Interview, Part 3

Before I post another installment of Jaime's interview answers, I'd like to point out that noone else asked to be interviewed. What's up with that, folks?

Here's what Jaime has to say about the subject of hats:

"I love hats! They’re my favorite accessory. If I could, I would own dozens of different styles of men’s hats – top hats, fedoras,bowlers, newsboys, pork pies … you name it. I love costume hats, too … piratey tri-corner hats, sailor caps, pith helmets, wizard hats, coolie hats, fezzes … wow, I’m salivating just thinking about the variety. Unfortunately, in addition to not having unlimited income, I don’t think I usually look that good in them. The one exception is a cotton Red Sox cap Ibought for $5 at Wal-Mart (I know … I know …) when we first moved to Maine. As much as I don’t look good in most hats, in general, I usually look especially silly in baseball caps. On top of that, I don’t even really like baseball caps; I’m not very sporty, and not much of a baseball fan (it’s my second favorite sport, after hockey, and I do like the Red Sox, but I only watch during the playoffs, and even then, only half-heartedly). But, for some reason, that cheap cap looks like it was made for my head, and I find myself wearing it much of the time, when I’m not working. In the three years since I bought it, the cotton has softened, and the navy blue has begun to fade so that there are patches along the ridges where it is gray. I see guys in old Red Sox caps that are so faded they look lavender, and I know this is the eventual fate of mine. I understand, too, what makes them keep them that long. There’s just something about a good cap. I do own a top hat. I bought it for my wedding. Melissa wouldn’t let me wear it during the ceremony, but there are pictures of me wearing it during the reception. Very cute. Black tie suits me (even though I was wearing an ivory tie, not a black one). I also used to own a bowler hat. When I lived in England, I spent way too much time searching all of the second-hand shops for a good used bowler. I never found one that fit (apparently middle class British men of the late 19th Century had tiny heads). I found an inexpensive new one a few years later, though, while shopping with my goth (now ex-) girlfriend in, of all places, Hot Topic. I think she stole that hat when she moved out. I know she stole some of my boxer shorts and my favorite pint glass, which had made it home with me all the way from England. Women …"

Photo note: I was going to post a picture of a Red Sox cap, because it seemed the most relevant image to accompany her answer to my silly question "What do you think of hats?" Instead, I googled "bowler hats" out of curiosity, wondering if I could find an old picture of 19th century British men with tiny heads or whether the bowlers were worn higher up on the head back then. Now, I found no evidence of either hypothesis, but, I did find many photographs of Bolivian women, who do wear bowlers, and they most certainly are worn on top of the head, as you can see.

Interview, Part 2

Jaime said "interview me!" She gave me such good answers, I'm going to post them one at a time.
1. If you were given one million dollars to do one charitable thing, what would it be?
Wow, this is the kind of question I hate. One thing? There is so much suffering and injustice in the world. One thing seems so cold, so exclusionary. There are so many causes about which I feel strongly, it would be hard to single out just one of them. And really, so many of the organizations and non-profits I support probably do bring in a million dollars or more each year, so how could I be sure that my money was doing the most good? So hard … I think that it would make the most sense to give it to individuals, rather than a possibly bloated organization. I guess I would start a grant foundation and give money to anyone who could demonstrate a real need and prove that the money would make a real difference over time, and not just act as a Band-Aid. I’d want to see concrete results, and I’d want those results to have a long-term benefit. Maybe I’d give $50,000 (for instance) to an organization that wants to build a water sanitation facility in some African village somewhere, and another $50,000 to provide schooling for teenage prostitutes in Bangladesh (or wherever) ... Whoever comes forward. Show me a need. Show me a plan to meet that need in a specific long-term way, and I’ll write you a check. I hope that’s not a cop-out answer. . .That’s the best I can do right now to limit my response.

What are you doing?

That's the Twitter question.

Today:
1.Take shower (done)
2.Get dressed (done)
3.Drink coffee (half-done)
4.Eat 12-grain hot cereal (waiting for it to be done)
5.Get gas
6.Go to my meditation group
7.Go grocery shopping
8.Start novel
9.Eat dinner
10.To be determined later

Note: Starting a novel is number eight on my to-do list.

Come join me on Twitter, if you like, where I'll be leaving short messages about my Nanowrimo progress. I have no idea how to ask you to join me, as I haven't figured out the Twitter thing, but my screen name is julesinrose. And if you're a nanowrimo yourself, come buddy me.

Image note: Doesn't it look crooked? It's an optical illusion. Dick says, "It is crooked. What are you talking about?" He's sitting right next to me, so I haven't said anything. Yes, the do-to list is crooked, but the box is not.
And I think this is interesting. Really.

The gift thing, once again

A friend told me that my post about giving away gifts was confusing, and she's right.

There's one slot left, so here's the deal:

You leave a comment on this post, even if it's just the word "yes". If you want to receive a gift from me, you must post an offer to send three people gifts on your blog, myspace or facebook page. You link back to my blog when you announce you're giving away gifts.

It's like a chain letter, but instead of a promise, you actually get something.

