The facts, embellished

Yesterday some one left a comment on an old post about the Ikea mattress fiasco that accused me of "slandering" the company, and then went on to advise me "to keep it real and stick to the facts." I'm not bothered by someone leaving this comment. The truth is that I find it rather amusing.

I suppose my use of the word "fiasco", above, could be seen as not sticking to the facts. There was no fiasco in the true sense of the word. I was not sued. No Ikea employees came to my house and burned it to the ground. I didn't go ballistic and threaten to shoot anyone. In the end, everything worked out fine. 800 miles of driving and lots of complaining - we got our money back and now have a fine mattress.

The truth is a slippery thing. I write honestly and say what is my truth, but I tend toward hyperbole, no doubt about it. There's nothing wrong with that, in my opinion. My aim is not a dry reporting of the facts and just the facts ma'am. Often the facts are boring. This blog was not meant to be a repository of consumer reports. I'm a storyteller (at my best) and storytellers embellish, or at least they try to make things interesting.

I say "everything is interesting" but even the most interesting things can be made boring in their re-telling. I wrote a review for a book about exorcism ("The Rite"). I believe I entitled the review "how could anyone render a book about exorcism so boring?" Now, many people don't like my review (and that's fine), but I was amazed at how dry this book was. But, in the author's attempt to not sensationalize an already sensational topic, he went overboard in writing without any feeling. Others do not agree; the book is well-liked. Well, that's people for you. We all have our opinions, including me (obviously).

Now, this may be a boring post. I've really not much to say. I've been tired and head-achy for a few weeks now, and there's been so much I've felt like blogging about, but every time I start blogging, I get sleepy and put what I've written aside as a draft, never to be looked at again. I also would prefer to be knitting, and my clothes dryer just beeped and I need to attend to that. On top of that, I haven't felt like analyzing much of anything that I've been doing, and some of what I've been doing is best shared in photographs. Right now, quite frankly, I'd rather be knitting than writing, so after I'm done folding my laundry that's what I'm going to do. And after that, I'll probably watch an episode of "The Sanctuary", a show I've been enjoying quite a bit. Now, that is a surprise to me. I normally don't go in for television shows about the supernatural, but there's something about this show that makes me feel relaxed and even happy. A smart 147-year-old woman scientist, her gold gun toting daughter, a gentle werewolf, and a young psychiatrist who seems to always have his hands in his pockets are the main characters. The rest? Monsters of all kinds and a very simple good vs. evil vibe where everything always always resolves itself well. I feel the same pleasure I once got reading Spiderman comics. Hey, sometimes one needs to just veg out.

Photo note: "Done Roving" yarn. Since I didn't write about my last two days working at the yarn shop, I figure I should show you some of my current favorite yarn company's yarn. When I'm "selling" yarn, I might pick up a skein of something like this and say "this has got to be the most gorgeous stuff I've ever seen." Hyperbole? Not at the moment I'm holding it in my hands or laying it on the floor to see how the colors interplay. . .at that moment, it is the most gorgeous thing I've ever laid my eyes on.

In the meantime, a great link

Scents of New York City, the real stuff, not the kind one buys in a bottle. Go here. I promise you it's fun. Thank my cousin Larry for the link.

Light and color

More Bonnard for your viewing pleasure. Sorry, but I couldn't find the name or year of this painting.

This painting reminds me of our recent visit to Lubec, Maine. The houses have more color than in most other parts of Maine. Most of the little seaside houses have enchanting small gardens. And the fog, the seemingly ever present fog, it somehow brings colors out more. Unlike the more developed seaside towns, parts of the coast are dotted with old half falling down shacks and docks, rich in deep browns and near-black wood, the gray of barnacles. Can darkness shimmer? It seems so, as one's eyes try to focus on the shapes in the white fog.

Foggy coastal villages make me think of mohair yarn.

Everything changes

Preface: I wrote the following last Saturday night. I didn't post it because I felt that all my posts of late have smacked of a subtle negativity. I wanted to post something "nice." I still haven't got anything particularly lovely to post, and the following was still on my mind. I gave some thought to my writing (in not so many words) that catering to "rich tourists" was something that people might regret. I realize I have issues with those of wealth (and working for them). My parents made a choice when I was eight years old to move to one of the wealthiest communities in America in order to "make money off the rich folks." I look back in time and see my childhood cut in two; eight years were relatively normal and good, the rest were hell. I listened to words of bitterness and humiliation for the entire time we lived in that wealthy town. My parents, two immensely talented, creative, and smart people, had a hard time. Using the back doors of houses, kow-towing, catering to, being treated like they were less-than. . .it took its toll. I have a knee-jerk negative reaction to depending on the whims of those with money in order to make a living. But, I realize that when I'm talking about the merits of a good ball of yarn with someone, I don't give a thought to whether that person is wealthy or not. Anyway, this is not the real point of this post. It's just a part of it, and a part that sticks in my craw. The other part, the feeling of sadness when something or some place cherished disappears, well, that's really much more important:

Eastport, Maine is a place both Dick and I have held in our thoughts with great affection. When we left our camping buddies down the coast, we were asked why we were driving another two hours to visit this town. Dick said, "It's a pilgrimage."

I hadn't thought of it in those terms, but I got what he meant, and for me, there will no more pilgrimages to Eastport in my future.

Yes, everything changes. We expected some change, because it's been a few years, but not to the extent we experienced. I felt disheartened, even heart broken.

For who knows how long, Eastport had a little funky, homey Mexican restaurant. It had Christmas lights, chili pepper lights, all sorts of lights, strewn about everywhere. Pinatas hung all over. Local and Mexican artwork graced the walls. The food was cheap, not fantastic by any means, but plentiful, and it was a really friendly place. It's now gone, replaced with a restaurant one needs reservations for. Reservations in Eastport? Unthinkable. When we walked into the half empty place and were asked if we had reservations, I was stunned, I said how we used to come up to Eastport every summer and never in a million years would have expected. . .blah blah blah. The hostess had no interest in knowing a thing about my relationship with the town. That bothered me even more than the fact that the old place was gone and it had been transformed into a yuppie paradise with a sommelier. Eastport was a town where even strangers were treated as friends to chat with in the shops, on the pier, or on the street.

There was an entire block of upscale galleries. We didn't bother going in, for we were hurrying towards a dinner we weren't to have. Instead, we wound up in a place where I got a lousy hamburger. At least it was friendly (and there was a wall full of good books to peruse). The waitress commiserated with us about the loss of the old town.

This morning, we had planned on going back into town to look at the new shops, but we woke up early and neither of us had much interest in sticking around long enough for them to open. A part of me didn't want to see the rich tourists and those catering to them again.

