That's short for National Novel Writing Month, a yearly event in which people sign up and strive to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. I've registered. Writing starts at 12 PM on November 1st. Yes, that's tomorrow.
Does that strike you as ironic? Perhaps it should. I've only managed 10 posts in the whole of 2008. I'm gonna do it anyway.
It's an exercise in quantity, not quality, according to the NaNoWriMo website. "Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that's a good thing. By forcing yourself to write so intensely, you are giving yourself permission to make mistakes. To forgo the endless tweaking and editing and just create. To build without tearing down."
Hey, that's kind of Julia Cameron-esque. Akin to Morning Pages. Just write. Don't edit. Just keep your pen moving. OK, I can do that. At least I think I can do that.
Am I allowed to put in a disclaimer so that when I'm tearing my hair out in two weeks--or two days--these words won't be coming back to haunt me?
Friday, October 31, 2008
"You're the Anti-Christ!" "No, YOU'RE the Anti-Christ!"
I have had it with politicians—all of them—who demonize their opponents to gain supporters. And the political ads, in print and on TV? Gaaaaah! Utterly unhelpful, woefully short on useful information, with more spin than a bottle in a basement full of horny teens.
Is this necessary? I may be an Obama supporter, but that doesn’t mean I think John McCain is the devil’s spawn and needs to be stopped before he threatens to wreak havoc on the free world—nay, our very mortal souls.
Here are two items I’d like to share with you, food for thought:
1. A comment made by my friend Stacy (an excellent critical thinker) on another topic but which applies here: “Wouldn’t it be refreshingly honest for someone to say, ‘I want you to do the same thing I do, believe the same thing I believe, because then I will get my way?’ ”
Indeed, it feels so much cozier to be surrounded by like-minded people, and to see our beliefs reflected in our little universe. As much as I try to live up to my credo, “Let’s all try to get along, or at least agree to disagree”, the latter part is a challenge. When I’m talking to a person with a different opinion, am I really allowing them their own view, or am I subconsciously plotting ways in which I may change the person’s mind? And changing one’s political beliefs is near impossible, which brings me to…
2. An article I posted yesterday called “Political views ‘all in the mind’ ”; here are some tidbits:
“Their research, published in the journal Science, indicates that people who are sensitive to fear or threat are likely to support a right wing agenda.
Those who perceived less danger in a series of images and sounds were more inclined to support liberal policies.
The authors believe their findings may help to explain why voters' minds are so hard to change.”
Does this not make sense, that our world view dictates our political leanings? I don’t agree with pro-lifers and those against gay marriage, but I can understand how their beliefs are formed.
These random thoughts all point to something worth practicing: seeing people as people, and not running headlong into black-and-white thinking.
Try this: As you’re walking down the street, or standing in line at the grocery store, when you set eyes on someone, think…
“…that’s someone’s son/daughter…”
“…that’s someone’s father/mother…”
“…that’s someone’s brother/sister…”
“…that’s someone’s aunt/uncle…”
“…that’s someone’s cousin/best friend…”
I used this little experiment as I was walking out of the Boulder Public Library. The results were interesting. When I saw a teenage boy pass by, smoking a cigarette, I felt love and concern, thinking, “Don’t do that to yourself!” I felt compassion for the homeless guy with none of the flight response I normally experience. I began to feel connected to everyone.
It was amazing. And short-lived. Going about the world with that kind of openness is difficult and tiring. It requires practice, this loving kindness. But isn’t it worth the struggle?
Is this necessary? I may be an Obama supporter, but that doesn’t mean I think John McCain is the devil’s spawn and needs to be stopped before he threatens to wreak havoc on the free world—nay, our very mortal souls.
Here are two items I’d like to share with you, food for thought:
1. A comment made by my friend Stacy (an excellent critical thinker) on another topic but which applies here: “Wouldn’t it be refreshingly honest for someone to say, ‘I want you to do the same thing I do, believe the same thing I believe, because then I will get my way?’ ”
Indeed, it feels so much cozier to be surrounded by like-minded people, and to see our beliefs reflected in our little universe. As much as I try to live up to my credo, “Let’s all try to get along, or at least agree to disagree”, the latter part is a challenge. When I’m talking to a person with a different opinion, am I really allowing them their own view, or am I subconsciously plotting ways in which I may change the person’s mind? And changing one’s political beliefs is near impossible, which brings me to…
2. An article I posted yesterday called “Political views ‘all in the mind’ ”; here are some tidbits:
“Their research, published in the journal Science, indicates that people who are sensitive to fear or threat are likely to support a right wing agenda.
