I've been thinking about music a lot lately. Of course, I think about music all the time. I sing. The Rutter Requiem and the Faure Requiem are currently taking up a lot of space in my brain. I don't have any real memories associated them yet. I have heard quite a few older songs lately that have brought back other places and times.
For instance, just today I heard Elton John's I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues. That took me straight back to the days just before my husband and I were married. It became something of a theme song for us because he was in the Air Force, and was often away. Time on my hands always weighed heavily because I could have been with him if he was home. This was true of the first several years of our marriage.
Some songs remind me of fictional characters. I don't know why, but Billy Joel songs remind me of the Joe Maxwell character from the TV series Beauty and the Beast. (Of course, Bach and Grieg remind me of Vincent and Catherine, but that's to be expected, if you know anything about the series.)
The Four Tops can bring back my early childhood better than nursery rhyme songs can. I listened to the radio every night before I fell asleep, and my sister always put the radio on KHJ, and they played lots of Motown. Sugar Pie, Honeybunch was a favorite. Older Beatles songs bring the same sort of memories.
Don McLean takes me back to my early teens, and my introspective days. (Vincent, Everybody Loves Me, And I Love You So...) High School is brought back by Elton John's Caribou album, Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy, and Rock of the Westies. Also the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, and other Disco hits. (Hey, I graduated in '78. There wasn't a lot else on the radio, and no Pandora in those days.)
The Moody Blues reminds me of my first boyfriend. He was a big fan. He was a nice boy. We were SO young!
Queen's We Will Rock You reminds me of football games my senior year in high school. We Are The Champions does, too.
99 Luftballoons reminds me of dates with Matt. It always seemed to be on the jukeboxes or radios in whatever shop or little cafe we ended up in. Abba always reminds me of Matt. He listened to it constantly when we were dating. Only Fernando reminds me of something else. Driver's Ed. Fernando always seemed to be on the radio when we were out for driving practice with the psychotic driving instructor.
Abba's Arrival was played as the processional for our wedding "I've Been Waiting For You" was a song Matt dedicated to me, and "our" song was "The Way Old Friends Do."
The hymn Lift High The Cross reminds me of the time during the rebuilding of our cathedral after the Murrah bombing. We sang that at the dedication of the cross sent to replace our broken Celtic cross on the facade of the cathedral.
Scents are supposed to bring back the most vivid memories, but I know that certain songs can really take me back to another place and time pretty quickly. The fact that so many of us love our "oldies" is testimony to that effect, I think. Songs that remind you of good times are the ones you want to listen to when you need energy, and when you already have the blues, well, nothing works as well as the sad songs to help you get it out of your system.
I think I'll just sit here and listen to my Pandora shuffle for a while and see where it takes me...
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Monday, January 28, 2013
How To Be Happier
The above is good advice. It advocates a life of service, of being someone others can count on, not just admire.
Another way to look at it is to be the one who supports others. Be appreciative of those who do the thankless jobs in life. Do what you can to make their jobs easier. Be grateful for the ones who always show up on time and ready to go. When there is someone in your life that always makes you glad they are there, let them know.
If all you are able to be in this life is a member of the "audience", be the best one ever. Support those that entertain and challenge you. Do not just be a demanding fan or consumer of entertainment, encourage those who do good work. Even if they are just local kids in a school play, encourage those who put it all out there and really try. To get up in front of other people and perform is very, very scary. Even if you know you're good. Everybody has bad days, everybody has things go wrong, and to put yourself out there takes courage. Support the ones who face up to the challenge and give it their best.
There is a lady that I admire very much. She will tell you that she isn't anything special, just an ordinary person. She's wrong. She is extraordinary. She is supportive of the endeavors of others, and faithful in that support. She is a tireless volunteer for our library, and yet she is humble, unwilling to accept praise for all she does. She is also my fan club. She comes to all my voice recitals. She cheers on ALL the singers, not just me. She always tells the nervous ones how much better they are doing,(and they are!) , she always appreciates those of us with more experience and who have been working longer. Seeing her smiling face in the audience makes it a lot easier for me to get up there and sing my heart out. I value Vickie more than I can say. Her absence is always noticed, her presence very much enjoyed by all who know her.
This world needs more people willing to be supportive and fewer striving for notice. I tell you, Vickie's absence causes a lot more concern than the absence of a loud attention hound would. (We don't really have anyone in our circle that falls into that category. Everybody I know is pretty supportive, but then they are all church musicians or library folk , or some variation thereof.)
Still, think about the people around you, the ones that do or say little things that make your day brighter. The ones who are always prepared for the task at hand, and therefore make your job easier. Appreciate them. Tell them you do. You may find out that others appreciate you, as well.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Liturgies
Liturgy is a noun that refers to the prescribed form of public worship as set down in the Book of Common Prayer, for instance, or any book or order of worship designed by any denomination.
Liturgy is a way of doing things. An order, made with conscious design, to get us together and keep us together as we worship.
I find that many aspects of my life besides church can be bound by liturgies of their own. Certainly, having a set order to things that need to be done regularly is comforting, and often helpful. My daily lesson plans were in effect a liturgy for the conduct of the school day. Things go in a certain order for a specific reason, are done a certain way, with certain words, to keep the lesson consistent, and in part, to comfort the children.
Liturgies are comforting. You know what to expect and when it's coming up. They have the disadvantage of letting your brain coast on occasion, and you really shouldn't be doing that in church, the idea is to focus on worship. Same with the lessons at school. If we got too routine, the kids could respond while half asleep, and that isn't doing their minds any favors. So, for different days and seasons, liturgies change. Just often enough to keep you on your toes and paying attention. A response may be different, the order changed just a little, just enough to keep you from getting TOO comfortable.
Daily life is a whole series of little routines that could become liturgy, if we use them as a way to be grateful for the little things we need that are provided for us daily. If you have children, and/or pets, you know the importance of routine and order, and the strict adherence thereto, in getting anything accomplished, especially in the morning.
At our house, we have the liturgy of the Cat in the Morning. She must get up and get under Matthew's feet as he is getting dressed, just to keep his coordination sharp. She must then see that he gets out the door and off to work on time. Then she must make sure I am up, and the bed is made, so that she can have her breakfast. After that, she makes sure I leave for my walk, and then goes to take her morning nap. Having to work around the cat's liturgy of gratitude for her people and her food gives me a set order of things to accomplish while still half asleep, and serves to get me out of bed, and thinking about the day ahead, and about the nature of life, the universe, and everything.
When I taught school, daily routines were the glue that held our collective sanity together. Taking roll, saying the pledge, going over the day's seat work assignments, making sure homework was collected, taking the lunch count, these things got us together and started on our day. They got us focused on the learning to come.
Those common experiences, those routines, or liturgies, cemented us together as a community in school, in our homes, and in our places of worship. There is an old joke I always think of when I muse about liturgy: How do you find the Episcopalians in a Star Wars movie? Anytime somebody says "May the Force be with you." they respond "And also with you!"
Our responses are comforting and familiar. (Though those of us who do Rite I will say "And with thy spirit.") The Pledge of Allegiance is comforting to some people because it is something they learned in childhood, something they, and everyone they went to school with knows by heart. It is common to them, even if they have nothing else in common. Psalm 23 is something that is very familiar to many Christians and Jews as well. It has been memorized by many, and is a source of comfort. It is something those who know it have and cherish in common. These things bind us together and comfort us.
If we look at our daily routines with an eye toward gratitude for all we are fortunate enough to have, they can become liturgies, our lives can become worship even in the smallest details. If we look at our interactions as a community, whether at work, worship, or school, we can make all those occasions a prayer of gratitude for our shared lives, for the knowledge that we are all in this together, all coming at life from different angles, but all of us here, and not knowing how long, and trying to make the best of it.
Liturgy is a way of doing things. An order, made with conscious design, to get us together and keep us together as we worship.
I find that many aspects of my life besides church can be bound by liturgies of their own. Certainly, having a set order to things that need to be done regularly is comforting, and often helpful. My daily lesson plans were in effect a liturgy for the conduct of the school day. Things go in a certain order for a specific reason, are done a certain way, with certain words, to keep the lesson consistent, and in part, to comfort the children.
Liturgies are comforting. You know what to expect and when it's coming up. They have the disadvantage of letting your brain coast on occasion, and you really shouldn't be doing that in church, the idea is to focus on worship. Same with the lessons at school. If we got too routine, the kids could respond while half asleep, and that isn't doing their minds any favors. So, for different days and seasons, liturgies change. Just often enough to keep you on your toes and paying attention. A response may be different, the order changed just a little, just enough to keep you from getting TOO comfortable.
Daily life is a whole series of little routines that could become liturgy, if we use them as a way to be grateful for the little things we need that are provided for us daily. If you have children, and/or pets, you know the importance of routine and order, and the strict adherence thereto, in getting anything accomplished, especially in the morning.
At our house, we have the liturgy of the Cat in the Morning. She must get up and get under Matthew's feet as he is getting dressed, just to keep his coordination sharp. She must then see that he gets out the door and off to work on time. Then she must make sure I am up, and the bed is made, so that she can have her breakfast. After that, she makes sure I leave for my walk, and then goes to take her morning nap. Having to work around the cat's liturgy of gratitude for her people and her food gives me a set order of things to accomplish while still half asleep, and serves to get me out of bed, and thinking about the day ahead, and about the nature of life, the universe, and everything.
When I taught school, daily routines were the glue that held our collective sanity together. Taking roll, saying the pledge, going over the day's seat work assignments, making sure homework was collected, taking the lunch count, these things got us together and started on our day. They got us focused on the learning to come.
Those common experiences, those routines, or liturgies, cemented us together as a community in school, in our homes, and in our places of worship. There is an old joke I always think of when I muse about liturgy: How do you find the Episcopalians in a Star Wars movie? Anytime somebody says "May the Force be with you." they respond "And also with you!"
Our responses are comforting and familiar. (Though those of us who do Rite I will say "And with thy spirit.") The Pledge of Allegiance is comforting to some people because it is something they learned in childhood, something they, and everyone they went to school with knows by heart. It is common to them, even if they have nothing else in common. Psalm 23 is something that is very familiar to many Christians and Jews as well. It has been memorized by many, and is a source of comfort. It is something those who know it have and cherish in common. These things bind us together and comfort us.
If we look at our daily routines with an eye toward gratitude for all we are fortunate enough to have, they can become liturgies, our lives can become worship even in the smallest details. If we look at our interactions as a community, whether at work, worship, or school, we can make all those occasions a prayer of gratitude for our shared lives, for the knowledge that we are all in this together, all coming at life from different angles, but all of us here, and not knowing how long, and trying to make the best of it.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Avoidance Behavior
There are some things we put off just because we really don't want to do them. They are hard, or inconvenient, or boring, or all three. Housework, other common chores, writing. Well, writing isn't usually boring, but it is hard, and can be unpleasant when one doesn't feel there is anything to say. Or perhaps there is a lot to say, and the saying of it is very difficult.
I often try to avoid housework, because after almost 29 years of keeping house, I am rather weary of it at times. At other times, the housework is a way to avoid something else. Sometimes the housework is a necessary literal as well as figurative clearing of the decks so that other work can commence. Dealing with the distracting details, like the dust bunnies in the hall, or the feeling that you would probably pretend not to be home if anyone came to the door simply because the state of your floors was embarrassing
So, this evening, rather than try to come up with a decent blog post, I cleaned house. I feel better now, because the environment I find myself in is more comfortable, and doesn't distract me with feelings of unmet obligations in the "real" world.
Several times in my life I have retreated into books or movies as a way to avoid thinking about things I'd rather not deal with, or to distract myself from the fact that I was in a stale and stagnant place. The alternate realities found in books and movies give a respite from what is currently bothering me. I am sure that this is a normal condition among human creatures. Needing an escape, if only for awhile. There are movies I have watched over and over, just because something in the story spoke to me, or amused me. There are books and stories I have read and re-read for the same reason.
Writing is not an escape for me. I find I cannot write fiction. It doesn't matter that I have always had a vivid imagination, and have lovely daydreams, I find I cannot put them on the page. Poetry works, but poetry is about feelings, about dealing with joys and sorrows and sometimes humdrums of life, not usually about fantasy and escape. Oh, I suppose it could be, but mine usually isn't.
Now, I guess I should amend my claim that I cannot write fiction at all. I have written some little stories about ghosts. Those have been rather well received by the friends who have read them, but I have not let them out for critical comment. They are my children, and I don't feel like watching them die. They are not the sort of stories that would be popular with children these days. They are old-fashioned, based very loosely on stories I was told as a child by neighbors and family members.
A few of my poems have been published, but I was not paid for them, they were printed in a small local newspaper when I was in high school. One was written for the high school year book supplement my senior year. I have all of my notebooks where I worked on my poems still. I still have about three journals going that are specifically for poem building. Very rarely does anything come of it. The best ones have sprung themselves on me almost fully formed.
