I Has Moved

As of today, I've relocated from Blogger to a new site with my own domain name --> itsfuriousbalancing.com. All future posts will now be on the new site. Update your bookmarks, if I can flatter myself with the idea that anyone has bookmarked me.

I've imported my old posts from Blogger, and it still looks pretty rough-drafty over at the new site (to me, anyway). It's evolving, but come visit.

I Has a Vision

I'm thinking about, and taking steps to accomplish, moving this blog onto my own domain name and using WordPress as my publishing platform.

I'm going to blame Allan for this one. He's the gentleman who commented yesterday on my madeleine post. We've since exchanged brief emails and I've spent some more time reading his (very well-written, erudite) blog.

I covet his footnote plug-in functionality.

No, seriously.

I must have footnotes that allow the reader to click on the footnote number, automatically go to the bottom of the page to read said footnote, then click on the "back" button to return to their place in the text.

Go over to his blog and play around with this. I realize I'm a blogging neophyte, but I hadn't seen this before. Considering my methods (or lack thereof) of writing, this could have some serious consequences for It's Furious Balancing. Lots of footnotes and other madcap blogging hijinks will ensue, I'm certain.

As to when this move to WordPress will actually occur, that's up in the air. It depends on my learning curve.

Further bulletins as events warrant.

Photo courtesy of Meme Cats

Dude, Where's the Lime Blossom Tisane?

Nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it. - Vladimir Nabokov

It started with a post today on Feministe -- a blog I read fairly frequently (if not everyday). It was Mikey's post on madeleines. Starbucks' madeleines in cello-wrap, or shrink-wrap, or whatever one calls it, complete with pictures and a link to a very interesting Slate article on Proust's Belle Epoque madeleines and one man's attempt to reverse-engineer the recipe based upon hints in the famous madeleine-tea-Aunt Leonie's lime blossom tisane-Combray passage in the first volume of In Search of Lost Time (1).

This lead to some comments about the awfulness of Starbucks' pastries, and the awfulness of their coffee, and their mega-chain evilness (but still how it was oddly comforting to find this mega-chain when out of one's element). Even though I could have put in some digs about how I believe Starbucks is the Wal-Mart of coffee houses (2), my first thought was that I should go home and bake some madeleines. My second thought was I should then blog about it. One of the commentors mentioned that she had seen the madeleine-tea-memory reference many, many times, but only knew of one instance where madeleine was a recurring blog tag to mean "memories" (3). I strongly feel that madeleines require greater blog presence -- of any sort.

I actually own a madeleine pan. I bought it for myself after I first began reading Proust. I've made them only once before, but tonight I'll give it another go.

I'll take pictures, don't fret.

*******
(1) It is NOT translated to Remembrance of Things Past. That title was foisted on Proust's work when it was translated into English. That's actually a phrase that appears in Shakespeare's Sonnet No. 30.

(2) Sorry, but I live in Ann Arbor and frequent an independent coffee house where the owner knows me by sight and name as well as that I want a skim Abianno latte (no foam) every blessed workday morning, the only variation being whether said latte is a "double" or a "triple." None of this "venti" or "grande" B.S. If I ever utter the words "White Chocolate Mocha Frappuccino," shoot me, because it won't be me but some pod-spawned alien.

(3) Upon a cursory review of the tagged posts, it looks to me like it means "digressions" or "opening up very large cans of worms," but that's only a cursory review. My reading list has just gotten longer. /sigh

Found Things

Today is one of those lovely Saturdays when I have absolutely nothing I have to do. My time is all mine. I can knit, sleep, read, surf the Innernets, and generally spoil myself rotten. Oh, there's a few loads of laundry that need doing, and a little bit of tidying up around the house, but nothing compelling or necessary by any means. Well, making sure I have clean underwear for next week might fall into the "necessary" category, but the upshot of all of this is that I have loads of Free, Unstructured Time.

That is a glorious thing.

First up, My So Called Scarf. I love these colors. They're a bit darker than they appear in this photo. I thought diffuse morning sunlight would show them better, but I was wrong. Ah, well. If this is the worse thing to happen to me today, I am lucky indeed.

Second, a few things Found on the Internet that I just haven't gotten around to posting:

[If you click on Anti-Gravity Cat's picture, you can get him to spin around]

Hey, it makes perfect sense to me (but now I'm craving toast, with lots and lots of Calder Dairy butter). (1)

In the "What the Heck, You Never Know" Department: Kelly at Yoga Coffee Outlook is giving away a Zune MP3 Player. All you need to do to qualify is write that previous sentence in a blog post, and put a comment on her blog, etc. Details here.