Those who perceived less danger in a series of images and sounds were more inclined to support liberal policies.
The authors believe their findings may help to explain why voters' minds are so hard to change.”
Does this not make sense, that our world view dictates our political leanings? I don’t agree with pro-lifers and those against gay marriage, but I can understand how their beliefs are formed.
These random thoughts all point to something worth practicing: seeing people as people, and not running headlong into black-and-white thinking.
Try this: As you’re walking down the street, or standing in line at the grocery store, when you set eyes on someone, think…
“…that’s someone’s son/daughter…”
“…that’s someone’s father/mother…”
“…that’s someone’s brother/sister…”
“…that’s someone’s aunt/uncle…”
“…that’s someone’s cousin/best friend…”
I used this little experiment as I was walking out of the Boulder Public Library. The results were interesting. When I saw a teenage boy pass by, smoking a cigarette, I felt love and concern, thinking, “Don’t do that to yourself!” I felt compassion for the homeless guy with none of the flight response I normally experience. I began to feel connected to everyone.
It was amazing. And short-lived. Going about the world with that kind of openness is difficult and tiring. It requires practice, this loving kindness. But isn’t it worth the struggle?
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Something, Anything: A Place for Everything
Yes, yes, yes, it has been a long time. Figured I ought to just post something to keep the wheels turning. And this is going to be a quick one because I’ve got to go to work and eat breakfast. Not in that order; I’m ready to fall down because of low blood sugar.
Why the long wait? There was a few weeks in which Charlie and I were traveling—Boston for Walter’s wedding, and Austin for the Kofax Transform ’08 Conference—and since then it has been all about catch-up. Getting the books in order again. Getting my home in order again.
Do I hear a snigger? All right. The truth is I’ve been saying that I need to organize the place ever since I bought it in March of 2006. This time it’s different. Perhaps the more accurate description would be that I need to put the house back together after (a) the HOA’s plumber’s work on the building required that I move everything out of the laundry room and out from under the kitchen and bathroom cabinets, and (b) the travel, where the only time I was here was to unpack and repack. The good news is that I put all the displaced stuff on those industrial strength rolling wire racks, so moving it around was easy. The bad news is that the only place to put the racks were in the living/dining area.
So. The last week has been processing stuff. Finding homes for things that didn’t have homes even before the plumbing work started. Sorting through a mound of mail. Deciding what goes and what stays and where the hell do I put the stuff I need to hang on to but I’m not ready to act on yet? Like the care package of CDs for Piper and Laurel. There’s room in the box, but I haven’t had time to assemble the rest of the items to go in the box and bring the box to the post office. If it goes in the garage, I may never remember it again. If it stays in the living room, it just clutters the place.
All that being said, I’m finally down to the home stretch of phase one: almost everything is generally where it’s going to stay. Then the wire racks can go into the garage and I’ll have my home back. Woo-hoo!
Why the long wait? There was a few weeks in which Charlie and I were traveling—Boston for Walter’s wedding, and Austin for the Kofax Transform ’08 Conference—and since then it has been all about catch-up. Getting the books in order again. Getting my home in order again.
Do I hear a snigger? All right. The truth is I’ve been saying that I need to organize the place ever since I bought it in March of 2006. This time it’s different. Perhaps the more accurate description would be that I need to put the house back together after (a) the HOA’s plumber’s work on the building required that I move everything out of the laundry room and out from under the kitchen and bathroom cabinets, and (b) the travel, where the only time I was here was to unpack and repack. The good news is that I put all the displaced stuff on those industrial strength rolling wire racks, so moving it around was easy. The bad news is that the only place to put the racks were in the living/dining area.
So. The last week has been processing stuff. Finding homes for things that didn’t have homes even before the plumbing work started. Sorting through a mound of mail. Deciding what goes and what stays and where the hell do I put the stuff I need to hang on to but I’m not ready to act on yet? Like the care package of CDs for Piper and Laurel. There’s room in the box, but I haven’t had time to assemble the rest of the items to go in the box and bring the box to the post office. If it goes in the garage, I may never remember it again. If it stays in the living room, it just clutters the place.
All that being said, I’m finally down to the home stretch of phase one: almost everything is generally where it’s going to stay. Then the wire racks can go into the garage and I’ll have my home back. Woo-hoo!
