see: I don't have kids. I feel totally uncomfortable in a dress. If I'm wearing high heels I feel like a hooker. I feel vaguely uncomfortable with my hair the way it is now (longish). I prefer it in a buzz cut or even bald. I have never seen a mainstream movie or television show where I've identified with a female character. I wish I was flat-chested. I feel great in a men's suit. I love passing for a man, though I don't any more, since I've gained weight, grown my hair and developed big boobs. One of the happiest moments in my life was being introduced as an "honorary gay man" when I was the only female person at a gay men's weekend (long story). I had a blast when I used to lift weights at a macho health club at six in the morning. I liked that person I saw in the mirror - crewcut, wifebeater, and fairly big muscles for one so upper body strength handicapped as I. There's more, but it's too much information, and probably not in very good taste.
The list is long enough. These sounded like all the reasons the three young women in the movie gave for identifying as genderqueer.
Maybe it's a generational thing. I don't feel like I'm a Woman (with a capital W), but I certainly don't feel like a guy. I don't feel like anything. I'm just me. And that's fine. Maybe it's an age thing, too, 'cause I don't have a big driving need to find others "like me" to hang around with. I'm not scared of "being different" and I'm not above changing the way I look to fit in, even if I'm uncomfortable.
I suspect that if I was in my twenties now, things would be very different for me. I'd probably embrace boi-hood with open arms. But that ship has sailed, as they say.
After I watched Gender Rebel, I tried watching Beautiful Daughters, a documentary about the first all transgender production of the Vagina Monologues. It was really bothering me. Here was something I couldn't relate to at all. Seeing all those women in their coordinated outfits, their makeup, their perfectly styled hair. . .oh please! Is this what it means to be a woman?
In both movies, there was such an emphasis on clothes. How absurd. Does wearing a dress really determine your gender? I have always liked listening to music that boys like but I also love high-end perfume. So what? I've been told my odd and seemingly contradictory preferences mean I'm a gay man trapped in a woman's body and that may be true, but I guess I don't care enough to do anything about it. Never did. Well, okay, I have thought about it a little, but female-to-male hasn't been mastered surgically, and I really do not think I was born into the wrong body. Why do we have to be so black and white about everything!? I've never liked fitting into a box. So, I guess I'm not stepping into the one marked "genderqueer".
It's fine if you do. Please don't get me wrong. Go right ahead!
Years ago I picked up a copy of Kate Bornstein's hilarious "My Gender Workbook." My score was "Honey,you are a gender freak!" (or something to that effect). I also took a test online (now considered outdated by many) that was once mandatory for all men seeking sexual reassignment. Pretending I was a man, I failed miserably. Verdict? Don't even think of it (being a woman). What am I to make of that?
Well, the test was ridiculous. Again, lots of questions about clothes and makeup! So, I don't paint my toenails, never have and probably never will. Reassign me!
Photo note: Was going to post a pic of Annie Lennox, but ran into k.d.lang first, and I've always loved this pic. They both make me swoon.
Oddly, Lennox just blogged that she had "the worst pain she ever felt" in her back and her left foot went numb. She had surgery and is fine. Well, same here (without the surgery) on my right side. Could somebody get me an earlier doctor's appointment than the 22nd (which is just a meeting to get a referral??!!) Geez, I guess one needs to be a star to get some help!
What a dilemma - On the one hand, I want to be honest about my life and to have an honest conversation with you, whoever you are. On the other hand, I know people don't like grumpy and miserable people. And if I start posting too many depressing entries, it's likely you won't come back for more. Who wants to hear it?
But if was to start censoring myself in order to provide readers with a sanitized and more fun aspect of me, I might as well go the whole hog, scrap this blog, and start a new one which would certainly have a bigger readership. Here's some possibilities: One Happy Thought for the Day, Happy Project of the Day, Everything's Interesting But Not Everything Will Cheer you Up, Pain and Depression: So What?
That's enough of that. Y'know, sometimes I want to do this. Most of the "let's get happy in spite of ________ (put your malady in the blank) websites and blogs have an awful lot of Christian advice, or are written by people like the guy who wrote "Chicken Soup for the Soul", who I don't think ever had more than two seconds of self-doubt in his life. I'm not even giving that book a link. Isn't he rich enough yet?
