I don't leave my hair down often.
The strands are long, too long, and they get pinned to seat backs or shut into doors. My locks get wrapped around stranger's hands and groped by the casual acquaintance. Magnetically pulling people in that wouldn't normally talk to me, the ropes glistening and beckoning. Even I get caught by my hair, sometimes, waking up with my tresses wrapped around my wrists or brushing the mane till it stands out like a halo of static electricity. When I turn my head fast enough, the friction between individual hairs sounds like a chorus of bells.
I left it down, tonight, straight and parted down the middle, smelling like honey and sunshine, before I went to see a friend tonight.
She went in to the back room, and he came running in for something; I forgot immediately what he'd been looking for when he wrapped his hands around my neck, cutting off air supply.
A second there, and my brain flooded me with awareness of the velvet of the couch, the soft light on the wall, the scent of burned french fries and cologne, the ballad playing in the background, the warmth of his hands.
Another second, and his hands were caught in my hair, pulling it back, doubling the strands around his fingers, pushing into my scalp, relieving the pressure and the tension in my neck. His eyes closed as his hands wrapped and pulled and fell into my hair. And then he was gone, as abruptly as he'd walked into the apartment.
I'm not sure if my hair just saved my life, or if leaving it down was asking for all of the beautifully wrong things in this world.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
packing up
So far, everything I've packed is something that I've wanted to use. That's good, in a way- I definitely use everything I have.
I've packed:
Today I plan to pack
....and I'm going to take all of the art off of the walls.
Beyond that, it's mostly computer and kitchen stuff, then cleaning. I haven't much else to do though. Good for bursting full speed ahead, and for making a clean break of it, I suppose.
I've packed:
- all our books, minus the ones with bookmarks in them
- our inflatable killer whales and other river floating items
- most of our camping gear
- all of my formal dresses
- half of my arts and crafts.
Today I plan to pack
- The closets, minus what we'll wear for the next three weeks
- all but 6 pairs of shoes
- the rest of my arts and crafts
- extra blankets
....and I'm going to take all of the art off of the walls.
Beyond that, it's mostly computer and kitchen stuff, then cleaning. I haven't much else to do though. Good for bursting full speed ahead, and for making a clean break of it, I suppose.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Keep right, except to pass.
To my right, I see someone terrified of rain, driving ten miles below the speed limit. To my left, a concrete barrier. Directly in front of me, the self righteous asshole who's been consistently speeding when I'm in the right hand lane and brake checking me when in the left lane. A hundred feet ahead, yet another sign that says "Slower traffic, Keep Right".
Now, I'm not sure if these aforementioned self righteous assholes are actually self righteous assholes. There's a lot of options. They could be opposed to reading, and therefore never understand the signs all over the road indicating that they should probably get into the right hand lane. They could just be deliberate assholes, picking a car at random to piss off. Or they could be the self righteous assholes, deciding that they have the authority and the right to control my behavior.
I enjoy my right to the pursuit of happiness. For me, that means competing with myself to break my times home. But then Self Righteous Assholes (hereafter abbreviated as SFA) decide that they both a) have a right to judge me for the way that I pursue happiness and b) have the right to discontinue my pursuit. I don't quite remember exactly where the right to oppress your fellow drivers is in the constitution is, but whatever.
My goal is simple. I want to get home as fast as possible. If I get a ticket, that's alright. It's my paycheck and my car. SFA are dangerous to me and to others on the road. They encourage unsafe passing procedures, like blowing-your-gosh-dang-doors-off-on-the-right when the originally happy drivers become irritated at the cat and mouse game of SFA containment patterns. SFA's also trigger road rage, and suffer from preoccupation concerning where that (previously happy) car is that often leads them to wander over the lane lines.
Just move over. You have no right or authority to blockade my speed.
Now, I'm not sure if these aforementioned self righteous assholes are actually self righteous assholes. There's a lot of options. They could be opposed to reading, and therefore never understand the signs all over the road indicating that they should probably get into the right hand lane. They could just be deliberate assholes, picking a car at random to piss off. Or they could be the self righteous assholes, deciding that they have the authority and the right to control my behavior.
I enjoy my right to the pursuit of happiness. For me, that means competing with myself to break my times home. But then Self Righteous Assholes (hereafter abbreviated as SFA) decide that they both a) have a right to judge me for the way that I pursue happiness and b) have the right to discontinue my pursuit. I don't quite remember exactly where the right to oppress your fellow drivers is in the constitution is, but whatever.
My goal is simple. I want to get home as fast as possible. If I get a ticket, that's alright. It's my paycheck and my car. SFA are dangerous to me and to others on the road. They encourage unsafe passing procedures, like blowing-your-gosh-dang-doors-off-on-the-right when the originally happy drivers become irritated at the cat and mouse game of SFA containment patterns. SFA's also trigger road rage, and suffer from preoccupation concerning where that (previously happy) car is that often leads them to wander over the lane lines.