Some summers back a bunch of local artists had taken over some deserted storefronts for 200 bucks for the summer. A guy sold handmade scooters and surfboards out of a quonset hut. The old 5 & 10 was still up and running (if marginally), and the 19th century soda and iced cream shop was going strong. Yes, folks wanted more tourists, but I wonder if they wanted what they're gotting now. I suspect a lot of the houses have been bought up by summer people. I felt a palpable sense of have and have-not in the town. Something precious has been lost.

Down in Lubec, it's getting funkier, and prettier, too. One enchantment over and another one begins. I love downeast Maine, but I'm afraid that a good deal of its culture is vanishing.

Yeah, things change.

Photo note: Eastport, Maine 1911. These 7-12 year old boys worked at a canning factory. Read more details here. As Bob Dylan once sang "you gotta serve somebody." Seeing this image puts my parents' (and my) "hardships" in perspective.

Zilch

I give up. I've been trying to write something upbeat (or at least coherent) for almost an hour and I'm licked.

Image note: Pierre Bonnard "Landscape, Studio with mimosas" (1939-46). I was hesitating between posting a Rothko and a Bonnard, wanting to display an image of vibrant color. To read more about Bonnard, with a mention of Rothko, go here. Dumbly, I'd never made the connection between the two artists. So, for tonight, this is all I can give you, a post of a painting. I suspect the painting is not that rich a yellow in person. Tonight, I don't care, for I find the exuberance of it intoxicating. If it's only a poor reproduction, so be it.

Purpose, community, longing

When I wrote that there was a cult camping out on a boat in the Belfast Harbor, I didn't know zip about the Twelve Tribes communities. For some good analysis, check out Jaime's comment in the last post.

Yes, they are a Christian organization. Are they a cult? That depends on what one considers a cult. Is there a charismatic head honcho who controls everyone? Unless you believe that God or Jesus fits that bill, the answer is no. Do they have beliefs that I disagree with? Yes. Who doesn't? If I was a parent, I'd be a bit perturbed by my teenager joining them, for I don't think "sparing the rod spoils the child" nor do I think that women should be relegated to "womenly duties." There's no mention of homosexuality, but I would think that's considered a sin, considering women aren't supposed to do jobs that require pants.

Otherwise, they seem like a good group. In fact, when reading about them, I experience a keen feeling of longing. If I did have the same belief system, I would probably check them out. They appear to be a friendly, quiet bunch who proselytize by just being as they are. Their lives are dedicated to God and to prayer, and they worship with joy and exuberance, as well as trying to live the same way. Simple work, dancing, singing, shared meals, community, support, no divisions between rich and poor. . .ah, it sounds good to me.

I've said this before and I'll say it again; I do believe that depression is a direct result of having no spiritual life and/or community. Without purpose, without feeling that one is part of something larger than oneself, why bother doing anything? Just to pay one's rent or mortgage, buy more stuff, wait for the weekend or a yearly vacation to have some "fun"?

I want to be clear here that I do not believe in God as most people understand the concept. I am an atheist without hesitation or hedging my bets. But I do believe there is something larger than one's self, and what to call that is difficult. Maybe some day I'll have the capabilities of being a spiritual teacher, but I'm not there yet.

Statistics on depression show that about 22% of Americans have some form of it, and I would venture to guess that this number is low. How many people go undiagnosed? A great many.

As long as I have stuggled with lifelong depression, I have also sometimes fantasized about living in an intentional community. I do very well in that kind of environment. I think one reason many people get better when they go into mental health facilities is simply because they have community. Meals are at a set time. There are "community meetings" that mark the beginning and end of each day, and most facilities have occupational therapy, which is usually simply sitting around with other people while making things. For many, this is the first time in their lives they've spend a full hour being creative, and it's a revelation.

When I've spent time in spiritual communities, I've thrived. It's quite difficult for me to be depressed in these surroundings. Meditation alone is good, but I've found that meditation with others is even better. Additionally, knowing that whatever I do has an effect on everyone else is something that makes each activity seem more important. Of course, whatever I do in the "real world" does effect somebody or something, but within an intentional community, it is more obvious. For those, like me, who are given to bleak moods and a sense of purposelessness, living with others, sharing and making meals together, cleaning together, meditating together, working together. . .well, it's just all good (an expression I hate).

Why don't I live like this? I'm part of a couple, for one thing. If the "other half" shared the same feelings, we could live like this together, but that's not an option. In the meantime, I struggle on and off with my depression, and find it so plainly obvious that not living in any kind of meaningful community wreaks havoc with my mood.

So, no, I can't find fault the Twelve Tribes people. I just don't share their religious views.

I think it's a rare person who can live without community or a sense of purpose. Recently, I had a conversation with someone about God and heaven, and I said that I thought a lot of people turned to believing in both because they were scared. I don't need the consolation of thinking that there's a "better place" that I'll go to after I die. Neither do I need the belief that I was put here on this planet for some purpose that may or may not be revealed to me. And lastly, the idea that humans are just an accident of the cosmos doesn't trouble me in the least.

But, and it's an important point, I do believe that one needs to make meaning out of one's life and that a rewarding life is purpose driven. For many, their purpose is simply to bring up their children. I have none, so perhaps my search for usefulness is more imperative.

This topic makes me think of a summer camp I went to when I was 12 and 13 years old. It was an interesting place. The campers were a diverse lot. There were autistic kids, some of which were at the far end of the spectrum, who banged their heads or howled all day long. There were many deaf kids, and so we all learned basic sign language. The backgrounds of the campers ranged from rich suburban kids to kids from the worst ghettos. And to top it off, the camp was run by a Baptist minister and a man who spearheaded the free school movement (whose name I've forgotten). Besides meals and an optional Sunday sermon, there were no scheduled activities. If one wanted to do crafts, one would go to the crafts cabin. If you wanted to sing or play a game, you'd organize it or get some adult to help you out. The diversity of the campers made it important that us kids learned to get along with those we normally might never encounter otherwise. There was no bullying. It just didn't happen (as an aside, I had previously gone to a totally homogenous summer camp where bullying was a serious problem).

Many of us kids were pretty damaged, and so were many of the counselors. I remember having a discussion with one counselor who had spent most of her adolescence and her early twenties in a mental institution. She told me that the way she got better was by pretending she was okay. She woke up every day at the same time, took a shower, ate breakfast, went out even if she couldn't work, and then ate lunch and dinner every day at the same time. She looked for organized events that she could participate in in the evenings. She acted "as if." It was hard to imagine that this lovely young women had spent over ten years in a mental hospital. She was a wonderfully sweet person who was great at rounding up us kids for impromptu singing and dancing. She taught us how to sing madrigals and do old-fashioned square dancing.