I remember the very first one I ever wrote for my personal "keeper" notebook.
Of Thoughts and rhymes and mystic verses
Loves and hates and evil curses
Life abounds in wondrous power
Opening up like a complex flower.
I wrote that in 1975 or so. Fairly typical teenage stuff, at least for me.
The last one that really presented itself to me almost complete came to me during an organ concert at church. We were sitting down in the chancel, which is not usual, and I could see the stained glass window in the first dormer on the Epistle side of the church, and that is the one that our regular homeless person used to look up at and talk to before and after church. Looking up at the angel, I wondered what Adam said to it, and what he heard in response. "Adam's Angel" came to me then, almost complete. I had to wait until I got out of the church to write it down, and I remember being afraid I would forget something important. I don't think I did:
Adam's Angel
(A meditation during the organ recital, Nov. 17, 1998)
By Carolyn Kay Armistead
To the rest of us
She is nothing but colored glass
An adornment
But she speaks to Adam;
Or maybe only he will hear her.
Adam isn't always clean
In his Army coat of scruffy green
But he is always serene
As he goes on his way
Beaming.
Doing the Angel's bidding.
"He talks to himself."
One will say.
"He's insane."
Says another.
I don't care.
He talks to angels
And the church wouldn't feel right
Without Adam
Besides,
Isn't he our brother?
Adam, in the old coat,
Who talks to stained glass angels,
And sees a truth we don't.
This one is in my notes on my Facebook page, and I shared it after I wrote it with a few people at church.
All of this is to say that sometimes I have to make myself write, and sometimes the writing makes me write. Sometimes the words just want out, and I can't stop them.
Most of the time, though, it is a slog. A lot of staring at the paper or the screen and wondering what ever made me think I had anything worthwhile to say to the world. It still feels a little egotistical, writing all this and sharing it with the world on my blog, but I need to do it. I need the discipline. And, if something I manage to put out there actually strikes a chord with someone who happens upon this blog, and it helps them or makes them laugh, or cheers them, or gives encouragement, then it's worth it. Even if it just lets them say, "So, I'm not the only one..."
I often try to avoid housework, because after almost 29 years of keeping house, I am rather weary of it at times. At other times, the housework is a way to avoid something else. Sometimes the housework is a necessary literal as well as figurative clearing of the decks so that other work can commence. Dealing with the distracting details, like the dust bunnies in the hall, or the feeling that you would probably pretend not to be home if anyone came to the door simply because the state of your floors was embarrassing
So, this evening, rather than try to come up with a decent blog post, I cleaned house. I feel better now, because the environment I find myself in is more comfortable, and doesn't distract me with feelings of unmet obligations in the "real" world.
Several times in my life I have retreated into books or movies as a way to avoid thinking about things I'd rather not deal with, or to distract myself from the fact that I was in a stale and stagnant place. The alternate realities found in books and movies give a respite from what is currently bothering me. I am sure that this is a normal condition among human creatures. Needing an escape, if only for awhile. There are movies I have watched over and over, just because something in the story spoke to me, or amused me. There are books and stories I have read and re-read for the same reason.
Writing is not an escape for me. I find I cannot write fiction. It doesn't matter that I have always had a vivid imagination, and have lovely daydreams, I find I cannot put them on the page. Poetry works, but poetry is about feelings, about dealing with joys and sorrows and sometimes humdrums of life, not usually about fantasy and escape. Oh, I suppose it could be, but mine usually isn't.
Now, I guess I should amend my claim that I cannot write fiction at all. I have written some little stories about ghosts. Those have been rather well received by the friends who have read them, but I have not let them out for critical comment. They are my children, and I don't feel like watching them die. They are not the sort of stories that would be popular with children these days. They are old-fashioned, based very loosely on stories I was told as a child by neighbors and family members.
A few of my poems have been published, but I was not paid for them, they were printed in a small local newspaper when I was in high school. One was written for the high school year book supplement my senior year. I have all of my notebooks where I worked on my poems still. I still have about three journals going that are specifically for poem building. Very rarely does anything come of it. The best ones have sprung themselves on me almost fully formed.
I remember the very first one I ever wrote for my personal "keeper" notebook.
Of Thoughts and rhymes and mystic verses
Loves and hates and evil curses
Life abounds in wondrous power
Opening up like a complex flower.
I wrote that in 1975 or so. Fairly typical teenage stuff, at least for me.
The last one that really presented itself to me almost complete came to me during an organ concert at church. We were sitting down in the chancel, which is not usual, and I could see the stained glass window in the first dormer on the Epistle side of the church, and that is the one that our regular homeless person used to look up at and talk to before and after church. Looking up at the angel, I wondered what Adam said to it, and what he heard in response. "Adam's Angel" came to me then, almost complete. I had to wait until I got out of the church to write it down, and I remember being afraid I would forget something important. I don't think I did:
Adam's Angel
(A meditation during the organ recital, Nov. 17, 1998)
By Carolyn Kay Armistead
To the rest of us
She is nothing but colored glass
An adornment
But she speaks to Adam;
Or maybe only he will hear her.
Adam isn't always clean
In his Army coat of scruffy green
But he is always serene
As he goes on his way
Beaming.
Doing the Angel's bidding.
"He talks to himself."
One will say.
"He's insane."
Says another.
I don't care.
He talks to angels
And the church wouldn't feel right
Without Adam
Besides,
Isn't he our brother?
Adam, in the old coat,
Who talks to stained glass angels,
And sees a truth we don't.
This one is in my notes on my Facebook page, and I shared it after I wrote it with a few people at church.
All of this is to say that sometimes I have to make myself write, and sometimes the writing makes me write. Sometimes the words just want out, and I can't stop them.
Most of the time, though, it is a slog. A lot of staring at the paper or the screen and wondering what ever made me think I had anything worthwhile to say to the world. It still feels a little egotistical, writing all this and sharing it with the world on my blog, but I need to do it. I need the discipline. And, if something I manage to put out there actually strikes a chord with someone who happens upon this blog, and it helps them or makes them laugh, or cheers them, or gives encouragement, then it's worth it. Even if it just lets them say, "So, I'm not the only one..."
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Aging Brain
Yes, we all have those days, no matter what age we are. You oversleep because you forgot to set the alarm. You lose your keys, you leave the coffee cup on top of the car and drive off. We can only hope those things don't all happen on the same day.
Just recently, I myself have done things like put something in the wrong place at work, forget that I had a morning shift instead of the usual afternoon one, and just this evening, I forgot that it was men only night at church choir rehearsal. No harm done by any of those. The misplaced item was easily found, I made up the missed hour at work, and an alto in the choir also forgot, so she gave me a ride home so I didn't have to wait until my husband was done with rehearsal.
The reason we blame these things we do on our age is that well, lots of things are harder than they used to be. Things hurt that didn't used to, it takes longer to do some things than it used to, in my case, my eyes don't work as well as they used to, and my allergies are worse. I also have my own private tropical heat wave that follows me around and manifests itself suddenly and usually at very inconvenient times. (Like when I am sound asleep.) That is one reason many women my age DO have memory lapses. Our sleep is disturbed on a regular basis. This can interfere with a lot of things, especially memory and mental focus.
Often these days I think my lack of focus is as much due to the fact that I am doing more things now than I have in recent years. I have additional commitments beyond just work and church. Matt and I sing in another chorus besides just the church choir now, and I have challenged myself to get certain things done (like writing) that I have neglected in the past. After "coasting"" for awhile, my brain is not so good at keeping all the little details in order any more. Guess it's time to start putting stuff on the cell phone calendar again. At least it will remind me of things. (Now I just have to remember to put the stuff ON it. )
Here's hoping I get enough sleep tonight to have a functional brain in the morning!
This was a couple of years ago. Except for the glasses, everything is pretty much the same.
Just recently, I myself have done things like put something in the wrong place at work, forget that I had a morning shift instead of the usual afternoon one, and just this evening, I forgot that it was men only night at church choir rehearsal. No harm done by any of those. The misplaced item was easily found, I made up the missed hour at work, and an alto in the choir also forgot, so she gave me a ride home so I didn't have to wait until my husband was done with rehearsal.
The reason we blame these things we do on our age is that well, lots of things are harder than they used to be. Things hurt that didn't used to, it takes longer to do some things than it used to, in my case, my eyes don't work as well as they used to, and my allergies are worse. I also have my own private tropical heat wave that follows me around and manifests itself suddenly and usually at very inconvenient times. (Like when I am sound asleep.) That is one reason many women my age DO have memory lapses. Our sleep is disturbed on a regular basis. This can interfere with a lot of things, especially memory and mental focus.
Often these days I think my lack of focus is as much due to the fact that I am doing more things now than I have in recent years. I have additional commitments beyond just work and church. Matt and I sing in another chorus besides just the church choir now, and I have challenged myself to get certain things done (like writing) that I have neglected in the past. After "coasting"" for awhile, my brain is not so good at keeping all the little details in order any more. Guess it's time to start putting stuff on the cell phone calendar again. At least it will remind me of things. (Now I just have to remember to put the stuff ON it. )
Here's hoping I get enough sleep tonight to have a functional brain in the morning!
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Losing My Pop
It has been 27 years since we lost my Pop. He has now been gone longer than I knew him. Yet he lives on every day in the four of us. My oldest brother has his name, my sister has many of his attitudes and home repair talents, my other brother has some of his sense of humor, I just have his ghost living in my head.
Pop was the final authority whose approval meant the most to me. Everything I have ever done was to impress that man. I was his baby girl, but he always demanded my best effort in all pursuits.
The following thoughts were first written down more than ten years ago.
When I think of the hospital where my father lay beginning to die, I see brown. Hundreds of shades and varieties of brown-ness, that is what the place evokes in my memory.
My Pop, always so powerful, always a physically imposing presence, lying in Intensive Care with belching and bleeping and blinking machines around him. His merry, mischievous blue eyes hidden forever from us. (And he had the bluest eyes I have ever seen. None of us inherited them, but one of my nephews did.) He lay there so still and helpless and seemingly small, this invincible giant of my childhood, the only hero I ever had.
Pop fought in the Pacific in WWII. He was in the infantry and spent two years slogging around on tropical islands. He never talked much about what it was like, and he told me he was glad Matt was in the Air Force, so he would likely not have such a bad time if he ever had to go to war. (True. Matt was aircrew, and they are considered important assets, and therefore taken good care of.)
My heart was numb and shattered in a million pieces. In more pain than I have ever known, yet remote, unfeeling, observing from a distance.
Those first days after the accident feel like they happened to someone else. My poor Mom, with her only anchor slipping away, was still more worried about us kids. She knew how much we all loved Pop. He was president of my oldest brother's fan club, he was my sister's motivator and her mentor in home repair, he was my other brother's biggest fan, and his source of reassurance about being the father of little boys. For me, Pop was the one person in the world whose praise meant the most. He was a tough critic, a severe judge, and a willing support of my endeavors in life. He gave me my nickname, (which is what everybody calls me now), he built my playhouse, made me a special swing, taught me to drive, always worried that I got my feelings hurt too easily, and in short, he was my coach. Where Mom was my best friend, and taught me a lot of neat things, and understood the way my mind works a little better than I wanted her to, Pop was the one who got me through all the challenges I would rather have ignored. Pop was the constant source of "Oh yes you CAN, if you really WANT to!"
Pop always demanded my best effort, and then asked for more.
It hit me with such sickening force, the sight of my very vibrant, very lively Pop awash in the immobile bland brownnesss of that hospital. I wanted him to open his eyes and start complaining about the doctors and the schedules and the procedures like he would normally have done, but he lay there uncharacteristically silent, docile and unmoving. It took his strong, stubborn body a year to die, but my very much beloved Pop was already gone, and he didn't even say goodbye.
People compliment me on my baking now, and I appreciate it, but I would rather hear pop carry on about "strumbelly pie" or tell me how good the cheese crackers are in between bites.
My husband is very supportive, and he cheers me on, but Pop's approval always meant the most to me.
Pop worked hard at everything he ever did, and expected me to, also. Whenever something came too easily to me, he wanted me to go back and work even harder, "so it will really be yours" he'd say.
He was so proud of all of us kids. He never told us so. He told the others. He'd tell my brothers and sister what he thought about things I had done, not me. He'd tell me about them. Nothing about life with Pop was ever grey or drab brown. It was always colorful, loud and lively.
Mom has a quietness and more peaceful way about her, but Pop was always bold and bright.
He was always physically strong, though he wasn't very big, really. (Only about 5'9, but he was muscular.) His tough stubborn attitude went out ahead of him and moved people out of his path as if by magic. He always seemed so powerful to me. Seeing him in that plaqce that makes us all powerless was horrible.
When his body finally realized that he was gone, we were able at last to lay him to rest. What a lovely day it was- clear and bright, and he would have loved the view of downtown Los Angeles from his plot at Rose Hills. We all cried, but whether it was sorrow or just relief that he was finally free of his pain, I do not know.