Just move over. You have no right or authority to blockade my speed.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
what now?
"To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and to endure the betrayal of false friends. To appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
Success is so strange. There's always one more step that we have to take before we're considered "successful". Having just finished a major accomplishment, many of my friends are discomfited by the question "What now?"
So many of us have spent our lives working up to this graduation, this degree, that the notions beyond the piece of paper are vague. So many are expecting to go into the normal ideology -marketing manager, executive assistant, researcher- that many will forget to do what they enjoy doing.
I have an answer for the "what now?" question, and also for the "and after that?" question, and I feel blessed to know what I'm going to do. I'm going to go out there and make a difference. I'm going into a career where my instinct to over-mother everyone will be an asset. I'm going to bandage up the hurting and save the world, one person at a time. I'm going to travel, to inspire, and to breathe life back into whomever I can. I'm going to be a doctor, a helper, a listener wherever people need me. I'm going to have a black bag, for emergency house calls. I'm going to have a horse, and ride off into the sunset at least once.
We all must define success for ourselves....and not let the world tell us what to do!
Success is so strange. There's always one more step that we have to take before we're considered "successful". Having just finished a major accomplishment, many of my friends are discomfited by the question "What now?"
So many of us have spent our lives working up to this graduation, this degree, that the notions beyond the piece of paper are vague. So many are expecting to go into the normal ideology -marketing manager, executive assistant, researcher- that many will forget to do what they enjoy doing.
I have an answer for the "what now?" question, and also for the "and after that?" question, and I feel blessed to know what I'm going to do. I'm going to go out there and make a difference. I'm going into a career where my instinct to over-mother everyone will be an asset. I'm going to bandage up the hurting and save the world, one person at a time. I'm going to travel, to inspire, and to breathe life back into whomever I can. I'm going to be a doctor, a helper, a listener wherever people need me. I'm going to have a black bag, for emergency house calls. I'm going to have a horse, and ride off into the sunset at least once.
We all must define success for ourselves....and not let the world tell us what to do!
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
I was an immigrant, too.
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me.
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me.
-emma lazarus
Unless they're mexican.
or cuban.
or honduran.
or peruvian.
or someone that threatens our sense of entitlement.
Is that what you're saying, America?
That we'll take anyone who's rich and white and healthy?
Because I'm pretty sure that's not what the motto is. I'm pretty sure that having to provide papers of nationality is how Hitler got started with the Jews. What next, they all wear tiny flags showing their home country? We start heading them into "detainment camps" for "relocation"?
They learn English at gun point before being chucked back over the border?
The new york times says this is a point of generational conflict, that the older generation says it's perfectly acceptable to be inhospitable and cruel to our fellow man while the younger generation is outraged by this law. The times had some stats, showing that the year after woodstock had the least immigration, down 10% from normal influx stats. Maybe it's good that I was born well after then.
I might be young, but I grew up in a neighborhood full of mexicans, legal and illegal, and they were all good people. I worked with them in the garden, played with them in the park, ate their delicious food, and learned their language. All of them had a dream- a dream of fair wages, of opportunity, of rescuing family trapped in their home country.
Which is what I thought America was all about.
But in these later years, I've seen that our country is a money-grubbing power whore, selling herself to the same groups over and over again as bankers and oil rigs despoil and rule over everyone else. We're not about to share the opportunity. We're so concerned with our own personal status that we're glad to see people less well off than ourselves. And we're not going to let go of those farming jobs, by God. We may not want them, but if they have them they will raise themselves up and we won't be able to look down on them any more.
We hated the Irish.
We hated the Blacks.
and now we hate the Mexicans. It's our proud legacy.
This is wrong, people. I know you may not agree with my hippie, socialist ways- but surely we can all agree that the maltreatment of our fellow man is despicable. We should be following in Martin Luther King Jr.'s footsteps, not in Hitler's.
So please- write to the Governor of Arizona. Tell her that this is wrong (Peacefully!) and tell her why. Let's get this law revoked. Our generation will not stand for injustice. Our generation will not stand by while they take everyone else away. Let us return to the ideals of our country.
The address-
The Honorable Jan Brewer
Governor of Arizona
1700 West Washington
Phoenix, Arizona 85007
Please, raise your voice.
or cuban.
or honduran.
or peruvian.
or someone that threatens our sense of entitlement.
Is that what you're saying, America?
That we'll take anyone who's rich and white and healthy?
Because I'm pretty sure that's not what the motto is. I'm pretty sure that having to provide papers of nationality is how Hitler got started with the Jews. What next, they all wear tiny flags showing their home country? We start heading them into "detainment camps" for "relocation"?
They learn English at gun point before being chucked back over the border?
