tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63139494503720736182024-03-13T13:15:09.203-07:00Erstwhile AngstypantsThe life and times of an indefinable woman.totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-52012761514434062742015-09-09T12:54:00.003-07:002015-09-09T15:05:20.909-07:00On Fantasy vs. Reality (or Why Life Can Be Easier If You’re a Nerd.)<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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It has been said (by Terry Pratchett if you need the source and I am paraphrasing)
that humans need fantasy. To believe the
little lies about the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny and Santa Claus as children is
an exercise in believing the bigger lies like love, truth, justice, what have
you. (Whether they are actually lies or
is not the purpose of this essay – it’s just what the man said.)</div>
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I posit that fantasy has a bigger purpose. It’s a more exciting way of telling ourselves “Don’t be
stupid.” And “It’s going to be okay”. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For instance, on the side of “Don’t be stupid”, a brain that
knows that drop dead gorgeous girl in the bar who a) is talking to you and b)
lets you buy her a drink AND c) has asked to go home with you is less likely to
say “don’t be stupid” if it hasn't already encountered all those things in a
story about a gullible young lad who had his plumbing ripped off by a creature
with teeth in HER plumbing. In reality,
the girl who does all the things listed above will more than likely NOT rip
your plumbing off with the teeth in her plumbing, but you can bet that she’s up
to no good and you should avoid that situation at all costs. In reality, you’ll probably just get a good
kick in the plumbing but she’ll have divested you of your phone, your
wallet, and your dignity before you can hail a cab. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A young lady on her way to grandmother’s house in the deep
dark wood will travel obliviously until reaches her grandmother’s cottage and
finding it in disarray will question the perp who is currently lying in
Granny’s bed until he gets bored enough to accost her. A young lady who has already heard this story
will more than likely not travel alone, and if she does will have more than
bread and jam in her basket. <o:p></o:p></div>
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See where I am going with this? <o:p></o:p></div>
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That lonely cabin in the woods where all your friends will stay
for the last weekend before college LOOKS like it should have an escaped
murderer lurking in the forest. It just
does. And because you’ve heard stories
where it does, you will a double lock the doors, thereby preventing a rogue
raccoon or mischievous baby bear cub from surprising you at 5 a.m while it
ransacks the kitchen. Your results may
vary in regard to the escaped murderer, but you can’t say you haven’t been
warned. <o:p></o:p></div>
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You will not go into vacant buildings where there is the
possibility of falling through a floor or encountering a drug-crazed homeless
person because…weeping angels, Vampires, demons, floors that absorb your living
essence, and escaped murderer who is in reality a vampire or a demon. Right?<br />
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It’s one thing for your Mom to say “Stay away from that
gutter or you’ll drown.” It’s another
thing for your brain to tell you “Stay away from that gutter or you’ll be
pulled in by a clown, never to be seen again.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s not all bad, mind you.
The practical brain will look at the empty wallet and say, ‘this is the
end of the money” and despair- perhaps to the point of making an irrevocable
decision. A brain with the fantasy
coping mechanism will say something more along the lines of “the wallet is
empty now, but my break will happen any minute.
I will be called to Hollywood to be the next …” and we make it through
another day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A kid who has already vicariously seen the inside of
Hogwarts or the cupboard at the Dursley’s house might already know that what’s
happening RIGHT NOW (ie a school bully, a brother who’s a prat, a mom who’s
sick or worse, a Dad who’s not around) is not the end of the story. Harry Potter didn’t stay in the cupboard
forever, and while he didn’t have it AT ALL easy, Harry survived. And so will he. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s easier to bear the unkindnesses of life if you have an
arsenal of magic words – sometimes they work.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m simplifying here, because I completely understand that
some circumstances are 100% reality and no amount of wishing, hoping, or
praying will change them. That’s when
the brain with a fantasy coping mechanism will seek the safe place for a
while. Just to get a break from the 100%
reality for a little while, which is a help in and of itself. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I know that even all the life lessons of Grimm’s Fairy Tales
will not prevent that out-of-the-blue random awful thing that happens
sometimes. It can help, however, to know that this 100%
reality thing that happened – if you survived it- IS NOT THE END. <o:p></o:p></div>
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You are still alive.
You are still alive and still writing your story until Death comes to
collect you and gently usher you on to the place that YOU think you should go
when you die. Unless your death is a
direct result of not listening to the stories that warn “Don’t be stupid.” Then you can probably expect some sarcasm. <o:p></o:p></div>
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© 2015 Alia Smith<o:p></o:p></div>
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Feel free to share and share alike, but if I see this on
Huffington’s without some cash and my name on it, you can bet I’ll be sending
the Orcs for your children. <o:p></o:p></div>
totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-10185762200363422972013-06-06T09:48:00.000-07:002013-06-06T09:48:26.807-07:00This ain't one body's story, it's the story of us all...<pre><span style="font-family: arial;"></span> </pre>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"This ain't one body's story. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial;">It's the story of us all. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial;"></span><span style="font-family: arial;">We got it mouth-to-mouth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial;">You got to listen it and 'member. </span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial;">'Cause what you hears today</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial;">You got to tell the birthed tomorrow"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial;">Mad Max-Beyond Thunderdome</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial;"></span><br />
<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">B</span><span style="font-family: arial;">ecause the media outlets chose to spend more time covering the alleged suicide attempt of Paris Jackson today, they completely missed the fact that this is the 69th anniversary of the D-Day invasion. I won't harp on the fact that dirt dishing public prefers to know everything there is to know about a troubled young lady because of who her father was, and most are likely unaware of the fact that their neighbor's daughter might be experiencing the same pain and could use a little empathy (okay, maybe just a little harping...). I will suggest you that you should turn your ear away from the talking heads and toward that that really old guy in your neighborhood. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial;">You know him. Maybe you know his name. He's the one who sits on his porch and appears to just be watching the world go by because he is. It's a world he helped to preserve, for better or worse. Strike up a conversation, ask about his service, and listen to what he has to say because he may have participated and perhaps even been wounded in this allied invasion 69 years ago. </span><br />
<pre><span style="font-family: arial;"></span> </pre>
<span style="font-family: arial;">Oh, I remember how it was with my Grandmother, (who was both a WAAC and a WAVE, btw. It wasn't <i>all</i> about the boys.) She would start of with "Well...." and we all knew that we were in for the long haul. Listening to this man for a while may feel like longest hour of your life because he had a post in Fort Dix, counting bed pans and packing cotton balls for the duration of the war. Listen anyway. He still supported those in harm's way, however seemingly insignificant the task. He may have typed up forms or filed paperwork for three years. Those forms and files made it possible for servicemen to get paid, those bedpans to be ordered, or perhaps drew up the proper documents for the remains of someone's family member to be sent home to them. I can't imagine that would have been an easy job. Or, as a friend of mine did during the Viet Nam war, it was his task to blow taps over the returning caskets. That can't have been easy, either. </span><br />
<pre><span style="font-family: arial;"></span> </pre>
<span style="font-family: arial;">Mr. Neighbor probably didn't make the decisions. He may not have even chosen to serve, only responded to a draft notice. But he did. He served, he experienced, and he came home. Unfortunately, the lucky ones who came home are passing away in a world where, as I said, society seems more focused on the famous child of a famous man. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">The thing is, it's possible that he and his fellow soldiers, sailors, and airmen helped to preserve a France which still has a Paris to name that famous child and many more famous and ordinary children after. </span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><br />
<pre><span style="font-family: arial;"></span> </pre>
<span style="font-family: arial;">No one can tell the stories if we don't know them. </span><br />
<pre><span style="font-family: arial;">
</span></pre>
<pre><span style="font-family: arial;"></span> </pre>
<span style="font-family: arial;">.</span>totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-80695687065123915602013-05-28T13:26:00.001-07:002013-05-28T16:15:12.003-07:00To The Class of 2013...<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s graduation season again and videos of commencement
speeches are making the rounds on various news stations and social networking
sites. As with all speeches subject to
public scrutiny, some will be controversial, others humorous but for the most
part…they’ll be forgettable. I’m
sorry. That’s the nature of commencement
speeches, I’m afraid, unless it’s delivered by someone super famous. </div>
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Even twenty years after graduation, we will remember our
prom date’s name, we will remember who we marched next to on the way into the
auditorium or athletic field, we might even remember whether or not the
principal correctly pronounced our middle name, but I would wager that a large
percentage of graduates will not remember who gave their commencement speech, let
alone what was said. </div>
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It’s a disappointing situation, I can imagine, to be
standing in front of a sea of faces, with your well-drafted and practiced
speech laid on the podium, knowing that all they really want to hear is “Class
Dismissed”. All the words meant to
inspire and encourage from all the speeches at all the high schools and
colleges across the country will be as so much spit in the wind.<br />
<br />
*sigh* Still, what if I, though not super famous, was asked to speak at the commencement of my alma mater? <br />
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Just for the sake of personal entertainment, I thought about
what a speech written by me and intended for the current graduating class of my
high school would sound like. Knowing
that they wouldn’t have a clue who I am – only that I graduated, “like..a
hundred years ago and I’m not even famous or rich or anything.” </div>
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To the Graduating Class of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">South</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Portland</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">High</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">School-</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">2013</st1:placename></st1:place></div>
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Twenty-three years ago, I was in those seats, watching
someone I did not know trying to tell me about what’s important and what I
should do to make sure my future was as bright as it could be. I don’t remember
who was standing where I am today, to be honest so I won’t blame you at all if
you don’t remember who I am once you walk out those doors with your diplomas, let alone in 23 years, but here goes. </div>
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First, I don’t have
any advice. I’m not you so I would not
even begin to tell you what to do with your life. I can tell you, however, what’s going to
happen. </div>
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Up until this point in your lives, it’s all about being
right. The right class to take. The right answers for tests. The right
college to apply to. The right dress to
wear to prom. From this point forward you’re going to be wrong
about some things and some of you, I hope, will be wrong about EVERYTHING because it's going to be better than you can imagine right now.</div>
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Some of you will be wrong about the major you chose or the
college you attend. Some will be wrong
about the branch of military you signed up for and some will be wrong about whether
or not to join the family business. </div>
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Most of you will give your heart to the wrong person or for
the wrong reasons at least once. Some of
you will marry that person before you figure that out. I'm sorry. Some
of you will be wrong about whom to borrow from or lend money to. You will be wrong about which job to take,
which apartment to rent, which house to buy, which car to lease, and which
vacation to go on. </div>
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Every one of you will be wrong about someone you thought the
worst of. Every one of you will be wrong
about someone you placed great faith in.
You’re going to be wrong in your definition of “cool” or whatever you
kids will be calling “cool” in twenty years.