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Little Voice
Never ceases to amaze me, the way someone can take an already outstanding song--like Stevie Wonder's "Golden Lady"--and perform it in a totally different way that's just as enjoyable as the original. Jose Feliciano's version sounds effortless, organic, and fresh. The only thing I'd have done differently is remove the strings; less would've been more.
I unconsciously mimic the vocalist of whatever song I'm singing. "Summer Highland Falls": Billy Joel's flattened vowels. "Don't Fence Me In": Ella's bright, forward tone. "Superstar": Karen Carpenter's warmth and depth. The inflections, the pronunciations--those qualities feel like part of the song. Changing them is like changing the words, to my ears. How can you sing Ethel Merman and not imitate her brassy, trumpeting sound? But people do it, all the time. Listen to Jose. Listen to Angelique Kidjo's take on "Voodoo Child". Jimi Hendrix is not rolling over in his grave; the cover is vastly different. And great.
Question: Why am I so attached to singing like other people?
Theory: I'm recreating the joy I have felt as a listener. And that has nothing to do with a desire to put my own spin on anything.
Nonetheless, Liz, my singing teacher, is nudging me to find my own voice. Whatever the heck that is. She made a suggestion to that end: learn something entirely new. Then there's nobody to copy. Do you know Some Enchanted Evening? she asked. Only from the few bars that Don Ameche sang on bended knee to Gwen Verdon in "Cocoon". Not enough for it to be imprinted on the inside of my skull. She gave me the sheet music with a request that I please-please-please refrain from looking it up on YouTube. The translation part was kind of fun. I've never done any sight-reading. Matching the dots and squiggles on paper to actual sound was like solving a puzzle. I color-coded the notes to get a better visual grasp of the melody. Then I sang it at our next lesson.
Same Question: Why am I so attached to singing like other people?
Another theory: I'm afraid that my real voice sounds like crap. Or mediocre at best.
And that's kind of how I felt. It was OK. Not great. I tried to console myself by thinking of other singers who are not stellar in the traditional sense.
Bob Dylan! He's not exactly a crooner. But he is a songwriting pioneer. Jimi Hendrix! Guitar innovator. Donald Fagan! Engineering genius. And that concludes our little foray into existential agony.
What then? I love singing with other people. I don't want to be the weak link. That would be so...
Embarrassing? Oh. Yes.
The memories start flashing past. Suggesting to a vocalist friend of mine that we put something together to sing at an open-mic, and her refusing. Singing backup during a laid-back jam session with my boyfriend's band, and the boyfriend's bandmate scowling at me. Singing a harmony (under my breath, or so I thought) to the song a classmate was singing as part of an oral report, and the teacher saying, "I guess someone else knows that song."
A core truth has come out of this searching. Singing has been the deepest desire of my heart for decades. It's also the thing I've most consistently put on the back burner. I see the pattern now. (1) Dream of singing. (2) Afraid of sucking. (3) Keep dream bottled up. (4) Pressure builds. (5) Act on dream at inappropriate time. (6) Use shame to bottle up dream. (7) Repeat. Now I'm letting the genie out of the bottle. Maybe it will help me move forward.
On a different yet related subject, Liz loaned me a great movie called "Little Voice", which features Jane Horrocks. You may recognize her as the voice of Babs, the slightly obtuse character from "Chicken Run", the movie: "I don't want to be a pie! I don't like gravy..." Horrocks--who does her own singing, by the way--plays a pathologically shy young woman who can imitate Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland, Shirley Bassey and others perfectly. I think Liz was trying to tell me that, in it's own way, what I do isn't wrong. It's a gift.
P.S.~ I'm toying with the idea of tracking down my ex-husband and leaving him this brief message:
Contrary to what you told me in 1993, Liz thinks I might have perfect pitch. HA!
"That wouldn't make me a...shallow person...would it?"
Sunday, August 17, 2008
More than a thousand words, perhaps
I do love me some religious statues.
Here I am hanging out with Madonna, circa late 90's.
I asked one of my best friends who's also a photographer to take some pictures of me as a present to my then-boyfriend. The Blessed Mother was living in her backyard--not on the half-shell like so many in that neighborhood, but under her own trellis--and we just hit it off.
Here I am hanging out with Madonna, circa late 90's.
I asked one of my best friends who's also a photographer to take some pictures of me as a present to my then-boyfriend. The Blessed Mother was living in her backyard--not on the half-shell like so many in that neighborhood, but under her own trellis--and we just hit it off.
