Just finished watching two seasons of Weeds on DVD, and apart from the drama and suspense of the ending, it's a very affecting show to watch because it features some very fine actors who are all are very good at portraying men in love. The older son with his deaf girlfriend, the DEA agent, her business partner Conrad, even Councilman Doug to some extent.
I was thinking this and it led to the following musing, "All these affecting portrayals of men in love, and yet the series was written by a woman. Wait. She wrote those parts for those talented men to portray. It's wish fulfilment!"
Perhaps the reason there aren't more affecting portrayals of men in love on TV or in the movies is that there haven't been enough women in senior enough writer/director positions to impress our world view and observations and desires on the creative media. I'm glad there is now, though. Because Weeds is wonderful to watch.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Doubles
Tonight I was at Pearl Vision buying a pair of reading glasses - just got the cheap pre-prepared ones at this stage, to see how I like taking them on and off when I need to see something. If I decide to commit, there were some quite fabulous square Ray-Bans I could go back and invest in.
A woman came in towing her two daughters in a blue wagon, I guess the wagons are available from the mall. One of the girls was named Champagne.
When I was waiting to pay I looked up at a UPS package that was sitting on a shelf up behind the cash register, all addressed and ready to go, and the sender's name was Brandy Fish.
Driving home, I saw a family out for a walk, a sister, a Dad, and a little brother. The Dad was pulling the little brother behind them in a red wagon.
A woman came in towing her two daughters in a blue wagon, I guess the wagons are available from the mall. One of the girls was named Champagne.
When I was waiting to pay I looked up at a UPS package that was sitting on a shelf up behind the cash register, all addressed and ready to go, and the sender's name was Brandy Fish.
Driving home, I saw a family out for a walk, a sister, a Dad, and a little brother. The Dad was pulling the little brother behind them in a red wagon.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Eyes
A few months ago I caught myself trying to read the back of a vitamin bottle and having to hold it away from myself to do so.
Oh, no.
This has happened to all my friends, one by one, but now it's my turn - I'm over 40, and I'm starting to lose my ability to read fine print up close.
Finally, this morning I went to the eye doctor, had all sorts of drops and tests (later, because my eyes were so dilated, a work colleague said I looked like a Japanese manga character), and found out the details. And they've got me thinking.
Sure enough, I have lost my near vision and will need one of the following:
But then got a more rock and rolly boyfriend, dyed my hair black, and the cut I had didn't look so good with the glasses on so I just stopped wearing them. And my eyes got better. I didn't need prescription lenses again until I started following Rugby League and found it easier with prescription sunnies to see the names on the players' backs at the games.
And then today, I find out that I've gone back the other way again. The eye doctor said that deterioration can happen if you do lots of close work - the muscles that focus the eyes on distant things can lose tone and not work so well. It's not the lens of the eye changing shape, it's the muscles that drive them that are changing. And I got those first glasses right after finishing my PhD, so that would fit. Gave them up when I was spending heaps more time galavanting around Brisbane with the new rock and rolly boyfriend than working - in fact I was just about to quit academia altogether. Needed them a bit again with all the dot-com computer jobs. And now that I spend more time in meetings than in front of the screen, and now that I drive a lot so I have to look further than three Surry Hills-blocks away, my distance vision is coming back.
I've got a poem in mind to write about this, something about how some changes are like water on a river stone, causing gradual change and reshaping (40 year old eyes) but other changes are created by one's own actions (existentialist theme).
But you know, it's easier for me to write a blog entry.
Oh, no.
This has happened to all my friends, one by one, but now it's my turn - I'm over 40, and I'm starting to lose my ability to read fine print up close.
Finally, this morning I went to the eye doctor, had all sorts of drops and tests (later, because my eyes were so dilated, a work colleague said I looked like a Japanese manga character), and found out the details. And they've got me thinking.
Sure enough, I have lost my near vision and will need one of the following:
- Lasik surgery. No thanks, don't need to mutilate my eyes for vanity, I'm unhappy about being 40+ but not that unhappy.
- Some freaky weird program of "monovision", where you wear only one contact lens, and so one eye can see close up and the other eye sees distance and your brain eventually learns which eye to use for what. This sounded like many days of splitting headaches to me, and lots of alarming blurry distance vision while driving. No thanks.
- Bifocals, that have reading glass on the bottom and clear glass on the top. Maybe, but would mean a commitment to a glasses-wearing look full-time. We'll see.