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You will on occasion, say the wrong thing. <br />
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Some of you will be wrong about the way your children turn out, for better or worse.</div>
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You will be wrong about what technology will be capable
of. Remember, when I was in your chair,
internal hard drives had not been invented yet, and mobile phones came in bags
the size of a lady’s handbag. You’d have to wait a week to get your
graduation pictures to find out Dad had his thumb over the lens in every
one. Now you can take a picture and see if worked out, instantly. We could have
never predicted that in 1990 or the fact that those photos can be shared with
the whole family before you make it home tonight. </div>
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In addition to technology, you will be wrong about what <i>you’re</i> capable of. You’re much stronger than you think you are
because by the time you get to be where I am right now, you will have survived
all the things you were wrong about and made a life for yourself despite it all
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So, don’t ever be <i>afraid</i>
of being wrong. Being wrong a few times makes
you flexible. Being wrong makes you able to think on your feet. Being okay making mistakes means that you’re
comfortable admitting it and comfortable apologizing if that’s what’s called
for. Sometimes you’ll be wrong about
apologizing. It happens. </div>
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The people around you right now that you
swear you’ll be friends with forever… Most of you are wrong about that, but by the same
token, you’ll be wrong about the ones you think you could <u>never </u>be
friends with. <br />
<br />
Tragically, some of you will be wrong about how much to drink, who to get into a vehicle with, or whether or not something or someone is safe. Please prove me wrong on this one. I'd really like that. </div>
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That said, take a look around you. Savor this moment. For a few more days, be right. Celebrate safely and thank everyone for supporting you. Once the glitter of this moment wears off...that's when you can take a deep breath, go forth, and be wrong.<br />
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They're your mistakes to make. Make the most of them. </div>
totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-65262246719371607952013-05-24T12:05:00.001-07:002013-05-24T12:08:46.807-07:00By any other name...<br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>Society has recently come to the conclusion that labels are bad. There are those who pitch their tent firmly in the “Don’t Label ANYONE for ANYTHING" Camp and I can see why someone would want to be accepted by society without any preconceived notions as to what they are all about. Labels can be cruel, derogatory, and just plain untrue so I try not to call someone by a label they have not previously self-applied and probably not without asking permission first.</div>
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"Is it true that you're a barefooter?" That first gives them the option to correct me, "No, actually, I'm a protopedalist" and to educate me as to the difference. Second, it offers the chance to check their "proud meter" on it. "Yes! I am a barefooter!" or "Yeah, I sometimes go barefoot." </div>
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To casually say someone is a Foodie, for instance, is fairly innocent most of the time. By definition it bespeaks a love of food, its ingredients, and methods of preparation. In the wrong environment, "foodie" might mean "food snob" or "restaurant elitist" and while that might be true, it's wrong to assume that of a person who may just be someone who finds food interesting and entertaining. They'd like to invent the next best burger, sure, but they're not above the occasional Big Mac. </div>
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Personally, I know that I am a complex being and rather mercurial, so I find that labels are helpful for others. Like the proverbial "Do Not Immerse In Water" tag that can be found on most small appliances, its useful for people to know things about me from the outset, therefore, I have no difficulty labeling myself. </div>
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I have no problem telling people that I am a Crocheter, a Shelf-Dust Gourmet, A Marathoner, an Anglophile, A Whovian, A Brown Coat, a Dog Parent, and an Auralibrophile (that’s a word I made up for "audio book lover" so don’t use it like it’s real. Unless you like it. If you like it, share it often and it will become a real word by virtue of common usage.) In short, I call myself all sorts of things on a fairly regular basis.</div>
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There is one label I would very much like to apply to myself but for some reason I have great difficulty doing so. Writer.</div>
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Clearly, I write. Quite often, actually. I have two complete novels on the hard drive of a defunct computer and two more at different stages of completion. I have several poems and essays in notebooks and on this blog. I write. I do. But for some reason, I cannot call myself a writer. It feels...arrogant and awkward.</div>
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Just the other day, for example, in talking with some neighbors while they walked their cat on the front lawn of our apartment complex, the conversation turned to the hawk circling above and the possible threat it posed to the cat. The thread of conversation turned to stories of small dogs being carried off on the pinions of eagles and an example they knew of personally where a friend's dog had been snatched and then dropped by a red-tailed hawk. "And that's the last time the chihuahua went kayaking." said the husband (who is also a Whovian, a toe-shoe wearer, and a martial artist, besides).</div>
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I repeated his words with weighted reverence and grinned before saying "I'm going to use that one day" and then, rather inanely "I'm a writer." Though they expressed polite interest and remarked that they were looking forward to seeing what I would do with the kayaking chihuahua, inwardly, I cringed. My inner critic jumped up from her seat and ran down the aisle with a giant sign reading "POSER". And then she turned it around to the other side where the word "FRAUD" was emblazoned in day-glo pink and yellow glitter. (I have a very creative and emphatic inner critic.) </div>
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I think I would rather make up my own label for what I do. Perhaps then it will settle a little more comfortably about my shoulders.</div>
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To be a writer, you have to write, so sayeth the many. But to have something to write about you have to be a noticer. Have you ever thought about how difficult it would be to describe the flight of a fairy without having noticed the same action performed by a butterfly or a bumblebee? How the susseration of leaves in the wind can also sound like the rushing of a storm-swollen river? To notice, for instance, how your mother sees the fact that your fly is down but does not appear to be bothered by the three cupboard doors hanging open? </div>
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You also have to be a thinker and I say so because it's hardly ever a good idea to write exactly what you notice without some thought as to how to present it. That's what got you sent to your room as a kid, remember? </div>
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You must then become a shepherd to those thoughts. The things you noticed and thought about must be dressed by your imagination and nudged properly into line for inspection. You also have to understand when there is no real word for what you want to express and you'll have to make one up. I sometimes feel that's the case for many, if not all, onomatopoeia and it's my problem right now...what to call myself. </div>
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Stuff sayer? (everyone who can speak is one of those, so that's out.) Imaginist? (ooh, sounds magical.) Word-herder? (almost there.)</div>
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<div style="color: #663366; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I think I have it. Expundiary Observationalist. That'll work and at the very least, it will keep me from getting so tipsy at parties as to be unable to pronounce my own title. </div>
</div>
<div style="color: #663366; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="color: #663366; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Somehow, Obspundiary Expedutionalist just doesn't have the same ring to it. </div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-81250993054216704512013-05-21T17:21:00.002-07:002013-05-21T17:22:18.924-07:00Listen...do you want to know a secret?<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rrFCTM15T_c/UZwOtzKJ08I/AAAAAAAAAE8/BUWS9YHMM3E/s1600/1269283681_aved.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rrFCTM15T_c/UZwOtzKJ08I/AAAAAAAAAE8/BUWS9YHMM3E/s200/1269283681_aved.jpg" width="172" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Virtually every culture on this
planet (and probably others) has a rich history of story telling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before the written word, story telling was
the vehicle by which information was passed from generation to generation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The recital of one’s own lineage and the
remembrance of the great feats of ancestors is often a rite of passage and the
telling of cautionary tales and the use of object lessons has a history older
than we upright walkers can know.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In western cultures, it’s a rare
child who can make it to adulthood without having been read aloud to at one
point or another, whether it be by a teacher, a parent, an older (or sometimes
younger!) sibling, or caretaker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a
common evening event that the word “again” is met with a sigh and the turning
of pages back to the beginning rather than a refusal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t get me wrong, even the most patient of
readers must gently close the book for the sake of a decent bedtime or a meal
about to become char if not tended to.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I, too, remember being read to
fairly often.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One teacher had a penchant
for the work of Roald Dahl, and in her honor I have a vintage copy of Charlie
and the Chocolate Factory on my shelf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>However, it seems that at the point I became a proficient reader and
could take up the task for<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>myself, I
came to find listening to someone else carrying the story along tiresome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly, it was up to me how fast I could
devour the story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And devour them I did.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">However, to read a book means to
be still and these days, I do not take to “still” well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even now, television watching for most means
just that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Television watching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a given evening, I usually have something
going on with my hands and something going on in my head, which sometimes makes
the television a mute bystander though in fact it does continue to chatter on.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I just don’t have it in me to sit
and read for very long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just don’t. There’s
much else that needs to be done and I can’t do it reading a book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I didn’t. Therefore, my knowledge and
consumption of literature has suffered for a long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is, until I discovered audio books. </span><o:p><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Suddenly, I could “read” and I
didn’t have to sit still.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What. A.
CONCEPT!</span><o:p><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I can walk ten miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can do the dishes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can clean out the car, fold the laundry,
dust the bookshelves, take a stroll with the dog,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>crochet a doily, sew a button back on, upload
and manage my photos, inventory my yarn, and vaccum out the dog’s crate…all
while enjoying a classic or following the events on a new world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There are die hard paper and glue
fans who believe that the only way to “read” is to read.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a couple of arguments to the contrary
for them. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">1)</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Studies show that while you're reading comprehension
continues to improve after you learn to read for yourself, your listening comprehension
falls off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Listening to audio books can
bridge the gap even into adulthood. It also helps you build vocabulary to hear
an unfamiliar word pronounced and used in context at the same time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rrFCTM15T_c/UZwOtzKJ08I/AAAAAAAAAE8/BUWS9YHMM3E/s1600/1269283681_aved.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">2)</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">It is just as rich an experience, perhaps
richer. Let me tell you why.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
reading, it is natural to skip over descriptive and narrative portions of a
book that do not interest you in favor of the more meaty stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With an audio book, you are a captive audience
to every word the author wrote so you’re hearing it exactly as the author
intended the material to be presented.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nothing is lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No parts are
skipped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you’re REALLY lucky, you can
find an audio book which is read by the author, an experience I have never
found disappointing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Audio books are also green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a downloadable world we live in which
means that no plastic was used to create a cassette or CD and no paper used in
the packaging for the audio books and no paper used to print the book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(And you
can still enjoy jacket art in most cases.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Think about this above all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No boxes of books sitting around. Remember
when you moved last?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Now, before you think that I am
anti-paper and glue please know that I believe that there is room for every medium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Book, tablet, audio book, it doesn’t matter
as long as you are actively engaged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">As long as you are hearing what
the author has to say and enjoying the tale, it’s all good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">It’s all storytelling, man’s
finest tradition, and its how we can pass on to our children the stories our
grandparents told to us, along with some new ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You will read, and I will listen and we will
all know the tale if we keep sharing the story. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Again.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eUkUMEljNms/UZwPCUV2jVI/AAAAAAAAAFE/2GCd9LUaBXk/s1600/Kaitlin_Headphones.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eUkUMEljNms/UZwPCUV2jVI/AAAAAAAAAFE/2GCd9LUaBXk/s320/Kaitlin_Headphones.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-38487526781522497062013-05-20T11:43:00.001-07:002013-05-20T13:04:12.305-07:00The Fan Who Knew Too Much.<br />
Let’s continue with the pros and cons idea of being a Sci-Fantasy enthusiast that I touched upon in my previous post. Before I do that, let me warn you that “thar be spoilers, here”. Also, I realize that there are some of you who eat, sleep, and breathe the Star Trek franchise and you will know things that I do not. So, as the Gospels preach the sufferance of heathens, do not persecute my ignorance for I have not heard The Word. <br />
<br />
And I’m not sure I want to. Which brings me to my point.<br />
<br />
This weekend, my fellow crime-fighter and I caught the most recent Star Trek film – Into Darkness. (This is your chance to opt out of spoilers. I’m not going to tell you again) and I feel my history with Star Trek television and film is pretty good.<br />
<br />
I've seen all the movies and, thanks to syndication, I have seen every first generation episode several times and most of the Next Generation episodes at least once. I know the groundbreaking event that Kirk kissing Ohura was. My stepbrother had the bridge playset with the cylinder you turned to replicate transporting. (He only ever let me be that big-head alien, but that’s a story for a different day.) Chekov was always my favorite, by the way.<br />
<br />