This me today, spending quality time with the Buddha, who lives in Charlie's backyard.
I've been immersed in the world of pictures over the last three days, inspired by a high school friend who posted a photo of a group of us on our way to a punk-themed party.
That snapshot was a delight on all sorts of levels. The clothes. The poses. The memories, especially. I remember laboring over the jeans I was wearing: bleaching them to remove some black, dyeing them to add some red, cutting them off below the knees. (Why did I think that was particularly punk? Not sure.) I remember dancing around and singing while we walked down the street, loving that it was night and it was fall and I was in the company of my tribe. And, coming back to the here-and-now, it was nice to know that someone I hadn't seen in 19 years remembered my name.
It was such a great trip that I wanted to share some of my old print photos. Give someone else the chance to go back in time. I scanned a staggering number of pics, and created my first two albums on Facebook: one for high school, one for college.
Problem #1: I've become an amnesiac. There are so many people whose names I can't recall, particularly in the college photos. All that remains are general details. This girl was the roommate of a girl who lived in my boyfriend's dorm. This guy was in my Greek civ class. They were people I saw nearly every day. It never occurred to me that in the not-so-distant future I'd be puzzling over images saying, "Now, didn't she date the guy with the mullet? Was his name Mike?" Note to self: from now on, label every picture.
Problem #2: One of the subjects requested that I remove his pictures. He was concerned that his image would be tarnished in the eyes of his clients, should they happen to see the photos. I immediately did as he asked. I said that I just didn't think.
Not entirely true. I had actually considered leaving out his pictures. He has lost quite a bit of weight since college and he has maintained a healthy weight for several years now, but it was hard-won and I think he's understandibly sensitive. Perhaps, I thought, he wouldn't want to be reminded of a time when he didn't feel very good about himself.
On the other hand, what message would I be sending if I omitted those pictures? "You don't belong in my memories because you weren't perfectly svelte"? I didn't give a good goddamn what he looked like. I loved him then, and I love him now. That's why I landed on the side of posting the pictures.
Now the can of worms is open.
Should I try to contact all the subjects and ask how they'd feel about having their pictures included in my album? If I ask, does it imply that I think there's something wrong with their appearance?
God only knows that I struggle with my body image. Trying to take a decent self-portrait was a formidable exercise in patience. Fifty duds before getting two that were...acceptable. And one of them is just plain funny. In an effort to disguise what I perceive as the early onset of a wattle, I leaned forward, elbows on knees, and glanced up at the camera under my brows. Great! Now I need to print a disclaimer explaining that the look I was trying for was not "uber-vamp" but "less chin."
In the spirit of acceptance, I've decided to post two pictures taken today. No special camera angles. No sucking in of the gut. Just 100% me. Here's to learning to love the skin you're in, allowing the image to exist as long as the internet lasts.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
First Post Amendment
A wonderful friend of mine read my first post and wanted to know if I really, truly thought my life is a mess. Then she suggested that I do "The Work" (byron katie) around the statement, "My life is a mess."
Good catch, S.A.C. I myself asked the same question shortly after publishing and rereading those words. A condensed version of my check-in:
Some ideas:
*guitar/piano lessons
*solo road trip
*collage night
*dancing
*hiking
Thank you, my friend, for reading my blog in the first place. Thank you for indirectly encouraging me to amend the original post. And thank you for your comments. They mean a lot.
Good catch, S.A.C. I myself asked the same question shortly after publishing and rereading those words. A condensed version of my check-in:
- Husband and 2.5 kids? No, but I have Charlie, the love of my life and husband-to-be. I have Hannah and Shae, Charlie's kids, who surprise, amaze and challenge me all the time.
- House? No, but I own my own condo, which is more than I ever thought I'd have.
- Fabulous career? Well, I work with Charlie, keeping the financial wheels turning. Now I believe that I can be both artistic/creative and detailed/analytical. That's worth a lot, challenging those self-perceptions. (Although I spoke with someone a few days ago who, when I told her what I do for a living, exclaimed, "Oh, you're one of those people." But the rest of our conversation will have to wait for another post.)
- Multiple acronyms? OK, I still feel a little insecure about not having a degree; it's a work in progress.