Was that clear? And if you answer yes or no on this post, you've agreed to participate, so the first one to respond is the winner!

Image note: One form of tsutsumi, the Japanese art of gift wrapping.

Poor Joe

Poor Joe Wurzelbacher. One day he's just one of the great unwashed masses and the next he's in the media spotlight.

Don't you think McCain should have a least asked Joe the Plumber if he wanted to be part of the national debate on politics?

At first people made jokes about how Joe's going to get all kinds of new business from this free exposure. But no, poor Joe doesn't have a plumbing license, and in the world of plumbing, well, he actually isn't qualified to be a plumber. That's a piece of information I'm sure he didn't want broadcast to the world.

Joe, who obviously is not basking in the media glare, owes back taxes and has had two liens against him. And even though he didn't wish to share who he was voting for with the public, we now al know he's a registered Republican.

The plumbing business Joe works for (just him and another guy) will probably face some problems, now that it's known that Joe has no license. What will happen to Joe, the man who worries that his taxes might go up if he becomes more successful? Will he wind up unemployed?

I suppose if this happens, he could apply to be on a show like Survivor, for he's a decent looking and sturdy fellow.

I would venture to guess that Joe is now regretting that he ever asked Obama a question. In a country where everyone wants their proverbial fifteen minutes of fame, it seems ironic that we've found someone who actually does not and shoved him right into it.

Photo note: This is not Joe Wurzelbacher. It is a poster, that you can buy, called "Six Pack". I was trying to find out the origins of the expression "Joe Six Pack" and was completely unsuccessful. So, I bring you a homoerotic guy with six-pack abs. Would you have preferred a pic of a guy with a six-pack a day beer belly? I realize that there's a double standard for woman when it comes to presenting sexy pictures of men. I am positive that if I had headed this post with a photograph of a woman with a "10" body, I'd get a lot of flak. Right?

Open letter to a stranger

Last night I noticed that my blog had a new "follower". I went to find out who it was. I read this person's blog, which was new.

I read, and I heard sadness and pain. Being me, I felt obligated to leave a comment. And being me, I felt obligated to leave a message that contained some hope.

I prefaced it with the comment, "I hope I don't sound preachy. . ." And perhaps I did sound preachy, but I meant no harm, not in the least.

Today, I checked in with this blog and saw there was a new post, which sounded even more sad. There was a comment in the post about people preaching instead of caring. I wondered if that was in response to what I wrote, but I brushed that thought aside, thinking, "Hey, it's not all about me!"

So, I left another message. Then I got an error message. I hit the back button and saw that the blog no longer existed. Hitting my back button again, I wound up at the screen where I saw who my "followers" are, and saw this person was gone. The blog was gone, and (s)he was gone.

I feel badly about this. Very. Whoever you are, I meant you only the best, from my heart. I know how it feels to think noone cares. I know how it feels to be lonely.

But I'm not young, and this makes some difference. And because I'm not young, I'm bound to come off preachy at times. I feel maternal towards people who are much younger than I - it's natural, I suppose. But, I'm like that towards my friends when they're hurting, too. One wants to point out what's good, because there are things (and people) that are good. There are.

It's hard to see that when we're hurting. It's easy to see everything and everyone as all good or all bad.

See - I'm preaching right now. It is wrong?

Whoever you are, I hope you're reading this out of curiosity, and I want to tell you this: I'm sorry. I thought I was doing what's right, but I don't know you, do I? We make these mistakes in real life, saying or doing things for others that we wish someone would do for us, but it isn't always what the other person wants. And when it's on the Web, well, it's even easier to make these kinds of mistakes.

I hope, whoever you are, that if you're reading this, you'll put up another blog. I promise I won't butt in.

Image note: Now seemed like a good time for Egon Schiele, who, for me, captures angst better than just about anyone.

Regrets, I have a few. . .amongst other things

I just deleted seven paragraphs of writing. I'll amend that with this: I just deleted seven paragraphs of whining. Thank me for sparing you!

A few nights ago I watched "I Like Killing Flies". This movie needed a different name. When Dick said "I Like Killing Flies" sounded like an interesting movie, I immediately thought it was about a serial killer (who presumably do things like pull the wings off flies as children). But no, the movie was about Kenny Shopsin and his little restaurant in New York City.

Ever since we watched "Gangs of New York" I've been hungry for anything about the history of that city. When I heard that Shopsin had run his little restaurant for 32 years (which is enough time to make it historic), I was interested.

I enjoyed the movie tremendously, though it made me wistful and homesick. Shopsin is a type, as individual as he is (and he sure is a one-of-a-kind), that I've only found in New York. He's offensive, sometimes in the extreme, but has a great deal of love in him. He obviously loves to cook and to feed his customers. He loves his regulars and his menu had swollen to 10 pages on account of always adding new dishes that were based on the regulars' desires. Now, if you weren't a regular, you might be in for trouble. He would throw people out or not allow them in on account of his rules (or if he was just being surly). I quite understand this rule: No ordering what your dining companion has ordered. You can't say "I'll have the same" at Shopsin's. You will be out on the street. Another rule is "no parties of five" and even if you agree to split into separate tables, tough luck.