Yes, I hunger for things like this. I'd much prefer to do some "silly" square-dancing than sit in front of my television set. I would love to spend my afternoons baking pies (which is what I did to pay for camp) than just hanging out and chilling. But baking a pie for just Dick and myself doesn't move me.

Really, I don't think we were meant to live in these unconnected nuclear families and couples. And within many of us is a longing for more than that, a longing that creates an un-named hole in our spirit that we try to fill up with whatever we can. You can pour alcohol in that hole, or drugs, food, what-have-you, but it will never fill up.

We open magazines like National Geographic and marvel at the smiles we see on the faces of people who live in abject poverty in remote parts of the world. We know in our hearts that they have something we do not, but often we can't put our finger on what it is. Most of us have heard that it takes a village to raise a child, but we never look at the adult side of that aphorism.

Photo note: I have no idea who these people are or where they're from. It's an unattributed photograph from Country Living magazine. Making music and dancing are wonderful, joyful activities that most of us never do. What a shame.

Just an update

I haven't been in the mood to blog, or to write for that matter. If I was to write more, it'd be about knitting. Even with all the knitting books, magazines, and instructions that come out every month, I've discovered that there's a big glaring hole in what's out there; information for people who are beginners who want to graduate from knitting their first scarf (or dozen). The knitting pattern designers focus much on showing off their creativity and expertise, and many of their patterns are too complex for newbies, or at least appear to be so. Knitting instructions look like indecipherable algebraic formulas, and that in itself is enough to frighten off a good many math-phobic people. Add to that that the majority of patterns are written for specific yarn, which is likely too expensive for many people, difficult to find, or has gone off the market, and well. . .even if you're not a knitter and have read this far, you can see there's a problem.

As a longtime knitter, it's easy for me to make up my own patterns, alter existing ones, or ignore instructions and know what will happen if I do so. That kind of information would be useful for beginning knitters. Presenting this information in a lively, hands-on format is something I'd like to begin working on, and I'll probably post some of it here. This idea seems to scream out for another side-blog project, but those haven't worked out well for me. So, since "everything is interesting", you non-knitters who enjoy reading my posts may have to just ignore some upcoming knitting entries, just as the folks who don't care about perfume did the same for perfume entries. In the meantime, I hope to get back to writing entries that are interesting for everyone. Maybe when the summer is over (and I've finally stopped procrastinating about getting my resume done, sent out, gone to interviews, and (hopefully) found a job), I'll be back in the mood for writing up free-flowing entries. I should hope so. This has been great fun for a long time.

A global Christian organization has docked a large sailing vessel on the coast of Maine. I just tried to google them, but they seem to be elusive. I want to know more about who they are. They have tourists visiting the boat all day, and coming to listen to free music at night. Now, discovering that they're hard to find on the web makes me even more suspicious of this group who asks its members to give all their money to them, take a vow of poverty, yet has a sailing vessel worth millions sitting in Belfast harbor. The boat is called the Peacemaker. If you find out something about them, let me know!

Image Note: A Japanese knitting chart. Charted knitting is great, for it does transcend language barriers. I can understand what this chart is saying, but it is a language one has to learn. But no, it is not hard to learn. Try learning Japanese. Now, that's hard.

Addendum: There are a host of books about reading knitting instructions, but that's all they are. Some of them look like fun, like the "Secret Language of Knitters", though this book, as good as it might be, seems like the author is trying too hard to be funny in the way that Stephanie Pearl-McPhee is. I love McPhee's "At Knit's End: Meditations for Knitters Who Knit Too Much". It's endlessly amusing for someone who is an avid knitter, but unfortunately, McPhee has actually added to the lexicon of indecipherable knitting abbreviations with her pithy acronyms, such as SSS (Single Sock Syndrome). Ha! I just googled SSS and my own post about knitter's groupspeak came up on page one! Go here to read it. For you newbie knitters, I also found "KnitSpeak:An A-Z Guide to the Language of Knitting." Still, none of the books I've found have it all, and I as much I personally love owning lots of knitting books, but it seems like one shouldn't have to lug around an entire library of books in order to follow one simple knitting pattern. Wouldn't it be nice to have a good all-in-one book with basic knitting patterns and how to read them, execute the stitches, and understand just what the whole process is all about? Yes, what I'm describing is on the market, but they're not the most compelling books.

Okay. I really have to get to re-doing my resume. Unfortunately, I have developed a nasty headache since I started this "just an update" post. Can you believe I have a hangover form drinking one beer last night? Seems that it's so.

Knitting and crocheting cheerfulness

I've been having lots of fun knitting up the components of knitted and crocheted flower bouquets. Here's my first flower:

Okay, I did make another one before this, but it was very plain. Now, I think this one is quite plain, too, but I like it. I have an urge to make truly wacky and frivolous knit bouquets. Crocheting different spirals is a lot of fun!




Here's my first bouquet:













I've got a little stack of components for the next few bouquets. Here's one set, ready to be sewn up, that will have spirals that hang more, instead of just popping out in all directions:


I've been having a blast discovering the ways different stitches cause spiraling shapes, leaves that bend to the right or the left, and just generally enjoying being freed from stitchery that is meant to be "useful." This is pure fun (not that I don't enjoy knitting or crocheting everything else, for I do). I should have said this is pure play. There's no reason for me to be knitting these objects, but I love how small everything is, and how yesterday I knit about a dozen leaves, didn't like how they looked, ripped out all I'd done, and didn't feel like I'd wasted my afternoon. I learned quite a bit about forming leaf shapes. Sure, I could read some instructions, but I'd rather explore. I've always thought of knitting and crocheting as a two dimensional art form, mostly a vehicle for making sweaters, socks, and shawls, and I feel like a new world has opened up for me. I had explored this a bit two winters ago, when I went on a miniature bag making spree, but after a while, I got bored with the little bags. There's way more possibilities here. I'll post some more as they get sewn up. These aren't too thrilling, but I figured I should let my readers know what I've been doing with some of my previous blogging time!

And as far as the blog title goes, that's how I feel making these; that I'm creating cheerfulness. I'm using bright colors, which is unusual for this tweedy natural yarn loving woman. It's rather impossible to feel down when knitting with bright green, orange, and hot pink.

Daily scents and nonsense

It was a beautiful day. Simply perfect, unlike most of the days we've had this spring and what there's been of summer. The sky was a clear blue. The clouds were small and passed quickly. It wasn't too hot, nor was it too cool (as it could be here in Maine in August), and it was nice and dry. What more could one want? I sat outside and knit.