The new york times says this is a point of generational conflict, that the older generation says it's perfectly acceptable to be inhospitable and cruel to our fellow man while the younger generation is outraged by this law. The times had some stats, showing that the year after woodstock had the least immigration, down 10% from normal influx stats. Maybe it's good that I was born well after then.
I might be young, but I grew up in a neighborhood full of mexicans, legal and illegal, and they were all good people. I worked with them in the garden, played with them in the park, ate their delicious food, and learned their language. All of them had a dream- a dream of fair wages, of opportunity, of rescuing family trapped in their home country.
Which is what I thought America was all about.
But in these later years, I've seen that our country is a money-grubbing power whore, selling herself to the same groups over and over again as bankers and oil rigs despoil and rule over everyone else. We're not about to share the opportunity. We're so concerned with our own personal status that we're glad to see people less well off than ourselves. And we're not going to let go of those farming jobs, by God. We may not want them, but if they have them they will raise themselves up and we won't be able to look down on them any more.
We hated the Irish.
We hated the Blacks.
and now we hate the Mexicans. It's our proud legacy.
This is wrong, people. I know you may not agree with my hippie, socialist ways- but surely we can all agree that the maltreatment of our fellow man is despicable. We should be following in Martin Luther King Jr.'s footsteps, not in Hitler's.
So please- write to the Governor of Arizona. Tell her that this is wrong (Peacefully!) and tell her why. Let's get this law revoked. Our generation will not stand for injustice. Our generation will not stand by while they take everyone else away. Let us return to the ideals of our country.
The address-
The Honorable Jan Brewer
Governor of Arizona
1700 West Washington
Phoenix, Arizona 85007
Please, raise your voice.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
freewrite.
I read a series called the Dresden Files (which is also a show on the Scifi channel, I know, I know, but I'm talking about the books) and I remember being struck by the concept of soul fire, and of how it was explained.
The way it works is by breaking a piece of your soul, and using it. In the books, and in real life, we get really hung up on that breaking bit. Maybe breaking is too strong of a word.
We share ourselves, and our souls, with everyone who comes into contact with us. It grows back, expands, fills over the nicks of being wrenched through an unequal share or an unrequited share. But still, the pieces are scattered. We share energy, self, with everyone whom we've loved.
There's no such thing as a one true love, or if there is- that couple is sorely limiting themselves. It would be like a mother who had less and less love to share the more children that she had. Love is not a limiting entity. It is meant to be shared, the more given away- the more returned.
We profoundly affect everyone with whom we share ourselves. We give ourselves away, intellectually, physically, emotionally, and hopefully that is returned. If not, our souls grow back. We cannot expect to be loved simply because we love, but even unrequited, we know that we have shared, we have created, we have changed.
Love is not static.
So our souls grow and spill over and are broken, but they keep growing and spilling and breaking and the greatest of this is simply, love. Faith and hope fade away, but love....
love is a choice.
and I- freely knowing that this will break my soul, knowing that I may never get anything in return, knowing even that it will change me and my life- love you.
The way it works is by breaking a piece of your soul, and using it. In the books, and in real life, we get really hung up on that breaking bit. Maybe breaking is too strong of a word.
We share ourselves, and our souls, with everyone who comes into contact with us. It grows back, expands, fills over the nicks of being wrenched through an unequal share or an unrequited share. But still, the pieces are scattered. We share energy, self, with everyone whom we've loved.
There's no such thing as a one true love, or if there is- that couple is sorely limiting themselves. It would be like a mother who had less and less love to share the more children that she had. Love is not a limiting entity. It is meant to be shared, the more given away- the more returned.
We profoundly affect everyone with whom we share ourselves. We give ourselves away, intellectually, physically, emotionally, and hopefully that is returned. If not, our souls grow back. We cannot expect to be loved simply because we love, but even unrequited, we know that we have shared, we have created, we have changed.
Love is not static.
So our souls grow and spill over and are broken, but they keep growing and spilling and breaking and the greatest of this is simply, love. Faith and hope fade away, but love....
love is a choice.
and I- freely knowing that this will break my soul, knowing that I may never get anything in return, knowing even that it will change me and my life- love you.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
oh, these lazy summer days.
It's absolutely ironic that we fall out of touch with anyone, ever. Facebook, email, instant message, text message, blue tooth- and yet I still only call my family about once a week. I still communicate with one of my uncles by letter only. How is this possible?