So, I was thinking about Susan Sontag, and how, despite being an extraordinary thinker and even writing "Illness as Metaphor" could not cope with her cancer and mortality.
Then I realized that'd I never actually read the book, which is a huge oversight. I've read many of her essays. Her "On Photography" is an extraordinary book.
After checking in on Amazon, I discover that Sontag had serious issues with the idea that we cause our own illnesses. Of couse, there's a direct correlation between smoking cigarettes and lung cancer, a high-sugar diet and diabetes and things like that. She doesn't disagree. But, as I noticed earlier today, when thinking "since I am unable to attend my meditation retreat and am feeling so badly, there must be something that I am supposed to be learning from all this pain", I was desperately trying to impose meaning on something where there probably is none. In that process, I fall prey to guilt. I must have done something wrong or not paid enough attention to something. Or at least, I have to learn the lesson of being able to be okay with not being able to function some of the time.
The last bit is true, but I don't believe that karma or something in the universe imposed itself on my body just to teach me a lesson.
I'm sorry, but I just can't believe in things like this, though it's easy to. My mother wasn't killed by a guy running a red light for any reason other than she was killed by someone running a red light. I learned much from the aftermath of that event, but it didn't happen so I could.
Those who believe in an afterlife can feel better because those who die are now "at peace." I'm happy they believe that. It's quite comforting.
I suppose all I'm saying is that accidents happen, and sometimes come in the form of non-accidents. Luck comes in the form of the bad, as well as the good. It's not even luck - it's just life. A hell of a lot of it is a crapshoot.
Painting note: Francisco Goya Duel with Cudgels 1819-23 My inner dialogue.
Something TMC wrote about the show "Survivor" made me start writing these lists a week or so ago. I needed a new blog entry, feel overly serious tonight, and so, to remedy that, I present the following:
Ten reasons I can't be on Survivor 1. I'm a lousy swimmer. 2. I don't look good in a bathing suit. 3. My teeth aren't white enough. 4. Eating fish makes me want to throw up. 5. I don't know how to employ feminine wiles to bend men to my will. 6. I don't tan. 7. I don't know how to dive. 8. I'm not soppy enough. If given the choice "Would you rather read a letter from home or have a big meal and a spa treatment?", I'd go for the latter and wouldn't give it a second's thought. 9. There's something wrong with the Achilles tendon in my right foot. 10. They seem to like having peoples with tattoos, but some of my tattoos are just too scary for primetime TV.
Ten reasons why I'd be perfect (not this week) for the never-to-be-made Survivor: Northern Alaska (a show that won't happen because people would rather see mostly-naked bodies than folks in down jackets). 1. I know how to dress for the cold. 2. I know how to build and maintain a fire. 3. Don't mean to gross you vegetarians out, but I know how to butcher a deer. 4. I like the dark. 5. Being cooped up inside a small space doesn't bother me (which I presume we would be most of the time). 6. I could entertain the others with silly stories. After all, we wouldn't be doing all that much. They'd have to keep me around for that. 7. I know enough about dangerous cold and ice not to do something stupid (like pick up a kettle with my bare hands when it's -24 degrees). 8. I know there are lots of things one can do with snow. 9. I am good at making up games. Another reason to keep me around to stave off boredom. 10.I built an igloo when I was a kid. I guess that's more of #8, but I couldn't think of ten things.
Photo note: "Created entirely from ice and snow, igloo hotels cater to adventure-loving guests spending one or more nights. Overnight rates generally include thermal mats, sheepskin rugs and sleeping bags. Guests can weather the experience in winter clothing."
Only because I was too lazy to go upstairs, I reached for a bottle of Chanel Cristalle. This is one of the very few full bottles of scent that I own. It was exactly one year ago that I purchased this for myself, as a birthday gift (three more days to go, in case you're wondering).