Dick received his new Mac, was sent the wrong one, had hours of frustration with Apple, which proved to have about the worst customer service I can possibly imagine. My brand loyalty has been waning over the last year or so, and this was the final nail in the coffin for me. I was nearly astonished about their complete lack of caring whether they did right by a customer that I called myself to see if things might go better. They did not. If I went into details right now, my blood pressure might go up, and you don't need the details. All I can say is that in the last six months or so I've been surprised at how poor the service has been with a number of large purchases, and this seems strange, especially given the condition of the economy. I want to tip my hat to Maidenform, once again, for their fine customer service. So, to hell with Apple. . .they could have ruined an otherwise perfect day, but it was much too nice a day to ruin. Dick's still getting a Mac (sometime or other). Me, I would not.

I got a Crazylibellule and the Poppies fragrance from the Les Garconnes line around the same time as Dick got the wrong computer. It's Pour Gabrielle, with notes of jasmine, peony, ozonic flower, cedar, incense, leather, vanilla and elemi. At first whiff, I was surprised at the complexity of this inexpensive (and terribly cute) stick of solid perfume, though my second take reaction to the scent was that it smelled like some bug dope I used as a kid. I applied a bit to my wrists and commenced knitting, ignoring the warning sign that it might give me a head ache. I hate the smell of bug spray. Sure enough, as I warmed up while knitting with wool in the sun (perfect day or no), the smell grew stronger. I could not pick out any notes. My brain had fixated on "bug dope" and I started to feel slightly nauseated. A thorough scrubbing did not get the smell out of my nostrils.

When this happens, the only remedy is applying a beloved scent, but today I did not do that. I wish I could recall exactly what I wound up doing, but I can't seem to. I tried, in vain, to find some Terre D'Hermes that smelled heavenly on a friend who came to visit this past weekend. I know I've tried the Hermes before, but that's yet another thing I can't remember (uh oh). Instead, I stumbled on something else I'd been meaning to try. Whatever it was, it had a strong peppery, bitter lime note and obliterated the memory of the Pour Gabrielle. But that started to bother me, too. I woke up with a headache and I really had no business fooling around with scents that weren't soothing. Anything lavender would have been fine, but no, I was set to discover something new today, and nothing was going to stop me. What I wound up doing was creating a fragrance stew. I covered the forgotten lime scent with some CB I Hate Perfume Fire From Heaven, and when it seemed that that was too weak, I followed that up with some Ginestet Le Boise. At this point, I think I was suffering from a bit of anosmia, for I really could not smell Le Boise, and it's a fairly strong fragrance, with named notes of cedar, sandalwood, spices, and vanilla (though I smell patchouli in there, but no one else has mentioned it). If I can't smell Le Boise, even if there are plenty of stronger fragrances out there, I should just quit and go back to my knitting. So, I did, and about a half an hour later I realized I smelled like a perfume shop. A good one, mind you, but still. . .good thing I didn't have to go to an office party.

It's almost eight hours since I went into this fragrance frenzy and I can still smell all of it on me, except (thankfully) the Pour Gabrielle. Poor Gabrielle, I wish I could have liked her.

Photo note: Knitting on the street in Georgetown, Wales. For more beautiful black and white photographs of the people in Wales, circa 1972, go here.

Random snapshots of New York City

One thing that's stuck with me since I was in the City (as I still call it) is a friend's comment that Zen is not popular with hipsters. I thought this was a rather amusing observation. The idea of a religion or philosophy being popular or hip is absurd to me, but I shouldn't be surprised in the least. Since I don't want to malign sheep, I'd rather not say "people are like sheep", but that's the expression. Sheep do a very good job of following one another around, and it's a rare sheep that does it's own thing. If they run to the right, they all run to the right. If it's time to sleep, they all sleep. If there's a coyote to the east, you can bet all your money that they're all looking east.

People aren't as good as sheep when it comes to sticking together in this way, but they do seem to want to be alike, even if their self-image is that of being different. The hipsters in New York do a pretty good job of being different in exactly the same way as every other hipster. I went to Williamsburg, Brooklyn, supposedly the hipster capitol of the world, and I didn't see much in the way of creativity, except when I visited CB I Hate Perfume. On the street, everyone looked pretty much the same. There was a lot more diversity on 28th Street and Park Avenue, which is thought of by most New Yorkers as just another street in a generally boring neighborhood.

Being hip has always been tyrannical. When I was young and living in New York, the unwritten dress codes for getting into clubs made me crazy. I've undoubtedly written about this before. I know I've written about my aversion to purple, the color of "kookiness", and finally made peace with it, for it's a great color that comes in a myriad of shades.

Quite frankly, whether you're hip or decidedly plain, the tyranny of "fitting in", wherever one lives, is just ridiculous. I've moaned about feeling like a nutcase wearing slightly fashionable clothes in a rural village. Not wearing a sweatshirt and jeans at the General Store is akin to wearing a sign that says "I'm an outsider." Wearing a lavender sweatshirt with lupine design on the front and a pair of light blue jeans in Williamsburg, Brooklyn produces the same result. Honestly, a person who dares wear such "unfashionable" clothing in that part of Brooklyn would practically be a pioneer or a daredevil.

Right before I left for New York there was a news report about a child who was taken away from her family by social services because she was obese. One person posited that this was classist, and that no one would take away an anorexic kid from an upper middle class family. I was thinking about this a lot while I was in the City, for I saw an awful lot of women whom I wanted to pull aside and whisper in their ears "maybe you'd like a little bite to eat?" When I asked people I was with who lived in the City if they noticed how many anorexic girls there were on the street they seemed shocked. Everyone in New York is gorgeous! Not so, not so at all. In the heat of summer, with less clothes on, there were an awful lot of legs that looked like they'd come straight out of a concentration camp. That kind of skinniness is a bit frightening to me. A leg should not be thinner than my forearm, even if my forearm is a bit thick.

I saw a girl wearing fur-lined knee-high boots on a subway platform. It was so hot and humid on that platform I was sweating profusely. She looked perfectly calm. Later, when I mentioned it to a friend, it occurred to me that she was a heroin addict. Really, that stuff keeps one cool as a cucumber. And skinny.

Getting back to 28th and Park Avenue, we stayed at a "boutique hotel." It cost about the same as a hotel in anycity, USA, because it was in a "boring neighborhood." Yes, the shops closed at 9:00pm, which is nearly shocking in the city that never sleeps, but the hotel cafe stayed open late and it was charming. The rooms were tiny, but the bathrooms were simply luxurious and as clean as any I've ever seen. The cafe had Victorian velvet sofas where one could lounge and watch the stream of people go by. I sat for a while and knit and thought I was in heaven. I had forgotten how much I like to people watch.