Of course, communication requires two people. I can send as many messages as I like, and if no one responds to them, communication is not happening.
and now, for something completely different:
this summer I have
Of course, communication requires two people. I can send as many messages as I like, and if no one responds to them, communication is not happening.
and now, for something completely different:
this summer I have
- Taken a bus
- rollerbladed
- skinned my knees
- stared at jellyfish
- watched more than one season of a tv show
- gone on a several mile walk
- eaten at three new restaurants
- tried a new drink
- started packing
- finished my exit interviews from the school
- sent an email to a friend I haven't talked to since christmas break
- started praying nightly
- figuring out my paperwork
- moving twice
- floating down several rivers on a giant inflatable orca
- skinny dipping
- having a super soaker war
- helping in the garden
- going to the beach
- getting burned a glorious brown
- dying my hair back to its natural color- brown
- going to the jazz and blues festival
- going to the National Naturopathic conference
- having an anniversary barbecue
- getting into better shape
- riding a bike
- having fun with friends
- staying in touch with far away friends
- making new friends
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
choices.
With all of the wedding bells ringing around me, I figured today was a good day to talk about love.
Love is the single hardest thing you're ever going to do in your life. It's not made out of sunshine and cuddles.
Love is turning around and coming back home when the only thing you want to do is run forever.
Love is subjugating yourself to the needs of another person, always above and beyond your own needs
Love is easy to fall into and hard to stick with.
Love is sending messages that you know the other person will never send back, just because you want them to know that you're thinking of them.
Sometimes love is something small. Folding laundry. Fetching a soda pop. Rubbing a shoulder. Being an alarm clock.
Sometimes love is something huge. Surrendering yourself, sacrificing your time and your sweat and your blood and your tears to better the lot of your loved one, dying to save them.
But in all things,
you must remember:
Love is a Choice.
Your fuzzy feelings are going to fade. The sweet summer picnics are going to stop. There will be plenty of evenings where you sleep alone and empty. And even then, you have to choose this love. You have to be willing to love someone even when it's not rewarding, even when all you want to do is strike out at them, even when it hurts you to love them.
So choose wisely.
And once you've chosen, talk to them, all of the time. Keep no secrets, even your shameful ones, because your lover will surprise you with their understanding. Make your choice to love them at the beginning of each day. Find something to adore at the sunset. Because love is a choice, you can push through the darkness and create new moments of sunshine and cuddles, and even in the darkness you can find joy in knowing that you love truly, and not only at the hours that it is easy to love in.
Once you choose to love, you must also be faithful to that choice. You have to make that choice every day, for the rest of your life. That's what it means to be committed.
You can throw away paper plates, and you can microwave your burritos, but you cannot throw away love. You cannot inspire heat over a thirty second period. Your disposable lifestyle must be checked at the door to your love life.
You must choose.
Love is the single hardest thing you're ever going to do in your life. It's not made out of sunshine and cuddles.
Love is turning around and coming back home when the only thing you want to do is run forever.
Love is subjugating yourself to the needs of another person, always above and beyond your own needs
Love is easy to fall into and hard to stick with.
Love is sending messages that you know the other person will never send back, just because you want them to know that you're thinking of them.
Sometimes love is something small. Folding laundry. Fetching a soda pop. Rubbing a shoulder. Being an alarm clock.
Sometimes love is something huge. Surrendering yourself, sacrificing your time and your sweat and your blood and your tears to better the lot of your loved one, dying to save them.
But in all things,
you must remember:
Love is a Choice.
Your fuzzy feelings are going to fade. The sweet summer picnics are going to stop. There will be plenty of evenings where you sleep alone and empty. And even then, you have to choose this love. You have to be willing to love someone even when it's not rewarding, even when all you want to do is strike out at them, even when it hurts you to love them.
So choose wisely.
And once you've chosen, talk to them, all of the time. Keep no secrets, even your shameful ones, because your lover will surprise you with their understanding. Make your choice to love them at the beginning of each day. Find something to adore at the sunset. Because love is a choice, you can push through the darkness and create new moments of sunshine and cuddles, and even in the darkness you can find joy in knowing that you love truly, and not only at the hours that it is easy to love in.
Once you choose to love, you must also be faithful to that choice. You have to make that choice every day, for the rest of your life. That's what it means to be committed.
You can throw away paper plates, and you can microwave your burritos, but you cannot throw away love. You cannot inspire heat over a thirty second period. Your disposable lifestyle must be checked at the door to your love life.
You must choose.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Magic 8-ball.
I downloaded an 8-ball app for my droid yesterday, and when I checked through the settings the application could be set to only deliver custom responses.
I think this is really innovative.
We're all just searching for our own inner wisdom when we shake that ball anyway.
Without further ado, here are 20 answers that I give myself when in doubt.
I think this is really innovative.
We're all just searching for our own inner wisdom when we shake that ball anyway.
Without further ado, here are 20 answers that I give myself when in doubt.
- Knock it off
- You'll be sorry
- Fear not.
- Every day is a new beginning
- you're the judge of that
- just do it.
- yes, definitely
- es no bueno
- regret is a terrible thing
- ask felix
- if not a mortal sin, proceed with cunning.