- Reading glasses that you wear just to read and then take them off. All the managerial ladies at work have these, so I have lots of role models and it's the favorite option at the moment.
- Or half-glasses that you peer down your nose into and can look overtop of. Also possible, if I find some cool ones.
But then got a more rock and rolly boyfriend, dyed my hair black, and the cut I had didn't look so good with the glasses on so I just stopped wearing them. And my eyes got better. I didn't need prescription lenses again until I started following Rugby League and found it easier with prescription sunnies to see the names on the players' backs at the games.
And then today, I find out that I've gone back the other way again. The eye doctor said that deterioration can happen if you do lots of close work - the muscles that focus the eyes on distant things can lose tone and not work so well. It's not the lens of the eye changing shape, it's the muscles that drive them that are changing. And I got those first glasses right after finishing my PhD, so that would fit. Gave them up when I was spending heaps more time galavanting around Brisbane with the new rock and rolly boyfriend than working - in fact I was just about to quit academia altogether. Needed them a bit again with all the dot-com computer jobs. And now that I spend more time in meetings than in front of the screen, and now that I drive a lot so I have to look further than three Surry Hills-blocks away, my distance vision is coming back.
I've got a poem in mind to write about this, something about how some changes are like water on a river stone, causing gradual change and reshaping (40 year old eyes) but other changes are created by one's own actions (existentialist theme).
But you know, it's easier for me to write a blog entry.
Monday, August 18, 2008
A corner turned, in two parts
Part 1
When Dr. Phil had guests who were engaging in some self-destructive behavior or other and in denial about it or saying it was impossible for them to change, he used to get right up in their face and ask what payoff they were getting from their behavior. "Wha-what?" they would say, all confronted, but he would insist, you wouldn't keep doing it if you weren't getting some payoff from it.
There's a positive thinking exercise common to many different self-help disciplines (Scientology, "The Secret", various strands of feminism and meditation) of imagining, vividly, the thing you want to happen. I have long thought that this was a very effective and powerful way to achieve your dreams, not because it sends out any "energy" into the "universe" or etc. spiritual explanation, but because it helps you recognize the thing you want when it comes along (or turns out to be standing right in front of you), and also because it helps you get through any blocks or nervousness that imagining yourself in that position brings up.
I have been trying to imagine someone wonderful coming into my life, and as it turns out that was a bad thing to imagine because it made me all obsessed about being single and way too preoccupied with boys, and when that happens I never get any philosophy done. But today I expanded this exercise. I was trying to imagine myself happy in Appleton. And I realized I was blocked in imagining it, and I think it was some sort of weird stage of grief, one of the end stages, but where you are almost afraid to feel happy because it seems disrespectful to your grief. I don't have a dead loved one to fear disrespect to, but I suppose I have an atmosphere of loss and exile, and today I noticed that when I tried to imagine a rich, happy, fulfilling, fun life here, I stopped myself and imagined myself sitting very still in my empty apartment, and that seemed more respectful to the past loss and the sadness of it. Well, that's dumb, isn't it? So...
Part 2
Tonight after work I:
- Stopped by City Park to play with my new video camera
- Stopped by the independent bookstore to ask about their Poetry Group, which as it turns out meets tomorrow, and it sounds like you don't have to read your own stuff, although you can. Will totally go there tomorrow evening.
- Was on my way to the Harmony Cafe to check it out as a venue for a new Philorum.
- But veered into the music shop on the corner instead, and picked up some music magazines that have gigs and things listed in them, and was then gazing at all the electric guitars. Harold, one of the shop guys, came up and started helping me, and we looked at a few electrics and then looked at the acoustics, and he asked what kind of things I play, and I said, "I don't...actually...play at all yet," and he expressed surprise, and said since I came in and picked up the magazines I fooled him, I looked like I knew what I was doing. Harold didn't seem like the slick salesman type, but he knew the right thing to say - if I already look like a veteran electric guitar player, what the heck is stopping me? By the time I left I had learned three chords, played two Fenders, a Gibson knock-off and something else called a LTD, and was committed 100% to going back, next paycheck, getting my mid-life crisis axe, and signing up for beginner lessons.
- After that, at the Harmony Cafe, I saw a lady I recognized from the monthly independent foreign films I've been going to, sponsored by the Multicultural Society. She pointed out the sign advertising the multicultural food fair this Saturday, and I totally want to attend, and this is enough notice that I can invite lots of people - all my multicultural friends in particular.