I think about him often - it seems sometimes he tells me to do things - like make strawberry pie for Easter and give one to Susan and Bud. I think sometimes he is with us on Sunday mornings to hear our singing. I know I sensed him near on Christmas Eve - that first one back in the Cathedral, and how he must have enjoyed the music.
The hardest thing about not having him around anymore is not having him there to show our "neat things" and accomplishments to. (I wonder what he would make of this computer on my desk, or the cell phone that is really a little computer to go?) I would LOVE to sing for him now! My voice now is so much more than it was when he died. (And he did like my singing even then.)
It is true that we still have Mom, but she is so supportive she always likes what we do. Pop was a picky audience, and he'd be honest if he really didn't like something.
Every year when I decorate the Christmas tree, I know Pop is near. That was our thing that we did together every year when I was growing up, right up until the year I got married. I will usually have at least one ornament that moves as though it were tugged on, when nobody or nothing could have moved it, to show me that Pop thinks it ought to be moved. And usually, I do move it to a better part of the tree.
I think Pop was amazed that I willingly stayed alone in that house in a not so good neighborhood in San Bernardino when Matt had to go TDY. I think he would have been further amazed that I willingly went to live in a foreign country, off-base, in the midst of people whose language I set out to quickly learn before we moved there. He would have been proud of me, staying alone in that apartment while Matt went off to Desert Shield/Storm. He would have liked the fact that I sent care packages not just for Matt, but for all the guys in his crew, and for the guys doing charge of quarters at Rhein-Main, AND for the Mobile Aerial Port Squadron that he was really part of. (He was deployed with the flying squadron instead so they'd have enough full flight crews to handle their proposed mission load.) He'd be proud of me now, working in the library and helping my community.
I wish he had lived long enough to see how I handled those things.
Monday, January 21, 2013
The Love Of Dogs
I started thinking about dogs Saturday. There has nearly always been a dog in my life. The first one I remember is our neighbor's dog, Skipper. Skipper was a terrier of some sort, and would play ball forever and ever, as long as somebody would throw it. The neighbor on the other side had a nice, calm Cocker Spaniel named Bobby. Bobby loved ginger snaps, and would do all sorts of tricks to get one. Our family didn't own a dog until I was about six years old. Then, because my teacher had a sweet little dog that she had to find a new home for, we got Misty.
This is a picture of me and Misty.
She was a sweet little terrier, all black, and she and I became fast friends. She taught me how much fun it was to have a dog of my own, and how much work. She also taught me one of my first lessons about the pain of loss. Misty got out of the yard one day, a few months after we got her, and got hit by a car. Right in front of our house. I cried for days. So did my Mom, because Misty was trying to follow her to our neighbor's across the street.
The next year, a lady who lived on my route to and from school had some cocker mix puppies that she was looking for good homes for. My Mom was walking with me, and we both fell in love with one golden little guy. He was about the color of peanut butter, so I named him Skippy.
This is Skippy when he was a few years old.
We had him for several years, and then, we suspect someone either took him or let him out. (Because soon after that, someone tried to break in.) Again, I cried for days. I loved Skippy, and he followed me around all the time. He had such short legs, that when he had to sneeze, he'd hop up in one of the patio chairs so he wouldn't bang his nose on the ground.
Shortly after we lost Skippy, we got a German Shepherd puppy and named her O.D. for Other Dog. (We were still hoping we'd find Skippy.) Odie, as we came to call her, was big, awkward, and loveable. She was scared to death of the Goodyear blimp One year a hot air balloon race came near our house, and the poor dog just came unglued. We had to bring her in the house and keep her away from the windows, and turn the TV up so she couldn't hear the burners on the balloons. My Mom took her to obedience classes, and she did pretty well, but when we moved to a house with hardwood floors, she couldn't come in without help because she was like Bambi on the ice on those polished floors. She lived a good long life and died peacefully of old age.
This is me and Odie. Nobody even tried to bother our house after we got her.
This is Doobie (left) and Dougal, our first Schipperke, he who could chase tennis balls forever.
This is Dougal trying to learn the fine are of out-stubborning a gopher from Doobie.
Now, when Matt and I got married, we inherited a dog from Matt's Mom who was moving up north with Debbie, Matt's sister, and already had one dog to take with her. Doobie was that dog's name, and she was so ugly, she was adorable. She was half Scottie and half Wire--Haired Dachshund. Doobie was fun-loving and happy go lucky, and even when she got out, she somehow always got delivered safely home. She had belonged to Matt's cousin Susan, who had to leave her with Matt's Mom when she went into the Air Force. (Where she became a dog handler!) Doobie could track gophers and catch them better than any dog I have ever seen. It was one of her favorite things to do. She, too, lived to a ripe old age, and we only had to have her put down when her chronic illnesses became too painful for the vets to do much for anymore. That was a very hard decision, and we still miss Doobie.
Dougal. Ah, Dougal. My baby boy, our first Schipperke. (Means Little Captain in Flemmish). Schips are a Belgian breed, kept commonly on barges to keep rats down and unwanted visitors out. Dougal was good at both. He was a most excellent watch dog. He had to be. I had to stay all alone in a not so hot neighborhood in San Bernardino when Matt was on TDY, and Dougal was my fierce protector. We got him when he was a puppy, and Matt had to go TDY the day after we got him. Dougal became very much MY dog, but he adored Matt. Matt would play with him a LOT longer than I would, you see. Dougal was the dog we took with us to Germany, who endeared himself to our German landlords, and the neighbor's kids. He went on LONG walks with me every day through the German countryside. (Our apartment was in a farmhouse, out in the country. There was no on-base housing available for NCOs at Rhein-Main when we arrived. ) Dougal was my dear companion and fierce protector for the long months that Matt was deployed with his squadron for Desert Shield/Storm. He was the dog that went bananas when Matt came home and wouldn't let him out of his sight. It made me cry to see how much that dog really loved Matt. The landlord's dog, Blackie, almost wouldn't let Matt get out of the car when he got home from the desert. He saw us coming up the drive, and started barking, and wagging his entire body, and then everybody who was upstairs in the landlord's apartment came out and greeted Matt as well. They had all taken good care of me while Matt was gone.
Above is Dougal on Matt's lap here in our Oklahoma house. The picture below it is one Matt made with the timer on the camera when he was home for 3 days during Desert Shield. (His crew got to bring home one of the C-130s that needed maintenance.) Notice that Dougal would NOT leave Matt alone. (And, oh, my God, was I really that skinny?!)
Dougal lived to be almost 18 years old. He was almost deaf, and almost blind, and then his kidneys gave out. We had to let him go. I missed him SO much. I still do. He was my baby boy. (We never had children. Only pets.)
I wrote this poem for him, but it could apply to any of the dogs I've lost. And I still have the best one yet to tell you about.
Bear. Oh. I still cry for my Bear. He was the sweetest dog EVER. He's been gone a little more than a year now, and I just can't make room in my heart for another dog yet. Bear's going to be a hard act to follow. As much as I love Dougal, Bear was sweeter, and his love meant more. Bear came to us from a breed rescue group. He was also a Schipperke, but he was larger than breed standard. (25lbs as opposed to 18 and longer and taller, too.) He had been tossed out of the house and made to live basically without human contact in a yard for most of his life. He was five years old when we got him. They said they had to put him out because he "couldn't be house trained." Excuse my French, but, bullsh*t. They just didn't want to try. The rescue folks convinced them to turn Bear over, and it took us almost a year of crate training and tethering, (tying him to us whenever he was loose in the house so he knew he was being watched), but we got that dog so well trained that he only ever had an accident when he was ill. He went from being a standoffish dog, uninterested in people, to being a love bug. It was like he just couldn't believe he could really stay in the house, get petted a lot, have treats, regular mealtimes, walks, and lots of new friends. I have written about Bear before. He was my walking buddy. He made friends everywhere he went. He was with us for eight years.
There's my Bear. Mr. Bear and Madame Skye would occasionally call a truce if it meant sharing a blanket. (We still have Madame, she is as despotic as ever. ) (That is Matt's office, by the way. Mine is NEVER that messy. I'd trip and fall on my a** if it was.)
Dogs and the unconditional love they give us can make life so much richer and fuller. Someday there may be a new dog in our house, and if so, it will be a rescue. They can turn out to be the most wonderful dogs EVER.
Here's my poem. Hope I can type it all right. Hard to type when you're trying not to cry.
For my Dougal
Where are you, old friend?
I listen for your step
Even though
I know you will not come.
Why did you have to go?
You weren't so old and tired yet, were you?
I know, dear heart, your eyes were growing dim, your ears missed much,
And more things hurt than didn't.
It was time to say our goodbyes.
But still, I find myself looking for you,
Listening for you -
Hoping to find you
Someplace besides my heart.
She was a sweet little terrier, all black, and she and I became fast friends. She taught me how much fun it was to have a dog of my own, and how much work. She also taught me one of my first lessons about the pain of loss. Misty got out of the yard one day, a few months after we got her, and got hit by a car. Right in front of our house. I cried for days. So did my Mom, because Misty was trying to follow her to our neighbor's across the street.
The next year, a lady who lived on my route to and from school had some cocker mix puppies that she was looking for good homes for. My Mom was walking with me, and we both fell in love with one golden little guy. He was about the color of peanut butter, so I named him Skippy.
We had him for several years, and then, we suspect someone either took him or let him out. (Because soon after that, someone tried to break in.) Again, I cried for days. I loved Skippy, and he followed me around all the time. He had such short legs, that when he had to sneeze, he'd hop up in one of the patio chairs so he wouldn't bang his nose on the ground.
Shortly after we lost Skippy, we got a German Shepherd puppy and named her O.D. for Other Dog. (We were still hoping we'd find Skippy.) Odie, as we came to call her, was big, awkward, and loveable. She was scared to death of the Goodyear blimp One year a hot air balloon race came near our house, and the poor dog just came unglued. We had to bring her in the house and keep her away from the windows, and turn the TV up so she couldn't hear the burners on the balloons. My Mom took her to obedience classes, and she did pretty well, but when we moved to a house with hardwood floors, she couldn't come in without help because she was like Bambi on the ice on those polished floors. She lived a good long life and died peacefully of old age.
This is Doobie (left) and Dougal, our first Schipperke, he who could chase tennis balls forever.
This is Dougal trying to learn the fine are of out-stubborning a gopher from Doobie.
Now, when Matt and I got married, we inherited a dog from Matt's Mom who was moving up north with Debbie, Matt's sister, and already had one dog to take with her. Doobie was that dog's name, and she was so ugly, she was adorable. She was half Scottie and half Wire--Haired Dachshund. Doobie was fun-loving and happy go lucky, and even when she got out, she somehow always got delivered safely home. She had belonged to Matt's cousin Susan, who had to leave her with Matt's Mom when she went into the Air Force. (Where she became a dog handler!) Doobie could track gophers and catch them better than any dog I have ever seen. It was one of her favorite things to do. She, too, lived to a ripe old age, and we only had to have her put down when her chronic illnesses became too painful for the vets to do much for anymore. That was a very hard decision, and we still miss Doobie.
Dougal. Ah, Dougal. My baby boy, our first Schipperke. (Means Little Captain in Flemmish). Schips are a Belgian breed, kept commonly on barges to keep rats down and unwanted visitors out. Dougal was good at both. He was a most excellent watch dog. He had to be. I had to stay all alone in a not so hot neighborhood in San Bernardino when Matt was on TDY, and Dougal was my fierce protector. We got him when he was a puppy, and Matt had to go TDY the day after we got him. Dougal became very much MY dog, but he adored Matt. Matt would play with him a LOT longer than I would, you see. Dougal was the dog we took with us to Germany, who endeared himself to our German landlords, and the neighbor's kids. He went on LONG walks with me every day through the German countryside. (Our apartment was in a farmhouse, out in the country. There was no on-base housing available for NCOs at Rhein-Main when we arrived. ) Dougal was my dear companion and fierce protector for the long months that Matt was deployed with his squadron for Desert Shield/Storm. He was the dog that went bananas when Matt came home and wouldn't let him out of his sight. It made me cry to see how much that dog really loved Matt. The landlord's dog, Blackie, almost wouldn't let Matt get out of the car when he got home from the desert. He saw us coming up the drive, and started barking, and wagging his entire body, and then everybody who was upstairs in the landlord's apartment came out and greeted Matt as well. They had all taken good care of me while Matt was gone.
Dougal lived to be almost 18 years old. He was almost deaf, and almost blind, and then his kidneys gave out. We had to let him go. I missed him SO much. I still do. He was my baby boy. (We never had children. Only pets.)
I wrote this poem for him, but it could apply to any of the dogs I've lost. And I still have the best one yet to tell you about.