- who's going to know?
- walk it off.
- don't be ridiculous.
- don't stop believing.
- you can't have that
- you're forgetting something.
- if cloudy, then no. Consult weather before proceeding.
- love is a choice.
- The only thing left to lose is yourself
Friday, May 7, 2010
there's a certain adrenaline rush...
"Welcome to the planet
Welcome to existence
Everyone's here
Everyone's here
Everybody's watching you now
Everybody waits for you now
What happens next?"
- Switchfoot, dare you to move
Welcome to existence
Everyone's here
Everyone's here
Everybody's watching you now
Everybody waits for you now
What happens next?"
- Switchfoot, dare you to move
Tonight, my class got hoods- the red and white silk interior symbolizing my alma mater, the yellow band representing my science degree. I also have cords and medals symbolizing my grade point, excellence in biology, involvement in the school's honor society, and St. Benedict's influence on my education.
It was all so surreal before I walked up for my hood.
Tomorrow is the end.
I'm going to miss the random noises of my friends as they make tea. Debates on the implications of mortal sin and choices. I'm going to miss my professors and my friends and my routine. I'm very comfortable here.
But comfortable is rarely synonymous with moving forward, and so I look at my unease about the future as a good thing. Next month, when we move to Sheridan for a couple of weeks, I'll be moving forward. When we find an apartment in Portland, I'll be moving forward. When I start med school in September, I'll be moving forward.
I may be afraid, but at least I'm not standing still
I hope my friends here keep in contact, if only because eventually I feel strange about one sided text messages, emails, and voice mails (Where do you draw the line for stalking, anyways?) I hope that I like wherever we live next. I hope that moving twice isn't too terribly awful, and that none of our stuff gets lost. I hope I can find a church that I like as much as I like St. Martin's. I'm very full of hopes.
It was all so surreal before I walked up for my hood.
Tomorrow is the end.
I'm going to miss the random noises of my friends as they make tea. Debates on the implications of mortal sin and choices. I'm going to miss my professors and my friends and my routine. I'm very comfortable here.
But comfortable is rarely synonymous with moving forward, and so I look at my unease about the future as a good thing. Next month, when we move to Sheridan for a couple of weeks, I'll be moving forward. When we find an apartment in Portland, I'll be moving forward. When I start med school in September, I'll be moving forward.
I may be afraid, but at least I'm not standing still
I hope my friends here keep in contact, if only because eventually I feel strange about one sided text messages, emails, and voice mails (Where do you draw the line for stalking, anyways?) I hope that I like wherever we live next. I hope that moving twice isn't too terribly awful, and that none of our stuff gets lost. I hope I can find a church that I like as much as I like St. Martin's. I'm very full of hopes.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
where the wind blows...
"No man, proclaimed Donne, is an Island, and he was wrong. If we were not islands, we would be lost , drowned in each other's tragedies. We are insulated ( a word that means, literally, remember, made into an island) from the tragedy of others, by our island nature, and by the repetitive shape and form of the stories..."
-Neil Gaiman, American Gods
We are insulated and isolated from the lives of our friends and lovers. Able to ignore a shut door, we stride past the tears of our comrades because we must be stronger. Emotion is a sign of weakness, and to share tragedy is the worst communism of all- a direct assault on the values of our homeland, as defined by the capitalist hog.
Our schedules don't match up, and so we kiss goodbye in the morning while we think about where our next cup of coffee will come from and how the paperwork was filed and whether or not we'll be late to work and if we'll have sex tonight and how will we be honored for our efficient use of time...
It is the western ideal, a paragon of strength and virtue, to ignore the plight of your fellow man.
Let those who are insulated continue to be islands of western strength.
I want to be a sailboat.
We are insulated and isolated from the lives of our friends and lovers. Able to ignore a shut door, we stride past the tears of our comrades because we must be stronger. Emotion is a sign of weakness, and to share tragedy is the worst communism of all- a direct assault on the values of our homeland, as defined by the capitalist hog.
Our schedules don't match up, and so we kiss goodbye in the morning while we think about where our next cup of coffee will come from and how the paperwork was filed and whether or not we'll be late to work and if we'll have sex tonight and how will we be honored for our efficient use of time...
It is the western ideal, a paragon of strength and virtue, to ignore the plight of your fellow man.
Let those who are insulated continue to be islands of western strength.
I want to be a sailboat.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
musical pretention.
So today I was talking, and I forget precisely how the subject came up- but I made my feelings about guitarists known.
Just for preface, I'll start with how I feel about them in general, realizing that there are probably exceptions to every single generalization that I'm going to make, and that I hold some serious mojo over from being physically and emotionally abused by a couple of them. Nothing sets a stereotype better than several broken bones and years of working in the music industry.