The box on one of the Fender starter kits (guitar, amp, headphones, who knows what else, all included), had a message printed on the side that said "Stop dreaming, Start playing!" Well, yes. I can do all these things. I imagine it, and then I just do it.
When Dr. Phil had guests who were engaging in some self-destructive behavior or other and in denial about it or saying it was impossible for them to change, he used to get right up in their face and ask what payoff they were getting from their behavior. "Wha-what?" they would say, all confronted, but he would insist, you wouldn't keep doing it if you weren't getting some payoff from it.
There's a positive thinking exercise common to many different self-help disciplines (Scientology, "The Secret", various strands of feminism and meditation) of imagining, vividly, the thing you want to happen. I have long thought that this was a very effective and powerful way to achieve your dreams, not because it sends out any "energy" into the "universe" or etc. spiritual explanation, but because it helps you recognize the thing you want when it comes along (or turns out to be standing right in front of you), and also because it helps you get through any blocks or nervousness that imagining yourself in that position brings up.
I have been trying to imagine someone wonderful coming into my life, and as it turns out that was a bad thing to imagine because it made me all obsessed about being single and way too preoccupied with boys, and when that happens I never get any philosophy done. But today I expanded this exercise. I was trying to imagine myself happy in Appleton. And I realized I was blocked in imagining it, and I think it was some sort of weird stage of grief, one of the end stages, but where you are almost afraid to feel happy because it seems disrespectful to your grief. I don't have a dead loved one to fear disrespect to, but I suppose I have an atmosphere of loss and exile, and today I noticed that when I tried to imagine a rich, happy, fulfilling, fun life here, I stopped myself and imagined myself sitting very still in my empty apartment, and that seemed more respectful to the past loss and the sadness of it. Well, that's dumb, isn't it? So...
Part 2
Tonight after work I:
- Stopped by City Park to play with my new video camera
- Stopped by the independent bookstore to ask about their Poetry Group, which as it turns out meets tomorrow, and it sounds like you don't have to read your own stuff, although you can. Will totally go there tomorrow evening.
- Was on my way to the Harmony Cafe to check it out as a venue for a new Philorum.
- But veered into the music shop on the corner instead, and picked up some music magazines that have gigs and things listed in them, and was then gazing at all the electric guitars. Harold, one of the shop guys, came up and started helping me, and we looked at a few electrics and then looked at the acoustics, and he asked what kind of things I play, and I said, "I don't...actually...play at all yet," and he expressed surprise, and said since I came in and picked up the magazines I fooled him, I looked like I knew what I was doing. Harold didn't seem like the slick salesman type, but he knew the right thing to say - if I already look like a veteran electric guitar player, what the heck is stopping me? By the time I left I had learned three chords, played two Fenders, a Gibson knock-off and something else called a LTD, and was committed 100% to going back, next paycheck, getting my mid-life crisis axe, and signing up for beginner lessons.
- After that, at the Harmony Cafe, I saw a lady I recognized from the monthly independent foreign films I've been going to, sponsored by the Multicultural Society. She pointed out the sign advertising the multicultural food fair this Saturday, and I totally want to attend, and this is enough notice that I can invite lots of people - all my multicultural friends in particular.
The box on one of the Fender starter kits (guitar, amp, headphones, who knows what else, all included), had a message printed on the side that said "Stop dreaming, Start playing!" Well, yes. I can do all these things. I imagine it, and then I just do it.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
The need for narrative
These are just thoughts jotted down to be fleshed out later. An argument strung here experimentally to see if it hangs together.
When you know the rational truth about life and experience, you know that life actually is just a series of disconnected experiences, one after another, until you die.
But if you write a screenplay of a film that is just a series of disconnected experiences, it won't sell, because people experience themselves as central, active protagonists who confront challenges and grow.
So, we tend to a narrative understanding of our lives. But do we need a narrative? For sanity, or whatever? (or, lesser, for a sense of purpose or meaning?). And ought we to need one? Should we overcome the desire for what we know to be a delusion using reason? And then, if we succeed, do we only enjoy really crap experimental films, from then on?
Is that a price worth paying for enlightenment?