One thing that's truly lovely about NYC is that on almost every corner is a neighborhood deli that sells cheap bouquets of high quality flowers. The variety is tremendous. One can get orchids for four bucks. I know it seems absurd for me to be raving about this when I live in the country and grow my own flowers, but my flowers only bloom for a short amount of time, and if I want a bouquets in my house all year long I'd be spending a fortune. Not only that, one can get asparagus for one dollar a pound.

Don't get me started. Tourists think eating in New York is expensive, but they don't know what the real deal is. It may be an expensive place to live, but to eat, no. There are countless ethnic restaurants that serve up food that makes cooking at home seem like a bad deal.

I know this post is all over the map, but I've been trying to write something for days. I'd intended on writing a somewhat in-depth entry about thinking for oneself, but then memories of my recent trip intervened. I'd trashed blog entry after blog entry all week, so I made a deal with myself that I'd post whatever the hell I wrote tonight. So, here it is, folks, a piece of poorly constructed writing that lead to nowhere. Take from it what you will. Next time I'll do better (I hope).

Photo note: The corner of Bedford Avenue and ? in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Look! There's a Subway! Is that hip? No. It's the bicycle racks that are. Not that I have anything against bicycle racks, mind you.

Gone fishin'

Not really.

I'll be away for a week or so. I do not plan on blogging. The reason why? Being in New York City, surrounded by old friends and close relatives, well, why should I spend any time on a computer? I don't have time right now to write what that might say about my normal life. . .Have a great week, folks.

Photo note: A bit of my garden I've been wanting to photograph for days (but had no batteries). Seems like going to a city at this time of year is crazy.

Language shapes thought, thought shapes language

I've been convinced for years that our thought is affected by what language we speak, and often constricted by it. There has been an argument about this idea for decades in academia; those who contend language shapes thought and those who assert we all think alike. This is an example of why I have sometimes little patience for academia; why does it always have to be an either/or proposition? The answer always seems to be only that a thesis or study must be about proof of one proposition. In this way, I could say that academia shapes our understanding of things, even if we're not academics; we see reality as a series of yes/no ideas. If you believe language shapes thought, one can't also believe that we all think alike, too.

The process of thinking in its most abstract sense is universal, but intuitively, I've always felt that language does shape the way we see and think about the world. I'm pleased to see new studies that prove this to be so. This week's Newsweek has a short, but very good article on the subject, and here is a link to a more in-depth article.

As a practitioner of Zen Buddhism, it has always seemed plainly obvious that language shapes ones' understanding of the world. The English language does get in the way of expressing many Buddhist concepts. Our language is inherently concrete as opposed to Chinese, where Zen first flourished. While Americans struggle with concepts that involve the oneness of all things and of time being non-linear, in Chinese these concepts are already built into the language. For instance, the characters for "thought" itself are many, and none of them are thought alone. The most-used character for thought is a combination of the characters for heart and mind. While we tend to intellectualize, try to think without including what's in our feelings, in Chinese that's nearly impossible right from the get-go, for these concepts are inextricably bound together. How could that not affect the way one thinks?

Another Chinese character for thought is one that implies thinking about the past. One does not say "I'm thinking about a bowl that I once had", but simply "I'm thinking about a bowl", and the listener, hearing the different word for thought, simply gets it without all the extraneous words. Speaking of bowls, it's interesting to me that we say "S/he broke the bowl" when a person accidentally breaks something by banging into it, but in Chinese and Japanese one would say something akin to "the bowl broke itself." Studies show that English speakers think back on these events and attach blame. Asians look back on the same events and think of the broken bowl, tending to forget "who" broke it.

I had mentioned just yesterday that I had a problem with attaching gender to objects, such as calling a boat "she". One person said that they always did, and that made sense, for their native language is Russian, where even verbs take on gender. Italian speakers think of keys, for instance, as feminine and pretty, and French speakers think of keys are masculine and strong. I think "key", and I wonder what key to think of. Gendered keys? Not in my mind.

For a good part of my childhood, my closest friends were the neighbor's children, who spoke English, Spanish, and some Portugese. I always wondered what language they thought in, and asked about it many times. Remembering this, I can see that language has always fascinated me, as has the process of thought. I had fantasies of a science fiction interface between brain and computer, where ones' thoughts could be read perfectly and projected onto a screen or made instantly into words or music. I used to walk home from elementary school conducting imaginary classical compositions in my mind while singing, but I could only play the cello, and not that well. I felt a strong sense of my brain holding all sorts of things that would remain forever only mine, locked away, unused, and never to be heard, all because I lacked the skills to translate them from my own inner dialogues and sound to some finished product that was impossible to produce without too many skill sets.

I also wondered if our thoughts were determined by what we saw. Now, this new study about thought and language shows that our very seeing may also be determined by language. It appears that we can see more color distinctions simply by naming them. In English, most people know only light blue and blue, whereas there are separate words for both of these in Russian. Russian speakers (and now one can say Russian thinkers) can identify these colors faster than Americans. No one has tested artists, but this leads me to think that artists will recognize an even larger array of colors. When I think see or think "blue", there is cornflower blue, azure blue, ultramarine blue, baby blue, royal blue, Prussian blue, and many more (but notice that the word blue never changes, but is only modified).

This is a rich topic. Can you name something that you know your own thinking about may be affected by your language? If you have a second language, or studied one, do you think it has added to your understanding of the world? I'd love to hear your thoughts (no matter how constrained they are by English!)

Photo note: Decadent Fibers yarn.

Learning to communicate

I've been having an interesting two days of olfactory hypersensitivity. This is not a bad kind of hypersensitivity, which I've experienced in the past, where everything suddenly smells terrible, but the opposite. Everything smells glorious. Last night I was intoxicated with smell. I was with a group of people, mostly in silence, and the first clue I had that something was different was that I could smell a dog come into the room before I heard her enter. I felt nearly blinded by my intense sense of smell. My other senses receded, or at least seemed to.

The dog made her rounds, sniffing everyone in the room. What I didn't know was that the dog is blind. When I found out, I was rather was rather stunned with a feeling of synchronicity. Of course, I have my sight, my hearing, my sense of touch, but my sense of smell was so strong that as I could smell myself and my surroundings at the same time so keenly (or seemingly so), it felt as if I was smell, not a self experiencing it. Aware of scent as sight, the dog served to illustrate that one can indeed see without seeing, as we normally think each sense is discreet and fixed.

Everyone I met smelled wonderful. I wanted to touch people. It was exhilarating and a bit surreal. When I spoke and listened, the words seemed strange, as if I should have lost the power of speech and hearing, too.

In the midst of this was something that was so trivial. Earlier, I had stopped into Marshall's to see if they had any great finds in the messy perfume sale section, and there was an open bottle of Armani Prive Eau de Jade that I sampled. I dismissed it out of hand and walked out of the store. A half an hour on the road later, I kept smelling my wrist. It smelled wonderful. And then, hours later, my surreal olfactory experience started.