I'm looking forward to reading all his rules (and thoughts) when the book comes out at the end of the month, "Eat Me: The Food and Philosophy of Kenny Shopsin".

As much as Shopsin loves to cook, he loves to hold forth, to philosophize or as they say in Yiddish, "schmooze". Watching him in action, making pancakes while talking about how we've forgotten what "life is for in America", ladling out soup while explaining the deeper meanings of feeding customers. . .well, it reminded me of myself (and my father). I realized, while watching this movie, that I had been a part of a tradition, one that is, sadly, dwindling in every town and city. It is the tradition of inviting others into your place of business not just for what services you offer, but to talk, hang out, and in extreme cases (like my father, Shopsin, and now I realize, myself) listen to someone carry on about their opinions and be amused (or not) with their quirky ways.

I used to throw people out of my tattoo studio, not often, but I wouldn't hesitate when I did. More often, however, I would be brutally honest and depending on the person, they would either leave or respect my opinion (and a small few would argue). I never believed "the customer is always right." I tended to believe the customer was almost always misinformed or acting like sheep (I'll have what she's having). And I figured, since getting a tattoo is permanent, I had a moral obligation to be honest. Recently, someone told me I was "noble" in relation to my business, but there wasn't anything noble about it. In fact, I would say that I was an ass.

Like Shopsin, too, I eschewed advertising. I cared alot about my regular customers. I didn't care for running the place like a business. It was more like my home, where anyone could visit when I was there.

The thing is, however, I wasn't running my business in pre-boom times New York. Many of my customers didn't "get" me at all. The ones that did were a distinct minority of the local population. In the beginning, it didn't matter much, because there weren't tattoo studios in every little town here in Maine, so people came from all over. But once they had more choice, I lost a lot of business. It wasn't all because of my personality. I know that. It was mostly because it was far easier to go to your local tattoo studio, and if one is getting some small little tat, unless someone is truly terrible, pretty much any shop will do for that.

But in the end, it probably was my personality that doomed the whole enterprise. As people watched shows like "Miami Ink" and whatever the name of the other show was, they wanted more bling and they wanted a tattooist who was weird in some stereotypical way, a way I once played into but had stopped. I had grown sick of adhering to others' expections of who I needed to be in order to satisfy a fantasy notion of what a tattooist is (as if we are all the same). But just like folks who ride Harleys, who think they are such free spirits, they all adhere to a dress code, as surely as the folks at the bank do. It's just a different code. But ultimately, it was my personality that got me not because of what others thought, but of my not being able to run the business like a business and keep up with the changing needs of the public. Whatever the reasons, it's closed now. What do I miss? Talking to strangers. My life is far less rich without the daily interaction with people. The kind of interaction that occurs in a tattoo shop is particularly hard to re-create. I miss the combination of excitement and trepidation, and the fact that politically incorrect language was perfectly okay. I miss the teasing and the glimpse into the lives of people I may never see again. I miss seeing people change over the years. Yep, I miss it almost all of it. What I don't miss is the tattooing itself. Yes, I could have segued into just running a shop, but it didn't happen and it really never occurred to me. Truth is, I stopped appreciating tattoos, so how could I continue?

Photo note: Can you believe there's an entry in Wikipedia entitled "Fried Egg"?
I put this photo here because: 1. I'm lazy. 2. For me, it's the quintessential New York diner food (throughout college, I'd eat breakfast out and get two fried eggs with toast, home fries and coffee for less than two bucks).
And oddly enough, I once wrote the music for a song that came to known as "Fried Egg", which was issued on a 45rpm record. Sheesh, all of this makes me sound like I'm a hundred years old.

A quick question

I claimed earlier today that I've been depressed for about ten days. Dick thought this was amusing and told me to look at my blog.

Have all my entries been depressing? I think not. Sure, I often write about what might be considering depressing topics, but I believe I've been in a good mood since sometime in April. Entries like "Pretty in Pink" and 9 other EIIIProduct drawings (see labels to the right) were certainly not products of a depressed spirit!

I'm sorry that I haven't kept up with the amusing drawing (to those who miss them), but I've been busy knitting lace.

This may be the shortest post ever. I have plenty I could be writing about, but I'll ask you, whoever you are, has this entire blog been depressing? I'd put up a poll, but I haven't had much response to previous ones (oh, how depressing!)

I do want to know what you think, all half dozen of you, whoever you are.

Image note: A image note about a large question mark? Yes indeed. I didn't realize the image would be so big. At this size, in proportion to the post, the question mark almost loses its meaning.

I am aware of the idea that one is not supposed to ask questions of ones imagined readers. The question mark, in an essay, is sloppy writing (or something, I forget). I could go on for a while about why I do like question marks, but it seems absurd. Then again, there have been many blog posts recently about the semi-colon, which has been a disputed piece of punctuation for over a hundred years. I am at this moment too lazy to back this up with any evidence, but if you want some, just google it.