I've never even read, or wanted to read, any of the Harry Potter books, but I still am sorted into the correct house (the wise, clever, learned, enigmatic ones, I am told):



be sorted @ nimbo.net

But wait! Here's more silly cat stuff:



Oh, I've got tons of these saved on my hard drive:

Cat pics (except anti-gravity cat, whose origin is unknown) courtesy of Meme Cats.

*******
(1) Sweet Jesus, they have Calder Dairy Ice Cream and home delivery in Washtenaw County. ::faint:: If you haven't had Calder dairy stuff, and you live in Southeastern Michigan, you must try it. Calder Dairy is, without a doubt, home of the Best Dairy Products in the Known Universe. Hey, I'm a grain- and milk-fed Midwestern girl -- I know my dairy products.

My God, What About the Knitting?! (1)

When I left you last, I think the state of my blogged knitting was as follows:

1) Blue proto-sock OTN ("On The Needles," for my non-knitting-blog-reading readers).

2) Noro sweater pieces awaiting assembly but being ignored because I have to do a shoulder seam next before I proceed with the arm seams and the side seams. I hate shoulder seams (and the fact that it's always overheated in the cats' room where I do my blocking and seam sewing, and that it's summer, and that I hate heat, and summer, and occasionally wish I lived in the far northern section of British Columbia, or, hell, even southern British Columbia. Vancouver, say).

There are other vague, knitting-like activities -- like a hot pink charity scarf OTN that I'm working on from time to time to keep my hands busy, and to use up the rest of the hot pink yarn not used in the Kitty Pi -- and a serious desire to make My So Called Scarf out of Malabrigo yarn.

I've shown you the Malabrigo before; this stuff is woolen opium. I'm still sitting on that black-purple "Paris Nights" colorway, but I wanted a quick knitting fix for my Malabrigo addiction. So, I order two skeins of the worsted in Jewel Blue from my eBay drug, er, yarn, dealer.

The problem was, when the yarn arrived, I was not completely enamored of its color. The eBay photo showed a more intense medium blue than the actual shade of blue - which is more white-to-ice-blue. I don't fault anyone with that; getting an accurate color from an online photo is difficult (and this particular yarn was kettle-dyed in a limited lot of ten, which lends itself to all sorts of color variations, etc.).

I kept the yarn and started working on the scarf, believing that I would Learn to Love the Yarn.

I do love the yarn. I love how it feels but, Dear Readers, I could not learn to love this color. It's wimpy. It's washed out. It's limp. It's.... It's... PASTEL for chrissakes.

I don't do pastels. I don't do fluff, flounces, lace, lettuce hems, ruffles or any other of that girly stuff. (2)

Part of being Unable to Love the Yarn was due to the pattern. I really like the stitch pattern. It's unique and shows off variegated yarn extremely well. There is even a whole flickr group with pictures of this scarf pattern.

Alas, as with many goals, there is a struggle. This particular stitch pattern is challenging to me because it causes me to hold my needles in such a way as to cause a more-than-usually painful bout of repetitive strain injury.

Nonetheless, I carry on because I love the pattern and I Will Make this Scarf Even if it Kills Me, which it just may, at that; and if I'm going to die from knitting-induced RSI, I want it to be from a yarn that makes me weak in the knees.

After all of this preamble, I offer you Malabrigo Chunky, three-ply superfine Merino wool, Colorway 242, Intenso.



Further bulletins as events warrant. I need to be alone with my yarn now.

********
(1) [Alright - I've got footnotes appearing in the title now, for Pete's sake] Alluding, somewhat, to "Dear God, What About the Men?" from Twisty's blog, which I believe in turn alludes to "Dear God, What About the Children?", an all-too-frequent, ridiculous sound-bite, um, thing that I see in the media. I think. I love word games and references to obscure tidbits of information I find floating around out there. You know, out THERE. [Insert dismissive hand gesture here] That alleged "Real World" place. But I digress.

(2) Ok, my bathroom is pink, with white-rose shaped shower-curtain hooks, but that all started as a joke when my second husband left me and I Needed a Change.

Finally, Irises

I hate flowers. I paint them because they're cheaper than models, and they don't move.
-- Georgia O'Keefe

Some Women Buy Shoes (Redux)

I spent this morning cataloging my books -- the fiction anyway -- which is quite a daunting task considering the size of my fiction collection. I'm about 25% done: 2 out of 8 bookcases. After the fiction is entered in the database, then I need to tackle the books upstairs, the fantasy books in the study, and (whenever I get another bookcase or more shelf space [ha!]), the human sexuality and erotica currently hiding in boxes.