Of course, I associated this with the Armani, but I also thought I detected a hint of the Chergui I was wearing the day before. Wanting to grasp at the experience, when the store opened this morning at 9:30am, I called to see if they still had the two bottles I saw amongst the mess. No. They had reduced the price of everything on sale at 6:00pm and the salesperson said that they only thing left was some Elizabeth Taylor stuff. I didn't want to believe him, so I called again at 3:00pm. The person asked, "Did you call this morning?" I couldn't lie, and when I said yes to the question I found out that that $175 bottle of perfume sold for ten bucks. Mind you, this perfume, which is essentially just a fairly good cologne, is not worth anything near one hundred and seventy five bucks, but I wanted it, and a bargain like that is a thrill. The lesson, for me, is both that I should not dismiss something out of hand because I have a preconception that's it's "bad" and that I shouldn't pass up a good deal that I can afford. I could always sell it on Ebay, right?

The other lesson is that nothing good comes from grasping. Not that anything untoward happened, but once again, I notice that I'm craving more than feels right, and that is not a good thing.

I'm wearing another unaffordable scent this evening, Chanel Sycomore. I hadn't tried it before. I've had it for a while, but didn't know it until I did my sample inventory a few weeks ago (or was it just last week). Earlier, it smelled heavenly, and I kept spraying more on, for I was loving the opening notes. It is as dry as a block of wood, or so I thought. As the evening has progressed, either my olfactory sensitivity has returned, or my being overheated in the sweater I'm wearing has made the scent blossom. At some point, I thought about scrubbing it off. I've got a sinus headache, but I'm not sure it's from the scent. Instead, I rubbed some lavender lotion onto my arms. That was a nice combination, but it didn't last. I then used some Weleda Skin Food, a thick hand and face cream, which has a strong natural orange scent. Again, it works very nicely with the Sycomore.

I must be craving the citrus of a good cologne (or just some citrus). The dusky and dusty scents I usually like are not fitting the bill right now, although I am enjoying everything. Yesterday, the scent of other people's shampoos seemed nearly thrilling, as did the smell of bogs, wet grass, dirt, even that overly strong Bath and Bodyworks plug-in thingie I've got in my bathroom (which is supposed to be sandalwood and vanilla).

I also realize that I can't describe scent well. I don't know if I'll ever learn. Is that okay? I don't know. There's a lot of things I can't communicate, and this has been something I've been thinking a lot about lately. There is much I feel, and much I know, that I've kept to myself for so long that I just haven't got the words. I can communicate through abstract art, but no one would get what I'm saying, so it amounts to the same thing.

Earlier this evening, I watched the film "Blindness", and I had so many thoughts that I wanted to express, yet I realized I could not express them. I didn't try, and I'm not going to (at least not tonight).

When I was a kid, I hardly spoke. Now I'm a blabbermouth, and when I write, the words flow in the same gush of free-flowing non-edited nonsense with some nuggets of truth in them. I'm rather attached to this "style", but I hope someday I will have one word to my twenty words, and I can get to the point (or even have a point). In the meantime, I'll keep on doing what I'm doing.

At least I'm thinking and learning. What would it be like if I weren't? I shudder to think of that condition.

Painting note: Mark Rothko - title and date unknown. The power of Rothko's work does not translate well into small tiny iconic images. Standing in front of one of his paintings, I experience color as feeling and the self lost, engrossed, in the act of painting at its purest. Here, it is like a nice ball of hand dyed yarn. Good enough!

A love letter to yarn

I've been working at Heavenly Sock Yarns on Sunday afternoons for a short while. I find it simply heavenly, indeed, to work there.

If I had to decide between perfume and yarn, I'd take the yarn and run. I may truly adore fragrances, but my love of yarn has been a longer love affair, and runs much deeper. I also know much more about yarn than fragrance. I've raised sheep, been a spinner, a weaver, and a life-long knitter. I understand how a yarn is made. In this way, my love for the stuff is properly more akin to a perfumer who loves perfume, who really knows it, and thank goodness I haven't been tainted by my few (failed) attempts to make a living with it.

I really find it hard to believe that I'm being paid to work in a yarn shop. Pointing out the merits of different yarn to people, helping them with their knitting, or simply being with other people who love simply holding a nice ball of yarn in their hands, well, it's pure fun. I've always dreamt of owning a yarn shop, but unfortunately I had these dreams before knitting became popular, and it was a losing proposition. But getting to work in a fantastic shop (and it is) is just as good, maybe better, for I don't have the worries and hassles of running the business. No wonder I'm thrilled!

This shop is a gem of a place. It's quite small, and it seems impossible that it holds such an extraordinary selection of yarn. Since I only work once a week, every time I go in there's some new surprise, and it's a bit hard on me, for sometimes those surprises scream "take me home!" Today, there was a luscious new Malabrigo yarn (pictured above) that was begging me to start knitting a new shawl. New shawl? I haven't finished the old one yet, nor have I even used the last skein of yarn that beckoned me so. I've got two unfinished sweaters and one unfinished pair of socks (in addition to the abandoned projects, perhaps a half dozen, that should be ripped out).

I don't feel too bad about all this. Whenever I'm in the shop, I hear the same thing from others. A standard request from a customer is this, "Please don't let me buy anything!" As if I can help them - I can't help but point out all the luscious yarns that they haven't seen yet, oh no. Others say "I wonder if I can get out of here without purchasing anything. I have enough yarn to last me a lifetime." I don't have enough yarn to last me a lifetime, not quite, but I certainly have more than enough. But like perfume, there's always something new to explore or old that hadn't been noticed.

This is not mere materialism. It's love.

There's nothing about a good ball of yarn that I don't like. I like the feel, whether it's as smooth as silk and merino wool, or scratchy with linen or mohair. I like the colors, of course, especially when they're hand dyed, or pure and natural, practically right off the sheep, camel, alpaca, or qiviut (but I am partial to sheep). Angora? Okay, there's one fiber I've never loved. Nor do I have much love for cotton, but there's some that are beautiful to look at. Bamboo, suddenly popping up in many yarns, is a lovely soft fiber.

I love the smell of sheep, but I've blogged about that enough.

A skein is a gorgeous thing. The way is twist and turns and drapes in ones' hands is a delight. Unfurl a skein and it looking gorgeous hanging down, draped over a chair, wrapped around one's hair, left in a bag, a basket, hung from the rafters or used as a swath. I could buy them just for themselves (and I'm sure I sometimes do, even if I've got justifications for a new project). Oh, why bother to knit anything?