Even if I'm doing it wrong, I'll keep doing it

Today I spent some time looking at sites that enable people to make money from blogging. Rule number one: Don't write a general blog!

It's hard for you to find me. How did you find me? If you don't know me personally, I'd really appreciate it if you left a comment to let me know how you've wound up here.

So, I shouldn't be doing this the way I am. Am I going to change? No. I've had non-general blogs, and I eventually abandon them. Evidentally, that's perfectly okay, as long as they have generated income. But as much as I'd like to make some money from blogging, that was never my intent. I wanted a place to express my ideas, and I didn't want to conform to someone else's wishes. Blogging, as thousands of people already know, fulfills this need.

I don't quite understand how to steer people my way. I would like more readers. Do I want more readers because I think it would generate income? Nah. I want more dialog. I want to know just what it is that people like and what moves them. What moves you?

My largest desire is that by being honest about my life, it might encourage others to do the same or at least feel less alone. I'm not trying to sell my way of doing things, or promoting some "cure" for depression or chronic pain. Obviously, I haven't figured that out for myself, and (except for the chronic pain part) I'm seriously ambivalent about the need to conform to society's standards for so-called normalcy at all.

Getting back to finances, I don't want to turn this blog into a bunch of reviews with a little personal stuff on the side. That's what many blogs I've looked at today seem to be. Y'know, I just don't care what Jane-from-Paducah thinks about coffeemakers. I care much more about what Jane-from-Paducah thinks about her life, but Jane needs some money so she can put gas in her car. I do, too.

I tease a friend of mine for still caring about concepts like "selling out" in the music business. I had come to the conclusion that selling out didn't exist any more. If one can get a song on a commercial, fine and dandy; at least someone is hearing your song. But now, I'm starting to wonder, because I don't want to change anything I'm doing on this blog just to make some money.

Isn't that "not selling out"?

The thing I love most about the web is not it's ability to sell products so easily. It certainly does do a good job of that. What I love most about the web is the fact that I not only have the world's largest library sitting right here on my laptop in rural Maine, but the fact that I can communicate with people all over the world.

I love Google's new couch surfing tool, for example. Does this generate income for Google (probably, but how, I don't know)? People register to let other people stay for free in their homes. You can click on a map of the world and find someone almost anywhere who'll let you stay with them for a night or two. I find that extraordinary.

My first reaction to hearing about this is "Isn't it risky?" I suppose it is. Your host or the guest could be a serial killer. The fact that there is this new tool on Google is a testament to a lessening of fear. I ought to jump on that bandwagon. I watch way too many TV shows and movies about serial killers and there isn't one hiding behind every other Dick and Jane's lovely exterior. Most people aren't killers (right?)

My, I've really gotten off topic, haven't I? From not making any money blogging to reassessing the likelihood of the average person being a serial killer is a long journey in thought (well, maybe not in my mind).

How could I possibly not have a generalist's blog? I'd have to change the way I think! Now, a little pruning of my wandering thoughts may be in order (or not), but I am not going to change. I like my tangents. I love being a generalist.

I've always had a problem making money. That's an area I'd love to change, but unfortuntely for me, it doesn't seem like something that's going to change anyime soon.

Image note: This blog is free, but donations are accepted (see Amazon Honor System box at right).

My stuff versus your life

I simply can not understand believing that it's okay to kill another human being over things.

When I say this, most people ask me if I'd let a robber just take my stuff. Yes, I would. I'd rather lose my things than kill somebody, even if they are doing me harm. And to put a finer point on it, just how much harm are they doing me by stealing some things?

Not much, in my estimation. If another is that desperate, I say, go ahead and take it. Don't hurt me. Just rob me.

In my real-life arguments with others, I am usually asked this question, "Do you think other people are entitled to take your stuff?" No, I don't. But I'm not willing to live with their deaths on my conscience. Somehow this irks folks further, as if my refusing to stand up to these imaginary robbers is akin to inviting them in and saying, "Take my stuff", or saying I'm all for total havoc and the looting, pillaging and raping of law-abiding citizens.

Years ago, an acquaintance lived in area of an New York City that was truly dangerous (as opposed to Maine, where the fear is mostly in peoples' imaginations). Guys walked around with visible handguns at their hip or brandished large knives in holsters. She was robbed nearly every week (or not, for they'd taken everything). All she was tired of was the mess that these people would make. So, she bought some heroin, put it on a dish and made some very big signs that read "Please don't steal from me" and "Please don't make a mess" and then "Help Yourself to some Heroin". The amazing thing is that the intruders complied. After a few weeks they stopped showing up, in spite of the free heroin. That last bit is interesting, for it gives credence to the idea that showing compassion can stop the cycle of violence.

If that woman had had a gun, who knows what would have happened. There wouldn't have been a creative solution,that's for sure. And whatever reasons that caused her apartment to be broken into on a such a regular basis would not been examined.