In addition, I served in the Navy so I understand the terminology such as “forward” and “aft” and the reason why Sulu always repeated the course and speed orders. That’s how it’s done. (And in case you didn’t know, that little whistle prior to intercom communications in the original show hearkens back to the use of a whistle on waterborne vessels to communicate information.)<br />
<br />
The question that I have for you eat/sleep/breathers is this: How much information is too much? At what point does all the knowledge and trivia you have interfere with the main purpose of these films and shows – the entertainment? <br />
<br />
I saw myself crossing that line yesterday, during the movie. The interpretation of earlier Khan doesn't mesh with the earlier tv and film Wrath of Khan character at all and I found that distracting. He had a British accent, for one thing. We all know Ricardo Mantalban was not a native English speaker. Shouldn't they have bridged that gap somehow in the writing?<br />
<br />
And also, the cinematography included a vast number of close-ups and the lighting was such that most of what I noticed during those close ups was the color of each character’s eyes. I found myself wondering such things as “Did DeForest Kelley have green eyes?” <br />
<br />
This is future Kirk and his crew! There are things that continuity says that you have to answer for if you have fans who know so much. You will have to provide for the fact that there are ticket holders who not only know the back story on each of the crew members, but they know the back story on every Enterprise there ever was, all the way back to wood.<br />
<br />
They will have schematics of the engine room and production drawings for communicators. They name their cat Gainan. They have pajamas with every color of Star Fleet uniforms except red, because we all know what happens to the red shirts. They know what each uniform insignia stands for. They know that in Episode 15, the hatch cover they remove is the same hatch cover they removed in Episode 6, but the compartment they gained entry to should have been on the starboard side, not the port.<br />
<br />
The point is, in creating this franchise, they have made it impossible to please everyone and if they try, they run the risk of pleasing no one. (Case in point, did Spock and Kirk really have to have that reverse scene where its Spock shouting Khan? Kirk would never have been able to withstand the kind of radiation to even have that scene. The only reason Spock did in his was because he was only half-human, remember?) Anyway, the film-makers have to have to walk a fine line between paying homage and over-cheesing for the fanboys and there will be absolutely no way to get it right.<br />
<br />
So, without taking all day to examine the benefits and pitfalls of uber-fandom, I’ll say this. I will never be the “dress up for the convention” sort of fan. I will never be able to hold my own in intense discussions about the number of O-Clubs necessary on a vessel that large, and will never be proficient at identifying potential flaws in the wiring schema of the transporter console (the first series, not the movies or the Next Generation.)<br />
<br />
In fact, for the sake of being in the moment, I will check my trivia at the door as much as possible and attempt to enjoy each of these interpretations of the story line as they are in the same way that I accept new Doctors as they come. “Rejoice in the familiar, but do not despair the differences” will be my motto, moving forward, with the exception of one critical question.<br />
<br />
How did Spock feel about Kirk kissing his ex-girlfriend? That had to be awkward.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-59915709143802837982013-05-17T08:41:00.001-07:002013-05-17T13:10:05.480-07:00Could Be. <br />
<b>I have often said that I am relatively new to the Science Fiction and Fantasy genre. Until approximately five years ago, my experience with such things consisted primarily of Star Trek in its various television and film incarnations, Harry Potter, and the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>So my exposure had been better than some, but not nearly in the realm of “fan girl” or someone for whom attending a sci-fi convention would have any value other than to serve my natural penchant for anthropological observation (otherwise known as people watching.) I say anthropological because sci-fi and fantasy folks are indeed a subculture of our society with their own rituals and customs which make them worth study. Several documentaries and books have already covered this however, so I won’t add my two cents about it here. At least not right now. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>In the recent past, I have been indoctrinated somewhat and in doing so, have mentally visited such places as Discworld and Neverwhere. I have taken journeys with seven of the eleven mad men with blue boxes (who are technically the same man…well..maybe man isn't the right word – eh, we can talk about that later) and I have gone back and forward in Earth time and in the times of several other worlds. I have vicariously witnessed the births, deaths, weddings, and funerals of humans on other planets, and non-humans on mine. Suffice it to say my horizons have expanded astronomically and infinitely.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Now, there are some who may answer the above with “Yay, you! Let me tell you about…” and others with “Oh, dear God no. You’re a nerd (geek, dork, etc.) now.” I can see both arguments, because there are definite pros and cons to the concept that anything is possible and that the ordinary is actually extraordinary. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I feel that the most important of these possibilities is the “could be”. The idea that what you are currently observing is not to be taken at face value and could be something entirely different – something wonderful or, as is more often the case, something nefarious. Let me give you some examples.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>A dragonfly used to be just that. A dragonfly. Since my conversion, the observed dragonfly could also be a minute alien vessel, an extraterrestrial being sent to observe our planetary stewardship, my spirit-guide, or the harbinger of larger, more difficult to dispatch insects which will cause the downfall of humankind. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The ingredients of a box of cereal or well-loved snack food could be the vehicle by which a super secret society/major corporation comes to control humanity at large and makes us all into, oh…I don’t know…slaves for their island hide-out? Or by some miracle of chemistry, when the genetically modified wheat gluten in the tortilla combines with the microwaves used in heating your burrito, those who eat it become telepathic. Burrito eaters will now RULE THE WORLD!</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The little old lady in front of you in the grocery line is not, in fact, feeding 50 cats. She's a cat herself and only takes human form occasionally for trips to the grocery store and the mailbox. Unfortunately, you're allergic to cats and you can't stop sneezing which annoys her to the point where she changes form and claws you to ribbons right there in the express lane. You've suddenly become more than 15 items. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Sure, that prickly feeling on the back of your neck could be the response of your limbic and neurological systems to a potential fight or flight situation. It could also be the energy field of your great-great grandchildren who have used the new temporal television they got for the Generic Winter Holiday to watch great, great Grandpa check a fuse during a power outage – how quaint! It could be a ghost. It could be a cyber spider crawling up your neck, seeking entry into your ear canal for the purpose of studying human thought process. Or the vehicle by which that super secret society/major corporation comes to control humanity at large and makes us all into island hideout slaves.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>See what I mean? </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Before we get all creeped out and start conspiracy theorizing, I will say that being the natural “glass half full” girl that I am, I tend to lean toward the positive “could be” scenarios. That dragonfly is a fairy or great grandmother Daisy. I think I’d like it to be Daisy. The ingredients of the cereal or snack food will cause us all evolve into better mostly-humans. Maybe burrito eaters SHOULD rule the world – wouldn't it make public flatulence more acceptable or at least less socially damning? That prickly feeling is what precedes the oh-so-anticipated engine whine of the TARDIS and soon the Doctor is coming to take me to experience all of those births, weddings, and funerals for myself.<i> (I really don’t care which Doctor, but if it could be one of the last three that would be good. If it isn't, I’m not going to not go. Who would do that?)</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Until then, with all of these thoughts in my head, I shall live my ordinary life with the hope that the ordinary can, indeed, become extraordinary at any moment. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Could be. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b> </b><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-4351210117879152452013-04-26T17:32:00.000-07:002013-04-26T17:35:42.886-07:00Alia and the First Grade Talent Show<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Recently, experiencing an unusually strong wave of Friday
afternoon procrastination, I responded to an email with an animated file of a
little boy who was dancing in a way that would put the latest ballroom dancing
competition participant to shame if only for the spirit behind it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This little guy had the moves and was not afraid to use
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t until later that I
realized why I had felt so strongly about this boy and his dancing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This boy was me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had done this exact thing, minus the video
camera (which hadn’t yet been invented for personal use) when I was in the
first grade.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What follows is my recollection with a smattering of
observation from 33 years hence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Alia and the First Grade Talent Show</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m not
sure exactly when it was announced
that our school would be holding a talent show. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not even sure how I came to the idea that
I would do a dance routine ala the currently popular Saturday Night Fever
except that I seem to recall my step-sister Tracy and her friends mimicking
routines and my watching them do so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Each in their satin jackets, they argued and fussed about what each
dance was called and how to execute them for hours on Saturday afternoons.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I want to think it was “<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Funky</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Town</st1:placetype></st1:place>”
I chose for my entry, but something tells me it might have been “Le
Freak”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Knowing what I know now about
“Le Freak”, I’m going to continue under the “<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Funky</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Town</st1:placetype></st1:place>”
delusion if you don’t mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You
know, I don’t even remember how it is I came by a .45 single of the song or how
I signed up,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but there I was in the gym
with the little black disc in its paper sleeve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I clutched it so tightly to my chest while waiting on the wooden
bleachers for my turn that I had to keep replacing the little widget which kept
the 45 on the record player.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyone
younger than I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>am will more than likely
not remember those, but Google tells me they’re called “spiders’. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Since
this is more about what I remember and not what I don’t, suffice it to say that
the concrete details of how I had come to this point apparently never made it
to the memory file cabinet or at best, are misfiled and I will stumble upon
them later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This next part, though…this
part is crystal clear. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was
almost my turn to audition but I was not nervous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Coming off of my previous critical acclaim as
“Susie Snowflake” in kindergarten and my stoic portrayal of The Marine for the
Veteran’s Day lesson earlier that year, I had it in the bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had been watching carefully and it was
going to be simple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That-that, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>then this and that and turn for as long as it
takes for the record to play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Simple.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
principal of my school, who was a thin, birdish woman with a severely short
haircut sat with a tall woman who had Farrah Fawcett feathered bangs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am still fascinated by how feathering
works, by the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think she was the
combined music and art teacher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There they were sitting behind a
folding table under the basketball hoop, each with black and white theme
notebooks and each with a blue Bic ball point pen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually, this moment might be why I feel
compelled to buy these pens when I see them, with their transparent barrels and
small blue caps which haven’t changed since 1970.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love those pens.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
Farrah Fawcett lady called me over and stood to take <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the record from me, raising her eyebrows at
the title of the song before placing on the player and setting the arm.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.”
She said as she went to retake her metal folding seat. “Show us your routine.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
first few notes of the song got by me before I found my rhythm and I began
performing the moves I had seen my step-sister do, over and over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When coming back from a spin on the fifth
repetition, I noticed a glance passing between the two women which at the time
I interpreted as “Good gracious, how did we not know that we had this kind of
talent here?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right here at, Presumpscott
Elementary, we have such grace and style and it has passed under our noses as
this peculiar little girl!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Having
been in their shoes as an adult, I’m pretty sure now that that look meant “Good
gracious, how on earth do we sit through this without laughing?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nevertheless, I danced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I danced and I danced and when I felt I had
done it in one place too long, I started dancing from corner to corner of the
rectangle laid out for jump shots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By
that point, I was ready for the song to be over, but it played on and on I
danced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I left the comfort of the
learned routine and went tribal, calling upon the synthesized music and bassline
to tell me what my body would do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
worked it. Oh yes, I did</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eventually,
the song wound down and the arm automatically returned to its carriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A gym, if you remember, is nothing but
noise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only sound that could be heard was the
soft whirr of the record player as the turn table revolved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Farrah Fawcett looked at the principal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Principal returned her gaze and they kept
on looking at each other until someone behind me giggled. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was
then that The Principal turned slowly back to me, as if she was using those
moments to call upon every ounce of poise and grace she possessed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the time, I thought they were trying to
conjure the words for my magnificence. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank
you.” She said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Ahh….that was
nice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did you ..um…learn that on your
own?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had never heard The Principal
use “Um” before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was one of those
ladies who corrected you for saying “ain’t” and wouldn’t give you what you were
sent to the office to retrieve without replacing “Can I” with “may I”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must
have really amazed her, I thought. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.”