Some ideas:
*guitar/piano lessons
*solo road trip
*collage night
*dancing
*hiking
Thank you, my friend, for reading my blog in the first place. Thank you for indirectly encouraging me to amend the original post. And thank you for your comments. They mean a lot.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
What A Long, Strange Trip It's Been
That's how I described high school, upon graduation. (I rather wish I had chosen it as a yearbook quote, but I wrote something instead which is too embarrassing to repeat here.) And so it is when one makes the return trip as well.
My Old School
I joined Classmates.com out of sheer curiosity...and a bit of frustration, as they kept pestering me via e-mail. You're able to view names from your high school, and even narrow it down to your graduating class. The experience was surreal for me. Scrolling through a list of names I hadn't even thought of in at least 20 years, it was like reading a foreign language I had forgot I had ever known.
Before you can see anything, the site requires that you create a profile, which I did. After looking at other profiles, I started to worry: did I say too much? Should I not have included pictures? Does it seem too eager? How quickly the old insecurities surfaced to mingle with the delight of seeing familiar faces that have grown and changed.
Then there are the friend requests, in which you can invite connections. I had to laugh; we've reverted to grammar school tactics, via e-notes instead of folded pieces of paper passed from desk to desk. "Do you like me? Check yes or no."
What really hit me is this: I can only now look back and realize how much time and energy I spent constructing various personae, especially in high school. Having been largely known as the tall, dark-haired quiet girl at Gates Lane (small K-8 school), I was ready for a major change when I went to South High. How exciting! A bigger pond!
My Name's Gypsy...what's YOURS?
I was determined to be the friendliest, bubbliest person ever. Sitting next to M.L. in 9th grade biology, I went around the room, taking down everyone's name and birthday. Seemed like a good idea at the time; doesn't everybody like to be remembered on their birthday? Alas, this attempt at reinventing myself didn't work out as planned.
(a few months later)
M.L.: You know, everyone thought you were on drugs when they first met you.
M.W.: But I don't drink or smoke or do drugs or anything. I'm as clean as they get!
M.L.: Yeah, but you were so...friendly. Nobody knew what to think.
Square Pegs
I knew from prior experience that popularity was not an attainable goal. No matter how hard I tried to observe the cool kids and develop the formula that would transform me into the darling of junior high, I got nowhere. Whatever gene you needed to run with the elite clique, I had the opposite. Case in point:
Having become totally enthralled with mythology in the 5th-6th grade, during a schoolyard discussion of "wouldn't-it-be-great-if" scenarios, the following words gushed out of me in an unguarded moment: "Wouldn't it be great to be able to spend one day with the Greek gods?" (Oh, yes, the response is exactly as you'd imagine from a bunch of 11 year olds.)
I decided instead to be the quirky quasi-loner in a "she's so unusual" kind of way, minus the multi-colored hair. By then I had a group of friends but never felt like I was really important to them. A loner can get along by herself if necessary.
Now and Zen
Would it be overly-obvious and redundant to say that this particular adventure has stirred the waters for me? Probably. I think, though, there's a bless in the mess. I have a better sense of self. I've experienced the security of deep connections, wonderful friendships. What if I approached these long-lost friends as myself, not as this cardboard cutout pasted together to protect my fragile ego? Could be interesting. I'll let you know what happens.
My Old School
I joined Classmates.com out of sheer curiosity...and a bit of frustration, as they kept pestering me via e-mail. You're able to view names from your high school, and even narrow it down to your graduating class. The experience was surreal for me. Scrolling through a list of names I hadn't even thought of in at least 20 years, it was like reading a foreign language I had forgot I had ever known.
Before you can see anything, the site requires that you create a profile, which I did. After looking at other profiles, I started to worry: did I say too much? Should I not have included pictures? Does it seem too eager? How quickly the old insecurities surfaced to mingle with the delight of seeing familiar faces that have grown and changed.
Then there are the friend requests, in which you can invite connections. I had to laugh; we've reverted to grammar school tactics, via e-notes instead of folded pieces of paper passed from desk to desk. "Do you like me? Check yes or no."
What really hit me is this: I can only now look back and realize how much time and energy I spent constructing various personae, especially in high school. Having been largely known as the tall, dark-haired quiet girl at Gates Lane (small K-8 school), I was ready for a major change when I went to South High. How exciting! A bigger pond!
My Name's Gypsy...what's YOURS?
I was determined to be the friendliest, bubbliest person ever. Sitting next to M.L. in 9th grade biology, I went around the room, taking down everyone's name and birthday. Seemed like a good idea at the time; doesn't everybody like to be remembered on their birthday? Alas, this attempt at reinventing myself didn't work out as planned.