Bear. Oh. I still cry for my Bear. He was the sweetest dog EVER. He's been gone a little more than a year now, and I just can't make room in my heart for another dog yet. Bear's going to be a hard act to follow. As much as I love Dougal, Bear was sweeter, and his love meant more. Bear came to us from a breed rescue group. He was also a Schipperke, but he was larger than breed standard. (25lbs as opposed to 18 and longer and taller, too.) He had been tossed out of the house and made to live basically without human contact in a yard for most of his life. He was five years old when we got him. They said they had to put him out because he "couldn't be house trained." Excuse my French, but, bullsh*t. They just didn't want to try. The rescue folks convinced them to turn Bear over, and it took us almost a year of crate training and tethering, (tying him to us whenever he was loose in the house so he knew he was being watched), but we got that dog so well trained that he only ever had an accident when he was ill. He went from being a standoffish dog, uninterested in people, to being a love bug. It was like he just couldn't believe he could really stay in the house, get petted a lot, have treats, regular mealtimes, walks, and lots of new friends. I have written about Bear before. He was my walking buddy. He made friends everywhere he went. He was with us for eight years.
Dogs and the unconditional love they give us can make life so much richer and fuller. Someday there may be a new dog in our house, and if so, it will be a rescue. They can turn out to be the most wonderful dogs EVER.
Here's my poem. Hope I can type it all right. Hard to type when you're trying not to cry.
For my Dougal
Where are you, old friend?
I listen for your step
Even though
I know you will not come.
Why did you have to go?
You weren't so old and tired yet, were you?
I know, dear heart, your eyes were growing dim, your ears missed much,
And more things hurt than didn't.
It was time to say our goodbyes.
But still, I find myself looking for you,
Listening for you -
Hoping to find you
Someplace besides my heart.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Why Be Interested In Celebrities?
It is an interesting question. We seem to have a cult of fame in this country. Or is it really infamy? So many of the celebrities who get the most media coverage seem to be the ones who reveal themselves to be all too human, and sometimes, downright awful.
(Self-destructive at the very least.)
Why give a rat's you know what about any of these people?
Well, I don't, really, about the ones who seem to be in the media constantly, except to pray and wish better things for the ones who seem so bent on destroying themselves. The celebrities I follow are people whose work and talent I admire. People whose work has touched me, made me want to do better with my own abilities. Sometimes it was a role they played that was inspirational, sometimes just their perseverance in continuing a career successfully after a very defining role. Sometimes it is their musical gifts, their writing skills, that I admire.
There are some who feel almost like family, I've admired them for so long. (Mr. Shatner, you and Mr. Nimoy, and Mr. Takei are among that group. Star Trek has been part of my life for most of my life, and the characters you gave voice and form to are very dear to my heart. It hurt when we lost Mr. Doohan, and Mr. Kelley. The universe is a MUCH sadder place without Majel Barrett. She was a truly lovely person, and I had the great privilege of meeting her once. )
There are those whose accomplishments you admire, and who let you down. Lance Armstrong is one such. He didn't need to WIN the Tour de France to be impressive and inspirational. Just FINISHING that race after beating the kind of cancer he fought back from is astounding. It saddens me that he felt he HAD to win, and that he further endangered his health by resorting to doping. And denying the cheating for so long didn't help. One hopes that the experience will truly humble him,and make him examine his motives and perhaps alter his behavior. One hopes. But knowing human nature, one remains a bit skeptical.
Some performers and authors and musicians become so ingrained in our culture that we truly feel they are part of us, and losing them is truly a great national sadness. Andy Grifith, Ernest Borgnine, they were regularly seen faces and familiar voices throughout the childhoods of many people my age. It felt like losing a favorite relative, albeit a distant one. We also lost Sherman Helmsley, an actor whose comic timing and expressive face gave us the gift of laughter.
Nora Ephron was a great loss. She wrote and directed many movies that touched us. Perhaps losing a writer/director should grieve us more than the loss of an actor. After all, the vision and words of such as they give us the characters for the actors to bring to life. They are the foundation upon which other artists work and sometimes build beautiful and very enduring things.
We have lost musicians that gave us the soundtrack for our youth this past year. Robin Gibb, Donna Summer, Davey Jones, and of course, Dick Clark, (whom I suspect may indeed have been a distant relative of mine, given that the men in my immediate family do not show their age, either). Dick Clark was one of those who helped the talented find the attention they needed to build their careers. He was not just a familiar face and voice to us, he was one responsible for helping along many of those we listened to through our younger years.
How difficult it must be to deal with fame. People who don't know the first thing about you feel like they know you. It would be frightening. I admire those who keep their equilibrium and keep their private lives to themselves. The ones that can do that and still be appreciative and gracious to their fans are especially successful in my book. To do so with a sense of humor is an added bonus.
William Shatner does this very well. His Twitter presence is legendary. Nobody works that particular social medium as well as he does. I do believe he writes most of those tweets himself. He does appreciate his fans. And his sense of humor is wicked. ( And yes, we will still follow you anywhere, Captain, with pleasure, Sir.)
I also greatly admire the acting ability of Ron Perlman. He first came to my notice as the actor who portrayed Vincent in the 1980's version of Beauty and the Beast. He made Vincent a person, not simply a character. To make such a fantastical being seem so very real took great talent, especially since he didn't have most of his face to work with given the extent of the makeup. Many other roles he has done have presented the same challenge. It is a mark of his ability as an actor that those roles were successful for him. Following him on Twitter, I find that he also has quite a wicked sense of humor, but does not interact as much with the fans as Mr. Shatner does. (He probably doesn't have the time. I suspect Mr. Shatner doesn't sleep much.)
All this is by way of saying that those who achieve fame, to whatever degree, in this society are just human beings like the rest of us. They are in most cases more talented than the rest of us, and so they share those gifts, but some are just outrageous people who seem bent on destroying themselves in public. What does it say about us that so many of the self-destructive get so much more attention than the truly talented and constructive? Many celebrities I follow on Twitter tweet things in support of charities that are dear to them. They use their fame to a constructive purpose, to help others. How many of the infamous can say they have done anything like that, except serving as an example of what NOT to do...
Just my musings on the subject. My 2 cents, if you will, and probably not worth that much.
(Self-destructive at the very least.)
Why give a rat's you know what about any of these people?
Well, I don't, really, about the ones who seem to be in the media constantly, except to pray and wish better things for the ones who seem so bent on destroying themselves. The celebrities I follow are people whose work and talent I admire. People whose work has touched me, made me want to do better with my own abilities. Sometimes it was a role they played that was inspirational, sometimes just their perseverance in continuing a career successfully after a very defining role. Sometimes it is their musical gifts, their writing skills, that I admire.
There are some who feel almost like family, I've admired them for so long. (Mr. Shatner, you and Mr. Nimoy, and Mr. Takei are among that group. Star Trek has been part of my life for most of my life, and the characters you gave voice and form to are very dear to my heart. It hurt when we lost Mr. Doohan, and Mr. Kelley. The universe is a MUCH sadder place without Majel Barrett. She was a truly lovely person, and I had the great privilege of meeting her once. )
There are those whose accomplishments you admire, and who let you down. Lance Armstrong is one such. He didn't need to WIN the Tour de France to be impressive and inspirational. Just FINISHING that race after beating the kind of cancer he fought back from is astounding. It saddens me that he felt he HAD to win, and that he further endangered his health by resorting to doping. And denying the cheating for so long didn't help. One hopes that the experience will truly humble him,and make him examine his motives and perhaps alter his behavior. One hopes. But knowing human nature, one remains a bit skeptical.
Some performers and authors and musicians become so ingrained in our culture that we truly feel they are part of us, and losing them is truly a great national sadness. Andy Grifith, Ernest Borgnine, they were regularly seen faces and familiar voices throughout the childhoods of many people my age. It felt like losing a favorite relative, albeit a distant one. We also lost Sherman Helmsley, an actor whose comic timing and expressive face gave us the gift of laughter.
Nora Ephron was a great loss. She wrote and directed many movies that touched us. Perhaps losing a writer/director should grieve us more than the loss of an actor. After all, the vision and words of such as they give us the characters for the actors to bring to life. They are the foundation upon which other artists work and sometimes build beautiful and very enduring things.
We have lost musicians that gave us the soundtrack for our youth this past year. Robin Gibb, Donna Summer, Davey Jones, and of course, Dick Clark, (whom I suspect may indeed have been a distant relative of mine, given that the men in my immediate family do not show their age, either). Dick Clark was one of those who helped the talented find the attention they needed to build their careers. He was not just a familiar face and voice to us, he was one responsible for helping along many of those we listened to through our younger years.
How difficult it must be to deal with fame. People who don't know the first thing about you feel like they know you. It would be frightening. I admire those who keep their equilibrium and keep their private lives to themselves. The ones that can do that and still be appreciative and gracious to their fans are especially successful in my book. To do so with a sense of humor is an added bonus.
William Shatner does this very well. His Twitter presence is legendary. Nobody works that particular social medium as well as he does. I do believe he writes most of those tweets himself. He does appreciate his fans. And his sense of humor is wicked. ( And yes, we will still follow you anywhere, Captain, with pleasure, Sir.)
I also greatly admire the acting ability of Ron Perlman. He first came to my notice as the actor who portrayed Vincent in the 1980's version of Beauty and the Beast. He made Vincent a person, not simply a character. To make such a fantastical being seem so very real took great talent, especially since he didn't have most of his face to work with given the extent of the makeup. Many other roles he has done have presented the same challenge. It is a mark of his ability as an actor that those roles were successful for him. Following him on Twitter, I find that he also has quite a wicked sense of humor, but does not interact as much with the fans as Mr. Shatner does. (He probably doesn't have the time. I suspect Mr. Shatner doesn't sleep much.)
All this is by way of saying that those who achieve fame, to whatever degree, in this society are just human beings like the rest of us. They are in most cases more talented than the rest of us, and so they share those gifts, but some are just outrageous people who seem bent on destroying themselves in public. What does it say about us that so many of the self-destructive get so much more attention than the truly talented and constructive? Many celebrities I follow on Twitter tweet things in support of charities that are dear to them. They use their fame to a constructive purpose, to help others. How many of the infamous can say they have done anything like that, except serving as an example of what NOT to do...
Just my musings on the subject. My 2 cents, if you will, and probably not worth that much.
Friday, January 18, 2013
A Marvelous Miscellany
Today I dug out some old poetry notebooks and started looking through them. OK, well, some of them are just writing exercises in general, others are poems in progress. There may be future blog topics in some of those old exercises.
I made some cookies from a recipe I have never tried before. They are good, but they are the ugliest cookies I've ever seen. Sourdough Oatmeal Chocolate Chip. Very tasty. Not so pretty. Just goes to show, you can't always go by looks.
Why can't people take your word for something when you answer a question for them? I have had more people today try to get me to change my answer when I inform them that the library's meeting rooms are fully booked for every single weekend in February. I don't think my computer is lying to me, folks.
Also, do people read signs anymore? There are signs up where we usually have tax forms explaining that the forms have been delayed, and that we will put them out as soon as we have some. At least five people came to the desk to ask me about tax forms during the two hours I was out there this afternoon. I love our patrons, but I sure wish they'd read the signs!
My dear husband is in the other room doing battle with NoteWorthy Composer and the score of the Rutter Requiem. We use NoteWorthy to practice the choral pieces we do for Master Chorale. The Rutter is taking him a long time because he has to input it note by note. The Pie Jesu is going to be absorbing a lot of my time and attention for the next three weeks. Auditions for the solo are in three weeks. My voice coach thinks I should go for it. I'll give it a shot. I still don't know how a basically shy person like myself will ever be able to sing a solo in front of a bunch of people. Singing at our studio recitals is different. Everyone there is pretty much in the same boat. They have to get up and hope something decent comes out when they sing.
I finished reading Jane Eyre this morning. It is a most enjoyable book, and I can't believe that I never managed to read it before this. Better late than never, I guess. Now to decide which of the large list of things on my Nook I should read next.
Good news. The desk is staying fairly crapalanche free. Only a minor one on the side closest to the door right now. Soon as I get a few details dealt with, it will be gone. Then to tackle the filing cabinet and the side compartment of this desk, which are basically crapalanches contained inside a box.
Almost midnight, about time to call this one done. This isn't very useful to others, perhaps, except where you might recognize a situation or two, but I must keep doing this, I can't let myself neglect this thing like I have in the past. I promise, I will try to be more meaningful and profound. It just takes awhile to find those words, sometimes.
Tonight's free verse:
Forgive me.
This clamoring for attention
It is not my true nature
To seek the attention of others
Alas, I am a proud but shy creature
Used to observing,
Uncomfortable in the glare of a spotlight.
So you see,
This was an aberration
Not a true maifestation
Of my personality
Forgive my lapse,
I pray you.
I shall retire
Once again to my shadows
And keep watch.