No, but more seriously - the examples of the patients who can't lay down long-term memories (thanks, D-J). There was one who would fabulate stories that seemed to make sense of his surroundings and what had just happened. But then there was the composer who kept writing in a notebook, "I am now awake for the very first time." He kept having the sense of waking from a coma, but he had this sense every few minutes. He kept a notebook in which he wrote down, "I am now awake for the very first time," and when he saw a previous entry that said the same thing, written in his own hand, he would angrily cross it out. Was that no narrative, because he couldn't have continuous experience? Or was he so committed to constructing a narrative that made some sense of his experience that when he received evidence that went against it, it was extremely psychologically disruptive to him and he had to angrily deny its veracity?
Is this pushing my narrative thing too far, to make it fit to each long-term memory aphasia example?
I need to read some more about this. One day I'll thread it all together properly, with references and etc.
Love having a blog though where I can rough it out in progress.
When you know the rational truth about life and experience, you know that life actually is just a series of disconnected experiences, one after another, until you die.
But if you write a screenplay of a film that is just a series of disconnected experiences, it won't sell, because people experience themselves as central, active protagonists who confront challenges and grow.
So, we tend to a narrative understanding of our lives. But do we need a narrative? For sanity, or whatever? (or, lesser, for a sense of purpose or meaning?). And ought we to need one? Should we overcome the desire for what we know to be a delusion using reason? And then, if we succeed, do we only enjoy really crap experimental films, from then on?
Is that a price worth paying for enlightenment?
No, but more seriously - the examples of the patients who can't lay down long-term memories (thanks, D-J). There was one who would fabulate stories that seemed to make sense of his surroundings and what had just happened. But then there was the composer who kept writing in a notebook, "I am now awake for the very first time." He kept having the sense of waking from a coma, but he had this sense every few minutes. He kept a notebook in which he wrote down, "I am now awake for the very first time," and when he saw a previous entry that said the same thing, written in his own hand, he would angrily cross it out. Was that no narrative, because he couldn't have continuous experience? Or was he so committed to constructing a narrative that made some sense of his experience that when he received evidence that went against it, it was extremely psychologically disruptive to him and he had to angrily deny its veracity?
Is this pushing my narrative thing too far, to make it fit to each long-term memory aphasia example?
I need to read some more about this. One day I'll thread it all together properly, with references and etc.
Love having a blog though where I can rough it out in progress.
Sunday a new beginning
I hardly did any more today than I did yesterday, but somehow this morning I woke up with optimism. I was having some dream where I was accomplishing something or organizing something, and somehow it made me feel when I woke up like I could do things and it wasn't so bad. I got the dishes done, laundry mostly done, and went to the big gym. It's easy to get motivated at the gym when the Olympics are on the TVs.
I went to the store and grabbed breakfast food for tomorrow and frozen vegetarian dinner, but this time I didn't feel bad about it. That's what I do, is eat frozen vegetarian dinner, and throw the box in the recycling, damn it, and get wasteful nutrition, because I'm a busy woman and I don't have more time than 2x2:30 minutes to cook anything. But it seems fine, today, somehow.
And I'm feeling optimistic about my Philorum plan, which I was trying to talk myself into last weekend. I just need a venue really. I can work the publicity machine once it's set. So, how hard could it be? As long as there's one person committed to showing up - me - then it will work. That's what the man said.
So, stay tuned for what might be a better, less gloomy week.
E
I went to the store and grabbed breakfast food for tomorrow and frozen vegetarian dinner, but this time I didn't feel bad about it. That's what I do, is eat frozen vegetarian dinner, and throw the box in the recycling, damn it, and get wasteful nutrition, because I'm a busy woman and I don't have more time than 2x2:30 minutes to cook anything. But it seems fine, today, somehow.
And I'm feeling optimistic about my Philorum plan, which I was trying to talk myself into last weekend. I just need a venue really. I can work the publicity machine once it's set. So, how hard could it be? As long as there's one person committed to showing up - me - then it will work. That's what the man said.
So, stay tuned for what might be a better, less gloomy week.
E
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Saturday thwarted
In this town, everything's closed on Sunday. Everything interesting happens on Saturday. During the summer there are markets in the main street on Saturday morning. I saw just the edge of them on the day I went on the tour to Dallas Anderson's studio, and they looked vast and vibrant and active and fun (the street bearing no resemblance at all to the street that I usually see on Sunday afternoon, barren, windy, deserted, with shuttered shops and "closed" signs).
The markets only go until noon on Saturday morning, and they only happen during summer months which are nearly over. Every weekend I intend to get up and go to them - to participate in my town, see some people, see what's there for sale, maybe get some lovely fresh fruit or cherries or something, then stop for lunch and coffee at the Harmony Cafe where they have live music, then head out and see some sights and do other things all afternoon.