(a few months later)
M.L.: You know, everyone thought you were on drugs when they first met you.
M.W.: But I don't drink or smoke or do drugs or anything. I'm as clean as they get!
M.L.: Yeah, but you were so...friendly. Nobody knew what to think.
Square Pegs
I knew from prior experience that popularity was not an attainable goal. No matter how hard I tried to observe the cool kids and develop the formula that would transform me into the darling of junior high, I got nowhere. Whatever gene you needed to run with the elite clique, I had the opposite. Case in point:
Having become totally enthralled with mythology in the 5th-6th grade, during a schoolyard discussion of "wouldn't-it-be-great-if" scenarios, the following words gushed out of me in an unguarded moment: "Wouldn't it be great to be able to spend one day with the Greek gods?" (Oh, yes, the response is exactly as you'd imagine from a bunch of 11 year olds.)
I decided instead to be the quirky quasi-loner in a "she's so unusual" kind of way, minus the multi-colored hair. By then I had a group of friends but never felt like I was really important to them. A loner can get along by herself if necessary.
Now and Zen
Would it be overly-obvious and redundant to say that this particular adventure has stirred the waters for me? Probably. I think, though, there's a bless in the mess. I have a better sense of self. I've experienced the security of deep connections, wonderful friendships. What if I approached these long-lost friends as myself, not as this cardboard cutout pasted together to protect my fragile ego? Could be interesting. I'll let you know what happens.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Answer to the Question
Q: How do I create a life that best expresses who I am?
A: By bringing the things I love closer to the center of my life.
Glad to finally report that I've taken some action in this endeavor:
I'm taking singing lessons! WOO-HOO!
It's amazing. Fabulous. Best money I've ever spent. My teacher ROCKS. (www.elizabethrayvoice.com.) And she's right in Lafayette, which is highly convenient.
Had Lesson #3 today; worked on "Superstar" by The Carpenters.
"Don't you remember you told me you loved me baby?
You said you'd be coming back this way again, baby.
Baby, baby, baby, baby, oh, baby.
I love you, I really do."
I sang this song with my friend Kathy, so it holds a special place in my heart.
[Cue trip down Memory Lane]
The Artist's Way Creativity Camp in Taos, New Mexico, 2000: We're walking in the hills, practicing. Open Mic is a few hours away. Kathy points out that I'm repeating the melody from the first verse on the second verse, and sings the correct notes to jog my memory. That's when she finds out I haven't ever actually heard the whole song all the way through. I knew pieces of it from commercials for Carpenter records, K-Tel compilations, and the only funny scene in the movie "Tommy Boy" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MpJYDg9XThc). Caused her a few heart palpitations at the time, I think, but we did all right.
Bringing music into my life through singing--not dating musicians and living vicariously through them--it's a blessing. I feel whole.
What could be better than that?
I don't know. But I'm happy to find out.
A: By bringing the things I love closer to the center of my life.
Glad to finally report that I've taken some action in this endeavor:
I'm taking singing lessons! WOO-HOO!
It's amazing. Fabulous. Best money I've ever spent. My teacher ROCKS. (www.elizabethrayvoice.com.) And she's right in Lafayette, which is highly convenient.
Had Lesson #3 today; worked on "Superstar" by The Carpenters.
"Don't you remember you told me you loved me baby?
You said you'd be coming back this way again, baby.
Baby, baby, baby, baby, oh, baby.
I love you, I really do."
I sang this song with my friend Kathy, so it holds a special place in my heart.
[Cue trip down Memory Lane]
The Artist's Way Creativity Camp in Taos, New Mexico, 2000: We're walking in the hills, practicing. Open Mic is a few hours away. Kathy points out that I'm repeating the melody from the first verse on the second verse, and sings the correct notes to jog my memory. That's when she finds out I haven't ever actually heard the whole song all the way through. I knew pieces of it from commercials for Carpenter records, K-Tel compilations, and the only funny scene in the movie "Tommy Boy" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MpJYDg9XThc). Caused her a few heart palpitations at the time, I think, but we did all right.
Bringing music into my life through singing--not dating musicians and living vicariously through them--it's a blessing. I feel whole.
What could be better than that?
I don't know. But I'm happy to find out.