I don't know if this level of smug satisfaction I'm feeling is from the size of my library, my twisted enjoyment with data entry, my joy in the written word, a smattering of nostalgia as I handle each individual book (1) , or a combination of all of those plus some other factors I haven't quite verbalized yet. When I look at my books, or stand near the shelves, I feel grounded and secure. My books are my refuge. All I know is that my affection and need is difficult to explain to people who aren't bibliophiles.

There have been a few instances in the past several days when I've overheard conversations, or been in conversations, with People Who Don't Understand Books. One person used the word "purging" to talk about ridding their house of the excess books, like one would drown a litter of puppies or call an exterminator about carpenter ants.

I would sooner cut off my right arm.

I am certainly capable of throwing out a book, or putting it in a box for a future garage sale, but those are definite exceptions. They are either damaged (and I have another copy), or from a part of my life that no longer exists (2) . But throw out my LITERATURE!? Are you people crazy?!!

* * * * * * * *
(1) Especially the books from the college years. "Oh, Faulkner! I loved The Sound and the Fury from my first lit class with Dr. Griffin! And look at this, my Norton of James' The Turn of the Screw! and Wuthering Heights! Oh, I need to re-read all of these..."

(2) I've got a bunch of touchy-feely New Age books boxed up for a Future Garage Sale. I feel that they're no longer very relevant to me, so out they go.

And Now for Something Completely Different

A picture of a sleeping cat! I'm hoping that my long weekend will look something like this. Sleeping, going out to movies, eating, gaming. All play with very few chores. Well, there are always chores to be done -- cat box cleaning, laundry, dishwashing, grocery shopping -- but I'm hoping for more Fun than Chores, more Sleeping than Not Sleeping, etc.

I feel a Knitting Mood coming on. I've started the Proto-Sock (1), and it's coming along nicely. I'm just about ready to try the heel turn in another inch or two. I might be less optimistic about sock knitting come tomorrow, but I think it's do-able. At least for now.



* * * * * * * * * * *
(1) In order to learn sock knitting, I decided that it would be best to practice on larger needles and thicker yarn than any sock pattern ever called for. I'm making one very oversized sock, essentially. Once I master or, at the very least, figure out what I'm doing, I'll attempt to make a Real Sock.

Landscapes Real and Imagined

I've told a few of you I would be posting screenshots from Lord of the Rings Online, and here they are! Yes, I'm copping out today with many pics and little text, but we has lots to do, precious, lots to do, yessss. [Click to view larger sizes, you silly hobbitses]


Laiane in Thorin's Gate


Waterfall and Sunrise Near Duillond



Coming in to Thorin's Gate


Another View of Erud Luin

But lest you believe it's all elvish singing under the springtime sky here at Chez Crabgrass, I did come home with artemisia, a Beauty of Livermore oriental poppy, two South Seas daylilies, a "Twilight" echinacea, four varieties of hot peppers (banana, red chili, jalapeno, and Thai dragon), and a small catnip plant (the catnip near the birdbath didn't come up this year;I put down some seeds, but they were pretty ancient and I'm not confident they'll come up). All of these need to get in the ground in the next day or so. There's also a 40-pound bag of peat sitting out there with my name on it. I did have one impulse purchase at the nursery -- a hanging basket of strawflowers. All I had to do on that was peel off the price sticker.

And here's a hopefully improved picture of Boris the Spiderwort:

Saturday Morning Garden Blogging

I think these are forget-me-nots. I'm not really sure, but they're blue, and small, and currently camping the birdbath (the The-Husband-Made birdbath inscribed with "Bathe Filthy Birdies"). The neighbors immediately behind us have a small field of these, so they more than likely migrated from there.

The spiderwort in the kitchen garden bloomed for the first time this season. I wish I could get a better photo. It's not that violet, and has more of a blue color. I'm not talented enough with Paint Shop Pro to make it look right.

The iris(es) are going crazy, and I should have pictures up soon, when he's in full flower. I counted 3 separate stalks with about 5-7 imminent blooms (total). Considering he hasn't bloomed once since I planted him 2 or 3 years ago, it's about time, I say. The sweet woodruff next to the iris has died off for a reason known only to itself, and I'm not certain if I want to put in more irises -- since I'll be dividing the Monster Iris when it's done blooming -- or look for another groundcover. I'm going to the nurseries up on Wagner Road sometime this weekend, and I'm sure something will inspire me.