The Second Amendment to the United States Constitution is a part of the Bill of Rights that protects the pre-existing individual right to possess and carry weapons (i.e. "keep and bear arms") in case of confrontation. Codification of the right to keep and bear arms into the Bill of Rights was influenced by a fear that the federal government would disarm the people in order to impose rule through a standing army or select militia, since history had shown that a tyrant's ability to suppress political opponents was accomplished by simply taking away the people's arms.

I can understand and even agree with the underlying rationale behind this, but today it is an archaic notion, given the fact that we don't have the right to store plutonium or have our own personal stockpile of nuclear devices. Hell, even roman candles are illegal here in the state of Maine.

The right to bear arms never was intended to be a substitute for trained people to promote and enforce laws. Killing people in the course of a crime, people who are not a direct threat to ones' life, flies in the face of nation's legal system, in which a person is guaranteed due process.

But beyond legal arguments, there are ethical arguments to be made. Just as my friend figured out a way to deal with the breaking and entering that went on in her little tenement apartment, if we take the use of force out of the list of possible ways of dealing with those who threaten us, we are faced with the much harder task of figuring out how to deal with crime and criminal in a more creative way.

I know, for a fact, when I've been face to face with those who meant me physical harm, that disarming them with my actions and words worked. Pure and simple. The concepts of non-violent resistance do work, not just in the political arena, but in the area of personal "safety".

Of course, they don't work all the time, but that is not a case against taking the path of non-violence. We all know that the death penalty has done little to keep people from killing each other, but that doesn't keep folks from supporting it.

I am not a pure pacifist. I'm sure that if words failed and my life, or the life of someone else, was on the line, I wouldn't hesitate to use all the force I could. If I had to kill someone to save my partner's life, I doubt I'd hesitate.

But I wouldn't think of myself as a hero, as some do when people kill the bad guys. Life is precious. A crackhead's life is precious (even if they do not know this).

So, I'll continue to argue my point. I have no problem with disagreement.

Photo note: The Smith and Wesson Magnum .44
Dirty Harry's gun

The preface to nothing

Preface: Earlier this evening I said to Dick "I'm not a writer". He said, "You are." I disagreed and I still hold by it. I'm not trying to shoot myself in the foot here, but stating my opinion. I write what's on my mind, exactly how it's in my mind. I don't craft the words, or try to find new and more exacting ones. I type fast - the words fall out. I have no internal editor and no external editor. I do correct spelling mistakes (or let others catch them for me).

My main objective is to be in dialogue with others. I use writing (or talking) about myself as the primary vehicle. This is rather a "feminine" thing to do, as Deborah Tannen points out in her books about ways in which men and women express themselves. I do not talk about myself for self aggrandizement, though it may seem that way at times. I hope that those who read my words, see something of themselves in what I write. I also hope, though I'm not there yet, that by being honest, I occasionally shed some light on areas in our lives that are usually pretty dark. My greatest desire is that by being occasionally cheerful and irreverent, in spite of "suffering" from depression, I can give a bit of hope to others who are struggling. This sounds awfully big and self-important, but it's really such a small thing. If just one of you, whoever you are, happens to try some Bulgari Black, plant some catmint, rethink why you hate your body, or decide that life's too short not to say exactly what's on your mind or do what you'd really like to do, just once, because of something you've read here, I will be immensely gratified. I guess it's not just "all about me", as I often say it is.

So, no, maybe I'm not a writer. But I'll keep on writing.

Hah! I forgot what I was prefacing. Y'know what they say, "If I forgot, it must not have been that important." I don't really believe that, but it's as good a way to end this post as any other.

Painting note: Edouard Vuillard "The Conversation" 1891

Intrinsic self worth

A few months ago, I received an e-mail from a person whom I admire greatly and is, also, a widely known and respected individual. When I first saw his name in my inbox, I thought it was a mistake of some kind. But no, it was a short, friendly message. I wrote back, rather gushingly, including some self-effacing statement of how much it meant to me since I am a "nobody" and live a "small life".

He wrote me again, with this admonition: "There is no such thing as a nobody or a small life." That sentence hit me in the gut. It was a wake-up call.

Yet.

On the one hand, I agree with the statement. Everything in me, everything I've learned from years of reading Buddhist sutras, interpretations, spending time in a Buddhist monastery, meditating, practicing yoga, both alone and at the Krapalu center, reading and rejecting most Western philosophy, immersing myself in Quakerism, trying to understand the teachings of Jesus, the teacher (not the son of god), and sitting with an incredible cross section of people while tattooing has shown me that every single one of us has a life that is precious.

Yet.

I've said over and over again that if a life touches only one other person, makes a difference to only one other person, it is a life that is worth something. I do not know who posited this, but it is said that if a child is acknowledged by only one adult in their life, it can make a world of difference. Having been a pathologically shy, essentially invisible child, and remembering how much I craved someone to see me, to give me a pat on the back, to encourage me or to ask me what my dreams might be (or let me know I could have a dream at all), I agree completely with this generally held idea.

I think all of us, children and adults alike, need others to recognize our specialness. Every one of us is special. Whether our lives are mundane or lived large and in the public eye, we each are unique and have something unique to offer. It may not be apparent, for most of us, what that special something we contribute may be, but it is there.