Friday, June 13, 2008
I've Got My Walker, I've Got My Orange Crush
Flipping channels a few minutes ago, I came across some live music on KBDI, one of the public TV stations in Denver. It's a bunch of old guys, so I figure it's one of those reunion shows--think "A Mighty Wind". I listen closer. Hey, those guys are rocking pretty hard--good on 'em. It always makes me happy to see musical elder statesmen playing with their chops intact. Then the camera pulls in for a tight shot of the lead singer's face. Holy crap. That's Michael Stipe.
And Peter Buck, and Bill Berry, and Mike Mills. Oh, yes, my sprightly little monkeys. The bunch of old guys were, in fact, R.E.M.
You could probably hear my hear my brain sizzle during the mini-meltdown that followed. I listened to them in high school. They can't be--because that would mean that I am--and that does not compute. Must...consult...Google. My search revealed that the band members range in age from 48 to 52. I actually found myself thinking with great relief, "That explains why they look so much older."
How interesting. I've never perceived myself as particularly ageist. Intellectually, 39 is young and 50 isn't even close to mid-life. But don't lump me in with those guys! I appreciate the club but I'm not ready to join.
I guess there's a part of me that still feels like I'm in my 20's, and there's a bit of a jolt when I bump up against reality. Not in a "those-were-the-best-years-of-my-life" way. I can lay claim to the experiences, but I seem to have amnesia in terms of the actual bead of years moving along the timeline. For instance, I forget my age and think of myself as being too young to have kids. Until I see some high school senior or Paolo Nutini and do the math. (Yeah, that's a kicker, when the young celeb held up to you as an object of desire could be your offspring.)
So. What of this age thing? It brings me back around to my original questions. What have I done with these 29--I mean, 39 years? What will I do next? How do I create a life that best expresses who I am?
Next post.
And Peter Buck, and Bill Berry, and Mike Mills. Oh, yes, my sprightly little monkeys. The bunch of old guys were, in fact, R.E.M.
You could probably hear my hear my brain sizzle during the mini-meltdown that followed. I listened to them in high school. They can't be--because that would mean that I am--and that does not compute. Must...consult...Google. My search revealed that the band members range in age from 48 to 52. I actually found myself thinking with great relief, "That explains why they look so much older."
How interesting. I've never perceived myself as particularly ageist. Intellectually, 39 is young and 50 isn't even close to mid-life. But don't lump me in with those guys! I appreciate the club but I'm not ready to join.
I guess there's a part of me that still feels like I'm in my 20's, and there's a bit of a jolt when I bump up against reality. Not in a "those-were-the-best-years-of-my-life" way. I can lay claim to the experiences, but I seem to have amnesia in terms of the actual bead of years moving along the timeline. For instance, I forget my age and think of myself as being too young to have kids. Until I see some high school senior or Paolo Nutini and do the math. (Yeah, that's a kicker, when the young celeb held up to you as an object of desire could be your offspring.)
So. What of this age thing? It brings me back around to my original questions. What have I done with these 29--I mean, 39 years? What will I do next? How do I create a life that best expresses who I am?
Next post.
Monday, May 26, 2008
How Time Does Fly
Incredible. My last post was May 3rd. It has been just over three weeks. One might ask, "What the hell have you been doing?" Indeed, what have I been doing?
(a) Recovering from a ghastly disease?
(b) Spreading good cheer throughout the world?
(c) Nothing whatsoever, as pertains to getting quiet enough to ponder the big questions?
(d) All of the above?
Ding, ding, ding! You are correct; the answer is (d), all of the above.
(a) Gastroenteritis-A-Go-Go: Came down with the incorrectly named "stomach flu" during a short trip to the cabin, Charlie's house in South Park. Out of commission for a week. (Aside: big thanks to G & E for helping Charlie pack and load stuff into the trailer while I prayed for a merciful death.)
(b) How to Succeed in Business through Others' Low Expectations: Took a temp assignment in Boulder, winning the hearts of employees and executives alike with my dazzling personality and vigorous work ethic. Several people told the bosses to keep me. I found myself thinking, "Why are you so thrilled? It's not rocket science. A monkey could do my job." (Lesson in humility: Filed a pile of forms in the wrong office. Spent a half-hour digging them up to re-file. Evidently, a monkey could do my job. Perhaps better than I.)