It's 2:00 pm exactly. I woke up this morning, checked email, and by the time I was making breakfast it was 12:15 and the markets were all over. Fine, so, I could still get out and do afternoon things, right? I had breakfast and read a magazine, a little bit. Is that so wrong? Two hours of unstructured time off, to just sit and read and not worry about anything? But now Saturday is nearly gone, I haven't got dressed or had lunch, the things to do around my house are staring me down and making me feel like a failure again (I can't have anyone over until the boxes are gone, but I can't go through the boxes because I should be going out and doing things and meeting people, but I can't go out because I'll never have time to do all the house things, and don't even talk to me about all the work stuff that's not done).
I have always slept in on Saturday mornings. It has always been my recovery time to make up for the sleep deprivation I inevitably develop during the week - and now even more so with the 5am starts. I remember the murderous disruption I used to feel in the early days of my relationship with S when we'd be at his parents' house and his kid used to wake up at 5am, singing and needing attention. They didn't have rooms with doors at their house, it was an old Colonial Queenslander so all the rooms had transoms and the guest room had only a curtain between it and the sleepout porch than ran along all the bedrooms and to the bathroom, which had heavy traffic and a noisy door and shower sounds and flushing sounds and the rest. No sleeping in. She was only a little kid, I was supposed to love her, I was supposed to be there supporting him in his parenting, I was supposed to feel like a member of the family, but Saturday mornings were crucial for me to sleep until I woke up and turn my mind completely off for that many hours, and by being awoken before that process was complete I really did feel like I would go mad, and I really did want to kill somebody. I decided if I ever had my own kid, I would have to bring in help Friday night, to be there to wake up with the kid and deal with Saturday because my life did not work with an early Saturday morning.
So I shouldn't be suprised that I'm still the same way. But the cost is very high. Nothing in this town is open on Sunday. By the time I'm ready to dress up and go out and experience experiences and be part of things, it's all closed and deserted.
I'm not sure about this Appleton thing. I'm not sure a 45-year old single woman, with as eccentric interests as I have, can actually make a go of it. I've had too many pyjama days. I spend too much time in my living room watching TV series on DVD. I can imagine going places, starting clubs, joining groups, doing stuff, but it's not happening. And I've ruined another weekend, and got that much further from achieving these goals.
I'm not sure about this Appleton thing, and I'm not sure what to do about it. It's 2:09 now and I still have no plan and no direction. My inclination is go just go back to bed, but that won't help me be prepared for what I have to do in the next weeks. And I'm coming, rapidly, up on my anniversary, one year since I've lived here, and what to show for it. Bookcase in pieces, face down on the spare room floor. Living room full of boxes. No table. No dinner parties, no housewarming, no clubs, no group. One very long whingey blog. Failure. Pointlessness. And it's sunny out, and supposed to be nearly 90. I SHOULD be out there. I HAVE to go experience it, because before you know it, it will be dark at 4pm again and snowy and so cold you can't spend more than a minute outside. And two years will have passed. I have no life. I don't live in this town. I can't work out how to get out of bed, get out of my house. But I have to have Saturday mornings, to recover, to do the work that I do that pays for me being here.
I don't know what to do. But I have to shake this up, somehow or other.
The markets only go until noon on Saturday morning, and they only happen during summer months which are nearly over. Every weekend I intend to get up and go to them - to participate in my town, see some people, see what's there for sale, maybe get some lovely fresh fruit or cherries or something, then stop for lunch and coffee at the Harmony Cafe where they have live music, then head out and see some sights and do other things all afternoon.
It's 2:00 pm exactly. I woke up this morning, checked email, and by the time I was making breakfast it was 12:15 and the markets were all over. Fine, so, I could still get out and do afternoon things, right? I had breakfast and read a magazine, a little bit. Is that so wrong? Two hours of unstructured time off, to just sit and read and not worry about anything? But now Saturday is nearly gone, I haven't got dressed or had lunch, the things to do around my house are staring me down and making me feel like a failure again (I can't have anyone over until the boxes are gone, but I can't go through the boxes because I should be going out and doing things and meeting people, but I can't go out because I'll never have time to do all the house things, and don't even talk to me about all the work stuff that's not done).