I've never bought any Malabrigo yarn (though I suspect I'm about to) but I've always enjoyed looking at it. There's hanging skeins and piles of the worsted wool, the colors ranging from the most subtle to almost luridly vibrant, at the back of the store. It's slightly thick-and-thin texture cascades down the wall where it hangs from hooks. I can't imagine how anyone can pass it by without admiring (or practically salivating).

With all this gorgeous yarn, I'm always amazed when someone pull a project from their bag made of the ol' Red Heart acrylic yarn. Sure, it's cheap, but it's so ugly. When I was a kid, it was all one could get, and when I finally found a store that had something else, I thought I might faint with joy. I am not exaggerating; I would make sure I passed this store every day and go in to say hello. I couldn't afford any of it, but it didn't matter. I would just stand there and stare. It felt as satisfying and transporting as seeing the Flemish paintings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Did I say I love yarn?

A short and personal note

I had closed my laptop and thought I'd be going to sleep, Something was troubling me a bit. I thought of how often I mention my father in this blog, and how little I mention others who are important in my life, some even never. Some of it is too personal, even for an over-sharer such as myself.

I can speak from the heart about those who are dead, but as for the living, well, it's best to stay mum. My father, well, he influenced me a great deal, and much of that was not good, but those are the things I don't wish to dwell on.

But, I want to do justice to those who deserve it, and at the risk of embarrassing someone who actually reads this blog, I wish to say, to my dear Aunt, that she has taught me what true unconditional love is, how to laugh until I cried, enjoy stuffed animals without apology, and so much more (much more), and for that. . .I am without words.

For myself

I meant to write about this earlier (and perhaps I have and forgot), but I received a comment on Facebook about wearing perfume. An old friend, who's never known me to wear perfume, having missed the first love affair and left before the second one began, asked "who are you wearing it for?" The question surprised me. The answer was (and is) "for myself."

I had forgotten that most people think the wearing of perfume is for others. That never occurs to me. The only thing I think about others when I put on fragrance is that I must remember to wear a scent close to the skin. The smell of perfume has become akin to a crime (and is one in some places), even while we're subjected to all sorts of scent where once we were not. Every public bathroom stinks of canned sprays, and "classier" ones reek of baskets of fake rose petals, sticks and dried leaves that claim to be potpourri. Where once clean meant the smell of pine or chlorine, it now is too many things, most of them orange, or something that tries to pass for lavender.

I'm in no way against making soaps and cleansers that smell good. I use Caldrea dish soap and it is lovely. I even use a Bath and Body Works plug-in because it's better than smelling my cat box, which even with daily cleaning, smells bad in the summer.

But that wasn't what I meant to write about. I can't help but rambling, and editing, well. . .I don't do much of that, do I?

I'm finally breaking out of being a serial monogamist when it comes to fragrances. Lately, I've started actually sampling my samples. After I discovered I had more than 200 of them, it seemed the right thing to do. The way I was wearing fragrance, one would think I had half a dozen, at most. When I like something, I stick with it.

I'm like that with most everything. I eat the same thing every day until I'm sick of it, which takes a long time, sometimes even a year or more. One could easily say that it's boring, but I don't find it so. Of course, there's comfort in the familiar, but I also see it as a way of becoming truly intimate with things. Perhaps I'm overstating my case. The other reason I am like this is ol' nature and nurture. My father was the same way. He ate the same thing every day and I watched him savor it, absolutely relish it, and some days I felt a kind of jealousy, for he seemed to be enjoying himself far more with his two Vienna cookies at lunch than someone who's just eaten the world's rarest delicacy. Did I watch and learn or am I just like him because of some gene? If I knew the answer to that one, I'd win the Nobel prize.

I've always loved scent. And this, too, I learned from my father, who thought good soap was the poor man's delight, an affordable luxury. I know I've written about this before; the trips to Caswell Massey when it was an old and venerable place, usually empty, where we were treated like royalty for buying one box of soap. We'd spend outrageous amounts of time in there, and any store we could find that sold good soap, picking up each bar as if it held something absolutely precious, which it did.

Oddly, when I left the home of my father, I developed a love for Dial soap. I even went so far as to buy a case of it, those bright yellow-orange horrors, 100 hotel-size bars. I wonder if I'd still like the smell. These days, good soap is so easy to find. Any discount store, TJ Maxx, Marshall's, has all one could want. The packaging is luscious, but somehow the thrill is gone. The hunt was fun when the stuff wasn't so popular.

I read recently that it used to be that there were 40 perfume launches a year and now there are 2000. Perhaps this is why the niche perfume, especially for me, who lives in such a rural place, where the finest perfume I can find in person is Chanel, is such a treat. I am planning on being in New York City in a few weeks, and I marvel at how one can get anything there. Of course, this has always been true, but now, as a hick from the sticks, it amazes me. Yet, as I thought of who I might be if I lived there now, I thought how my perfume lust might get the better of me. Too easy to obtain, too expensive to buy, and perhaps I would never have swapped for samples with all the nice people I've "met" online. Maybe I'd be buying a bottle a week, feeling guilty about it, and also, forgetting what a pleasure I find the stuff.

Today I wore three different scents, and I'll be putting another on before I go to sleep. I've been wondering lately if others put scent on before they went to bed, and I thought "of course they do", but probably for their lovers. I always choose something I think will bring me good sleep, make the bedclothes smell nice in the morning, or soothe me if I'm needing that. I realized I've assumed that the poor man who sleeps with me will like it, because I do. Now, that is surely delusional, but a delusion I prefer to keep.

Photo note: And what does a ball of yarn have to do with this post? I googled the words "the perfumed bed" and saw this skein. Of course, I followed the trail, and came upon an online fiber shop called The Sanguine Gryphon. What beautiful fiber they have! Not only that, the yarns have names, such as "The Perfume Anointed Bed" (above), "Beyond Their Reach", "Beautiful in Your Garments", and for many, there is poetry (besides the titles themselves). What a treasure I have just found! Even if you don't need yarn, go have a look (and a read).

Weird

Ever since the end of public school, I thought the days of "being weird" were over. However, I seem to have a repetition compulsion, so I moved to a rural area where I'd be assured of always being an outsider and having to live with being "weird."

Shots from the land of being a weirdo:

One day a guy, who I knew had had a huge drug problem, told her girlfriend not to get tattooed by me because I was always high. I started laughing. I was never high! I had enough trouble without taking drugs on the job. I thought it the most absurd thing in the world. But, as funny as I thought it was, the guy was dead serious. He was convinced I was constantly stoned from my behavior, which was most assuredly weird. It finally dawned on me that that was all it was. My talk, my ideas, my entire demeanor, it was beyond his ken. I had to be a drug addict. And so I told him he mistook this all for being high. His girlfriend said I certainly didn't act like him, so I was fine. He skulked away, down a long flight of stairs, and one day came back to get a cover-up of one of his jailhouse tats, only to complain bitterly for years about what a bad job I'd done. I heard he was constantly scratching at it while it heeled. You'd think a junkie was used to itching, but no.