I answered. “Well…my step sister taught me some.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I made up the rest.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
glanced back at Farrah Fawcett again and then back to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I see.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Farrah
cleared her throat and thanked me as well before they both sent me back to Mrs.
Laughlin’s classroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some
time <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>went by and an announcement came
that the Principal and Farrah Fawcett had thought very, very hard about
everyone’s entry and since there were so many (and mine was so interesting, I
thought to myself. Clearly, they were just going to offer me <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">First Place</st1:address></st1:street> and forget the show…) that
they had called for second auditions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Second
auditions?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had wowed them the first
time, sure, but that had been improvised…off the cuff…they really expected me
to do that again?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, for you adults,
logic is going to tell you that it would have been that way anyway, because
there was still the show to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
logic, which is non-linear even now, did not allow for a repeat performance as
good as the one before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no
way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a “one and done”so to speak.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have to do the whole thing
again, replicating the free style.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How
was I going to do that?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the
end, my second audition was lackluster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This was mostly due to the fact that not only could I not repeat the
improvised portions of the routine, but by that point I had forgotten the rehearsed
parts as well, as children do when something more pressing replaces the events
of the past. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chocolate milk for lunch or
the fact that you’ve been scolded for licking the red macaroni pieces that were
meant for the art project, for instance. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, it’s
not that children are forgetful as much as they make more room for the present
and as life moves along, adults seem to make more room for the past and future.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was let down lightly with a “Keep
working on it.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watched the show with
my class, slightly miffed that I wasn’t in it, but mostly relieved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My older sister, who already found me an
endless source of embarrassment, was eternally grateful as I found out later but
that’s her story to tell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The winners were a pair of brothers
who lip-synced in costume to an old folk song and the runner up was a girl who
could play the theme from “Days of Our Lives” on the piano.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I learned through this experience that jumping
into things and expecting instant success isn’t the best approach most of the
time and since then, I’ve tried quite a few
things, but have yet to reach the level of fame and fortune I was expecting for my debut
at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Presumpscott</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">School</st1:placetype></st1:place>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is most true when it comes to
writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been doing it since I could
hold a pencil and make scratches into words, but I have never been widely
published and I am certainly not living in the brick loft apartment in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York City</st1:place></st1:city> my high school
self predicted. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The best I can do is take Farrah’s advice and
keep working on it.</span></div>
totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-58692631417637524242013-04-25T10:05:00.002-07:002013-04-25T10:05:49.288-07:00Confessions and CorrectionsTo the siblings of challenging children, I offer this. I was a challenging child, but as is evident below, not as challenging as everyone thought I was because this poem is probably 90% true.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-align: justify;">
Confessions and Corrections</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
It’s possible
that I, intent on helping, dumped the flour. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
Perhaps I
scattered raisins, if you found them at that hour. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
Or spilled the milk
you stepped in and in which you trailed your robe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
But I didn’t
hatch the plan to cook the breakfast, so you know. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
I’m sure I stole
a cookie from the plate they meant for guests.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
I’m likely why
you found that bug in the pocket of your vest. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
I’m the curr who
gave the kittens yarn. They liked the
red! </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
But I have no
recollection of dead frogs under my bed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
I did swing on
the clothes line which bent the pulley south.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
I did turn on the
hose, which drenched my dress. I missed my mouth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
I buried his
Darth Vader, who was never seen again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
But I didn’t
draw the face upon the wall with marker pen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
If pressed, I
will admit I took those crayons from the cup,</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
So we needn’t
cover how the lawn Madonna got made up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
And, I often wore
the ice cream given to me as a treat, </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
But I didn’t drop
the gum wad you found on the sofa seat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
I did try to
make coffee with some tinfoil and a match</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
You only found
the remnants. I was successful with one
batch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
And though you
might not paint me as the apple of your eye</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
I’ll remind you
that, in fact, you have survived. And so
did I. </div>
totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-67673183122600236072013-04-24T10:25:00.001-07:002013-04-24T10:50:04.186-07:00Memories, mostly.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I have
vivid memories of my childhood, but as with most people, there are
missing pieces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The parts between the
bits I remember and the ones I don’t are nebulous, like watching night traffic
through a frosted window, and logically I am aware that time must have marched
on but I have no recollection how Point A became Point B.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
convinced, however, that for an event to become a memory for a child it has to
have affected her greatly in one way or another because days where nothing
happened don’t matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not for a kid,
anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As adults, we relish them but
for a child events become memory only if it's the tickle of a good time or the
punch of something awful and your brain uses all of your senses to take
snapshots of the goings on for recall later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That’s how it works. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You
smell curry and you are instantly back at your grandmother’s farm house where scent
is joined by woodsmoke and bacon in your mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or you hear a truck horn that sounds like a fog horn which reminds you
of days spent at Two Lights State Park where, one day, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a rogue wave drenched your other grandmother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You had laughed, but no one else thought it
was funny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they said “serves you right” when a seagull
stole your frenchfries.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The sight of a certain toy in a
vintage resale shop brings memories out of that strange file cabinet of
experiences and opens it up for you to see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You remember with a smile that
you had that exact Fisher Price Farmyard set with the rubber animals and the
little lever on the front which simultaneously opened the barn door and produced
a low, somewhat alarming, noise from somewhere within,. Presumably, it was meant to simulate a cow but
sometimes sounded like a duck. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then, you remember the Sesame Street play set
too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And didn’t you have the Weebles Tree
House?<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
unfortunate thing about good memories - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the tickles- is that they don’t ever seem to come
without a chaperone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You never seem to
get only good memories for very long, do you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For instance, oh, how you had loved playing with that Barnyard Set, with
it’s now recalled Little People, and the strange blocky tractor and you smile
and you remember until, inevitably, you come to wonder whatever had become of
that play set and the bad memory punch comes when you are reminded that you probably
had to leave it behind when you went to live with your mother across town or
might it have been part of one your step-mother’s yard sales? <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
sister will likely remember what happened to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In our adult lives, I have come to understand
that she will have remembered most of our shared experiences much differently
than I have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s inevitable in families
with more than one child and the reason for this phenomenon is simple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are different people with different
souls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is not ticklish in the same
places that I am, and she would have felt the punches in different places as
well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Having
said that, what follows is a story I wrote some time ago...because the one I want to tell you (the story of Alia and the Talent Show) doesn't want to be told yet. Parts of this, my
sister may have remembered differently, and parts of this she will not
remember at all because they are not true. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s the fun part of memories. They play good cop/bad cop with your psyche, true, but, they
are your own and you can embellish them however you like. </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Bike</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was blue, that bike. I haven't consciously
thought about it in years although it does sometimes come to me in the dreams
of replayed childhood. Blue and sparkly. The kind of sparkly that
you only see on the worn out kiddie rides at county fairs these days. By
the time it had come into my possession, the white banana seat had grayed under
layers of the adhesive of long lost tape jobs, the flared handlebars were
speckled with the rust of a thousand dewy mornings, and the spokes bent where
baseball cards had been attached with clothespins. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I didn't care. I loved that bike.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And it wasn't until I started describing this bike that
the memory of how I came by it returned to me like a developing Polaroid.
Slowly, and with ever more detail until the clarity of it broke my skin. <br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My mother had driven me to the house my sister and I had
lived in with my father. I was seven years old when we left with our
clothes and a few toys. On the last day of second grade, it was as if we
had stepped through a veil from one life into another, and yet, here we were - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>back again. Now, as a nine year old, it
seemed so surreal to return to this place, although at the time I didn't have
the word "surreal" to attach to that tilting feeling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When we arrived, the owner of the house, the man I had
only known as "The Landlord" was waiting on the stoop. A tall
man, at least to me, and gaunt he had scared me at first but had easily won me
over by introducing me to the wonders that lie in a roll of Necco wafers.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I tugged my mother's hand. "Mom, can I go
in?" She spoke to deny me, but the Landlord interrupted her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"It's empty." he said, standing to hold the
screened door open, "She can't hurt nuthin'" My mother let go of
my hand, and I slipped past him and he shut the door behind me. My
eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light of the living room and I was glad that the faint smell of this house was still present, not quite masked by the Pine
Sol. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The landlord had spoken the truth. It was empty. The furniture
I remembered was no longer there, not even the footprints of the heavy recliner
and the matted place in the carpet where the rocking chair had been erased by a
rug cleaner of some kind. <script></script><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">From the door I could see the dining room where a big oak
table had once held my birthday cake. The doorway to the bathroom where I
had won a game of hide and seek by crawling into the front loading washing
machine. Crossing the rug, I followed the el of the dining room into the
kitchen, where one day our black lab had gotten so excited that she put her paw
through the glass. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">From the door I watched my mother and the Landlord stand
in the back yard talking. He looked up and startled, I backed away, deciding to
go to the one place I needed to see most of all. My bedroom. At the
entrance to the dining room, a cheap hollow door lead upstairs and I opened it
to climb the matted tan steps toward the landing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I suddenly giggled at the memory of the Christmas night
when my step-brother Tommy and I had sat on these steps and took turns burping
into his brand new tape recorder. His red mopped head bent low over the
microphone while I waited with my hands covering my mouth and my barely
contained mirth. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He swallowed hard and from somewhere deep
inside him a word like "baseball" would be borne on the belch.
Quickly, he hit the "stop" button and we would play it back,
collapsing against each other in tears. We kept playing them back until
finally I made myself sick with laughter and too much Coke, and the game was
over. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I giggled again when I reached the place where I had
thrown up, but my laugher reverberated on the landing. Sobered, I opened
the door to the room I had known as Tommy's room. Gone were the Kiss
posters, the X-wing Fighter that had been suspended from the ceiling, and the
Marvel comics. The tape recorder was gone. I turned, closing the
door behind me and crossed the threshold to the room that my sister and I had
shared. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I expected, it too, was empty. Our beds.
Our Fisher Price farm. Our Barbie dolls, records and books. All
gone. The walls were freshly painted, but I crossed the floor to
find a minute dent in the drywall, the impact of a Weeble thrown in
frustration. On this geometrically patterned linoleum, I had made my
first stand and bloodied my sister's nose in response to some injustice.
Despite the spanking I received for it, it had been worth the pride I felt
because although she was only 15 months my senior, she stood a head taller. <script></script><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> None of the things I'd left behind when my mother
took custody of us were anywhere to be found. The sadness threatened to
overwhelm me, until I remembered the shed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I dashed down the stairs and flew
out the screen door and into the backyard where my mother was wheeling the bike
my sister had gotten for her birthday two </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;">years previously across the grass.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The gears tick- tick- ticked as she wheeled it past me,
calling back “Let’s go, Alia.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“No.” I pleaded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She stopped and scowled at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I…” stuttered slightly. “I need to see what else is in
there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">With furrowed eyebrows she shook her head “There’s
nothing else.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I didn’t believe her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I didn’t …want…to believe her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
strode purposely toward the shed in the hopes that she had missed something.
Anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grownup eyes missed things all
the time and I needed to see for myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Leaning into the shed, I closed my eyes and counted to three <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Mississippi</st1:place></st1:state> before
opening them again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There, against the inner wall stood Tommy’s bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lacy cobwebs bridged the handle bars some
sort of fuzzy cocoon had attached itself to one of the front spokes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tires were gray and flat and
it…was…beautiful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Mom!” I gasped. “Mom!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Her face, back lit by the afternoon sun appeared around
the doorjamb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yeah, I saw that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s not ours.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I ran a finger over the torn vinyl of the once-white
seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s Tommy’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They put it in here when he got his ten-speed'. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked at the dust on my finger and pleaded
with her.”Can I have it?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I was surprised to hear the Landlord’s voice, but he had
joined my mother at the entrance to the shed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“I tried callin’ them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
didn’t want it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gave me your number so’s
you could come get that one.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>He
gestured to my sister’s bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Seems to
me this one was meant for her.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My mother rolled her eyes and looked again at the bike
with chagrin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s a boy’s bike.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I don’t care.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Silence stretched between the three of us as I watched
the wheels of decision turn behind my mother’s hazel eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I chanted the word “please” silently, as a
pilgrim might silently pray for a miracle at the steps of a cathedral.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Please”, the words tumbled past my lips. “I need it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I didn’t have the words to plead with her for this consummate reminder
of a life before I realized that my father was human.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that humans were breakable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that life had shattered him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I need it.” I stated again, my voice breaking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Please.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The word hung in the air like the millions of dancing dust particles lit
by the one shed window.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She sighed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Okay.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At some point, the bike was taken to a shop where it was
cleaned up, refitted with tires and brakes and a combination lock and plastic
coated bike chain were purchased.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
rode that bike all that summer…even after one of the pedals fell off and the
seat had lost all the cushion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realize
now that I must have looked utterly ridiculous half –pedaling around the
neighborhood, but I didn’t care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As
fall came I rode it less and less, and when it was stolen during a weekend trip
to my grandmother’s farm, it was no great loss to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was okay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I </i>was okay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Every once in a while when I have time to kill, I get off
the interstate and take a right onto <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Veranda
street</st1:address></st1:street>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then a left onto Berwick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I park
at the end of the street and look out onto the ocean and remember. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The little house is gone now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They tore it down to build a bigger house
with bigger windows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The shed too, lost
in the footprint of the new house.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I never saw Tommy again, either, but that’s okay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I passed on the finest skill a brother can
convey - wordburping- <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to my son who if
I may say, does a pretty mean “broccoli”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-66118709524327331552013-04-23T09:00:00.000-07:002013-04-23T09:00:45.725-07:00Never settle for "That's Not A Word."I think the most fun part of being a word herder is that you can (and should) come up with words that suit you to fit a certain feeling or event. <br />
<br />
Shapeish - "shay-pish" - A word to describe the poor fit of ones clothing, in that you are made of shapes for which the clothing was not intended. <br />
<br />
Example: "That's a nice skirt, but I tried it on and it doesn't work. It made me feel shapeish."<br />
<br />
Hurlish - Suddenly nauseous in response to a certain stimuli. <br />
<br />
Example: "So, I opened the refrigerator door and out fell some sort of wriggly thing. I wanted some strawberries but the the thought of that thing having crawled on them makes me hurlish."totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-75318947517142226662013-04-18T18:14:00.000-07:002013-04-18T18:39:07.011-07:00Tipping the ScalesThis idea has been kicking around in my head since I became convinced that there are darker things afoot in this world than you or I can see. I had originally thought it would be a dialogue of sorts, but this character had to do all the talking. Oddly, it was in Dame Judy Dench's voice. So, here it is.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tipping the Scales</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’d like to be able to tell you that it was your
imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s what I’d like to
say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could still say it but I doubt
you’d believe me because if you’d believe such a thing you wouldn’t be here.
You’d have already told yourself and you would not be sitting here, across the
table from me, drinking your coffee and pretending that your life isn’t falling
apart at the seams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">First, let me tell you that you aren’t crazy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ve experienced something that most people
don’t and since it’s something you have been told can’t happen, you probably
think you’ve gone around the bend and down the lane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You aren’t losing your mind, but if you listen to me you’ll gain some
knowledge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Usually, I’d get in big trouble telling you the secrets of the mystical beyond as it were but I don’t think we’ve got anything to lose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much older
than I look, actually, and it’s getting harder and harder to maintain this
form, such that it is. I’ve decided that the boobs are going to droop and the
hair is going to gray and the face is going to crease and that’s the way it’s
going to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve decided that the thing you’re here to talk to me about, that’s the last one for
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are too many of Them and not
enough of Us and because there are so many of Them with their facebook and smart
phones, it’s nearly impossible to create another one of Us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s easy for Them, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So very easy. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know, those
creatures who feed on the souls of the already vulnerable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, I don’t know what you call Them, but I
call them the Suckers, for lack of a better word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s what they do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They suck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They start with someone who’s already a little bit broken and they take
and they take and they take until the slightest suggestion is enough to bring
forth unconscionable acts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> T</span>he poor
thing is so empty it creates a vacuum and when They stop sucking and push
something nasty back the other way, well, it takes over the person’s whole
being doesn’t it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like a marshmallow in
the microwave it expands and fills them up until there’s nothing left but anger
and insanity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s a lethal
combination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Oh, they’ve been around a long, long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As long as we have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As long as humans have, perhaps even longer
if the anti-social behavior in some species of animals was studied a little
closer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’ve had different names
down through history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Demons is the most
popular I think, but They’ve nothing to do with God as you humans understand
things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not saying there’s not
someone in charge, mind you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s an
agenda of sorts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just don’t know how
the powers that be are going to address this problem of not enough of Us and
too many of Them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The scales have tipped
and when the scales tip, usually the solution is a fairly drastic one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I won’t be around for that, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least I don’t think so. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That’s a fine question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Who are we indeed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, we’re
not angels so you can put that idea out of your head right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are without names, actually, because we
can’t really be described.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Look, when
someone does something that appears to be heroic they can never explain why ,
can they?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Any “on the spot” news
interview you’ve ever seen has someone who ran into a burning building to save
a baby or pulled a puppy off of the cracking ice or chased down an old lady’s
purse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you know what their answer
always is when they're asked why they did it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That’s right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s “I
don’t know. Something just told me to do it.” Am I right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Well, that's Us.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>You see, to create another one of Us there
has to be a strong wave of belief, and that’s just not happening anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yours is an instant society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pictures or it didn’t happen, isn’t that what
you say?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too few humans are willing to
believe a fantastic story without photos or video, and therein lies the
rub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For one of us to be created, we can’t be seen like you can
see a flower or see a bird.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only
perceived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Out of the corner of one’s
eye or a whisper in one’s ear and your world, well, it’s just too plain noisy
for us to be noticed most of the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You all live in your own little places and your own little spaces and
there’s no evening campfire or rocking chairs on a porch to talk about what was
felt and noticed and let the stories come together where a pattern
develops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The common experiences are…
noticed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The internet doesn’t allow for
it either, sadly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These things must be
shared face to face, not a picture with a quippy caption.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We can’t be formed if we aren’t noticed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Noticed” and “seen” are different, by the
way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When everything has settled and you’ve had a chance to
think, really think, about how if things had happened any other way, it could
have been so much worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> again. And don't feel guilty, i</span>t’s
natural and completely understandable that you, collectively I mean, not you
specifically, would flee from and explosion or turn your back to not see a
child hit by a car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your first duty to
your species is to survive and it’s that part of your brain that kicks in when
things go awry.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We cause some of you to run the other way. Toward the blood
and the broken glass and the gun shots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let
me tell you that those who do run toward the danger aren’t better than anyone else, and they’d tell
you the same thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They do it, because
we compel them to. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We compel some of you
to stand barrier while those fools picket funerals they have no business
sticking their nose in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We compel some
of you to shield a woman you don’t know from falling glass or jump onto the
tracks to rescue someone who’s fallen just before a train rolls in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s Us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">How’s it done?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Another good question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
different for each of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We work things
in the way that suits us best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
instance, I’m not one to do the whisper in your ear thing. It works well for
others, but more of a nudger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I push
here and push there until they do what I want them to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used
to be a little more subtle, but like I said, I’m old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too old for subtle, anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of us, a handsome fellow actually, is
the master of the subliminal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know,
he once left a fortune cookie message for someone three days before she was