I made some cookies from a recipe I have never tried before. They are good, but they are the ugliest cookies I've ever seen. Sourdough Oatmeal Chocolate Chip. Very tasty. Not so pretty. Just goes to show, you can't always go by looks.
Why can't people take your word for something when you answer a question for them? I have had more people today try to get me to change my answer when I inform them that the library's meeting rooms are fully booked for every single weekend in February. I don't think my computer is lying to me, folks.
Also, do people read signs anymore? There are signs up where we usually have tax forms explaining that the forms have been delayed, and that we will put them out as soon as we have some. At least five people came to the desk to ask me about tax forms during the two hours I was out there this afternoon. I love our patrons, but I sure wish they'd read the signs!
My dear husband is in the other room doing battle with NoteWorthy Composer and the score of the Rutter Requiem. We use NoteWorthy to practice the choral pieces we do for Master Chorale. The Rutter is taking him a long time because he has to input it note by note. The Pie Jesu is going to be absorbing a lot of my time and attention for the next three weeks. Auditions for the solo are in three weeks. My voice coach thinks I should go for it. I'll give it a shot. I still don't know how a basically shy person like myself will ever be able to sing a solo in front of a bunch of people. Singing at our studio recitals is different. Everyone there is pretty much in the same boat. They have to get up and hope something decent comes out when they sing.
I finished reading Jane Eyre this morning. It is a most enjoyable book, and I can't believe that I never managed to read it before this. Better late than never, I guess. Now to decide which of the large list of things on my Nook I should read next.
Good news. The desk is staying fairly crapalanche free. Only a minor one on the side closest to the door right now. Soon as I get a few details dealt with, it will be gone. Then to tackle the filing cabinet and the side compartment of this desk, which are basically crapalanches contained inside a box.
Almost midnight, about time to call this one done. This isn't very useful to others, perhaps, except where you might recognize a situation or two, but I must keep doing this, I can't let myself neglect this thing like I have in the past. I promise, I will try to be more meaningful and profound. It just takes awhile to find those words, sometimes.
Tonight's free verse:
Forgive me.
This clamoring for attention
It is not my true nature
To seek the attention of others
Alas, I am a proud but shy creature
Used to observing,
Uncomfortable in the glare of a spotlight.
So you see,
This was an aberration
Not a true maifestation
Of my personality
Forgive my lapse,
I pray you.
I shall retire
Once again to my shadows
And keep watch.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
We Must Share The Light
This world of ours has gotten very dark lately. There is so much sadness, so much hatred and vitriol spewed forth in our news and entertainment media. An outsider looking at this divided and antagonistic society would think we were beyond all hope.
And yet, there are positive voices out there. There are people speaking out and reaching out in love and not hate, in seeking for solutions, and not seeking to fix blame. We must nurture each other, and those voices of hope. There are a few quotes that speak to my heart about times like this, and I would like to share them with you, and tell you why they speak to me.
First, is a quote from a television show that many dismissed as 'silly' or a "space opera". Nearly fifty years later, Star Trek is still going strong, and still the original series is viewed by many, and words like these reach people who need to hear them.
This is from the episode "Who Mourns For Adonais?" Kirk is trying to convince a crew member that her loyalty is to humanity and the crew, not the god Apollo.
"We're the same. We share the same history, the same heritage, the same lives. We're tied together beyond any untying. Man or woman, it makes no difference. We're human. We couldn't escape from each other even if we wanted to-that's how you do it, Lieutenant! By remembering who and what you are! A bit of flesh and blood afloat in a universe without end. And the only thing that's truly yours is the rest of humanity. That's where our duty lies!"
When you think about it, we are all more alike than we are different. We all have feelings that get hurt. We all have dreams and hopes, we have other people we love, and if we're lucky, people who love us. The only thing that matters is that we are all human. If we can learn to see the similarities while still appreciating the differences, then we might be able to survive.
Here's a quote from another TV show. This one still has a dedicated fan base, but there have been no directly related series, no mini-series, no movies. And yet, the fans persist. Because there is something in this little television program that touches people deeply, if they are open to it. The original TV series Beauty and the Beast, made from 1987-1990, was about love. Love between an unusual man/beast and a beautiful woman. It was also about human beings loving and accepting each other on many levels, about how people can learn to live together in harmony. The show made great use of classical literature and music, it celebrated what human beings can do to make the world a more beautiful place. The world Below, where Vincent, the so-called beast, lives because it is the only safe place for him, depends on a network of "helpers" in the world Above, who, as their name implies, help the people below by providing supplies or logistical help or whatever they can within reason. The world Below is fairly self-sufficient, but they still need assistance in some areas. This quote is from a ceremony that opens the annual celebration they call "Winterfest".
"We are all part of one another. One family, one community. Sometimes we forget that. And so each year we meet here. To thank those who have helped us, and to remember...even the greatest darkness is nothing, so long as we share the light."
Sharing the light is important. We all have light within us, whether we feel like it or not. Those of us who grew up in the Christian tradition know well the verse that says:
"Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven." (Matthew 5 :14-16) Light is not meant to be hidden away, it must shine out for all to see if it is to be of use.
Light is manifest in love, in the things we do because we have love. Those who help feed the hungry, who care for the sick, who reach out to any other person, near or far, are sharing love, are sharing (and spreading) light.
I want to leave you with another quote. One I read again today because this is Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday. So much darkness was in his world, so much hate. Yet he preached love in response to hate, peaceful resistance in response to violence. He was looking to his faith for guidance in this. He, like his savior, was ultimately killed for his opinions and his daring to live in love and light.
It is never easy to push back against hate with love, to force darkness back with our light, but we must try. If you are a Christian, if you have another faith, or even if you don't consider yourself a person of any faith at all, you can love. You MUST love. It is the only way to survive.
Here is the quote from Dr. King:
" Returning hate for hate multiplies hate,
adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars.
Darkness cannot drive out darkness;
Only light can do that.
Hate cannot drive out hate;
Only love can do that."
Please God, help us share the light. Teach us to love one another.
And yet, there are positive voices out there. There are people speaking out and reaching out in love and not hate, in seeking for solutions, and not seeking to fix blame. We must nurture each other, and those voices of hope. There are a few quotes that speak to my heart about times like this, and I would like to share them with you, and tell you why they speak to me.
First, is a quote from a television show that many dismissed as 'silly' or a "space opera". Nearly fifty years later, Star Trek is still going strong, and still the original series is viewed by many, and words like these reach people who need to hear them.
This is from the episode "Who Mourns For Adonais?" Kirk is trying to convince a crew member that her loyalty is to humanity and the crew, not the god Apollo.
"We're the same. We share the same history, the same heritage, the same lives. We're tied together beyond any untying. Man or woman, it makes no difference. We're human. We couldn't escape from each other even if we wanted to-that's how you do it, Lieutenant! By remembering who and what you are! A bit of flesh and blood afloat in a universe without end. And the only thing that's truly yours is the rest of humanity. That's where our duty lies!"
When you think about it, we are all more alike than we are different. We all have feelings that get hurt. We all have dreams and hopes, we have other people we love, and if we're lucky, people who love us. The only thing that matters is that we are all human. If we can learn to see the similarities while still appreciating the differences, then we might be able to survive.
Here's a quote from another TV show. This one still has a dedicated fan base, but there have been no directly related series, no mini-series, no movies. And yet, the fans persist. Because there is something in this little television program that touches people deeply, if they are open to it. The original TV series Beauty and the Beast, made from 1987-1990, was about love. Love between an unusual man/beast and a beautiful woman. It was also about human beings loving and accepting each other on many levels, about how people can learn to live together in harmony. The show made great use of classical literature and music, it celebrated what human beings can do to make the world a more beautiful place. The world Below, where Vincent, the so-called beast, lives because it is the only safe place for him, depends on a network of "helpers" in the world Above, who, as their name implies, help the people below by providing supplies or logistical help or whatever they can within reason. The world Below is fairly self-sufficient, but they still need assistance in some areas. This quote is from a ceremony that opens the annual celebration they call "Winterfest".
"We are all part of one another. One family, one community. Sometimes we forget that. And so each year we meet here. To thank those who have helped us, and to remember...even the greatest darkness is nothing, so long as we share the light."
Sharing the light is important. We all have light within us, whether we feel like it or not. Those of us who grew up in the Christian tradition know well the verse that says:
"Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven." (Matthew 5 :14-16) Light is not meant to be hidden away, it must shine out for all to see if it is to be of use.
Light is manifest in love, in the things we do because we have love. Those who help feed the hungry, who care for the sick, who reach out to any other person, near or far, are sharing love, are sharing (and spreading) light.
I want to leave you with another quote. One I read again today because this is Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday. So much darkness was in his world, so much hate. Yet he preached love in response to hate, peaceful resistance in response to violence. He was looking to his faith for guidance in this. He, like his savior, was ultimately killed for his opinions and his daring to live in love and light.
It is never easy to push back against hate with love, to force darkness back with our light, but we must try. If you are a Christian, if you have another faith, or even if you don't consider yourself a person of any faith at all, you can love. You MUST love. It is the only way to survive.
Here is the quote from Dr. King:
" Returning hate for hate multiplies hate,
adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars.
Darkness cannot drive out darkness;
Only light can do that.
Hate cannot drive out hate;
Only love can do that."
Please God, help us share the light. Teach us to love one another.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Ear Worms
Yes, you read that right. Ear worms. Those little snippets of songs, or sometimes entire songs that get themselves lodged in your ear and cannot be exorcised by any means but the passage of tine. Or perhaps the introduction of a new tune.
Everyone has their pet offenders. Some of the most common (and most noxious, be warned!) are:
"It's A Small World After All"
"Puff, the Magic Dragon"
"There is a Bad Moon on the Rise"
"The Pirate's Life For Me"
And I am sure there are thousands of others you could think of that have not occurred to me at this moment. (Now, please, no hate mail for bringing up those Disney gems that really do get FIRMLY stuck in one's ear. I was making a rhetorical point.)
Today I have been suffering from a rather obscure little ear worm. This one was hatched by the Alan Parsons Project in the late 1970s. It is a musical setting of one of Poe's most famous poems: The Raven.
Since hearing the piece on my Pandora feed this morning, the last verse has been cycling through my head most of the day.
"And so the raven remains in my room
No matter how much I implore.
No words can soothe him
No prayer remove him
So I must hear for evermore...
Nevermore!"
Sometimes these things are just plain annoying, at other times, they can be useful. I have often had difficult bits of choral pieces or even some operatic arias that I have been fussing over run themselves repeatedly through my head. Often, this actually helps me learn the difficult bits of a piece. (But only if I can somehow cement the relevant bit of music into my brain.)
One of these is a series of runs from So Anch'io La Virtu Magica, a piece from Donizetti's setting of Don Pasquale. It is lovely, especially the very first section. The rest of it is also lovely, but a bit of a tongue twister AND filled with pitfalls for the unwary vocalist. If I can but manage to get a few of those difficult bits into my subconscious, I shall be able to polish them up without actively working on them. That is the only USEFUL service provided by an "ear worm".
Off and on over the years of voice lessons, many arias have been ear worms for me. The most persistent is the one I have to use to call the cat. "Deh vieni, non tardar" is what I must sing if I wish to summon the cat. Madame is VERY particular, and will come for nothing else. No "kitty, kitty," or calling by her name (neither Skye nor Madame Skye, or Madame) will bring her. If Matt wishes to summon her, he must flip the drawer pull on his desk where he keeps the string she likes to play with. That is the only other thing she will stir herself for. So, Deh vieni is often heard in our house, and is consequently often stuck in my mind. Some days, Dove sono i bei momenti , also from Nozze Di Figaro, runs around in my head. Opera ear worms are sometimes less trying than pop music or Disney ear worms.
The worst of course, can be hymns as ear worms. You then begin to wonder if Someone is trying to tell you something because this one particular hymn keeps running in your head over an over. Church anthems have the same effect. I begin to wonder if their is Someone trying to beat me over the head with a point they wish to make.
So, now I wonder if I will hear from any of you what ear worms haunt your existence and spoil your dreams?
Everyone has their pet offenders. Some of the most common (and most noxious, be warned!) are:
"It's A Small World After All"
"Puff, the Magic Dragon"
"There is a Bad Moon on the Rise"
"The Pirate's Life For Me"
And I am sure there are thousands of others you could think of that have not occurred to me at this moment. (Now, please, no hate mail for bringing up those Disney gems that really do get FIRMLY stuck in one's ear. I was making a rhetorical point.)
Today I have been suffering from a rather obscure little ear worm. This one was hatched by the Alan Parsons Project in the late 1970s. It is a musical setting of one of Poe's most famous poems: The Raven.
Since hearing the piece on my Pandora feed this morning, the last verse has been cycling through my head most of the day.
"And so the raven remains in my room
No matter how much I implore.
No words can soothe him
No prayer remove him
So I must hear for evermore...