Before I moved to Maine and gave up wearing scent, almost twenty years ago, I had a small collection. Here's what I remember of it: Chanel Cristalle, White Shoulders, Hermes Caleche, YSL Paris, and Ralph Lauren (his first fragrance). There were probably others, but these have made it through the ravages of time and memory. The YSL was much too much rose intensity for me to wear, but I loved to sniff it now and again, and it had such a pretty bottle. Caleche was my first love, Cristalle was my second, and White Shoulders, the stuff you can now buy at Walmart, was the third.
These have all been reformulated since.
My first reaction to the "new" Cristalle was disappointment. It also gave me a small headache. So, my bottle sits in its box, unused.
I'm wearing some now, and it smells delightful, much more flowery than I remembered. My nose is a bit stuffed up, so I may be missing quite a bit of it. It is decidedly feminine, but lately I've been so taken with woods and incense that anything else would probably scream "feminine" to me.
This is very strange. I remember reading someone describing Cristalle as the smell of money. I smell that - the scent of new money, crisp bills with a band around them, never touched by anyone before, never used. . .and here it is, the whole image: A huge round glass vase bursting with flowers, no single one standing out, but overflowing, and beside it, a neat pile of new bills. The white tablecloth that I envison ripples slightly from the sea breeze that enters through the open French doors. The white cloth looks bright against the backdrop of the deep blue ocean and the cloudless blue sky. I see a woman near the table, tanned, and quite fit. There are sounds of quiet laughter and ice cubes in heavy glass tumblers.
This is not a scent. It's my fantasy. Actually, it's an old neighbor's living room (but without the pile of money on the table).
Sitting here with my cat beside me, still in my bathrobe, listening to the pop and crackle of the woodstove, I am far away from the place that Cristalle takes me to. It is certainly not summer. I do not live on the ocean, nor am I fit and tan. You'd be right if you said my sudden imagery was a stereotype of a certain type. That woman would not be writing this. She'd be sitting down to dinner right about now, or at least in the first course. She'd also wonder how anyone could live with a woodstove. Sure, it's quaint, but all that wood and ashes leave a terrible mess. A fireplace is acceptable, and creates a nicer ambiance, don't you think?
Well, my woodstove heats my house. I sniff my wrist. Such a pretty scent. It just doesn't match my life at all. Does it matter?
Photo note: I googled "all white living rooms." This is pretty close to what was in my mind. Not only that, the house is on Peaks Island, right here in the state of Maine. The article? "A Life in the Clouds" from Cottage Living. The window treatment is all wrong for this room. I can't even think of the nicer term for those venetian blinds. Those things always make me think of Brooklyn, not the new hip version, but the Brooklyn where my grandparents lived, with venetian blinds and plastic slipcovers for everything.
Secretly (as if it's an awful thing!), I've always fantasized about having an all-white living room. If I lived alone, I could pull it off. I suppose that side of me who likes this is the one who likes Cristalle (and Cristal, too).
Addendum: Cristalle is cloying after an hour or so. I'm thinking of scrubbing. . .
Addendum II: For the record, I don't like the living room that graces the top of this post. When I said it was "my fantasy", I meant it was where I envisioned my imaginary Cristalle wearer to be. I dislike this room so much, that when I've revisited this post to respond to a comment, I've bristled. So, here's an all-white living room I like, and a link to lots of photos from the Country Living home tour:
I just discovered that Tania Sanchez, the co-author of "Perfumes: The Guide", participated in this year's National Novel Writing Month. This makes me happy. I'm not sure why. Tania, if you happen to stumble onto this blog, did you write about perfume? My book has not a single word about the subject. And, of course, congratulations for making it to the finish line!
It occurs to me that discovering that Tania Sanchez, whom I adore from afar, was participating in the same activity as I was during the month of November makes me feel like we are close in some way. I don't mean "close" in some creepy, stalking way, but close in that knowing she did NaNoWriMo, too, makes her more of a real person to me. Of course, I knew that she was (and is) a real person, but there is something unreal about celebrity crushes.
Everything I write makes me sound like a stalker. I've written about Tania's husband, Luca Turin, in my post "I finally found a hero of sorts". I got a thank you e-mail from him, which was most gracious.