meant to fall asleep on the train, get off at the next stop, and discover an
abandoned baby?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was good. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Look, what I’m telling you is that what you’re feeling is
completely natural.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You noticed
something the other day and you’ve got no one to tell about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Share your experience
with others who were there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tell them
what you saw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tell them that you saw a
man run toward a situation that could have gotten him killed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then listen while they tell the story of
the woman who took off her Dolce & Gabanna scarf for someone to use as a tourniquet
and then offered her expensive Range Rover as a makeshift ambulance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She could have jumped in and driven for the
hills, you know.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And listen again while another tells the story of a man who
told three little girls about an island of unicorns <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>while EMT’s worked on their unresponsive
mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Listen again and again until the pattern develops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What pattern?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ahh…here's my master plan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bad things
happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can’t do anything about that,
because we’re not allowed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s their
territory and we can only manage what happens after.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If, and
only if, you and your fellow humans can continue noticing the heroes and the
small ways you found to love and care for eachother even as strangers, there
will be more of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And more of us means
that we will equal or outnumber them. We'll have tipped the scales without the "intervention", so to speak. Are you with me?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, don’t worry about me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not going to die in the classic sense of
the word…I’ll age and then pass into a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>different form.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">No, not a ghost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As dogs, we can so the same sort of
thing, but we have to let our tails and tongues do the talking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> It's easier in a way, really. I wish I could choose, but I have little control over what sort of dog I will be. </span>Frankly the best I can hope for is a shaggy
mutt in the average family with 2.5 children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I shudder to think that I’ll become one of those tiny barky things or God forbid, a poor pitbull destined for the ring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Come to think of it, those tiny barky things
all seem to think they're pitbulls anyway...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Them?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, of
course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They move on, the same way we
do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, not as dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have thought that would have been
obvious considering the shape this discussion has taken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thankfully, their powers are gone, but the attitude remains. They, my dear, become cats. </span></div>
totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-85899280410013325432013-03-31T13:39:00.003-07:002013-03-31T13:48:40.191-07:00To Be is To Do.It is complete coincidence that I choose to revive this blog on Easter, the day all Christians celebrate the ressurection of Jesus Christ. I capitalize here out of respect, because while I am unlikely to ever have any gospels written about me unless I write them myself, I do appreciate when folks capitalize my name, and even some of my self-given titles. (The Shelfdust Gourmet comes to mind.)<br />
<br />
I have several blogs which have been started and abandoned, mostly in favor of the quick thought-sharing that facebook allows us. Facebook is ultimately for facebookers, not for writers.<br />
<br />
And I am, that. A writer. I'm also a fiber artist, a cook, a marathon walker, a sci-fi nerd, several other things that I only wish people to know about after my passing. (You know, the juicy "Bridges of Madison Couny" stuff that no one ever wants to read about Granny having done...) <br />
<br />
Lately, I've been feeling the itch of phrases which repeat themselves in my head because they want to be written. Those moments where I observe people and craft their lives are becoming longer, more detailed. I'm staring at people in the same way that an inventor stares at a pile of pipes or a drawer full of cogs and springs. Rude as it is, that only happens when I'm fashioning characters.<br />
<br />
Thanks to a recent blog post by Neil Gaiman that you actually have to be writing to be a writer, I've decided that facebook will be for pet pictures, quick updates, venting about traffic and all the stuff I would tell you if you sat next to me at work. <br />
<br />
This is where the meaty stuff will go. Except the "Shocking Things That Granny Alia Did". You'll have to look for the shoebox to get that. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-20618429696907909702009-06-14T13:25:00.001-07:002009-06-14T13:54:56.188-07:00Random Thoughts at the Kosher DeliI have a variety of "Food Rules" that I am trying to get over. <br /><br />Some of them, I've been successful at breaking, others not so much. You could say that I'm picky, and I would agree with you, but mostly, I just need to know what it is that I am eating. I do not willy-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">nilly</span> put foodstuffs into my mouth without knowing what the source and preparation of said food entails. <br /><br />The other difficult thing is that I think in simile. I need to be able to classify something as like something and/or something else in order to feel comfortable with it. Even if said simile is a little far-fetched.<br /><br />For instance -<br /><br />Kiwi is like mango, banana, and raspberry in a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">moshpit</span>. <br /><br />Fish tacos are like <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">fish sticks</span> who feel <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">alseep</span> in Maine and woke up in Mexico.<br /><br />Water Ice is like a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Kool</span>-Aid blizzard.<br /><br />Sashimi is like Charlie Tuna just took a shower.<br /><br />Yesterday, while waiting for Charlie and Brian to get boxes in order to help Charlie move his <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">eleventy</span>-billion legal tomes (Who KNEW you needed boxes to move????) Zach and I took a walk to the Kosher deli down the street.<br /><br />For those who do not know Zach, he's an ethnic Jew whose only tie to the faith is his love for all foods normally classified as Jewish. He jokingly says that he allows himself to be Jewish four times a year and apparently, I hit him on one of these days. <br /><br />This was going to be a meal of foods that I had never tried and I will do my best to describe them in my own way. I'd had bagels and cream cheese before, and probably so have you so I won't go into that...but...<br /><br />Whitefish Salad is like a wealthy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">hippy</span>. Mellow, but rich...with a slight fishiness about it.<br /><br />Cucumber salad is like a rain shower in the summer. Crisp, clean, a slight tang and a little sweetness.<br /><br />Noodle <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Kugel</span> was probably the hardest to describe. It was sweet and cinnamon-y, like Flan but it had the texture of a tuna casserole without the tuna. So, Noodle <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Kugel</span> - Cross Dressing Pasta. Looks like dinner, but tastes like dessert.totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-31176848642094659132009-03-19T14:59:00.000-07:002009-03-19T16:12:24.535-07:00What's worse than a root canal?TWO root canals. Thankfully, I only had to have one.<br /><br />Apparently, when life is already at the peak of anxiety producing events, the mere thought of a root canal will push you over the edge. I could feel it coming when I was sitting in the waiting room watching The View, a 1/2 hour past my appointment time and trying in vain to ignore the whine of the drill on someone else.<br /><br />The office lady checked in with me to ask me how I was doing..."Umm..okay I guess. A little freaked out." I could feel my heart rate rising and said "You know...this might be everyday stuff to you guys, but I promise I won't tell you you're condescending to me if you all treat me like I'm five. Really...I won't."<br /><br />The assistant finally called me in and I took one look at all the instruments and vials laid out and I lost it. I sat there in the chair...37 year old me...and started crying. She was very nice, but a little misguided..."Oh...it's not that bad...just imagine yourself on a beach. With one of those little umber-ella drinks."<br /><br />On a beach. So...root canals can be conquered by the thought of sunburn and sand up my ass! Why didn't I think of that?? And as far as Umber Ella drinks, I'm not sure who Umber Ella is, but if she's not sharing, I don't want to hear it.<br /><br />Then the dentist comes in, sees that I'm crying, and delivers the same strategy. "Imagine you're on a beach....like in Jamaica!" and then as an aside. "I've never been to Jamaica, but I hear it's nice." <br /><br />Wait....If you've never been to Jamaica, then how to you know that it's not just a tropical version of the movie SAW or... or...like a dread-lock version of a visit with my Rebublican, Christian-Right relatives? *sigh* No time to ponder that because out comes the needle, which I'm pretty sure is the same size they use to innoculate elephants. <br /><br />"You're going to feel some heavy pressure..." she says. Um...no...heavy pressure is when my cat lays on my back in the middle of the night. That's pain, honey...and telling me to breathe through my nose and not hold my breath is all well and good when you're on the other side of that bad boy. Feel free to inhale and exhale to your hearts content. I'm going to hold my breath and hope that that stuff works fast or that holding my breath will make me pass out. Either way, I'm golden.<br /><br />At last, the entire left side of my face (and probably portions of my frontal lobe) are comfortably numb. This is good....this isn't so bad, I say to myself as she attaches some sort of tent fly to my mouth, cutting my tongue off from the outside world, and I begin to imagine that the region south of my nose now resembles the Sydney Opera House. <br /><br />What follows is a rather one sided account as - with some sort of jaw jack holding my mouth open and the latex topsail over my mouth - I couldn't have gotten an intelligble sentence out anyway. So, these are the thoughts I had somewhere between the drill that looked like a mini-dry wall screw and "You're done! Let's rinse that mouth out."<br /><br /><em>Why yes, that suction hose is a little far back. I'm glad you were able to discern that from my widened eyes, panicky grunts, and gagging.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>No, it's not the suction hose again. You're leaning on the jaw jack. I don't have a cleft palate, but I will if you keep it up.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>An Ipod! What a great suggestion! I will certainly remember to bring it next time.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>I don't have to sneeze. I don't have to sneeze. I don't have to sneeze.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>You want me to go ahead and pull that chin hair while I'm down here? No really...it's the least I can do.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Antibiotic? No........you didn't. Wonderful. I'm going to get brain rot now, aren't I?</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Define "okay".</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>I think you've reached my cerebellum! Nice job. Do me a favor...if you're going in...map it for me would you? Ta!</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Thanks for the charming anecdote about the patient who requires three shots of bourbon before he gets his teeth worked on. That's comforting. </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Wait...is that what a human being on fire smells like? If so, irrigation would be perfect right about now.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Umm....your sleeve is in my face. In my face. Your sleeve. Sleeve!! Face!!!! POSSIBLE SNEEZE HAZARD!! helllooooooo???? I'm okay with the sneeze, but are you prepared for what happens when the latex thingie snaps back!!???</em><br /><em></em><br />So...a full two and a half hours after my original appointment time ended, I was drained, packed, sealed and ready to roll out of there. Now, it wasn't as bad as I had originally psyched myself up for, but it still rates on the list of things that are H. U.F (highly un-fun) like...child birth, staff meetings, and the rare occasion when a panty liner shifts and exposes the adhesive.<br /><br />I forget what the next round of this dental drama is called, but I hear tell I'm getting stitches. <br /><br />Anyone know Umber Ella's number?<br /><br /><br /><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em>totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-60251577564551511432009-03-03T18:31:00.000-08:002009-06-29T15:17:56.075-07:00"Your Visit"I arrive with a pepper box full of Chinese food and someone bellows “Ian your visit is here!” The side door opens to admit me. I am greeted with a kiss and an admission that he was worried that I wasn’t coming. A large black woman pulls us aside and asks in a librarian’s tone would I please, while we have our lunch, have a discussion with him about disrespecting.<br /><br />I have to lay my hand on his chest twice and remind him to let her talk. He talks over us anyway as I try hard to focus on her voice while she tells her story about a refusal of medication and his harsh words in response to her insistence. In the end, I stand between them while they talk out their perspectives. I remind him to apologize and he does.<br /><br />Usually, we go to the ping pong room and this time, I’m ready with a new set of paddles and a dozen new ping pong balls since the last time I was here, we got a little enthusiastic and lost the ping pong ball in the eaves. His is roommate is at home for the weekend and we can go to the room his shares with one other boy. I put the box of take-out down on the desk. <div><br /></div><div>“It’s a little messy.” He says.<br /><br />There is popcorn all over the floor, his bed is unmade, and the closet is topsy-turvy but it doesn’t look anything like the room at home.... the room I left the way it was so when I miss him, I can open the door and remind myself why he needs to be away. We talk again about his medication and he says he didn’t want to take it because he didn’t want to be sleepy when I got there. </div><div><br /></div><div>His hands shake while he rifles through the box of food for the white rice he knows is there.<br /><br />They shake like his father’s hands. They shake like MY father’s hands. I push those thoughts aside. This time will be different. This child will be different. This time we know more. This child will not drink himself to death or end up an unemployed hermit battling a world who doesn’t understand.