I have always slept in on Saturday mornings. It has always been my recovery time to make up for the sleep deprivation I inevitably develop during the week - and now even more so with the 5am starts. I remember the murderous disruption I used to feel in the early days of my relationship with S when we'd be at his parents' house and his kid used to wake up at 5am, singing and needing attention. They didn't have rooms with doors at their house, it was an old Colonial Queenslander so all the rooms had transoms and the guest room had only a curtain between it and the sleepout porch than ran along all the bedrooms and to the bathroom, which had heavy traffic and a noisy door and shower sounds and flushing sounds and the rest. No sleeping in. She was only a little kid, I was supposed to love her, I was supposed to be there supporting him in his parenting, I was supposed to feel like a member of the family, but Saturday mornings were crucial for me to sleep until I woke up and turn my mind completely off for that many hours, and by being awoken before that process was complete I really did feel like I would go mad, and I really did want to kill somebody. I decided if I ever had my own kid, I would have to bring in help Friday night, to be there to wake up with the kid and deal with Saturday because my life did not work with an early Saturday morning.
So I shouldn't be suprised that I'm still the same way. But the cost is very high. Nothing in this town is open on Sunday. By the time I'm ready to dress up and go out and experience experiences and be part of things, it's all closed and deserted.
I'm not sure about this Appleton thing. I'm not sure a 45-year old single woman, with as eccentric interests as I have, can actually make a go of it. I've had too many pyjama days. I spend too much time in my living room watching TV series on DVD. I can imagine going places, starting clubs, joining groups, doing stuff, but it's not happening. And I've ruined another weekend, and got that much further from achieving these goals.
I'm not sure about this Appleton thing, and I'm not sure what to do about it. It's 2:09 now and I still have no plan and no direction. My inclination is go just go back to bed, but that won't help me be prepared for what I have to do in the next weeks. And I'm coming, rapidly, up on my anniversary, one year since I've lived here, and what to show for it. Bookcase in pieces, face down on the spare room floor. Living room full of boxes. No table. No dinner parties, no housewarming, no clubs, no group. One very long whingey blog. Failure. Pointlessness. And it's sunny out, and supposed to be nearly 90. I SHOULD be out there. I HAVE to go experience it, because before you know it, it will be dark at 4pm again and snowy and so cold you can't spend more than a minute outside. And two years will have passed. I have no life. I don't live in this town. I can't work out how to get out of bed, get out of my house. But I have to have Saturday mornings, to recover, to do the work that I do that pays for me being here.
I don't know what to do. But I have to shake this up, somehow or other.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Red things
Did I tell you about the red things? It really is getting past ridiculous now.
The first red thing was a red bag. I bought it at a bag shop in Pitt Street Mall in Sydney. I had been volunteering at the Art Gallery of NSW in the morning, and received a call from JB, saying he was planning to take the ferry to Watson's Bay, and did I want to join him for a Dialectic? Since I many times noted that my fondest desire was to spend my whole life and on into eternity in a dialectic with JB, I accepted his invitation. But I was dressed all wrong. I had just enough time to duck into the city and buy some new stuff.
In the end what I bought was hardly more appropriate than what I had on in the first place, but they are still some of my most treasured things. I bought a skirt in a lovely purply grey oriental design with little fans, and I bought a bag big enough to hold my other bag and the long black trousers I'd had on previously. This bag is a red, rectangular bag with fake alligator skin pattern covering. It's a laptop bag, really, including an insert to protect the laptop, which I had to stuff with things and cram in around the other purse and the trousers. But, having been carrying a black rectangular bag that was actually technically a man's laptop bag for some months, I realized very quickly that this red laptop bag was like catnip to women. They would stop, they would gasp, they would say, "I love that bag!". Everywhere. Reliably. People I'd known for years, people who were complete strangers passing by. It was every woman's dream bag. It was big, it was rectangular, it had an alligator skin pattern, it was red.
The next red thing I think was my car. I had to buy a new car when I moved here, and I decided on the sensible option - reasonable price, good mileage, trusted brand, average. So, I decided to get the red one. At least.
Then the couch, I think, was next. I found the reclining chair first, one-of-a-kind, floor model, super-sale, discontinued, act now, and it had a bold geometric pattern of beige and red. So I got a beige chair, and a red couch.
On that same weekend, I know because my sister was visiting and helping me furnish my new flat, I went to Target to spend the gift certificate she had most thoughtfully got me for Christmas (Target's logo is very red, and the envelope it was in was white and red), and picked out a microwave and a tea kettle. The red ones. Metallic red, otherwise very similar to the usual white or chrome ones, but I arranged them in the kitchen on the counters either side of the stove and they looked fabulous. Truly.