My attitude towards gardening is pretty haphazard. I know there are some plants I will never consider (hostas, forsythia), but most of what I randomly select is Because It Looked Good at the Time. I'll wander around the nurseries and see what grabs me.

Blogging for Introverts

In this evening's web surfing, I came across this post on I am Joe's Blog (written by Joe Kissell) and was intrigued by the following:

[E]xtroverts get more energy from being around other people, whereas introverts get more energy from being alone, and find that being around others tends to drain their energy. This is very different from the colloquial sense of “introvert” as someone who’s shy, timid, withdrawn, or even misanthropic....

A few people have expressed confusion at the notion of an introvert running a blog, as though by definition we should be very private people who want to avoid attention of any kind....[T]he great thing about the Web is that it lets us share information about ourselves with lots of people in a way that doesn’t drain our energy, since we’re not interacting with everyone at once, or in person [emphasis added].

Ding, ding, ding! Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner! That's it exactly.

When I started this blog back in December 2006, I did it with the idea that it would be an easy way for me to keep up with my family and friends scattered across the U.S. "Easy" in the sense that writing a general purpose post about What's Going On With Laiane takes less energy than emails and phone calls (and that the blog is a more creative and visual way to express What's Going On With Laiane than emails and phone calls).

It's not that my family and friends are a group of life-sucking vampires. Well, maybe a few. [JUST KIDDING, FOLKS! /wave] I treasure my alone time. It's all about the energy expended. Sometimes it takes a lot of energy for me to be "on." (1) The Husband knows that there are times after we get home from work that I need "my space" to regroup and gather myself.

In that vein, I found this in an archived Atlantic Monthly article:

Extroverts are energized by people, and wilt or fade when alone. They often seem bored by themselves, in both senses of the expression. Leave an extrovert alone for two minutes and he will reach for his cell phone. In contrast, after an hour or two of being socially "on," we introverts need to turn off and recharge....This isn't antisocial. It isn't a sign of depression. It does not call for medication. For introverts, to be alone with our thoughts is as restorative as sleeping, as nourishing as eating. Our motto: "I'm okay, you're okay—in small doses."(2)

I'm surprised by the notion that "introverts don't do blogs." I see a blog as an excellent way for an introvert to communicate with the outside world, probably because we can gather our thoughts and "talk" without interruption. Here I am, telling you What's Going On With Laiane in a way that best suits my personality and mode of expressing myself.

* * * * *
(1) See this post of May 1, 2007. Oh, and for the record, tonight's dinner was half a container of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food.

(2) I love this article. Please, if you know me personally, go read it if/when you have a moment or two.

42 Things About Me

In honor of my 42nd birthday, I thought I would make one of those long, rambling blog posts to help anyone out there who might be reading know more about me. I'm complex, truly.

1. Every New Year for the past three years, I've resolved to floss my teeth more frequently. Sometimes that's the only resolution I make. I still don't floss enough.

2. The last time I watched television was 9/11. The last time I sat down to actually, on-purpose watch a TV show was 1994. The Husband and I have a TV; we use it to watch DVD's.

3. I like to read blogs written by people radically different from myself. My current favorites at the moment (besides Crazy Aunt Purl) are The Panopticon (gay male Buddhist Chicagoan knitter with a penchant for books) and a little pregnant (which the writer describes as "madcap misadventures in infertility, pregnancy and parenthood"). Her post on her imagined conversations with her fertility monitor is beyond hysterical.

4. I can't remember my real hair color. I've been a faux redhead for 10+ years.

5. I won't eat salmon.

6. My high school's fight song was sung to the tune of "On Wisconsin."

7. I have two tattoos. I got the first one for my 30th birthday, and the second for my 40th. I plan on getting another for my 50th (or maybe my 45th if I can't wait that long).

8. If I never have to hear another word about Paris Hilton or Britney Spears, I could die happy.

9. My favorite paintings are Monet's studies of the Rouen Cathedral.

10. Whenever I travel on an airplane, I bring Lovecraft's The Dream Quest of Unknown Kadath to read.

11. When I have a choice of desserts, I almost always choose the one with the most chocolate.

12. It's my considered opinion that people who pronounce forte as "for-TAY" (instead of the correct French pronunciation - "fort") are sub-literate cretins. There are so many of them I've developed an unfortunate facial tic from biting my tongue.

13. I'm named after my mother -- in Real Life, that is. "Laiane" has been my online pseudonym for many years.

14. I always dressed up as a black cat for Halloween, except the last year I went trick-or-treating (1975?). Then I was a ghost in a bedsheet with a scary plastic mask.