(c) What's a Five-Letter Word for "Procrastinate"?: Oh, you'd be surprised to find what you can do to fill your free hours. Crossword puzzles, for example. (New York Times, Boston Globe--those are my favorite, especially the Sunday collections in spiral-bound books. But sometimes you finish a book, and then what? You try to erase the answers from the first puzzle and re-do it but you can still kind of see the pencil imprints and you realize that you know the answer to one of the main clues is B-E-A-U-B-R-U-M-M-E-L-L and you think that you probably wouldn't have gotten that clue right away if you couldn't make out some of the letters from the first go-around and now the fun is gone because it was too easy...and then it's time for bed! Pesky deep thought problem solved.)
Better luck this week.
(a) Recovering from a ghastly disease?
(b) Spreading good cheer throughout the world?
(c) Nothing whatsoever, as pertains to getting quiet enough to ponder the big questions?
(d) All of the above?
Ding, ding, ding! You are correct; the answer is (d), all of the above.
(a) Gastroenteritis-A-Go-Go: Came down with the incorrectly named "stomach flu" during a short trip to the cabin, Charlie's house in South Park. Out of commission for a week. (Aside: big thanks to G & E for helping Charlie pack and load stuff into the trailer while I prayed for a merciful death.)
(b) How to Succeed in Business through Others' Low Expectations: Took a temp assignment in Boulder, winning the hearts of employees and executives alike with my dazzling personality and vigorous work ethic. Several people told the bosses to keep me. I found myself thinking, "Why are you so thrilled? It's not rocket science. A monkey could do my job." (Lesson in humility: Filed a pile of forms in the wrong office. Spent a half-hour digging them up to re-file. Evidently, a monkey could do my job. Perhaps better than I.)
(c) What's a Five-Letter Word for "Procrastinate"?: Oh, you'd be surprised to find what you can do to fill your free hours. Crossword puzzles, for example. (New York Times, Boston Globe--those are my favorite, especially the Sunday collections in spiral-bound books. But sometimes you finish a book, and then what? You try to erase the answers from the first puzzle and re-do it but you can still kind of see the pencil imprints and you realize that you know the answer to one of the main clues is B-E-A-U-B-R-U-M-M-E-L-L and you think that you probably wouldn't have gotten that clue right away if you couldn't make out some of the letters from the first go-around and now the fun is gone because it was too easy...and then it's time for bed! Pesky deep thought problem solved.)
Better luck this week.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
The Late Bloomer's Club: An Introduction
Do you feel like a chronic underachiever?
Does it seem as though you are woefully unsuccessful compared to your peers?
Do you feel like you haven't gotten around to really living?
Me, too.
I was sitting in my room at the window, thinking of how little I've accomplished in my life, as measured by 21st century American standards: fabulous career, long titles followed by several sets of professional acronyms, house/husband/2.5 kids, etc.
Then I thought, "Hey, do I really care about that stuff? What are my values? Who do I want to be? And is it too late?" My wise inner voice responded, "It's never too late. Unless you continue to watch 5 hours of TV per day and eat whole pints of Ben & Jerry's in one sitting. Then you'll never actually know because your brain will liquify then dribble out of your ears, and your feet will turn purple and fall off." Graphic, but point well made.
So. I am making a committment to setting aside some quiet time every day to explore those questions. The prospect scares the crap out of me, quite frankly. But the alternative? Definitely worse. And who knows? Maybe somebody else out there will look at my rambling/stumbling/blossoming and say, "Oh, for Christ's sake, if she can make something out of that mess she calls a life, so can I."
Welcome to the Late Bloomer's Club.
Does it seem as though you are woefully unsuccessful compared to your peers?
Do you feel like you haven't gotten around to really living?
Me, too.
I was sitting in my room at the window, thinking of how little I've accomplished in my life, as measured by 21st century American standards: fabulous career, long titles followed by several sets of professional acronyms, house/husband/2.5 kids, etc.
Then I thought, "Hey, do I really care about that stuff? What are my values? Who do I want to be? And is it too late?" My wise inner voice responded, "It's never too late. Unless you continue to watch 5 hours of TV per day and eat whole pints of Ben & Jerry's in one sitting. Then you'll never actually know because your brain will liquify then dribble out of your ears, and your feet will turn purple and fall off." Graphic, but point well made.
So. I am making a committment to setting aside some quiet time every day to explore those questions. The prospect scares the crap out of me, quite frankly. But the alternative? Definitely worse. And who knows? Maybe somebody else out there will look at my rambling/stumbling/blossoming and say, "Oh, for Christ's sake, if she can make something out of that mess she calls a life, so can I."
Welcome to the Late Bloomer's Club.
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