Nevermore!"
Sometimes these things are just plain annoying, at other times, they can be useful. I have often had difficult bits of choral pieces or even some operatic arias that I have been fussing over run themselves repeatedly through my head. Often, this actually helps me learn the difficult bits of a piece. (But only if I can somehow cement the relevant bit of music into my brain.)
One of these is a series of runs from So Anch'io La Virtu Magica, a piece from Donizetti's setting of Don Pasquale. It is lovely, especially the very first section. The rest of it is also lovely, but a bit of a tongue twister AND filled with pitfalls for the unwary vocalist. If I can but manage to get a few of those difficult bits into my subconscious, I shall be able to polish them up without actively working on them. That is the only USEFUL service provided by an "ear worm".
Off and on over the years of voice lessons, many arias have been ear worms for me. The most persistent is the one I have to use to call the cat. "Deh vieni, non tardar" is what I must sing if I wish to summon the cat. Madame is VERY particular, and will come for nothing else. No "kitty, kitty," or calling by her name (neither Skye nor Madame Skye, or Madame) will bring her. If Matt wishes to summon her, he must flip the drawer pull on his desk where he keeps the string she likes to play with. That is the only other thing she will stir herself for. So, Deh vieni is often heard in our house, and is consequently often stuck in my mind. Some days, Dove sono i bei momenti , also from Nozze Di Figaro, runs around in my head. Opera ear worms are sometimes less trying than pop music or Disney ear worms.
The worst of course, can be hymns as ear worms. You then begin to wonder if Someone is trying to tell you something because this one particular hymn keeps running in your head over an over. Church anthems have the same effect. I begin to wonder if their is Someone trying to beat me over the head with a point they wish to make.
So, now I wonder if I will hear from any of you what ear worms haunt your existence and spoil your dreams?
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Sandwiched In Between Everything Else...
Here we go again. Trying to write while on the Customer Service Desk. It is a Saturday morning, we have three birthday parties scheduled in the meeting rooms. So far, two groups have shown up. Hope the other one either doesn't show, or realizes they only have the room for the MORNING, someone else is there at noon.
Such drama in the library. Meeting rooms are usually the largest source of drama. Either they thought they booked something they didn't book, or they need one thing after another. On rare occasions, they break the rules and put candles on a birthday cake. THEN the smoke alarms go off, we have to evacuate the ENTIRE building, the fire department shows up, and all the folks who were using our free internet access get REALLY peeved. Thank God that hasn't happened on one of my days lately. Better not happen today, it is frippin' COLD outside.
(At least we don't have any Vashta Nerada (deadly shadow creatures from Doctor Who) in OUR library. If we did, I know a few customers who would have disappeared LONG ago...)
We may have a ghost in the library, though. We think it is female, and a young person. Most who have heard anything from it have heard sounds of giggling, or of children playing. I think it is a happy and friendly presence, because I sense nothing at all that makes me uneasy in this place, and I have been known to feel things in other places that have had less benevolent spirits reported in them, even before I'd heard stories. One old house that my Grandfather was caretaker of, there was something in that house. There was a presence that was not threatening, but there was another that made me uneasy. I was in there alone once during a thunderstorm, and I really couldn't get outside fast enough, never mind the rain and lightening. There have been other places where I just had to get out of the building, there was an oppressive, unpleasant atmosphere. (Thankfully, the last that affected me that way was recently torn down.) It doesn't happen often. Only VERY rarely.
Is it evil to think of getting a weeping angel figure and putting it in a coworkers cubicle? Even if they are a serious Doctor Who fan? They might think it was funny. Honestly. They might.
Our library system here is one of the best institutions to work for that I have ever experienced. My coworkers are all fun to be with and the whole system feels like an extended family. The ethic of service to our customers throughout the system makes it easy to do what we need to do to connect our customers to the materials and information they want. Then again, I always have felt that those of us in education, like the library or public schools, are people with a holy calling, not a desire to make money. (Because you certainly don't make a lot of money working in the public sector in a field related to education.) That dedication to purpose is what makes working together feel so effortless sometimes. I come to work and actually have a good time. Because I am having a good time, I get a lot done. When I get going on checkins, I can usually clear a large tub full of items and get them sorted in about an hour. This depends on how many phone calls we get. (Meeting room bookings can be time consuming.)
Our customers also tend to be very nice people. Everybody has a bad day once in a while, but most folks who come in here are glad to be here, and they are pleasant. There are the regulars, whom we usually know by name, and they know us, and ask after staff they haven't seen for awhile. This big, impersonal looking suburb is really such a small town at heart. (Heck, the whole state of Oklahoma feels that way sometimes. As frustrated as I get with the politics here, I love these people, and I love this place. It has wormed its way into my jaded, Southern California bred heart.)
It is really quiet at the desk this morning. (Can you tell?) It is one of those very rare days when it is actually kind of quiet in the library itself. The only sounds I hear are the hand dryers in the bathrooms and the annoying music from the children's game computers. The occasional throat clearing or murmuring of a question and answer. I hear someone moving things on shelves, and a kiddo playing with the puzzles. Of course, the automatic doors out front are opening and closing a lot, but they do that whenever something triggers the sensor.
Biggest hallelujah moment of the day so far? The alarm shut off for me on the first attempt! Yay! I didn't have to explain myself to an alarm company rep for once!
Second hallelujah moment of the day came when I found something a patron had called and said they left in a book. The patron actually remembered which book, and it was one our branch owns, rather than one from one of the other branches. Went to the book on the shelf, and there were her papers, right where she left them. Called her back, and she came and picked them up. Nice when things work out like that.
Worst moment of the day didn't come until I was almost home. Big Nasty Stinking Freight train was blocking 12th Street again. Had to wait so long, the car actually got warm. (House is less than a 5 minute drive from the library, providing trains and traffic lights are in my favor.) Usually, the heater doesn't start blowing hot air until I get to my own driveway.
Now I have been home for about an hour and ten minutes, and it is time to contemplate food. (And possibly drink.) That is all for today, I think.
Such drama in the library. Meeting rooms are usually the largest source of drama. Either they thought they booked something they didn't book, or they need one thing after another. On rare occasions, they break the rules and put candles on a birthday cake. THEN the smoke alarms go off, we have to evacuate the ENTIRE building, the fire department shows up, and all the folks who were using our free internet access get REALLY peeved. Thank God that hasn't happened on one of my days lately. Better not happen today, it is frippin' COLD outside.
(At least we don't have any Vashta Nerada (deadly shadow creatures from Doctor Who) in OUR library. If we did, I know a few customers who would have disappeared LONG ago...)
We may have a ghost in the library, though. We think it is female, and a young person. Most who have heard anything from it have heard sounds of giggling, or of children playing. I think it is a happy and friendly presence, because I sense nothing at all that makes me uneasy in this place, and I have been known to feel things in other places that have had less benevolent spirits reported in them, even before I'd heard stories. One old house that my Grandfather was caretaker of, there was something in that house. There was a presence that was not threatening, but there was another that made me uneasy. I was in there alone once during a thunderstorm, and I really couldn't get outside fast enough, never mind the rain and lightening. There have been other places where I just had to get out of the building, there was an oppressive, unpleasant atmosphere. (Thankfully, the last that affected me that way was recently torn down.) It doesn't happen often. Only VERY rarely.
Is it evil to think of getting a weeping angel figure and putting it in a coworkers cubicle? Even if they are a serious Doctor Who fan? They might think it was funny. Honestly. They might.
Our library system here is one of the best institutions to work for that I have ever experienced. My coworkers are all fun to be with and the whole system feels like an extended family. The ethic of service to our customers throughout the system makes it easy to do what we need to do to connect our customers to the materials and information they want. Then again, I always have felt that those of us in education, like the library or public schools, are people with a holy calling, not a desire to make money. (Because you certainly don't make a lot of money working in the public sector in a field related to education.) That dedication to purpose is what makes working together feel so effortless sometimes. I come to work and actually have a good time. Because I am having a good time, I get a lot done. When I get going on checkins, I can usually clear a large tub full of items and get them sorted in about an hour. This depends on how many phone calls we get. (Meeting room bookings can be time consuming.)
Our customers also tend to be very nice people. Everybody has a bad day once in a while, but most folks who come in here are glad to be here, and they are pleasant. There are the regulars, whom we usually know by name, and they know us, and ask after staff they haven't seen for awhile. This big, impersonal looking suburb is really such a small town at heart. (Heck, the whole state of Oklahoma feels that way sometimes. As frustrated as I get with the politics here, I love these people, and I love this place. It has wormed its way into my jaded, Southern California bred heart.)
It is really quiet at the desk this morning. (Can you tell?) It is one of those very rare days when it is actually kind of quiet in the library itself. The only sounds I hear are the hand dryers in the bathrooms and the annoying music from the children's game computers. The occasional throat clearing or murmuring of a question and answer. I hear someone moving things on shelves, and a kiddo playing with the puzzles. Of course, the automatic doors out front are opening and closing a lot, but they do that whenever something triggers the sensor.
Biggest hallelujah moment of the day so far? The alarm shut off for me on the first attempt! Yay! I didn't have to explain myself to an alarm company rep for once!
Second hallelujah moment of the day came when I found something a patron had called and said they left in a book. The patron actually remembered which book, and it was one our branch owns, rather than one from one of the other branches. Went to the book on the shelf, and there were her papers, right where she left them. Called her back, and she came and picked them up. Nice when things work out like that.
Worst moment of the day didn't come until I was almost home. Big Nasty Stinking Freight train was blocking 12th Street again. Had to wait so long, the car actually got warm. (House is less than a 5 minute drive from the library, providing trains and traffic lights are in my favor.) Usually, the heater doesn't start blowing hot air until I get to my own driveway.
Now I have been home for about an hour and ten minutes, and it is time to contemplate food. (And possibly drink.) That is all for today, I think.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Bits and Pieces
Today's blog is composed of forgotten bits of poetry from one of my many journals.
From Nov. 2005
The subtle process of poetry
Is lately rather lost to me
I scratch a few pathetic lines
Wishing for more inspired rhymes.
Always interrupted by dog or cat
Or by laundry, or supper, or such as that.
My work has dwindled down to naught
Or exists merely in the realm of thought.
From March, 2008
The quiet world
Is so rudely awakened
By the screech of my
Voice waking up and stretching.
Soon, if God is merciful, my throat
will clear,
The notes will come forth in their liquid brilliance
(As I promise you, they have done.)
Just now, though, unwelcome bits of allergy or sleep are
Making the notes squawk like an oboe
With a bad reed.
But when it works, oh, what joy,
What release.
The music flows out, warm and sweet and smooth,
Taking me soaring oh, so high.
Autumn Thoughts From a Few Years Back
Autumn has finally come - the trees are turning at last.
The days are bright but cool, the nights are actually cold.
Halloween is coming. The night of ghosts and frights.
We may be plagued with little goblins, but maybe not. Hard to say.
So many pictures lately of stylish, sleek, modern houses.
They look so cold and unfriendly to me.
I like cozy places.
Places with overstuffed furniture and lots of books ,
Lots of pillows and blankets
And a well-provisioned kitchen with a teakettle on the stove, and teacups and bowls and things handy.
Furnishings with history, things with love and memory attached;
Things that give a house a SOUL, make it a HOME.
From Nov. 2005
The subtle process of poetry
Is lately rather lost to me
I scratch a few pathetic lines
Wishing for more inspired rhymes.
Always interrupted by dog or cat
Or by laundry, or supper, or such as that.
My work has dwindled down to naught
Or exists merely in the realm of thought.
From March, 2008
The quiet world
Is so rudely awakened
By the screech of my
Voice waking up and stretching.
Soon, if God is merciful, my throat
will clear,
The notes will come forth in their liquid brilliance
(As I promise you, they have done.)
Just now, though, unwelcome bits of allergy or sleep are
Making the notes squawk like an oboe
With a bad reed.
But when it works, oh, what joy,
What release.
The music flows out, warm and sweet and smooth,
Taking me soaring oh, so high.
Autumn Thoughts From a Few Years Back
Autumn has finally come - the trees are turning at last.
The days are bright but cool, the nights are actually cold.
Halloween is coming. The night of ghosts and frights.
We may be plagued with little goblins, but maybe not. Hard to say.
So many pictures lately of stylish, sleek, modern houses.
They look so cold and unfriendly to me.
I like cozy places.
Places with overstuffed furniture and lots of books ,
Lots of pillows and blankets
And a well-provisioned kitchen with a teakettle on the stove, and teacups and bowls and things handy.
Furnishings with history, things with love and memory attached;
Things that give a house a SOUL, make it a HOME.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
I Know I Should Make Myself Write, But...
It's late. I'm tired. I've been lurking around on social media sites wasting time. This is the second of three long days for me. I worked today, and then had Cathedral choir rehearsal this evening. Yesterday I didn't work, but I had Master Chorale rehearsal. I also have to work in voice practice on most days, and most days I don't manage to do it. Must not ignore the gift. Must work to make it better. I keep telling myself that.