I think guitarists are self centered. I feel like they're so focused on the chord progression that they forget about the soul of music. I feel like they're desensitized to emotional response, tearing everything into the components that I'm so very opposed to. They tend to be focused on the monetary aspects of the music, are generally more likely to defend themselves as a "higher musical caste", and are generally hard to work with as part of a collaborative. They're flakey and expect attention.
I'd like to mention at this point that I do play some guitar. and I've played bass. I'm better at piano and violin, and I prefer to sing.
Moving on.
So, basically everyone in the room was a guitarist. For whatever reason, this appeared to upset them. (Everyone, including drummers, can laugh at drummer jokes- but good lord forbid that a guitarist would laugh at guitarist jokes.)
You know what? If it bothers you so much, prove me wrong.
Look out for someone else, even if it doesn't work with your schedule. Tell us about a piece of music without talking endlessly about chord structure. Share your heart. Empathize with anyone for more than two seconds. Stop being pretentious and admit that you don't know, instead of holding your combative stance which asserts that you're right all the time. Keep in contact, instead of pushing away when things look like they'll get hard. Be on time, for once. Work with someone to create a joint piece of music instead of thrusting your ideas onto everyone else in the band. Get over yourself, in general.
Not being a guitarist, I'll freely admit that I'm wrong. If I am. So, prove it.
Just for preface, I'll start with how I feel about them in general, realizing that there are probably exceptions to every single generalization that I'm going to make, and that I hold some serious mojo over from being physically and emotionally abused by a couple of them. Nothing sets a stereotype better than several broken bones and years of working in the music industry.
I think guitarists are self centered. I feel like they're so focused on the chord progression that they forget about the soul of music. I feel like they're desensitized to emotional response, tearing everything into the components that I'm so very opposed to. They tend to be focused on the monetary aspects of the music, are generally more likely to defend themselves as a "higher musical caste", and are generally hard to work with as part of a collaborative. They're flakey and expect attention.
I'd like to mention at this point that I do play some guitar. and I've played bass. I'm better at piano and violin, and I prefer to sing.
Moving on.
So, basically everyone in the room was a guitarist. For whatever reason, this appeared to upset them. (Everyone, including drummers, can laugh at drummer jokes- but good lord forbid that a guitarist would laugh at guitarist jokes.)
You know what? If it bothers you so much, prove me wrong.
Look out for someone else, even if it doesn't work with your schedule. Tell us about a piece of music without talking endlessly about chord structure. Share your heart. Empathize with anyone for more than two seconds. Stop being pretentious and admit that you don't know, instead of holding your combative stance which asserts that you're right all the time. Keep in contact, instead of pushing away when things look like they'll get hard. Be on time, for once. Work with someone to create a joint piece of music instead of thrusting your ideas onto everyone else in the band. Get over yourself, in general.
Not being a guitarist, I'll freely admit that I'm wrong. If I am. So, prove it.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Snapshots of a metamorphoses
I remember the sunshine on the back of my head, warming each strand of hair to a warm gold and crisping my forearms. The morning was filled with cold, clean air- hardly any cars around to tinge the air with exhaust typically found at sidewalk cafes.
I don't speak Italian, but that didn't stop me from trying.
As I finished my cigarette (well, not mine, not really) the proprietor came out to talk to me, and took my order. Mostly we smiled and spoke with our faces, supplemented with broken exchanges of words. I handed over the requisite blue euro note and slung the ribbed coin into my pocket. I thought about buying a chocolate bar.
Others from our group drifted through the square in search of castles, clothes, and compliments. Other groups drifted through the square speaking English and thinking that we couldn't understand them. We smiled.
The shop keeper brought me a cappuccino in a white coffee mug with a slender saucer and a small silver spoon. I smiled at her again and she smiled at me, and I took a sip of unsweetened cappuccino like it was made out of the last joy and hope in the world. Her smile broadened at the sight of untouched sugar packets, and then she ducked back into the blue door of the tiny cafe, leaving us to sit in amicable silence at the green, outdoor table.
Occasionally one of us would speak, softly, to point out what the other may have missed. Mostly we just enjoyed being alive, being young, being in a foreign country, being alone. Gradually, we woke up.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
The streets of Firenze were nearly empty as we tried to find our way back to the hotel, a chain of people tied with the responsibility to protect and to love one another. It was so dark, so clear outside, and the bricks of the neighboring walls had felt the caresses of so many previous generations. I ran my fingertips over their edges, wondering at the atoms that I was dislodging and carrying with me, amazed that my cells were remaining on a wall, tracing my path through the city.
I slipped my small hand into your large one, and I felt safe. Your stride was too long, and I had to take a step and a skip for each pace, but I didn't mind.