So, these are real people, living their lives, just like the rest of us. They certainly have a larger collection of perfume in their household than the rest of us. And neither of them, I'm sure, judge scents with phrases like "I dunno what this smell is" or variations of "I don't know much about perfume but I know what I like" that are inherent in many of my assessments.
Then again, maybe even the finest nose has "I dunno" moments.
Painting note: Amazingly, I've just spent fifteen minutes trying to find out who painted this portrait of Catherine de Medici, with no luck at all. I obtained the jpg on Wikipedia Commons, where it said nothing. Google searches supplied me with more pics, but no info. Most odd.
I'm glad I went on this search, for I wound up at a delightful site, The Racous Royals, where I learned we can hold Catherine responsible for corsets and high heels.
I was trying to remember why I wanted a painting of Catherine de Medici at the top of this post and couldn't. It was only this: I Profumi di Firenze says that they were "inspired by original 16th century secret formulas commissioned by Catherine de Medici."
I expected to be on a meditation retreat today. I'm not, and I'm sitting here in my bathrobe. I haven't done anything of any real use for days. My largest interest is "When will the phone ring?" I've left messages and spoken to receptionists at doctor's offices. Won't anyone call me back in a timely manner? I suspect that the answer is "no". After all, it took four months to find out that one doctor would not take me on as a new patient. More on suspicions about why that was so will be forthcoming.
Yeah, I feel guilty for doing practically nothing. I've watched a lot of excellent documentaries, but they all run together in my mind, for I've fallen asleep during every single one of them.
Feeling unwell seems to destroy most of my control over neuroses I've thought I had gotten rid of. Guilt, for one. I seem to feel guilty about nearly everything. Not working. Not being able to concentrate on schoolwork. "Is that really true or are you just lazy?" asks my inner critic. Not making the bed. Oh wait, I didn't sleep in my bed. I slept on the sofa. Never mind that one.
Other shades of something like guilt: feeling like an lazy idiot. Didn't I mention that already? Yes, I have, calling myself lazy. And I am, at the moment. Two weeks ago, a stranger asked me if I ever slept, for I was being so productive. The inner critic sneers at me and tries to scare me with lines like "You'll never feel decent again!" and "You've wasted your life!" The inner critic taunts me, "People with life threatening illnesses have more energy than you do. What's wrong with you?!" Yes, some people with life threatening illness do indeed have more energy than I do. What can I say? People are different. The inner demon (I mean critic) says, "So you say people are different, do you?" and I cower a little. I mean, I'm talking to myself, and should be able to hold a decent conversation, but I'm intimidated by my inner bully, who reminds me that, "Yes, people are different, but you, well, you're a loser. Always were and always will be."
I had thought I'd conquered this miserable demon, but whenever I'm sick, he (yes, he) shows up and throws a party.
Comparing myself to others is a futile way to fight these messages. Comparisons are hopeless. They're traps. We use them when we don't have a solid inner gauge of what's right. I thought "Well, that's what you think!" Of course it is! I wrote it, didn't I?
Take the simple scenario of feeling sick and wanting to stay in bed, nap and read. Some people would say that's a good idea, some people would say "get to work" and others would say it depends on too many factors to give an opinion or "what's the big deal?!" I feel guilty so I'm trying to figure out what others might do or think. That's quite unusual for me. I usually don't care what others think. I know how I feel and where I stand, and that's that. End of story.
But when I get sick (and as I write this, beads of sweat are dripping down my face, so I really am ill), I lose all my grounding. I am suddenly an insecure 10 year old kid (with a slightly bigger vocabulary). Why I can write halfway coherently is beyond me, but I can (albeit more verbosely and tangentially than usual). I'm doing it because. . .I might need to.
What is this post about? Oh, look above. What's the deal with the stats? I totally forgot! Here's the "win statistics" for National Novel Writing Month: 2001: 14% 2002: 15.6% 2003: 13.7% 2004: 14.3% 2005: 16.6% 2006: 16.2% 2007: 15.1% 2008: 18.2% Yep, I'm one of the 18.2% I wonder how many of these "novels" will be edited. Will even one be published by a major publisher?