Even though I say these things, a part of me bristles. I feel like I've spend most of my life underachieving, and this is indeed true. It's not about money, which is a perpetual disaster, for I've lived at the poverty level for many years, feeling as if I'm fairly well off. The price of home heating oil and gas may change everything this coming winter, but I will leave thoughts of that aside for the moment.

What makes me an underachiever is not living up to my potential. Why is that? Has it been because I was afraid? Some times, yes. Other times, it was just bad luck, being in the wrong place at the wrong time. In the 80's, I foresaw the trend for making hand-make things quite clearly. I worked, part-time, at a historical society, where I taught both children and adults how to do various crafts. Both the children and the adults just lapped it all up with giddiness. For the adults, it was such a respite from their busy, striving lives. To stop for a few hours and just sit with a piece of cloth in their hands, slowly stitching something they could have purchased in a flash, seemed to be a transforming experience. For my embroidery classes, I would bring in boxes of thread and have everyone pick out the colors they would use in their projects. Almost every person would say, "Oh, but I'm not an artist!" and have a small panic attack when confronted with making an aesthetic decision. I looked at these women (yes, they were all women) and saw their expensive, well-picked out clothes and thought they didn't realize just how many aesthetic decisions they actually made in the course of an average day. "You pick out your clothes by yourself in the morning, dont you?", I would ask them. This, they could understand, and suddenly every single one of them would be transformed into their own experts. Sure, many of them would ask me what I thought of their choices, but I'd always say it was not for me to decide.

I sensed such a deep craving in my students to make things with their hands, even if they spent their days making large decisions at corporations or eating every meal out in a fancy restaurant. Perhaps it was because of this, I thought, that they craved the hand made. I sat down and wrote a proposal for this small struggling historical society on Long Island to expand their adult education department and to create a gallery in which local people could display their work, along with the history behind it. It would have been a great boon to this organization, but they thought I was out of my mind. It was the age of women in power suits. How could I possibly think that more than a handful of these women would want to take time out of their busy lives to sit and knit or make quilts?

Then Martha Stewart came along and proved me right. Damn her!

This is only one of the incidents like these that have peppered my life. For the sake of honesty, I will say I've had some lucky breaks, but though I'm talking about myself, this isn't all about me - "I" am only using my self as an example. I suppose at some point I stopped trying too hard and decided to be satisfied with my lot, which is always a pretty good idea. On the other hand, resignedly stopping to think big is not a good strategy. It is rather like having been hurt in love, and vowing to never love again. It's a sign of a spirit that is broken.

I'm going to argue a bit with myself in this post. On the other hand, our worth does not lie in what we do. We are intrinsically perfect and unique. I recall John Bradshaw, who was once a popular writer and speaker, said over and over, "We are human beings, not human doings." Albert Ellis, though a total crackpot (in my humble opinion) speaks disparagingly about what he calls the "myth of self-esteem". He posits it is all based on what we do and what our good qualities are. He is right. If you've ever been to a therapist or participated in some therapy group, you've probably encountered the assignment of being forced to write two lists about yourself, one being your accomplishments and good qualities and the other, being your deficits. The reason? To force yourself to reasonably and clearly see how decent and valuable you really are. What if you choose to live your life as a drunk, caring not at all to work, and live in squalor or on the street? Does this make you worthless? Some people might say yes, but I do not. Every one has intrinsic self worth. It doesn't matter what you do.

Now, I'm sure some of you are ready to jump on me for what I've written above, for I am saying something along these lines: Mother Theresa and a junkie are both worth the same amount.

Do you remember when insurance companies tried to figure out the price of a life for the people killed in 9/11? It was based on their money making ability. It was an outrage. A busboy at Windows of the World's life was worth very little, while a man who pushed paper around his desk at Dean Witter was worth far more. I'm sure their families didn't think so. A parent, a lover, a partner or a friend is worth the same amount no matter what they do.

But no, if one looks to folks in Hollywood or the upper echelons of business or politics (or any other competitive field) this is simply not true, and it, quite frankly, disgusts me. Having a friend who has an influential job is worth much more than a friend who lives an anonymous life. After all, what is the low person on the totem pole able to do for you? Oh, sure, they can provide emotional support and great conversation, but will they be able to get you that meeting with some other big shot you haven't met and are dying to take lunch with so you can make your pitch?

How about the women on the arms of the power brokers? Would Donald Trump show up at a party with a clearly overweight woman whom nobody has ever heard of and is not wearing a designer dress? I think not.

You might say, what do these people have to do with our everyday lives? A lot, in my estimation. They tell us many things: 1. You are not good enough. 2. You should be more ambitious. 3. You should be better looking. 4. You should try harder. Or, to sum it up: "You are a loser".

And no matter how much I feel at one with the world whilst sitting in meditation, that feeling, "I am a loser", just doesn't go away. I may tell others, with great conviction, that they are not, and I believe it, but I still do not believe it about myself.