15. Even though I read a tremendous amount, I don't retain much -- of the fiction anyway. I suppose that's why I keep and re-read many of my books.

16. Favorite (non-Lovecraft) fantasy book? Tigana.

17. I rarely suffer from that female malady of Pleasing Others Before I Please Myself.

18. In terms of "fashion," I can't stand pastel colors or ruffles. I didn't like them when I was 22 and I certainly don't like them at 42.

19. Lilacs and violets are my favorite spring flowers, and I love chrysanthemums in the autumn (especially the yellow ones).

20. Even though I'm bookish and introverted, I enjoyed my visit to Las Vegas (when The Husband and I were married). It was very surreal. Vegas, not getting married. (1)

21. I've never sent a text message to anyone.

22. I haven't read the operating manual for my digital camera yet. I figure that if I take 10-12 pictures of something, one of them has to turn out okay.

23. I don't care for how Borges ended The House of Asterion with that coda about Theseus and Ariadne. The story can easily stand alone on its own.

24. I use whatever is handy for bookmarks. Unused tissues or napkins. Post-it notes. Pieces of yarn. I'm even known to dog-ear books.

25. I'm one of the few people I know who is able to get out of bed without hitting the snooze button. When I'm up, I'm up.

26. Even though I say that I'm not a morning person, that's when I'm my most productive. I tend to hit the wall in the afternoon.

27. I try not to use obscenities or curse words very often. I save them for when I really, truly mean it.

28. I don't worry about drinking the suggested 64 ounces of water a day since one of my medications gives me dry mouth. I'm almost always sipping on plain water or sparkling water (unsweetened) .

29. I wish I knew more about physics. I admire Stephen Hawking and wish I could understand his books more thoroughly.

30. It's impossible for me to leave a book store empty handed.

31. I'm very picky about the pens I use. I like fine-tipped ones with sharp points. Liquid ink, not paste ink.

32. I'm a sucker for Reeses Peanut Butter Cups.

33. I HATE THE MALL. I can buy just about everything I need online -- except groceries.

34. Even though I'm no longer a vegetarian, I still eat tofu sometimes (especially stir-fried).

35. I say that the Internet is "my oxygen." It's my primary source of entertainment, news, and information. I've been online since 1994 -- back in the days of LISTSERV's, kermits, and gophers.

36. My computer's name is "Squeaker."

37. I prefer watching college sports to professional sports, not that I watch sports much at all.

38. I find that I usually have to read something before I'm able to fall asleep.

39. I would rather rule in Hell than serve in Heaven (special bonus points for those of you who catch the literary reference; and, yes, I've read it).

40. If I had a choice between going back to Paris (for the third time) or going to another grand European city, I would still choose Paris.

41. I have visited the grave sites of Marcel Proust and Franz Kafka.

42. I have never EVER had the least desire to have a baby or adopt a child. If I feel the need to be maternal towards something, I have my cats.


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(1) Las Vegas at night photo under Creative Commons license (Flickr photographer mandj98) and may be distributed, copied, and shared with attribution.

Moving the Memes

You Are 65% Misanthropic

Here's the truth: Most people suck. You are just lucky enough to know it. You're not ready to go live alone in a cave - but you're getting there.

How Misanthropic Are You?

I'm just tidying up the sidebar this evening (and playing around with a new template), and this was one of the memes I wanted to save. The self-test doesn't truly measure misanthropy -- more like "meanness" or "irritability" -- but I'm saving it anyhow since I've always called myself a misanthrope.

Along those lines, I like to think that I have a much higher tolerance for being alone than a vast majority of other people. I like to be surrounded by quiet and space -- it's a buffer zone, of sorts. You know all those books/movies/whatever that have people wandering around some post-apocalyptic landscape, going crazy because there aren't any other people around (I Am Legend (1); The Stand; etc.)? If I had food, shelter, and books, I could hold out fairly well, I think. Well, longer than others.

Being alone doesn't scare me -- "being alone" meaning being solitary by choice, not "being alone" walking down a dark street by myself. There's a difference. Solitude in and of itself does not scare me. There are so many people who are uncomfortable being by themselves; they have to have a television or stereo blaring just to take the edge of the "aloneness." Meh. Sounds pretty limited to me, as if they're scared of being inside their own head. If you can't tolerate yourself, if you can't entertain or amuse yourself, then you're obviously not very bright.