Okay, the ramble is over. Will I post it? Maybe I will, and take it down later. Ah, life. It's interesting.
You see a picture of a bed. The title of the post is lust.
And what do I lust after? That bed. Nothing risque here. Move along, nothing to see!
Not that medical insurance makes any sense, but in the long run, it would save on doctor's visits and medication if people who have arthritis, fibromyalgia and similar ailments were helped with the expense of having an appropriate bed. But, then again, there's the fact that I can get an eye exam, but I have to pay for my glasses. I can understand that insurance companies don't want to pay for Armani frames, but if one can't function without glasses, isn't it a medical neccessity?
I suppose if everyone had a good bed, then the pharmaceutical companies wouldn't be selling as much Ambien and whatever else they promote for insomnia and pain.
I don't think it's a conspiracy, but it could be. Maybe we will discover that Big Pharma and Big Mattress are in bed together (no pun intended, but there it is). I bought a supposedly excellent mattress six years ago and after one year it was kaput.
It's awful, but I look at my bed and think "There's my personal hell." One reason I stay up late is so I can put off getting up in the morning. It doesn't make sense, 'cause no matter what time I go to sleep, I have to get up the next day, but these are the kinds of nonsensical things that people do when they're hurting. I'm not the only one. I've heard it all at fibromyalgia support groups. That's why I only went to two meetings.
When I did a google search for wool mattresses, I found an awful lot about "the ultimate luxury" embedded in between the information on why wool mattresses are healthy and comfortable. It occurs to me that the original target audience (pain sufferers) probably weren't supporting these companies well enough to keep them in business. I discovered that some upscale hotels now have rooms with these beds for clients who need them (and I'd bet that a night in one of these rooms costs nearly as much as a mattress).
Well, we all know that rich people can afford to take better care of their health. Before I moved to Maine, I thought dentures were only for elderly people. Not so! My rude awakening was when I was having a conversation with a girl in her twenties who had sparkling white teeth. I complimented her on them; they were so sparkly and nice. She said, "Oh, you can have them, too. All you need to do is have your teeth pulled!" Gulp. Toothless and twenty-something.
I grew up surrounded by wealthy people. My family moved to one of wealthiest communities in America when I was about seven years old. Before that, we lived in a housing project, where I was a fairly happy kid who loved to jump rope, read, draw and explore. After we moved, everything changed. Suddenly, I was in a world I didn't understand. I was teased for wearing the wrong clothes, or the same dress more than once in a week. I was confused by all sorts of things. Nobody came out into the street to play. The women I thought were mothers turned out to be maids. Silly me thought little Jane Doe had a black mommy who wore a funny outfit every day!
Oh, how I came to hate that town and everything I thought it stood for - greed, lording your good fortune over others, treating people badly simply because they're less fortunate than you. . . .this is one subject that I can't write about at all. Not with any coherency, that is.
And this post started with my desire for a mattress. My lust. Or is it covetousness? Whatever. I just want. Really, I should be grateful for the riches I have. A roof over my head, a car, plenty of food, a computer with the world at my fingertips! And my sofa is pretty darned comfortable to sleep on. See, I have a sofa! Some people live in tin shacks and sleep on dirt floors. Lots of people do.
Maybe I am much more of a typical American than I think I am.
Addendum: This is one of those times I'm thinking "should I delete this post?" Am I a sniveling whiner? In my line of sight is a magazine with a picture of Michelle Obama on the cover. Seeing her makes me think of how hard some people work in order to achieve. And their work and achievements aren't for nothing. They're for their children, their communities and, sometimes, for the world.
In the town in which I grew up, I saw many people who had attained wealth but who had little education. They only had the desire to make money and then, once that was achieved (though that work is never finished, it seems), they liked to show it off. People who couldn't pull themselves up by their bootstraps were losers and deserved their lot.
As much as I intellectually disagree with this idea, it is something I can't quite shake off. I do not believe that we are all born equal. Some of us are born into poverty. Some are born into wealth. Many talents are inherent. So are the things we consider deficits. Some kids can never learn to read or write and others will go on to get advanced degrees in physics, write or paint a masterpiece, or rob a grocery store.