<br /><br />We talk about his week. He shrugs and doesn’t offer much detail.<br /><br />After lunch, I offer to help him clean up his space and he goes in search of a vacuum cleaner. We find it in the closet. Here, there are shelves lined with plastic bins where they keep their shower supplies. His is not there. When I ask about it he says he doesn’t want to give them the chance to steal his soap any more. Two bars in a week.<br /><br />We clean his room and I notice a scrawl in blue permanent marker on his desk. I WILL NOT AWOL EVAR AGAIN. He says there is nothing stopping him from jumping out the window and running and the other night. He really wanted to, but wrote that on the desk instead.<br /><br />I remind him that there's nothing but trees around him for miles.<br /><br />“Yeah, you’re right.” he says. “Besides, they took my shoes anyway. I wouldn’t get far in flip flops in the middle of February.”<br /><br />His room clean, we play ping pong for a while and one of the balls gets away from us. A small, black boy in Chuck Taylors walks by it, picks it up and examines it. He tucks it into the inner pocket of his jacket and disappears down a hallway. Ian says he’ll get it back later or maybe he’ll let him keep it. He hasn’t decided.<br /><br />Soon, he grows tired of ping pong and we go back to his room. We are met in the hall by a boy dressed in leafy camouflage who speaks and walks as if time moves faster than it does. “Ian you have a visit. I haven’t had a visit since Christmas. Not since Christmas” he says admiringly.<br /><br />“Maybe they couldn’t get time off.” My son offers.<br /><br />“No!” he shakes his head. “My father is a cop. The Chief of Police. And he could get off anytime he wants but they haven’t come to see me since Christmas, but that’s okay because the staff are going to bring me a PS2 cord because I don’t get visits that often. Do you like Techno or Metal?”<br /><br />I look at Ian who I can tell isn’t really sure what Techno is. “I think you’re more of a Metal kind of guy.” I suggest and Ian accepts it.<br /><br />“Yeah, Metal.”<br /><br />The young man moves to speak again when a staff member calls down the hall that he’s to leave Ian’s visit alone.<br /><br />Back in his room, we spend some time blowing a ping pong ball back and forth at each other across the desk and I notice the paperback of Lord of the Flies I brought him last time.<br /><br />I ask what he thinks of it and he says he hadn’t started it yet. He asks me to read some. A few times the flow of the story is broken by commotion from the hallway. Staff bellowing about broken rules and altercations between kids. “That’s why you’re on bathroom precautions! I don’t want you in there looking at my ass when I’m in there you fucking faggot!”<br /><br />I say, “There’s always something going on, huh?”<br /><br />He shrugs and motions me to start reading again. We come to the part where they find the conch shell and the boys come from out of the forest onto the beach and the skull-splitting tempo of techno comes loudly through the wall. Ian bangs on it with the back of his arm but the volume doesn’t change. Ian bangs again and there are answering knocks and increase of volume.<br /><br />He sighs and his face becomes set. “This is disrespectful.” </div><div><br /></div><div>He shuffles himself off the bed and walks to the neighboring room where the music is so loud that he needs to knock twice. I follow in case things get heated. The door opens and the cop’s son’s face appears in the crack of the door.<br /><br />“Oh, sorry." You’re still with your visit.” He says to Ian. “I’ll turn it down. I apologize.”<br /><br />I wonder out loud as we walk back to his room “When did I become a visit? I thought I was a person.”<br /><br />“You are a person.” Ian says. “You’re my mom.”</div>totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-70298261611272222502008-07-28T11:01:00.001-07:002008-07-28T11:59:27.788-07:00Ghostbusting, room cleanup style.I flipped on the light, illuminating a room that was sparse and neat at first glance. I paused for a moment to look around before crossing the cheap landlord-special brown carpet to retrieve the empty Wal-Mart bag on the desk. The crinkle of the plastic reverberated against the bare walls in that buzzy echo that sounds like moving day.<br /><br />A low-sitting futon style frame supported a made up twin mattress in the corner by the closet. The surfaces of the hand-me-down desk and bureau were bare with the exception of a shoebox that contained a pair of workboots and a grandmotherly side-table lamp.<br /><br />I sighed and it too echoed against the walls. An iridescent soccer ball. A beat up acoustic guitar in and even more beat up case. Hand-me-down furniture. A bright yellow bookcase held a few books – James Patterson’s Maximum Ride series, Dean Koontz’s Odd Thomas, Ripley’s Believe it Or Not 2006, The Zombie Survival Guide, and a handful of trivia books were the only real clue as to whom this room might belong.<br /><br />This room should have more in it, I thought. It once had. Anger, pain, and sadness had consumed most of an adolescent boy’s possessions.<br /><br />The barren walls told their own story. Depression had trashed them, staining the paint with a cup of tea thrown in rage. Remnants of a pizza slice that had also gone the way of the tea cup. Blood from a late-lost molar spewed against the closet door and mirror. Gouges. Holes. Singe marks.And the carpet where snake-like indents bore the reminder of string set alight and then dropped when they became to hot to hold.<br /><br />The walls and carpet would be taken care of next weekend, I thought. Right now, what mattered was how this room had changed. He’s been in treatment for six months and after a few upbeat weekend visits, we tackled his room together.<br /><br />“Dude.” I said to him mid-Saturday morning. “I’m going to tidy up the house a bit and at noon we are going to start on your room.”His face fell and I could see the memory of pre-treatment attempts to get his room clean play across his face. Yelling. Tears. Door-slamming. An all-day entombment in chaos.<br /><br />“Don’t worry, dude. Here’s the deal. I’m going to help. We’ll start at noon, and we’ll be done at two. What we get done is what we get done. It’s not going to be an all-day thing.”<br /><br />“You’re going to help?”“Yep.” I confirmed. “That’s too much for anyone to handle alone. So…about a half-hour more of your game, and then we start. Kay?”<br /><br />“Kay.”And start we did.We moved furniture. We broke down what wasn’t serviceable anymore and threw it away. He held the dustpan while I swept the under-bed detritus into the trashcan.<br /><br /> Together we, squeamishly pried what might have been a half-eaten apple up off the carpet.<br /><br /> Together, we negotiated the placement of the furniture that went back into his room. He vacuumed. I Febreezed.<br /><br />Then, we celebrated the completion of the project 15 minutes ahead of schedule.A different outlook in less than two hours. That was my secret goal and I hoped that it would catch on.<br /><br />Over a late Chinese Buffet lunch, I remarked. “Dude, your room has a completely different orientation now. “Just like my head” he said, not skipping a beat. Not slow on the up-take, this one.<br /><br />Next weekend, we’ll spackle and paint to remove the last remaining ghosts of who he was before treatment from his walls. (He’s already called dibs on the spackling job.) Hopefully by the time he comes home next weekend, I will have completed a cotton rug to give a new face to the melt-scarred carpet.<br /><br />Then, we’ll work on the rest of the décortotouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-71692509587315427782008-07-20T12:27:00.000-07:002008-12-09T02:54:11.627-08:00Tankgirl wardrobe, here I come!<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3D0cOoRXwPA/SIORx-4LYEI/AAAAAAAAABg/nmmSFBAMLPk/s1600-h/Sweater.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225180280558149698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3D0cOoRXwPA/SIORx-4LYEI/AAAAAAAAABg/nmmSFBAMLPk/s320/Sweater.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />As first sweaters go, this has all the classic "um...you did it wrong" elements. <br /><br />Gaping holes - check<br />misshapen pieces - check (the raglan pieces on the left side of the back sticks up)<br />Bunched up seams - check<br /><br />Overall, it looks like wardrobe from a Sci-Fi channel post-apocalypse movie. Which, when you think about it it would be pretty accurate. It's acrylic and I'm sure that somewhere in some landfill, the neon green crop topped acrylic sweater I wore in the 7th grade is still hanging around next to the jelly bracelets and broken Walkman headphones.<br /><br />This sweater was my yarn Dragon. Up until this point I had yet to complete a wearable and I would be damned if I was going to frog another attempt. This sweater was going to be made regardless of its warts. It was a necessary hurdle and even though it looks like my foot caught and I went down face first on the track, there is one thing this sweater has going for it.<br /><br />It fits. And it flatters. Even my son said so.<br /><br />So, I'm keeping it and I will wear it. Maybe for the photoshoot my co-worker swears is in my future after watching me "manage" our psychotic boss. <br /><br />"You're next months centerfold for Ass Kicking magazine."totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-48098001012678464352008-06-07T12:35:00.000-07:002008-12-09T02:54:11.838-08:00A Yarn is Born!<div>A little while ago, I bought a lot (as in a one-price for many objects deal) of wool yarn. In that lot as a vintage skein in cream, or natural. I thought, well, I didn't pay much for it and I want to see what I can do so I bought some Kool Aid packets, read up on the process and went to town. </div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>What resulted, is this.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209226750718115922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="184" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_3D0cOoRXwPA/SErkIU8EAFI/AAAAAAAAABY/17W6E6Ml6pY/s320/azimuth.jpg" width="294" border="0" /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>A color way I have named Azimuth. I did a little swatcheroo after untangling the yarn barf that always seems to accompany a balling project with no swift. </div><div> </div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div>totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-88058512797512190002008-06-04T17:56:00.000-07:002009-06-29T15:22:31.288-07:00Stupid Should Hurt...<div>...and it does.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>How many people do you know that can say:</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"I screwed up my knee in an unfortunate recumbent biking accident." ?</div><div> </div><div> </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208195836383380386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 321px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 238px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="267" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_3D0cOoRXwPA/SEc6hNxMw6I/AAAAAAAAABQ/YPF_8Z1GcnY/s320/Ian+on+bike..jpg" width="321" border="0" /><br /><div></div><div>Here's my kid on the bike in question. It's a jaunty little ride, a bit like pedaling an office chair and it's quite comfortable for long, flat surfaces like the trail near Valley Forge. By design, however, there is no such thing as "Look mom! No hands!" as the front wheel is so small, you need to keep a constant grip on it or it will spin off into oblivion.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>I wish I could tell you that I hit a rock or that my son had made a quick move and I had to brake quickly...or that I hurt my knee by stopping suddenly to save a tiny kitten from certain traffic annihilation.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>Alas, confession is good for the soul, so I will tell you that I tried to answer my cell phone will still in motion which sent the front wheel into a death roll and I had to put my leg down fast to stabilize myself. The impact rocketed right through my knee.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>After swearing in who knows what language, I flipped open my phone.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>"Hello." I said faintly, it was my friend Ken.</div><div> </div><div>"Are you okay?" he asked.<br /></div><div>"I just racked my knee."</div><div> </div><div>"Are you okay?"</div><div> </div><div>It was at this point that all my dignity fell away. "I think I peed a little."</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>He paused for what I think must have been three blinks and answered, 'Well, do you want to go to an art opening?"</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>I politely declined after polling my son who assured me that he was "all set" with the art opening idea and I managed to ride home. I spent the evening watching my left kneecap disappear like a boulder at high tide.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>I'm better now. I can bear weight and the swelling has gone down significantly. I hope to be pretty much near normal mobility for the weekend. </div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>If not, I'll hobble as much as I can, because it's not my son's fault his mother is a dumbass. </div>totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-79378871929446800172008-05-28T18:28:00.000-07:002008-12-09T02:54:12.413-08:00The Fire Within...<div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_3D0cOoRXwPA/SD4HZCXIfII/AAAAAAAAABA/Kc5YJOSeSOM/s1600-h/burn+pony+burn.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205606345998892162" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" height="209" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_3D0cOoRXwPA/SD4HZCXIfII/AAAAAAAAABA/Kc5YJOSeSOM/s320/burn+pony+burn.JPG" width="145" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>I've done it yet again. I packed up the car and let the GPS take me to a place I have never been to do something I have never done for the purpose of allowing it to change me somehow.<br /></div><div>When I leave on these journeys, I am always hopeful that I will at least learn something and come home with a new skill. A really good bungee jump out into the world will peel back your skull, and press and prod your gray matter into a slightly different shape. The better to absorb things with, my dear.</div><div><br /> </div><div>If that's the case, the time spent on the Playa opened up my cranium and let my brain walk free with everyone else's. </div><div></div><br /><div>I would tell the story, but those who were there will understand. </div><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_3D0cOoRXwPA/SD4InCXIfJI/AAAAAAAAABI/1vlvjhRAXag/s1600-h/tophatonsuspension+rig.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205607686028688530" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" height="153" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_3D0cOoRXwPA/SD4InCXIfJI/AAAAAAAAABI/1vlvjhRAXag/s320/tophatonsuspension+rig.JPG" width="196" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Those who weren't, won't. Not really. Not....really. The Playa is something that can only be experienced.<br /></div><div>And even if I tried I wouldn't do it justice anyway..I've tried three times and my mouth is too small to contain it. It feels like blasphemy.</div></div>totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-44420976713208136232008-05-04T18:17:00.000-07:002008-05-04T19:26:52.829-07:00Bahhhhhhh....Ram.....& you!I'd done this sort of thing before...travelling someplace I had never been to learn about something I knew little to nothing about. It's a pattern with me. Some might say... a sickness not unlike my overuse of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ellipses</span>.<br /><br />This time, I was to board a bus from from somewhere inside Philadelphia which was bound for a destination somewhere outside Baltimore for the purpose of attending a Sheep and Wool Festival.