I have been told I have a talent for poetry, and on some subjects I can write well. Most of the time I ramble.
When one has a talent, however rough, one is expected to make something of it. Music is beautiful, and transporting when you get it right. The hard work it takes to get it right is a very rough slog. Often quite painful. Vocal exercises, especially for a soprano, can be grueling, and you will have NO friends or family members left if they once hear you practice. (I've been told I peeled paint, but my voice coach said the effect she sought was wrought by those very irritating exercises.)
However, once you put in the work, and you get into a real piece of music, especially if it is one of the classics, you begin to feel at one with the whole universe. The music moves you, moves through you, reaches out to others, flows back to you - it's magical.
That experience can be had in choirs as well. It is even more meaningful because choral music is a group effort, you must listen to each other, and blend with each other. I am privileged to sing with an exceptional choir at St. Paul's Episcopal Cathedral in Oklahoma City. Most of us in Cathedral choir have been singing together for many years now. We blend very well, we seem to pick up new things fairly quickly, and when we get to sing a piece we know well, it is a moving experience. It gives me goosebumps. Master Chorale has a lot of potential to be that good. If we all work a little more on our own with those large choral works, it will be easier to put together at rehearsals. We have a lot of good voices, and a fearless, determined director.
Writing for me has always been more of a challenge than anything musical. I can FEEL the music. The writing is also something I feel, but I haven't had a poem present itself to me in a long time. Most of my poetry is not that profound. It is just a shorter way to communicate a feeling or even a sort of emotional story. These blog posts have become more of a journal than anything else.
The hard slog of writing is even harder for me than the work of vocal exercises. I don't have a performance looming to force me to work, but I don't want that. It is a release of angst, a way to send a statement out into the universe saying "I feel this way. Have you ever felt this way?"
On rare occasions, the universe answers.
Tomorrow is my eight hour day at the library. I love my job, I love my coworkers, and I even love some of our customers, but eight hours on my feet is a LONG day. (Especially when you are a vintage work of art like myself!)
Here's hoping tomorrow is a productive day.
I have been told I have a talent for poetry, and on some subjects I can write well. Most of the time I ramble.
When one has a talent, however rough, one is expected to make something of it. Music is beautiful, and transporting when you get it right. The hard work it takes to get it right is a very rough slog. Often quite painful. Vocal exercises, especially for a soprano, can be grueling, and you will have NO friends or family members left if they once hear you practice. (I've been told I peeled paint, but my voice coach said the effect she sought was wrought by those very irritating exercises.)
However, once you put in the work, and you get into a real piece of music, especially if it is one of the classics, you begin to feel at one with the whole universe. The music moves you, moves through you, reaches out to others, flows back to you - it's magical.
That experience can be had in choirs as well. It is even more meaningful because choral music is a group effort, you must listen to each other, and blend with each other. I am privileged to sing with an exceptional choir at St. Paul's Episcopal Cathedral in Oklahoma City. Most of us in Cathedral choir have been singing together for many years now. We blend very well, we seem to pick up new things fairly quickly, and when we get to sing a piece we know well, it is a moving experience. It gives me goosebumps. Master Chorale has a lot of potential to be that good. If we all work a little more on our own with those large choral works, it will be easier to put together at rehearsals. We have a lot of good voices, and a fearless, determined director.
Writing for me has always been more of a challenge than anything musical. I can FEEL the music. The writing is also something I feel, but I haven't had a poem present itself to me in a long time. Most of my poetry is not that profound. It is just a shorter way to communicate a feeling or even a sort of emotional story. These blog posts have become more of a journal than anything else.
The hard slog of writing is even harder for me than the work of vocal exercises. I don't have a performance looming to force me to work, but I don't want that. It is a release of angst, a way to send a statement out into the universe saying "I feel this way. Have you ever felt this way?"
On rare occasions, the universe answers.
Tomorrow is my eight hour day at the library. I love my job, I love my coworkers, and I even love some of our customers, but eight hours on my feet is a LONG day. (Especially when you are a vintage work of art like myself!)
Here's hoping tomorrow is a productive day.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
An Unintentionally Lazy Day
Dear Universe,
I really did mean to get up and get a lot of things accomplished today. Unfortunately, Texas has very thoughtfully been sending us LOTS of cedar and juniper pollen, and well, getting my head into operational condition this morning was NOT easy.
I did, however, manage to dispose of a few crapalanches around the house. Funny, you can't really destroy a crapalanche, you just end up moving its parts around. The removal of the major crapalanche that was my desk has caused the growth and/or appearance of crapalanches in other areas. Most notably the side cabinet in my desk and the office closet. I have not been brave enough yet to tackle those, but I did remove one from my beside cabinet, and from the interior of the fireplace cupboard.
The walk was accomplished this morning, though due to the activities of the city's large waste removal truck (dubbed the Terminator) I had alter my route a bit and evidentlly Endomondo thought this crossing of the road shaved a LOT off my distance. My time was also a bit shorter, so maybe the silly thing was right for once.
The oil change for the car has been postponed yet again. I just didn't think driving all the way to Norman and sitting around in a Ford dealer's waiting room was in the cards for my pounding head today. By the time the head stopped pounding and I got the walk done, it was too late. I'm off Friday, we'll try again then.
Now I must do a few clerical things (like balance the checkbook with the last statement) and make some birthday cards for fellow staff members at the library. That is usually fun, but getting the printer to cooperate is sometimes a challenge. (This printer knows it is on the way out, as my laptop is now the only computer in the house that will speak to it. No Windows 7 drivers available for the poor thing.) So I guess this should be finished and the laptop hauled once again out of hibernation and set up. (I just got it put away after it kindly donated part of its stored memories to this new machine.) It was getting dust in it, it had sat upon the craptastic desk for so long.
Master Chorale rehearsal tonight. We are starting work on the Faure Requiem and the Rutter Requiem. (Pray for us.)
Thank you for your patience with me.
I really did mean to get up and get a lot of things accomplished today. Unfortunately, Texas has very thoughtfully been sending us LOTS of cedar and juniper pollen, and well, getting my head into operational condition this morning was NOT easy.
I did, however, manage to dispose of a few crapalanches around the house. Funny, you can't really destroy a crapalanche, you just end up moving its parts around. The removal of the major crapalanche that was my desk has caused the growth and/or appearance of crapalanches in other areas. Most notably the side cabinet in my desk and the office closet. I have not been brave enough yet to tackle those, but I did remove one from my beside cabinet, and from the interior of the fireplace cupboard.
The walk was accomplished this morning, though due to the activities of the city's large waste removal truck (dubbed the Terminator) I had alter my route a bit and evidentlly Endomondo thought this crossing of the road shaved a LOT off my distance. My time was also a bit shorter, so maybe the silly thing was right for once.
The oil change for the car has been postponed yet again. I just didn't think driving all the way to Norman and sitting around in a Ford dealer's waiting room was in the cards for my pounding head today. By the time the head stopped pounding and I got the walk done, it was too late. I'm off Friday, we'll try again then.
Now I must do a few clerical things (like balance the checkbook with the last statement) and make some birthday cards for fellow staff members at the library. That is usually fun, but getting the printer to cooperate is sometimes a challenge. (This printer knows it is on the way out, as my laptop is now the only computer in the house that will speak to it. No Windows 7 drivers available for the poor thing.) So I guess this should be finished and the laptop hauled once again out of hibernation and set up. (I just got it put away after it kindly donated part of its stored memories to this new machine.) It was getting dust in it, it had sat upon the craptastic desk for so long.
Master Chorale rehearsal tonight. We are starting work on the Faure Requiem and the Rutter Requiem. (Pray for us.)
Thank you for your patience with me.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
The Thing That Mystifies Me About Oklahoma
OK, as a girl born and raised in Los Angeles County, CA, I must admit that when the Air Force decided to send us to Oklahoma after four years in Germany, I was unhappy. I had all the usual stereotypes firmly in mind, and some of them are worse if you grew up in California, where "Okie" was often synonymous with "poor and backward."
After being here awhile, I realized that people here are not backward. They are very intelligent about this harsh land that they have been trying to tame for the last 100+ years. They are more astute observers of weather than anyone I have ever seen. The true pioneer spirit lives on here, also. Life can be tough, none know it better, and therefore, you take care of your neighbors when they need you because tomorrow you might need their help. The arts flourish in Oklahoma City and in Tulsa. Everywhere you go here you find people who are involved in music or in making other kinds of art. Yes, there are the redneck stereotypical people too, but fewer than you would expect. And even those folks will help a neighbor or a stranger in need.
This is what mystifies me about the politics currently in this state. Here are people who see a need and set about to fill it. They hear about a natural disaster, or a tragedy somewhere else, and they pray, and they send money, and often they go themselves and help feed people. Yet, the politicians they elect are most often the worst sort of cynical tea party curmudgeons you could ever hope to find.
Look at the voting on aid for victims of Sandy. It would greatly surprise me if there were not at least one group of Baptist men from Oklahoma who took their mobile kitchens out and fed people in that area. I would be astounded if folks here didn't reach out through their churches, and as individuals to send what they could to help. It's the way folks are here. (Look at the local response to the Murrah Bombing in 1995. The "Oklahoma Standard" was all about the way the greater community called and asked "What do you need?" and set about providing it.) Yet, our Congressional delegation, when asked to support funding for relief for the victims of a major storm, refused. How many times has Oklahoma had to ask for aid? Come on, folks, be consistent. Let some of the tax dollars you'll be paying anyway go toward something you would fund on your own as well. Help your neighbors. You have needed their help many times in the past, and you will again.
From the tone of the political rhetoric spewed by the delegation from Oklahoma, you would expect that people here are angry and unfriendly. It isn't so. They are kind, polite, friendly, the sort of people who, even in a big city, know the names of the people who wait on them regularly in local businesses, and ask after their families. The kind of folks who will stop to help a stranger change a tire.
This is a place where, even though it is a large metropolitan area, I can't go to the store without seeing a person who comes into the library where I work. My church is 10 miles away, in Oklahoma City, and still, I see people from church in the library. (And Episcopalians are certainly in the minority here.)
I just can't reconcile the tenor of the politics here with the behavior of the majority of the people.
After being here awhile, I realized that people here are not backward. They are very intelligent about this harsh land that they have been trying to tame for the last 100+ years. They are more astute observers of weather than anyone I have ever seen. The true pioneer spirit lives on here, also. Life can be tough, none know it better, and therefore, you take care of your neighbors when they need you because tomorrow you might need their help. The arts flourish in Oklahoma City and in Tulsa. Everywhere you go here you find people who are involved in music or in making other kinds of art. Yes, there are the redneck stereotypical people too, but fewer than you would expect. And even those folks will help a neighbor or a stranger in need.
This is what mystifies me about the politics currently in this state. Here are people who see a need and set about to fill it. They hear about a natural disaster, or a tragedy somewhere else, and they pray, and they send money, and often they go themselves and help feed people. Yet, the politicians they elect are most often the worst sort of cynical tea party curmudgeons you could ever hope to find.
Look at the voting on aid for victims of Sandy. It would greatly surprise me if there were not at least one group of Baptist men from Oklahoma who took their mobile kitchens out and fed people in that area. I would be astounded if folks here didn't reach out through their churches, and as individuals to send what they could to help. It's the way folks are here. (Look at the local response to the Murrah Bombing in 1995. The "Oklahoma Standard" was all about the way the greater community called and asked "What do you need?" and set about providing it.) Yet, our Congressional delegation, when asked to support funding for relief for the victims of a major storm, refused. How many times has Oklahoma had to ask for aid? Come on, folks, be consistent. Let some of the tax dollars you'll be paying anyway go toward something you would fund on your own as well. Help your neighbors. You have needed their help many times in the past, and you will again.
From the tone of the political rhetoric spewed by the delegation from Oklahoma, you would expect that people here are angry and unfriendly. It isn't so. They are kind, polite, friendly, the sort of people who, even in a big city, know the names of the people who wait on them regularly in local businesses, and ask after their families. The kind of folks who will stop to help a stranger change a tire.
This is a place where, even though it is a large metropolitan area, I can't go to the store without seeing a person who comes into the library where I work. My church is 10 miles away, in Oklahoma City, and still, I see people from church in the library. (And Episcopalians are certainly in the minority here.)