My society tells me that I'm a failure at life. If I can't afford that bed in the picture, I should work harder. I've lead an odd life, I'd say, with ups and downs financially. Mostly downs.
I'm embarassed when confronted (in my own mind) with the success of my relatives and people I've known since I was young. I have more than a few talents. Why haven't I flourished?
I think back to a summer when I had a booth at the Full Circle Fair in Blue Hill, Maine (not your ordinary fair). I wove tartans at the time, beautiful heathered tartans made of Maine wool. Not only were my blankets beautiful and well-woven, but I had tags, brochures and all sorts of materials that were painstakingly designed and, yes, lovely. I can say with no false modesty that I had a great product and a great presentation. I sold nothing. Zero.
Down the aisle from me was another weaver, who was selling plain white blankets with a thin stripe of color in them. They were perfectly fine blankets. They had a brochure that was perfectly fine, too. But, here's the thing: they were taking orders for these $300 lap blankets like you wouldn't believe. I kept going over there and eavesdropping. The wait time they were projecting to buyers kept going up and up as the weekend went by. I got more depressed as I listened.
There was no sense in this. Objectively, I had a nicer product. I was nice and friendly (though I may been glum by Sunday late afternoon). In all likelihood, the other weaver's success started with a piece of luck: a single buyer who brought friends, a group of maybe-buyers who all arrived at once or the fact that it was a particularly hot weekend and the plain white blankets looked refreshing in the sun.
Now, I did become quite depressed afterwards. I was sure that the reason I lost money was that there is something inherently wrong with me. My childhood told me that I was a loser and life has given me plenty of proof that this is indeed true.
I fight against this idea every single day. It's a hard fight, that's for sure.
Now that I'm getting books from Amazon to review, I'm thinking about what a review is for. Most of the books and DVDs that I've reviewed on Amazon were highly subjective matters and I made a point of saying so. A dance instruction DVD has music I dislike so much that I can't listen to it may be someone else's sheer delight (those poor deluded fools).
According to Amazon, 88% of people who bother to click the little buttons on the screen think my reviews are helpful. I just discovered I have the most helpful critical review of Stephen Cope's "The Wisdom of Yoga". I like Stephen Cope and have found his previous books and projects to be of great value, so I was hesitant to write a "bad" review of anything he did, but if you read the review, you may see why I felt something of an obligation to do so.
Reviews are rated themselves, by "helpfulness". I have often thought that this helpfulness vote was really a vote for whether or not one agreed with the writer of the review. When the Wisdom of Yoga first came out, those who said my review was unhelpful was much larger, more like 70% of the responders. The fact that this ratio has gone down makes me wonder. Maybe because I now have this official "The most helpful critical review", it gives someone pause before dismissing my opinion.
I still am not sure what reviewing is "for". Now that I have to review a certain amount of books, I'm flummoxed. I've never written fiction reviews. I figure that like music, we all have such different taste. I don't like "chick lit" or romance novels, but others do. Why should I put in my two cents?
When I read a review, I want to know two things: 1. Personal opinions, just to get an idea of the range of reactions, and 2. Whether the product, whatever it is, delivers what is promised. If I had to write a review of a romance novel and discovered it was a book of science fiction, I'd say it didn't do its job. Fair enough (but an unlikely example).
Before I conclude, I thought of a third thing I'd like to know from a review. This would be applicable to food, or perfume (and other things I can't think of at the moment, I'm sure). Whether it's truly, objectively awful. If a fragrance smells like dog poo, please tell me. I mean that literally. People bandy around the phrase "That was sh*t" or some such, and the fact is, no it wasn't. Here's a case for using a little less cursing. Shucks. I never thought I'd hear myself say or write that (nor did I ever say or write shucks - maybe it's the fever talking).
Addendum: Since writing the post entitled "Lust", above, I've really wanted to read Malcolm Gladwell's new book, Outliers, in which he says luck and priviledge have much more to do with success than other factors. On Outlier's Amazon page, I just read one of the longest negative reviews I have ever read (leaving out the dead tree variety).