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
The font at St. Paul's basilica crushes the most beautiful marble devil I've ever seen. Fascinated, I caressed the fallen angel's curls. My fingers caught and twisted along the marble strands. He's usually not so beautiful. His face, twisted in the disbelief of betrayal and pain, seemed so incongruent with our traditional view. The monks of the basilica raised their voices in harmony from the room just down the hall, their song slipping the edges and tweaking the soul as I sat and let this statue talk to me. It made me want to cry.
Across the room, the group went down by twos and threes to pray at St. Paul's tomb. The stairway was covered in hush, the bench itself full of a sacred energy that I hadn't realized existed before contact. I asked to know how to pray. I prayed to believe. I hoped that I would find a change in myself. I found my demons. I looked them in the eye.
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
At two o'clock in the morning, I reached out for comfort on a secret balcony in Roma. My face was streaked with tears as I struggled to justify a belief in this God that I wasn't even sure existed. Prior to that moment, I wasn't sure there was a point. Even if there was something out there, it certainly didn't care about me.
I was more than half a bottle of wine down, dejected from the closed door downstairs and trying to justify the lack of emotion as a solution to interpersonal exchange-- but:
I heard you say that I mattered. I heard you say that I could change the world.
and
I believed you.
I don't speak Italian, but that didn't stop me from trying.
As I finished my cigarette (well, not mine, not really) the proprietor came out to talk to me, and took my order. Mostly we smiled and spoke with our faces, supplemented with broken exchanges of words. I handed over the requisite blue euro note and slung the ribbed coin into my pocket. I thought about buying a chocolate bar.
Others from our group drifted through the square in search of castles, clothes, and compliments. Other groups drifted through the square speaking English and thinking that we couldn't understand them. We smiled.
The shop keeper brought me a cappuccino in a white coffee mug with a slender saucer and a small silver spoon. I smiled at her again and she smiled at me, and I took a sip of unsweetened cappuccino like it was made out of the last joy and hope in the world. Her smile broadened at the sight of untouched sugar packets, and then she ducked back into the blue door of the tiny cafe, leaving us to sit in amicable silence at the green, outdoor table.
Occasionally one of us would speak, softly, to point out what the other may have missed. Mostly we just enjoyed being alive, being young, being in a foreign country, being alone. Gradually, we woke up.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
The streets of Firenze were nearly empty as we tried to find our way back to the hotel, a chain of people tied with the responsibility to protect and to love one another. It was so dark, so clear outside, and the bricks of the neighboring walls had felt the caresses of so many previous generations. I ran my fingertips over their edges, wondering at the atoms that I was dislodging and carrying with me, amazed that my cells were remaining on a wall, tracing my path through the city.
I slipped my small hand into your large one, and I felt safe. Your stride was too long, and I had to take a step and a skip for each pace, but I didn't mind.
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
The font at St. Paul's basilica crushes the most beautiful marble devil I've ever seen. Fascinated, I caressed the fallen angel's curls. My fingers caught and twisted along the marble strands. He's usually not so beautiful. His face, twisted in the disbelief of betrayal and pain, seemed so incongruent with our traditional view. The monks of the basilica raised their voices in harmony from the room just down the hall, their song slipping the edges and tweaking the soul as I sat and let this statue talk to me. It made me want to cry.
Across the room, the group went down by twos and threes to pray at St. Paul's tomb. The stairway was covered in hush, the bench itself full of a sacred energy that I hadn't realized existed before contact. I asked to know how to pray. I prayed to believe. I hoped that I would find a change in myself. I found my demons. I looked them in the eye.
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
At two o'clock in the morning, I reached out for comfort on a secret balcony in Roma. My face was streaked with tears as I struggled to justify a belief in this God that I wasn't even sure existed. Prior to that moment, I wasn't sure there was a point. Even if there was something out there, it certainly didn't care about me.
I was more than half a bottle of wine down, dejected from the closed door downstairs and trying to justify the lack of emotion as a solution to interpersonal exchange-- but:
I heard you say that I mattered. I heard you say that I could change the world.
and
I believed you.
Do it right, the first time.
"You're a hard worker. If you worked for me, I'd give you a bonus."
Well, that's fine and dandy. If I wanted to be your servant.
The campus clean up was both rewarding and irritating for me. My family is all military vets who were also farmers, and I think that contributes to a work ethic that you don't really see outside of that background. It's a very simple principle- do what needs to get done as quickly and efficiently as is possible. Don't half-ass a job. Take responsibility and credit for your work.
Yet people seem to have a problem with comprehension.
I'm not saying my approach is the best one. Often, I get so blocked in to the way that I've laid out of how something should happen that I lose track of easier ways to do the job.
But most of the time, if people would just listen to me, we'd get done a helluva lot quicker.