<br /><br />What 's a sheep and wool festival? I'm glad you asked. It's sort of like a mass introduction of one group of people - The producers of yarn and yarn-related anythings with their equal and opposite counterparts - the people who wish to buy them.<br /><br />As with anything, there are some who would consider the prospect of a Sheep and Wool Festival to be <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">oxymoronic</span> at best (the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">OAB's</span>) and others who get very, very exited about it (the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">VVE's</span>) I was about to board a bus with 100 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">VVE's</span> followed closely by another 100 in seperate bus, all setting sail from one little yarn shop.<br /><br />Even odder, to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">OAB's</span> is the fact that we must have leapfrogged 10 other buses full of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">VVE's</span> on the way down. Since I'm not a spinner or a knitter, most of the conversation was foreign to me so I kept quiet except for an occasional expletive when I dropped my hook and a thank you when it was returned to me.<br /><br />I did manage to ask someone if that was a Mike-n-Ike under their seat or did they lose a needle <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">covery</span> thing. It was a Mike-n-Ike.<br /><br />Anyway, the event.<br /><br />I go to these sorts of things to learn stuff, but also to reconnect myself with humanity at large and to remind myself that no, I am neither the most fashion challenged person on the planet, nor the oddest looking one.<br /><br />Everyone except me, it would seem, had something that they had created on or about their persons. There were sweaters, tops, shawls, belts, headbands, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">headwraps</span>, skirts, bags, swaddling clothes, you name it.<br /><br />To me, it was like walking the streets of a bazaar in a country I had never been to. Constant chatter hummed around me broken only by the occasional <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">MMMMMMBLEEEEEAAAAAGGGHHH</span> of a sheep or ram. (Ram, by the way, have freakishly large <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">testicles</span>. I'm pretty sure that a hollowed out sheep nut could house an Indonesian family.)<br /><br />There were shouts of glee at the prices a particular yarn hawker was offering. There were shouts of recognition as old friends and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">cyber-fr</span>iends recognized <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">each other</span> across paddocks. There were shouts of "Oh, crap!" as those distracted by all the colorful string walked right into fresh piles of sheep poop.<br /><br />What stuck me most is that fiber artists are such a diverse group that we cannot be stereotyped. The common images of the crunchy patchouli-soaked weaver or the knitter with as many cats as grandchildren just don't hold up.<br /><br />We come in as many colors and weights and fibers as there were yarns available at this gig and we do just about as many things with it all. As for me, I took some time to see all this through my camera lens and then set about doing some shopping.<br /><br />Most <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">notable</span> of my purchases is a skein of "naked" wool yarn for the purpose of dyeing it myself with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Kool</span>-Aid. Apparently it's not just for deranged cult leaders anymore!<br /><br />I also came home with a sunburn that looked not unlike a yoke around my neck, but that's alright. I have bigger worries...most importantly, how I can get a note to the U.N. about having solved the world housing crisis through sheep testicle technology.<br /><br />You can see some pictures, here. <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bean_sidhe/?savedsettings=2465624787#photo2465624787">http://www.flickr.com/photos/bean_sidhe/?savedsettings=2465624787#photo2465624787</a><br /><br />Of the event, not the ram balls.totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-66614756523573395032008-05-01T16:06:00.000-07:002008-05-01T20:06:38.647-07:00NoMo Noro - The Winner AnnouncedI have to admit, some of the answers confused me and had me asking questions like...<br /><br />"They know this is wool, right?"<br /><br />and<br /><br />"I already felted it..."<br /><br />Regardless, a winner must be chosen and so choose I shall.<br /><br />*tick tick tick tick*<br /><br />*DING!*<br /><br />As fun as your ideas are, I get the feeling that none of you (dubiously) rational grownups REALLY want this atrocity, so I will award it to the wee ones Alora and Athena because mom is right! Little girls don't care about anything but how BRIGHT and PINK something is. (I like me some bright and pink too, but...jeesh, throw some black in there will ya?)<br /><br />And also because my name is Alia and I think that a hat shared between us three girls with unusual A names is a good way to pass something on.totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-61973338662358292222008-04-21T19:26:00.000-07:002008-12-09T02:54:12.630-08:00NoMo Noro<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3D0cOoRXwPA/SA6UHBCfoCI/AAAAAAAAAA4/92Wd9V-liek/s1600-h/CIMG3774.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3D0cOoRXwPA/SA6UHBCfoCI/AAAAAAAAAA4/92Wd9V-liek/s320/CIMG3774.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192250268663652386" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Many would call me a yarn wimp. </div><div> </div><br /><div>I am intimidated by yarns. Really. I am. My usual "what the hell" nature is stymied in most yarn stores and I seldom buy more than one ball of any yarn in any colorway. <br /><br />Right now, my stash looks like the discount bin in the back of the store. Truth be told, that's where I get most of my summa dis/summa dat yarn anyway. </div><div> </div><br /><div>I thought to myself one day in mid-March that if I was going to buy only one ball, that it was time to figure out what this Noro stuff was all about and for some reason, I chose a colorway that is indescribable in its hideousness. <br /><br />I tried. Believe me. I did. I can't help but draw similies in my head for what a yarn's colorway reminds me of and this stuff had me stumped.</div><br /><div> </div>Some of the contenders were:<div> </div><br /><div>Cotton candy on acid. After a hit of heroin. Because it was out of meth.</div><br /><div>Skittles vomited by a clown.</div><br /><div>A clown vomited by a pink elephant.</div><br /><div>A multi-racial Peep jousting event gone wrong.</div><div> </div><br /><div>You see where I am going with this. I had to be rid of it and since I had but little of it and it's colorway prevented a trade, I decided to fulfill my friend Jane's joking request for a toilet paper cover. I would create a toilet paper cover so large as to use every last inch of this obnoxious stuff and then felt it.</div><div> </div><br /><div>What resulted was a baskety shape large enough to hide the jumbo tub of cheese doodles I got for Christmas, but haven't made my way through yet.<br /><br /> </div><div> </div><div>After a trip though the washer, I was nervous. It was still big enough to hide a baby in. Hopefully, a blind baby.<br /><br />The dryer didn't help either. Either Charmin was going to have to come up with toilet paper rolls large enough to wipe King Kong's bum...or I was going to have a hideous, useless, something or other to contend with.<br /><br />So, I don't know what to do with this atrocity. Maybe some of you can suggest uses. I don't have the heart to foist it on a charity.<br /></div><br /><div> </div>My model for this picture, bless his heart, loves me enough just enough to allow me to use his cranium but only for a very short time.<br /><br /><div> </div>"Take a picture quick! It's sucking my soul out."<br /><br />Just having it in my possession is slowly bleeding mine.<br /><br />Sooo....what do I do with it?<br /><br />Best answer gets it. Leave a comment here or on Ravelry.<br /><br /><div> </div><br /><div> </div>totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6313949450372073618.post-66549572841217402382008-04-13T07:34:00.001-07:002013-04-19T09:54:11.679-07:00Praise Nigel and Pass the PomegranateI have a fascination for world religions even I don't understand.<br />
<br />
Ever since the third grade when Jessica Whats-her-Name in her green Izod sweater was strong-armed by the evil (and most likely alien) Mrs. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">MacVane</span></span> into talking about being Jewish and what <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Hanukkah</span> was all about, I have been hooked.<br />
<br />
No Christmas?? What??? Hell, my parents are atheist hippies but we still had Christmas!!!<br />
<br />
What means this word Jewish? Are there more people like that who have no concept of a chimney and how it relates to a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">squalling</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">brat in a barn somewhere in a place with no snow? I needed to know. There was a shift in my whole concept of the world and now I required data to balance the scales again. </span><br />
<span class="blsp-spelling-error"></span><br />
<span class="blsp-spelling-error">Since then, I have had a sense of wonder about what humans believe, why they believe it, and how that belief system came to be. In short, I am intrigued by what each culture has in its Rule Book. (The Koran, The Bible, The Talmud, and for some...the Hobbit. These are all Rule Books.)<br /><br /></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error"></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error"></span><br />
My Encyclopedia of World Religions is more tattered and battered than the vintage copy of the Betty <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Crocker</span></span> Cookbook my grandmother gave me as a wedding present and I try to peruse it without judgement. After all, my belief system is based on no other tenet than "It seems to work for me."<br /><br />When the universe communicates with me it's wearing tattered jeans, a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">CBGB</span> t-shirt and it speaks with a voice not unlike Anthony <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Bourdain</span>. Some people may find that alarming and I don't blame them. I'm a little unnerved myself. <br />
Back to the book. The encyclopedia is three inches of history and facts and in my estimation it could probably be summed up in a brochure to be printed and included in the "Welcome to Earth - Please Don't Eat Us" packet the President has in his Emergency Flying Saucer Kit. <br />
We are all colors of the rainbow and instruments in the symphony, but there are basic rules in every Rule Book that are all the same. It's my position that that's how things started until we humans decided we needed to have clubhouses and rules to keep the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Starbellies</span> in and the None-Upon-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Thars</span> (The Nuts) out. <br />
Yes, humans evolved somewhere along the line into creatures that not only need food, water, air, and light, but we have developed lobes in our brains to meter our level of "feeling special". Oh, wait. According the rule books that part of our brains was not evolution, it was a gift from....(This is the part where I come up with a snazzy <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">acronym</span> for the God /Allah /Jehovah /<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Spaghettimonster</span> /Tree Goddess /<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Rockpile</span> that would make everyone happy. Instead, I think I'll just call it Nigel because I like how hard Nigel is to rhyme in a hymn without making it sound like a wet sneeze.) <br />
Anyway...<br />
The Basic Concepts of Religion As I See Them:<br /><br />1. Be Nice<br />
The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Do's</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Don'ts</span> are delivered quite clearly very early on in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">every one's</span> Rule Book. Like the first day of summer camp, Nigel spells it all out in the hopes that each camper will take it to heart. <br />
Be Nice. <br />
It's really as simple as that. With the enormously useful brain Nigel gave us should be able to handle that. But....we aren't. Each Rule Book has had to become a No Human Left Behind Manual that teaches to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">every one's</span> learning style. Songs, stories, object lessons, word problems, chem labs, it's all in there because we couldn't get the basic first rule. Be Nice.<br />
2. Identify and Exclude the Nuts.<br />
Every rule book has at least a chapter, sometimes entire volumes relating to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">indentifying</span> the Nuts. That can be boiled down just as simply as "Be Nice" and in just as many words.<br />
You're Wrong or it's natural twin- We're Right. <br />
You're Wrong and We're Right are the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Tweedle</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Dum</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Tweedle</span> Dee of human belief systems. Except instead of a nice new rattle, entire geographic regions have been spoiled when You're Wrong and We're Right resolved to have a battle.<br />
3. Consult the Menu<br />
Every belief system comes with its own menu. Please consult your personal Nigel for today's offerings. A word of caution for those of you who might consider sampling from the menus of other belief systems - Kosher for Passover Cheese Ravioli tastes exactly like you would expect it to. <br />
4. Wear Your Best<br />
Each belief system has its own wardrobe of clothing for worship and ceremonies. Sometimes, this extends to special headgear as well. The standard rule appears to be that you should don your best glad rags when visiting Nigel's house or when you expect Nigel to visit yours. According to some Rule Books, you should be prepared for a surprise visit at any time, but if Nigel's going to knock you up at 3 am, then your pink poodle pajamas are the least of your worries. <br />
Apparently, prayer is more like making a phone call, in which you can be as dressed or undressed as you like and I've even heard of cases where someone <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">else's</span> state of dress has resulted in fervent prayer on the part of the observer. This is hearsay, mind you. I can neither confirm, nor deny.<br />
5. Suspension of Disbelief<br />
The one thing you have to remember when reading the Rule Books is that Nigel used to do some really cool space/time bending tricks. Hundreds of people were fed on a couple of sardines and a bagel. People woke up after being very, very asleep. Nigel landscaped like no one's business, and in the blink of an eye. <br />
It's probably good he doesn't really do that kind of major universe manipulation anymore and sticks to saving newborns caught in tornadoes and making sure footballs get to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">end zones</span>. I don't think we'd appreciate the magnitude of the miracles, if he did. <br />
<br /><em>"Anthony Bourdain! The water's turned to wine again! I had a load of whites in, Nigel dammit!"</em> You see what I mean. <br />
So that's really it. <br />
<strong>Be Nice.</strong><br />
<strong><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Identify</span> and Exclude the Nuts.</strong><br />
<strong>Consult the Menu</strong><br />
<strong>Wear Your Best</strong><br />
<strong>Expect Weird Things to Happen.</strong> <br />
It really doesn't get any more complicated than that if you boil it all down to stock. At least, it doesn't for me. Your Nigel may vary.totouchistoheal@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13606568621131351506noreply@blogger.com1