I will end here. This is certainly not my final word on this subject, I can assure you. It is but the opening volley and, I hope, the beginning of a conversation with you, whoever you may be.

Photo note: You may be wondering, why does this post have to do with pictures of Cher, pre and post plastic surgery? Well, one reason is because you can find thousands of photographs of Cher, pre and post plastic surgery, along with catty comments, all over the web (and in many, many magazines). This could be any female celebrity. From reading just the minimum about women in Hollywood, Diane Keaton may be the only one who has not succumbed to surgery. It is not only aging stars who do this today, but people of all ages. Did you know that one in a hundred women in this country have had boob jobs?

The thing is, what's worse (well, only minimally) is all the catty websites about the celebrities. "See how Meg Ryan has ruined her face!" "Heather Locklear: what happened to her cheekbones?!" You know the headlines. Why do "we" do this?

I believe it is because of what I have been writing about in this post. Those of us with ordinary lives feel less than, no matter how much we protest. And so, when we see celebrities imploding, whether it's emotionally, with bad plastic surgery, compulsive child rearing and adoption or any number of indicators that they are not really happy with themselves or their lives, we not so secretly rejoice. Yay! One doesn't have to be rich or beautiful to be miserable. C'mon, what was she thinking wearing that dress (which cost the price of my yearly paycheck)?

And I'm willing to place a large bet that most of us would choose to get some plastic surgery, if we had the disposable income. I know I would, though I have been almost morally opposed to it my whole life. How about you?

In which I find myself confused, once again

I just finished reading an excerpt from James Salant's "Leaving Dirty Jersey", a memoir of one teenager's drug addled life. I tend to think there's way more than enough tell all ex-junkie books out there and don't generally bother to even give any the most cursory glance. But I read a review, written by someone I know, who praised this book highly, and so, I read.

It's strange to say that reading about a young man's arrest while tripping on acid and taking heroin (at the same time no less) was enjoyable, but it was. I presume the book finds James Salant redeeming himself, but I suspect that he doesn't torture himself over it too much (though I might be wrong). My writing about it is premature, certainly, for I've only read an excerpt.

I liked the tone. He neither makes too much of what he did nor makes it glamorous enough for someone to say, "Hey, I'd like to try that, too (especially the LSD and heroin combo, most certainly!)" He's not Slash or Tommy Lee. He's some guy from Jersey (though it's Princeton, not Newark, and if you know Jersey, you certainly know the difference).

So, what has this to do with my title? I say I am confused, but you may be asking yourself, "what is she confused about now?" Or you may be yawning. How the hell would I know? I probably don't know you.

I wonder what I'm blogging about. When I started this blog, I said to myself that I would write about anything and everything (for it's all interesting, to me, as you should know from the big words at the top). But I do wonder if it's interesting to anyone else. It's so broad, and I know that that makes it marginally interesting in this increasingly specialized world.

I have a desire to write about mental health issues, to take them out of the closet, if you will, but I don't want to write about this on a daily basis. It would be depressing.

This blog is so completely self indulgent, but I want it to serve some purpose. I do, on occasion, think of how others may read it. I rather wish there was an real index, and not just the tags, for I'm so all over the map that it's hard for anyone to find the bits that they might be interested in. I suppose that the person who likes to see my drawings may hate my views on politics, or the person who likes my thoughts on religion may find my musings on perfume to be tiresome.

Of course, I could make the entire thing one long riff on the absurdity of my childhood, but that, too, would get tired after a while, though I have an endless supply of material on that. I have noticed a new category forming: old boyfriends, but until this moment, it hasn't occurred to me to tag that. If I was Jack Kerouac, I would not only tag that, but add a list of how many times I actually had sex with them. Did you know that Kerouac kept such a list? Somehow, this diminishes him in my eyes. But then again, I wasn't all that crazy about him to begin with. I have a problem with anyone who uses the word "dig" unless they are talking about gardening or burying people. See my previous rant on Richard Lewis for more on this.

Again, I have a desire to ask my few readers what they'd like to read. Perhaps I should put up a poll. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'm going to do it right now. Bye.

Painting note: Jean Michael Basquiat "Chicken Wing (Two)" 1983
I was going to use another Cy Twombly, just for the hell of it, but stumbled onto this Basquiat. I love his work. The movie about him is excellent. This is not an exact quote, but I love when his friend warns him about becoming a "famous artist" - "You'll have to paint in the same style over and over again". True enough. Sadly, he died of a heroin overdose before he had to struggle with this dilemma. So, it turns out using a painting of his for the top of this post is quite apt.

Addendum: I put up a poll yesterday and have now removed it. Everything is interesting to me and I'll keep writing about anything, and well, everything. However, I am open to suggestions. If you'd like to hear my take on anything at all, leave a comment. Caveat: I will ignore any requests for posts about quantum mechanics or physics of any sort. But, hey, you can try me on anything else.

"I've never thought of smell as something to do"

Yesterday was an embarrassment of riches. I received four packages of fragrance in the post. I've been keeping all these samples in a beat up old cardboard box. This seemed an awful way to store these precious jewels, so today, when I was out, I purchased a beautiful cloth covered box in a rich floral burgundy, with bows and all.