My neighbor's daughter called me weird one day after I told her I didn't like four-wheelers. She had told me I was weird before, and since, and most of this is because I speak in a soft voice and would prefer to stay inside, reading or making things. Reading is for school. Making things is for kids, and it's this latter one that seems to mystify her the most. Adults do not play. She has enjoyed playing with me, but sometimes adults do play with children. Alone, they should not. I suppose I should be sitting outside, doing nothing but drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. Isn't that what adults do?

I bought a big black and white hat the other day. It's wonderful, made out of one long piece of ribbon, and can be squashed into a multitude of shapes. I put on some fire engine red lipstick and played with the hat. I rather longed for the days when I had perfect skin, so finely pored and porcelain, and my lipstick didn't run into the small lines around my lips. Still, I had a bit of fun playing "dress up" for ten minutes. The thought wafted through my mind that I was still a silly young girl, but even sillier, for I'm well past an age to be playing in front of a mirror.

But no matter, I was enjoying myself, even with the touch of sadness, and I liked the hat. I imagined wearing it while walking to the General Store, and that made me realize, of course, that when I do wear it inside that place, there will certainly be talk afterwards. Just a simple slightly odd hat can cause others around these parts to see one as an outsider, a bona fide weirdo.

Recently, a woman I know told me I was like a chameleon. I was dressed conservatively, and she thought I looked nice. But, she found it bewildering how I could dress in so many different ways, like a chameleon (as I wrote), fitting in anywhere by dressing the part. The truth is, I suppose I don't fit in anywhere. As for dressing the part, that's what others see it as. I'm not. I like to wear all sorts of things. I have no set "style." Again, I suppose I'm just playing. Clothes are fun. I'm glad I haven't developed such a firm sense of my identity that I took to wearing the same type of clothes for an entire lifetime.

How this makes me weird, I both understand and don't. I understand that most people congeal into a fixed state somewhere between 18 and 23. Sometimes they have some big upheaval, generally called a mid-life crisis, and take to doing and wearing inappropriate things. But, why this need for such rigidity? I don't understand that, but it seems to me, in this society, if one isn't rigid, the epithet "weird" will be given to you, and that will stick forever.

Thankfully, I am not weird to myself. I feel normal, even if I'm judged to be not by standards that are terribly confining. Luckily, I see a therapist who's not exactly normal himself, and doesn't find my saying that I'm "existentially fine" to be an odd statement, nor does he insist on confusing normalcy with conformity.

Image note: Salvador Dali - one of the diptych "Couple with Clouds in their Head", 1936. I find this image more compelling than most of Dali's work, which I have little appreciation for.

Salvador Dali is "weird", self-consciously so. His kind of cultivated weirdness puts me off. It always has done. There is something totally conformist about weirdness that is so calculated, and yet, those that are famous for their being oddballs continue to carry on this tradition, giving people what they crave in being so outlandishly "other." Perhaps this is why people still loved Michael Jackson, for we love our so-called freaks so much. I suppose they make the rest of us feel normal. What a shame we need to be reassured in such a manner.

A character in Nick Laird's "Glover's Mistake" said "Salvador Dali is an artist for those whom I suspect don't like art." I immediately agreed, but don't remember what else the character said.

The end of expertise

The web and computers democratize so many things that were once left for experts. That's wonderful for countless reasons, but there's aspects of it that are not, particularly for those who are indeed experts.

As a non-professional writer, I, of course, love that I can write this blog without an editor, and that you can read it. But I can imagine that seasoned writers may bristle at this, and I understand that.

Part of this is because many people have "paid their dues" in their fields and wish others would do the same, thank you very much. But the other reason is that suddenly we are all experts, and this is, in fact, not true.

We all have graphic design programs on our computers, but that does not make us designers. We are surrounded by both fine design on the Web and the worst imaginable. Just being able to manipulate the commands of a computer program does not make one a designer, not by a long shot.

I saw this play out as a tattoo artist, where once almost all custom work was drawn up by me. In the last two years I worked in the field, this had become uncommon, and it was frustrating. People got tattoo designs off the web, or would bring in their own or their friends' drawings. Even though I enjoyed pushing the boundaries of what a tattoo looked like, it was at times more than annoying to me. These drawings were not informed by a knowledge of what works as a tattoo or not. Even the "official tattoo designs" from the web were sometimes useless, as people printed them out (often) at sizes that were impossible to tattoo, and would protest when I said, "impossible!" with "but they're official tattoo designs. I paid 10 bucks!"

Seeing (and feeling) the respect for one's expertise slip away was disheartening. It also took a lot of fun out of the job (or more precisely, turned it into a job).

Dick's working with a designer right now on a logo and I can see his frustration, even as I agree with Dick's decisions. Type designers really know type (hopefully). They've studied it. They know what kerning is and how to use it. Typography is an art.

As I've said, it's wonderful that we all have access to being our own designers now, but with that has come a dismissal of expertise, which is a shame. Being an expert is now akin to being an elitist, which has itself become an epithet, nearly a dirty word.

I am an unabashed elitist. I do think that people who have studied long and hard in their fields know more than I do, and I respect them for that. Of course, that doesn't mean I have to agree with them. Sometimes expertise carries the toll of being insulated from anything else, or even knowing too much, which sometimes can suck the life out of art (for instance). The graduates of some music schools create lifeless musicians who make music that is purely referential, calculated, smart, and doesn't move any one except other schooled musicians.

Yet, in spite of my writing the above, I think this current climate of denigration of expertise is not a good thing. Folks love Palin simply because she doesn't know much, and I find that more than a bit scary. As I wrote about at some length during the election, I want people who wield political power to know much more than I do. Power is dangerous in anyone's hands, but it most dangerous in the hands of the ignorant.

If you think it's a big leap from talking about graphic design to politics, I disagree. The personal computer and the Web have made everything accessible to all. A great thing, truly, for, on the Web, we are equals, to some extent. But, there's certainly a downside to this democratization. Bad graphic design does nothing but offend (me), but the celebration of knowing nothing is more than offensive, it's potentially dangerous.

Image note: "Anatomy of type" from the website Thinking With Type. Great site.

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.

Today is July 11, and I have also added Perfume Shrine. There are too many more than wonderful perfume blogs, and I can't spend my entire day reading them. Perfume Shrine is an excellent addition to my reading list. I know it's already on many of yours.

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.