This is also the reason that I'm a bad manager. I see the plan, I can orchestrate it- but no one will listen to me, or if they do, I've already gotten to the point where I'm so frustrated that the only response I give is "get out of the way and let me do it." Ugh, group work. You'll only flub up my vision. It's a very narrow minded and disdainful system. I don't like it. I try to work on encouraging people, and inspiring them to see the problem like I do.
They still have to hear me for that though.
Perhaps I'll work on a command voice.
But I'll always be better at leading by example.
Well, that's fine and dandy. If I wanted to be your servant.
The campus clean up was both rewarding and irritating for me. My family is all military vets who were also farmers, and I think that contributes to a work ethic that you don't really see outside of that background. It's a very simple principle- do what needs to get done as quickly and efficiently as is possible. Don't half-ass a job. Take responsibility and credit for your work.
Yet people seem to have a problem with comprehension.
I'm not saying my approach is the best one. Often, I get so blocked in to the way that I've laid out of how something should happen that I lose track of easier ways to do the job.
But most of the time, if people would just listen to me, we'd get done a helluva lot quicker.
This is also the reason that I'm a bad manager. I see the plan, I can orchestrate it- but no one will listen to me, or if they do, I've already gotten to the point where I'm so frustrated that the only response I give is "get out of the way and let me do it." Ugh, group work. You'll only flub up my vision. It's a very narrow minded and disdainful system. I don't like it. I try to work on encouraging people, and inspiring them to see the problem like I do.
They still have to hear me for that though.
Perhaps I'll work on a command voice.
But I'll always be better at leading by example.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
I hate going to bed alone...
isn't it strange, how we sort out who we can touch and who we can't?
I like the grace of contact, not only because I remember it better, but because it is a stabilizer for my system. I have endolymphatic hydropsy, which are two very long words standing in for "the lack of a natural center of balance". I used to fall down a lot. Still do, if I'm tired or not paying attention.
Before the therapy that helped me stand, I mostly held on to things. People, walls- anything that was likely to remain in a vertical orientation. I was the girl walking with a stick through the chain link fence, clinging to someone's elbow.
I don't really have personal space issues, either. I love everyone, more or less, and my love is always physical. I'm glad my husband isn't a jealous man, because my every day is spent holding someone's hand, sitting on someone's lap, playing with someone's hair. My best friends in high school didn't have space issues either. One of my favorite memories is the feeling of the seven of us, falling asleep in a tangled pile in the basement. I thrive on contact.
One of the things I hated most about St. Martin's was how strange hugs became. These washingtonians are a strange and mostly cold lot. I adapted here, offering the handshake instead of the hug, a compliment instead of a kiss. And now, my final year, it seems to have started again. Or maybe I just started hanging out with the right people. Or maybe they don't have the heart to tell me to go away. Whatever it is, I'm glad of it.
But still, there are people I can't touch. Or people I can touch, but only when no one else can see. Or people I'd love to touch, but know would get the wrong impression of the touch and become creepers. People that I touch despite their suddenly tense muscles and indirect eyes.
Why the distinctions?
Our society has destroyed interpersonal contact for the sake of economy and individualism. We've demonized sharing, and the church has placed so many taboos on pleasure that we all live terrified little lives, unable to reach out to one another because of the weight of social concepts.
Maybe we should all just lighten up.
I like the grace of contact, not only because I remember it better, but because it is a stabilizer for my system. I have endolymphatic hydropsy, which are two very long words standing in for "the lack of a natural center of balance". I used to fall down a lot. Still do, if I'm tired or not paying attention.
Before the therapy that helped me stand, I mostly held on to things. People, walls- anything that was likely to remain in a vertical orientation. I was the girl walking with a stick through the chain link fence, clinging to someone's elbow.
I don't really have personal space issues, either. I love everyone, more or less, and my love is always physical. I'm glad my husband isn't a jealous man, because my every day is spent holding someone's hand, sitting on someone's lap, playing with someone's hair. My best friends in high school didn't have space issues either. One of my favorite memories is the feeling of the seven of us, falling asleep in a tangled pile in the basement. I thrive on contact.
One of the things I hated most about St. Martin's was how strange hugs became. These washingtonians are a strange and mostly cold lot. I adapted here, offering the handshake instead of the hug, a compliment instead of a kiss. And now, my final year, it seems to have started again. Or maybe I just started hanging out with the right people. Or maybe they don't have the heart to tell me to go away. Whatever it is, I'm glad of it.
But still, there are people I can't touch. Or people I can touch, but only when no one else can see. Or people I'd love to touch, but know would get the wrong impression of the touch and become creepers. People that I touch despite their suddenly tense muscles and indirect eyes.
Why the distinctions?
Our society has destroyed interpersonal contact for the sake of economy and individualism. We've demonized sharing, and the church has placed so many taboos on pleasure that we all live terrified little lives, unable to reach out to one another because of the weight of social concepts.
Maybe we should all just lighten up.
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