Then I transferred all my samples into it. I started counting and now I have over fifty! I have gotten stuck on a few scents and they generally take me a week to assess (unless I need to scrub them off immediately) so I figure I've got enough to last me a long time. But no, I want more.

So, who uttered the sentence, "I've never thought of scent as something to do"? My partner, Dick Fischbeck (who has just patented a new building method - see Randome Shelter over in the link section). He hasn't paid much heed to my new hobby, for I'm always picking up new hobbies, getting wildly interested, and then letting them go. That said, yesterday's mail was much too much to ignore, and so, he asked to smell something.

I was pulling the last vial out of the last box and it was Herme's Jardin sur le Nil. He sniffed and said "citrus". His face lit up. And then, surprisingly, he said "put some on me". So, I did. Later in the evening, he asked if he could bring some samples to school with him, to share with the teachers on their break: "Pick out some that are famous" were his words. I don't have many of those, so I'm putting it off.

This afternoon, when Dick came home from work, I showed him the pretty box that the fragrance samples now reside in. He asked me to retrieve the Hermes so he could smell it again. I was surprised.

A few minutes later, he said, "The whole world disappears when I smell this." I was shocked. Dick is not the type of man one would ever imagine would like perfume. He wears flip-flops to work as soon as it is reasonably warm enough to do so. Am I stereotyping my partner? Yep.

I noticed he kept sniffing his hand and so I asked him, "Dick, have you ever worn cologne?" He hasn't since I"ve known him, but who knows? The answer was no. "But I'd wear this", he said.

Really, I was just fascinated, so I asked him what he was feeling when he smelled it. The answer? "It makes me feel safe. I can always go there." Really??!! "Peace. Contentment."

This would make a really fantastic advert, wouldn't it? Though Dick would have to get a hair stylist, for his long gray ponytail really needs some work. Sorry, honey.

But wait: there more! It's many hours later and he's still talking about it. "Wow. Smell that! It's like a drug. It a high. It's a momentary high!"

I think we've got a new perfume addict on our hands.

Note on photograph and addendum: I asked Dick to choose the visuals for this post, for it is about his experience, not mine. He asked for a globular cluster.* I asked why and he started to really talk about this scent experience in depth. I wanted to know why he picked this photograph. Does this smell elicit this image? No. "Smell goes in all directions and when it hits your brain it does the same thing. Same as a globular cluster. (Well, I don't think the globular cluster hits your brain, but okay. . .) From my wrist, it goes out in all directions - it's omni-directional. Other smells haven't had this effect on me." But why this picture? "It's my image of smell." Like this scent? "No. Smell is general. This smell is specific." So, it's not about this particular smell. "It's about my becoming aware of the olfactory. I've never paid attention to it in my life." But wait, he starts listing smells: "Skunk. Concrete. Rusty steel. Sewage. Mold in the cellar. Pine forest. Garlic. Diesel fumes. Gasoline. Some of the kids have wicked BO. They shit in their pants. Bern Porter." He paused. "My nose has been very valuable to me. It's helped me a lot. I do have a very healthy smell life, but this is another dimension. This is play. Write that down. This is my first play scent." Dick ended this conversation with, "You know, I love the smell of chocolate, but if you put chocolate on my hand it would be somewhat mundane", and in one fell swoop dismissed many a gourmand fragrance.

*This stellar swarm is M80 (NGC 6093), one of the densest of the 147 known globular star clusters in the Milky Way galaxy. Located about 28,000 light-years from Earth, M80 contains hundreds of thousands of stars, all held together by their mutual gravitational attraction. Globular clusters are particularly useful for studying stellar evolution, since all of the stars in the cluster have the same age (about 15 billion years), but cover a range of stellar masses.

Every star visible in this image is either more highly evolved than, or in a few rare cases more massive than, our own Sun. Especially obvious are the bright red giants, which are stars similar to the Sun in mass that are nearing the ends of their lives.

Information above from here.

Starting a new blog

I've had many blogs. I still have a few up. "The Craft Yogini" was supposed to be devoted to my crafts obsessions, somehow linked to my yoga practice. Another (now down) was about Zen Buddhist texts. "Medical Assistance Anyone?" was a way for me to memorize new terminology and blow off some steam while studying. There have been others.

Sounds like I'm writing about past lovers, no? There have been others. . .

I also regularly post comments on other sites; sites about music, politics, perfume, knitting, religion, psychiatry, medicine . . .do I need to go on? You get the picture.

Today as I put up another virtual sticky note on my computer desktop about the new perfume I'm wearing, I realized that I'd just have to start a new blog. Why not share my thoughts about EVERYTHING?

So, prepare to be bored or interested, depending on the topic.

And the disclaimer is: I am an inveterate dilettante and make no apologies for it. I hate this age of specialization. I may not know everything there is to know about what I'm writing about, but I've got my opinion. As do you. I welcome comments of sorts: second opinions, disagreements, encouragement, third and fourth opinions and suggestions. Welcome!