****
(1) Wowza. I just discovered on Wikipedia that they're doing the (third) film version of I Am Legend, and Will Smith is going to be Neville! I thought that was a surprising casting choice for Neville, but once I thought about it, I think Will Smith will be very, very cool in that role. They're setting it in Manhattan, though, instead of Southern California. /shrug

~

Depression (and All That Jazz)

There's a recurring scene in All That Jazz (one of my favorite movies) where Joe Gideon wakes up every morning, takes his amphetamines, brushes his teeth, and says to his reflection in the mirror, "It's showtime, folks!"

I think I need to start doing that -- the "it's showtime" part, anyway.

Not too long ago, I tried to explain to The Husband how, when I'm depressed, whether in the depths or in the shallow end of the pool, it takes a tremendous amount of energy to get up, go to work, and be "on." I mean "on" in the sense of gathering myself up and performing, whether I'm answering the phone, interacting with my clients, what have you. It's a conscious effort. Before I pick up the ringing telephone, before I open the door to the reception area, I can feel myself (in my head anyway), preparing to go on stage.

Yes, it's showtime, folks!

I've been in a low-grade dysthymic funk for some time now. It was enough to have me roaming the 'Net this past Sunday afternoon looking for psychological assessment self-tests on depression, if only to reassure myself that I'm not yet in The Pit(tm).

Now, I know full well I'm not in The Pit. I'm not even remotely near The Pit. I've been there -- not a happy-funtime place -- and I know it when I see it. Most of the time, anyway. Right now, I'm dealing with insomnia, lack of enthusiasm, and a burning desire to consume pints of Ben & Jerry's for breakfast, lunch, and dinner (Mint Chocolate Cookie, perhaps; or Phish Food; maybe both.) No suicidal ideation. No feelings of worthlessness. Just a pervasive grayness. Blah-ness. "Gosh I need a day off to sleep and mainline chocolate" - ness.

So, anyway. Sunday afternoon. Internet roaming. Depression self-tests.

I can't remember exactly where I found this question, but the last of the three potential responses had me laughing out loud.

Q: Do you have a specific plan for killing yourself?

• (a) Yes
• (b) No
• (c) I'm working on it

Now, while my true and factual answer is (b), I will admit to daydreaming about the reaction one could get from one's shrink if one answered (c) (I admit to a number of smart-alecky comments that go through my head but never come out of my mouth).

I am wicked, truly.
~

Your Silence Will Not Protect You

I don't know if you've seen this little black button on other blogs today. If you click on it, it will take you to a site that tells you that we're supposed to not post on our blogs today in order to (a) support the 30+ people who died at Virginia Tech two weeks ago and/or (b) support, and I quote, "all the victims of our world."

Yeah, there's nothing quite like equating silence with victimhood to give me the warm fuzzies, let me tell you.

So, for all the battered, raped, sexually-trafficked and genitally-mutilated women in the world, let's be silent.

For all the children who go to bed hungry, let's be silent.

For all prisoners of conscience, let's be silent.

For all refugees displaced by armed conflict, let's be silent.

For all victims of torture, let's be silent.

For all the people in the United States who have to decide between paying for health care vs. paying for food, rent, or utilities, let's be silent.

For all of our dead, maimed and traumatized soldiers in Iraq, let's be silent.

For all the detainees at Guantanamo Bay, let's be silent.

For all the Iraqi and Afghani civilians murdered by our "collateral damage," let's be silent.

For all the lesbian-gay-bisexual-transgendered people who must live in silence or face ostracism (or worse), let's be silent.

Silent my lily-white ass. Since I titled this post with a quote from Audre Lorde, I'll end it with one from her as well.

"Silence has never brought us anything of worth."

~

Don't Wake Me With So Much

I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I`m awake, you know?
-- Ernest Hemingway

This was one of those Quotes of the Day that appear on the blog's sidebar. I'm not a huge Ernest Hemingway fan(1), but this one was worth keeping. It's not that I necessarily perceive my life as "falling apart," but that sleep is, what? Valued. Desired. Elusive.

I'm an insomniac. Well, part of it is insomnia and part of it is that I just prefer being awake in the small, liminal hours of the early morning. 3:00 a.m. 4:00 a.m. (2) I find it exquisitely restful to be awake at those hours. Nothing is moving. I can hear the highway in the distance. The birds haven't started their songs, and the air smells so different -- cleaner, rarefied.

Then there are the nights when I don't have the luxury of those hours. Nights prior to a working day, when I have to force myself into a noisy, diurnal schedule like everyone else. Bland days. Days I can't count as my own. The nights preceding those days are a struggle. Not all the time, not every night, but all too often I'll lay in bed and I'll still be awake at 3:00 a.m. or 4:00 a.m., and it most definitely NOT exquisite nor restful and I begin to resent the waking world and how much time it takes away from me.