I just can't reconcile the tenor of the politics here with the behavior of the majority of the people.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
More New Year Stuff and Thoughts on Connectedness
So, one of the last things that happened in the old year was that my faithful desktop computer started having the unfortunate habit of rebooting itself without warning. (Often in the middle of a project.) I have been using my laptop (also not a spring chicken) for most of my writing and social networking, but the keyboard drives me nuts, and I couldn't really get decent video or sound on either machine. SO, I am now typing this on my brand-new, super deluxe desktop unit. It is a Toshiba, an all in one with all the important hardware in the monitor itself. It is a touch screen, but I have the wireless keyboard, (one of the best I have ever used) and the wireless mouse. It comes with a top quality dvd player and great sound. (It even has a remote control so I can watch my dvds from the comfy chair instead of the almost comfy desk chair. It is much easier to knit in the comfy chair. ) I have hope that the new computer will make me more likely to write in this blog, because it makes it much more pleasant to do so, but given my history, I will not hold my breath.
The other ongoing new thing is my attempt to use Twitter. I have successfully set up an account, and I have about 6 followers, about half of which are trying to sell me something. I "follow" a lot of people, mostly celebrities whose work I admire because I want to know what new project is coming up that I might want to see/hear/read. I have no idea if anything I mention these folks in ever gets to a place where they can see it. I often feel like I am talking to myself on Twitter. (This blog is pretty much that way, too. I don't think anybody much reads it but me.) That's OK, though. I was the youngest child by 12 years, so I spent a lot of time alone. I am used to talking to myself.
I would like to apologize to those I may have unintentionally bombarded with posts trying to get a link and a few words to explain it to go out together earlier today. Sheesh! I am far from a technological incompetent, but some software makes me feel that way. It is doubtful that Greg Francis or Ron Perlman will ever read my rambles here, but I AM sorry if my ineptitude made a nuisance of me. That is the last thing I would wish to do. All I was trying to do was help a friend, a screenwriter, who is part of a project that is eligible for a grant if they get enough "likes" for their video. Anne Lower is very talented, and deserves to catch a break right now. She has had successes, but I think this would mean a lot to her. Here's a link to the project As for my trying to help, you know what they say about good intentions...
OK, time for what I am SUPPOSED to be writing.
Walking yesterday morning and thinking about how the trees looked against the bright winter sky. Like fine black fingers reaching toward the crystal blue sky. The air was cold, crisp, and sweet. That is one thing I like about Oklahoma. Nowhere near as much crud in the air as there was in L.A. when I was growing up there. You can hear yourself think walking around a small suburban neighborhood in Moore, Oklahoma. There are noises, but in the mid-morning on a weekday, it is pretty quiet. The only exception is when the stupid train decides to come through. There is one exception to the clear air. Pollen. (Thanks ever so much, Texas, for sharing all your cedar pollen with us. I never had allergies before I moved to Oklahoma. I think maybe the smog killed the pollen in L.A., but I can't be sure... I left in '89.)
ANYWAY, as I was walking, I was thinking about how connected I seem to be to the community here. I work in the public library here in Moore, and though this is a large suburb, it still feels like a small town. Whenever I go out to the store, the gas station, the movie theater, (and we have a FABULOUS one The Moore Warren) I see library customers or coworkers. I see members of the church I attend at my library, even though the church is in downtown Oklahoma City, 10 miles away. St. Paul's Episcopal Cathedral
We here in Central Oklahoma have been through a lot of tough times together in the almost 20 years I've lived here. The Murrah Bombing - see the memorial website - our church suffered 8 million dollars worth of damage, too. The May 3rd , 1999 tornado- Link to NOAA here -tore apart many lives here in Moore, and we lost quite a few library materials, but that was the least of our problems. In all these cases, people here responded with care and help for their neighbors in need. They also went to the government asking for help. This is what made me SO ASHAMED of our Oklahoma delegation to Congress when they refused to support aid for the victims of Hurricane Sandy. What horrendous hypocrisy. Just because they want to stamp their little feets and say they said "NO" to more government spending. Idiots! I am proud to say that I did not vote for ANY of them, where I had the chance, I voted for their opponents. It is difficult sometimes to be an educated and thinking person in Oklahoma, especially so if one must interact with the general public and remain civil. For the most part, though, folks here are extremely nice, and will not try to force their opinions and beliefs on you. The exceptions seem to run for office. Unfortunately, they often win.
All of these thoughts led me to the conclusion that the connection must reach beyond our town and our state, it must reach out to the whole country , and beyond that, to the world. We must do a better job of living those fine principles we claim to cherish. EVERYONE ON THE PLANET is our neighbor, and Christians, Jesus told us in no uncertain terms that we must love the Lord our God with all our heart, with all our mind, and with all our spirit, AND OUR NEIGHBOR AS OURSELVES. "On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets." Well, this year I am going to try and reach out to more of my neighbors like the victims of Sandy. I sent a donation to www.statenstrong.com, I posted the link and asked friends to help both on Facebook and on Twitter. I talked to people at work about it. The harder part of loving my neighbor will be to be tolerant and kind even to those who behave with intolerance and unkindness. Maybe an example is what they need. Everyone needs to be loved.
Please, if you happen to read this, go to StatenStrong and see what they are doing. Maybe send a little donation. Also, look around your own community, and maybe beyond, and see what you can do to make the connections a little better by helping, or even just spreading the word that help is needed. It's one of my resolutions this year.
The other ongoing new thing is my attempt to use Twitter. I have successfully set up an account, and I have about 6 followers, about half of which are trying to sell me something. I "follow" a lot of people, mostly celebrities whose work I admire because I want to know what new project is coming up that I might want to see/hear/read. I have no idea if anything I mention these folks in ever gets to a place where they can see it. I often feel like I am talking to myself on Twitter. (This blog is pretty much that way, too. I don't think anybody much reads it but me.) That's OK, though. I was the youngest child by 12 years, so I spent a lot of time alone. I am used to talking to myself.
I would like to apologize to those I may have unintentionally bombarded with posts trying to get a link and a few words to explain it to go out together earlier today. Sheesh! I am far from a technological incompetent, but some software makes me feel that way. It is doubtful that Greg Francis or Ron Perlman will ever read my rambles here, but I AM sorry if my ineptitude made a nuisance of me. That is the last thing I would wish to do. All I was trying to do was help a friend, a screenwriter, who is part of a project that is eligible for a grant if they get enough "likes" for their video. Anne Lower is very talented, and deserves to catch a break right now. She has had successes, but I think this would mean a lot to her. Here's a link to the project As for my trying to help, you know what they say about good intentions...
OK, time for what I am SUPPOSED to be writing.
Walking yesterday morning and thinking about how the trees looked against the bright winter sky. Like fine black fingers reaching toward the crystal blue sky. The air was cold, crisp, and sweet. That is one thing I like about Oklahoma. Nowhere near as much crud in the air as there was in L.A. when I was growing up there. You can hear yourself think walking around a small suburban neighborhood in Moore, Oklahoma. There are noises, but in the mid-morning on a weekday, it is pretty quiet. The only exception is when the stupid train decides to come through. There is one exception to the clear air. Pollen. (Thanks ever so much, Texas, for sharing all your cedar pollen with us. I never had allergies before I moved to Oklahoma. I think maybe the smog killed the pollen in L.A., but I can't be sure... I left in '89.)
ANYWAY, as I was walking, I was thinking about how connected I seem to be to the community here. I work in the public library here in Moore, and though this is a large suburb, it still feels like a small town. Whenever I go out to the store, the gas station, the movie theater, (and we have a FABULOUS one The Moore Warren) I see library customers or coworkers. I see members of the church I attend at my library, even though the church is in downtown Oklahoma City, 10 miles away. St. Paul's Episcopal Cathedral
We here in Central Oklahoma have been through a lot of tough times together in the almost 20 years I've lived here. The Murrah Bombing - see the memorial website - our church suffered 8 million dollars worth of damage, too. The May 3rd , 1999 tornado- Link to NOAA here -tore apart many lives here in Moore, and we lost quite a few library materials, but that was the least of our problems. In all these cases, people here responded with care and help for their neighbors in need. They also went to the government asking for help. This is what made me SO ASHAMED of our Oklahoma delegation to Congress when they refused to support aid for the victims of Hurricane Sandy. What horrendous hypocrisy. Just because they want to stamp their little feets and say they said "NO" to more government spending. Idiots! I am proud to say that I did not vote for ANY of them, where I had the chance, I voted for their opponents. It is difficult sometimes to be an educated and thinking person in Oklahoma, especially so if one must interact with the general public and remain civil. For the most part, though, folks here are extremely nice, and will not try to force their opinions and beliefs on you. The exceptions seem to run for office. Unfortunately, they often win.
All of these thoughts led me to the conclusion that the connection must reach beyond our town and our state, it must reach out to the whole country , and beyond that, to the world. We must do a better job of living those fine principles we claim to cherish. EVERYONE ON THE PLANET is our neighbor, and Christians, Jesus told us in no uncertain terms that we must love the Lord our God with all our heart, with all our mind, and with all our spirit, AND OUR NEIGHBOR AS OURSELVES. "On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets." Well, this year I am going to try and reach out to more of my neighbors like the victims of Sandy. I sent a donation to www.statenstrong.com, I posted the link and asked friends to help both on Facebook and on Twitter. I talked to people at work about it. The harder part of loving my neighbor will be to be tolerant and kind even to those who behave with intolerance and unkindness. Maybe an example is what they need. Everyone needs to be loved.
Please, if you happen to read this, go to StatenStrong and see what they are doing. Maybe send a little donation. Also, look around your own community, and maybe beyond, and see what you can do to make the connections a little better by helping, or even just spreading the word that help is needed. It's one of my resolutions this year.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Another New Year
Another New Year's Day, another Tournament of Roses Parade watched. This year, I am actually doing some of the cleaning I have vowed to do on this day. I have packed away most of the Christmas decorations, (early, I know, but I won't have time closer to Epiphany). I have started clearing out my office so I can actually do things in here without searching forever for what I need, or having to re-arrange the known universe in order to put something down. Also, my desktop computer died a couple of weeks ago, and I have been making do with this laptop. Matt has ordered my new computer, and it will require a different section of my desk space, so I am clearing as much off the top of the desk as possible.
This process always reminds me that I don't use my fountain pens as much as I should. They sit in their tray, all forlorn and probably in need of cleaning and new ink cartridges. I have a journal in my "reading basket" that needs attention, too. Also a poetry work notebook, and a small notebook of inspirations and writing exercises. My now neglected (yup, got Pandora on my phone) mp3 player is also in that basket. From time to time my very overworked Nook tablet lives on top of other things in that basket.
There are scores of cds of my vocal practice pieces in my cabinet that need to be organized, and there are three shelves of stuff in that cabinet that need to be reorganized and weeded. (Mostly books and cds.)
The stuff in the desk drawers needs to be gone through again, too. I know I will find my old stickers from TK Graphics in the back of the top drawer. There are numerous Star Trek related ones, and a couple of Beauty and the Beast stickers, too. A couple of general sci-fi fan sayings are in there, too. ("Two things are universal: Hydrogen and Stupidity." "Anything not nailed down is a cat toy" Opportunity knocks but once; Temptation pounds on the door constantly" "I refuse to engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent." "Nothing is foolproof to a sufficiently talented fool.") These used to go on the envelopes of the letters we fans sent to each other back in those dark days before the Internet and email (or Facebook and Twitter.)
I dread this process, but I know I must begin it. I have the same paranoia my Pop always had. "As soon as I get rid of that, I'm going to need it." I am afraid my genes may work against me here. I come from a long line of packrats. I have used a lot of these things in the last year, just that there are too many things in here. Something's gotta give.
Sigh. Time to quit stalling and get back at it...
This process always reminds me that I don't use my fountain pens as much as I should. They sit in their tray, all forlorn and probably in need of cleaning and new ink cartridges. I have a journal in my "reading basket" that needs attention, too. Also a poetry work notebook, and a small notebook of inspirations and writing exercises. My now neglected (yup, got Pandora on my phone) mp3 player is also in that basket. From time to time my very overworked Nook tablet lives on top of other things in that basket.
There are scores of cds of my vocal practice pieces in my cabinet that need to be organized, and there are three shelves of stuff in that cabinet that need to be reorganized and weeded. (Mostly books and cds.)
The stuff in the desk drawers needs to be gone through again, too. I know I will find my old stickers from TK Graphics in the back of the top drawer. There are numerous Star Trek related ones, and a couple of Beauty and the Beast stickers, too. A couple of general sci-fi fan sayings are in there, too. ("Two things are universal: Hydrogen and Stupidity." "Anything not nailed down is a cat toy" Opportunity knocks but once; Temptation pounds on the door constantly" "I refuse to engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent." "Nothing is foolproof to a sufficiently talented fool.") These used to go on the envelopes of the letters we fans sent to each other back in those dark days before the Internet and email (or Facebook and Twitter.)
I dread this process, but I know I must begin it. I have the same paranoia my Pop always had. "As soon as I get rid of that, I'm going to need it." I am afraid my genes may work against me here. I come from a long line of packrats. I have used a lot of these things in the last year, just that there are too many things in here. Something's gotta give.
Sigh. Time to quit stalling and get back at it...
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