That's where the insomnia part comes in (you were wondering if I would every wander back to that topic, weren't you?).

One of my ways of helping myself fall asleep is to imagine myself elsewhere -- an Elsewhere where my time is my own to spend. My current Elsewhere is a bedroom in a cool, stone tower on a mountainside. It's wintertime. I imagine myself hearing the wind outside and the crackle and pop of a fireplace, and I tell myself that there are no clients or phones or schedules or lists of things to do tomorrow.

Then I sleep.

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(1) I count Proust and Borges as my favorite authors. Compared to Proust's Byzantine prose and Borges' labyrinths, Hemingway is much too terse.

(2) Not getting up in the early morning, but staying awake to get there; they're completely different psychological states.

It's Springtime

[I was going to segue into "Springtime for Hitler," which has been playing in my head for a few days, but I thought that not everyone would get the reference to The Producers, and that that wouldn't be kosher. Er, not cool, even.]

Yes, I am just tickled that Laurie took the time to post a comment on my nondescript wallflower of a blog. I had to go back and do a little judicious editing of the "Things I Learned from Crazy Aunt Purl" List, too, by the way. That list was longer than I imagined.

What I would like to write is that Laurie has influenced so many of her readers -- but I'm having one helluva Pain Day and can't quite find the words. Bear with me. This goes way beyond fried chicken recipes.

Many women wrote that her writing about her divorce -- and the pain/fear/loneliness that went with it -- helped them get through their own divorces and break-ups. Just being able to feel "I'm not alone in experiencing this" helped them cope. I just about cried when I read this one:

I crashed, I burned, and I spent so many many days and nights wishing I'd never been born. I read your blog.. your entries about how you felt.. and I want you to know that you helped. As much as someone that I couldn't talk to, didn't know, and had no opportunity to vent to.. you helped. Every day. You made me smile when sometimes nothing else did.... This [the book publication news] has made my day. Keep on keeping on. Some days that was all I kept saying over and over. It will get better, I used to tell myself (although I secretly suspected I lied even to myself). Its still hard. I still think about him too much during a day. I get up, I move through, I take care of my kids and the house and my seventeenmillion jobs, and then I do it all again. You've been an inspiration. I've preordered the book, and I can't wait to read it. Thank you again.

Amen.

Anniversaries, of a Sort

My first thought was "Wait, it's a few days too soon. It's not the 20th yet." April 20th. Waco. Oklahoma City. Columbine. (1)

We're hearing some, on the news, that this was a premeditated act, which kinda/sorta reinforces that idea. Someone had an axe to grind and an itchy trigger finger.

Then, there's what we're hearing about how the first shooting (in the dorm) was a "domestic" dispute. I was thinking that the University was to blame for minimizing what they saw as a "typical" boy-shooting-girl-who-rejected-him event; thinking the incident contained, they didn't see the second shooting coming. I have to confess that when I heard the words "domestic dispute," I leapt to a similar conclusion: "Man, oh man. Here it is again. A woman has the audacity to say 'no' to Mr. Magic Penis, so he blows her away." (2)

What sort of sad commentary on our society is THAT, I ask you, when we become numb to this scenario, when we see it as stereotypical? The Husband said that I may be putting too much of a feminist spin on this. I'll allow that possibility, but part of me wants to articulate how women have to learn a different set of rules – from how to stay safe when we're out alone after dark, how to stop an attacker, and rape spam, to how to dress and behave so as not to attract unwanted (male) attention. It's the never-ending background music. Men are the predators – women, the prey.

/pound head

Too many grey areas, too little answers. What the hell do I know writing about this?

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(1) This isn't entirely true. Technically, the Waco raid and Oklahoma City bombing were on April 19th, Columbine High School on April 20th; and my first thought was to try not to spit the bottled water I was drinking all over my keyboard (I called up the Yahoo! news headlines right when I returned from lunch).

(2) I hear that the gunman is of "Asian descent," so I leap to additional conclusions about his degree of testosterone poisoning, need for male dominance, etc. I'm just as susceptible to stereotyping as anyone.

I am a Good (Feminine, Singular) Citizen -- It's Tax Time!

I know how to say that in Russian (the "good citizen" part, that is), but, alas, cannot remember the Cyrillic alphabet. You're just going to have to trust me on that one.(1)

I've just checked the numbers on the return with He Who Wishes to Claim Cats as Dependents, and have e-filed the whole mess on to the Infernal Revenue Service. I take great pride in doing our taxes, but I do whine about it to a certain extent. I want my pats on the head, I suppose. Thank God for Turbo Tax.

Photo courtesy of Meme Cats

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(1) I've taken classes in French, German, Russian, and Japanese, with varying and widely disparate degrees of success. Learning to write the Cyrillic alphabet was a hoot. It took us a few weeks to get to the point where we could "sight read" Cyrillic (class met once a week in the evenings; that's why it took a while).

Digressions, Leaps and Tangents; How My Mind Works (if One Would Call it “Working”); and More Footnotes. Forth Eorlingas!

So, reading Crazy Aunt Purl's post about books, and children's books, and thinking about how many of us who commented had strong emotional bonds to our books (whether in our childhood or now), sorta/kinda led me to this very long and strange digression.

My childhood book was Johnny Go Round. Gramma Fran would read it to my twin brother and me several times a day. I think we liked it because (1) it had a cat in it, and (2) there was a brother/sister pair that looked like they were twins, too. I never know what happened to our original copy. Mom mentioned several years ago that she couldn't locate it, even though she thought she had saved it somewhere. So, Johnny Go Round vanished.

A few years back, I was talking to one of my co-workers about childhood books, and mentioned Johnny. She had asked if I had ever searched for it online. I had, but my searches weren't fruitful. A few minutes after I returned to my desk, she had sent me an email with a link to a used book seller in Pennsylvania, saying “Is this it?” It was. I called the bookseller immediately and had it sent to me at the office. When I opened up the package and saw that oh-so-familiar cover, I just wept.

And now on to the digressions. Going back to read further comments on her blog post, I discovered a few Lovecraft related ones, and sent an email to one of the commenters about the H.P. Lovecraft Fan Club and the walking tour of Providence they do on his birthday, which ends in a reading at his grave site (click here, too). I have wanted to do this for years (and I didn't even know there was such a club or an event). I must go. I see myself in the Providence graveyard, reading The Cats of Ulthar and getting choked up.(1)

Thinking of Lovecraft led to thinking of Lord Dunsany, and thinking that I needed to find that quote about throwing things of value out of a burning house. Reading the last paragraph of the quote led to thinking I should type up the entire thing; so here it is:

Preface to the Last Book of Wonder

Ebrington Barracks
August 16, 1916

I do not know where I may be when this preface is read. As I write it in August 1916, I am at Ebrington Barracks, Londonderry, recovering from a slight wound. But it does not greatly matter where I am; my dreams are here amongst the following pages; and writing in a day when life is cheap, dreams seem to me all the dearer, the only things that survive.

Just now the civilization of Europe seems almost to have ceased, and nothing seems to grow in her torn fields but death, yet this is only for a while and dreams will come back again and bloom as of old, all the more radiantly for this terrible ploughing, as the flowers will bloom again where the trenches are and the primroses shelter in shell-holes for many seasons, when weeping Liberty has come home to Flanders.(3)

To some of you in America this may seem an unnecessary and wasteful quarrel, as other people's quarrels often are; but it comes to this that though we are all killed there will be songs again, but if we were to submit and so survive there could be neither songs nor dreams, nor any joyous free things any more.

And do not regret the lives that are wasted among us, or the work that the dead would have done, for war is no accident that man's care could have averted, but it is as natural, though not as regular, as the tides; as well regret the things that the tide has washed away, which destroys and cleanses and crumbles, and sparest the minutest shells.

And now I will write nothing further about our war, but offer you these books of dreams from Europe as one throws things of value, if only to oneself, at the last moment out of a burning house.

Which leads to a digression on the “necessity” of war which Dunsany seems to imply.

This current war in the Middle East is far from necessary. American soldiers are dying for no good reason whatsoever. George Bush is a lying sack of excrement and a murderer. But I can't follow this digression, since it makes me far too angry. Far too angry.

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(1) Why this emotional outpouring? It happens to me all too often; I cry at the drop of a hat it seems. A recent case in point – watching the Lord of the Rings movies. I cry when the beacons of Gondor are lit. I cry when the Rohirrim arrive at Minas Tirith (2)(4). There is something that resonates with me – a courage I can not even hope to achieve myself, though I wish it.

(2) Spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered,
a sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!
Ride now, ride now, ride to Gondor!

Yeah, I've got The Return of the King at my desk as I type this. Forth Eorlingas!

(3) When I looked up the entire text of the poem, “In Flanders Fields,” I was sorely disappointed by the last stanza. When I first heard the first stanza recited, in some movie, as an anti-war sentiment, it was moving; but if you read the entire poem, it's a rationalization for further bloodshed.

(4) Even my footnotes have footnotes. Woot!