Then the bedspread, and by this time it was getting ridiculous, and people were even commenting, "Oh, red, that's hardly your favorite color, ha ha", like it was my favorite color, but it's not at all, it had just been coming into my life at every corner.
About this time my sister mentioned to me the role that red plays in the film Stranger Than Fiction. Will Farell plays a boring, uptight, beige and white, buttoned-down, boring accountant who has not discovered passion or love or sex in his life. And whenever he starts to discover any of these things, there's red. They even chose a location in a building beside the only red skyscraper in Chicago to film in, especially so the red building could show outside the windows of the office - I've seen this red building from the second-to-top floor bar of the John Hancock building, which you must visit if you're in Chicago, best view in the city and it only costs the price of a drink to see it, less if you just duck into the ladies' room and look out those windows before heading back down the elevator all those many floors. Don't miss it. But look for the red building.
I needed to get a guest bedspread, and went to Bed Bath and Beyond and had in my mind exactly what I wanted. Dark blue, satin, shiny, with a panel down the center of a gold oriental fabric. Something elegant, navy blue, and oriental for my guest room. Was there such a bedspread? Nothing even remotely close. No navy blue anything in the whole store. I found a few other that might kind of do, that might kind of be alright. But were they in Queen size? Of course not. What was the one, only bedspread in the whole giant store that was even remotely attractive and okay and would do? The, yes you guessed it, red one. Shiny, deep, bold red, with a small strip pattern on one side and a bold strip pattern on the other.
I got the red towels at Target later just because I was tired of fighting. My own bathroom was done in grey, black and white, and my sister talked about how I could change to many colors, change seasonally, could do orange, could do teal, anything. But I got the red ones. And then went back and got a whole bunch more red ones for my guest bathroom, so all the towels match and are the same vintage, and I can just rotate them all out and around. All red, washcloths and hand towels too. Fuck it. What else would I buy?
Then it calmed down a bit. I didn't acquire anything, wasn't that aware of the overpowering redness of my home and belongings. The feng shui power of my red bed and red lamp beside it didn't bring me the powerful sexio-romantic adventure that I was believing it would. I thought maybe I was a bit sick of red. Maybe navy would have been a better option after all.
But tonight. I went to Office Depot, where I, months ago, had scouted out some filing cabinets which are the last bits of furniture I need to buy, the last things that will make me box-free. I picked out the middle color, the nice, medium brown ones. Took the slip to the front desk. I'm after four of these. Oh, dear, they didn't have four all in one warehouse. They have two? They have three? Hm, I'll have to get someone else to help you. I was sent to the back, to the furniture department, to talk to a very nice man who typed in all my details and helped me arrange the order. The didn't have four in one warehouse. Well, what if we change the color? What if we maybe tried this color? "Med Cherry" it was called on the slip. Guess what color that is?
"There are ten of them! And five in Green Bay. Do you just want to go with four of those?"
I didn't pick it out, but I need filing cabinets, I had a 15% off coupon good only for this week, I went to the shop, I chose what was easiest and most efficient to order and could be delivered and assembled all in one day, and what colour was it? Red, red, red, red.
The first red thing was a red bag. I bought it at a bag shop in Pitt Street Mall in Sydney. I had been volunteering at the Art Gallery of NSW in the morning, and received a call from JB, saying he was planning to take the ferry to Watson's Bay, and did I want to join him for a Dialectic? Since I many times noted that my fondest desire was to spend my whole life and on into eternity in a dialectic with JB, I accepted his invitation. But I was dressed all wrong. I had just enough time to duck into the city and buy some new stuff.
In the end what I bought was hardly more appropriate than what I had on in the first place, but they are still some of my most treasured things. I bought a skirt in a lovely purply grey oriental design with little fans, and I bought a bag big enough to hold my other bag and the long black trousers I'd had on previously. This bag is a red, rectangular bag with fake alligator skin pattern covering. It's a laptop bag, really, including an insert to protect the laptop, which I had to stuff with things and cram in around the other purse and the trousers. But, having been carrying a black rectangular bag that was actually technically a man's laptop bag for some months, I realized very quickly that this red laptop bag was like catnip to women. They would stop, they would gasp, they would say, "I love that bag!". Everywhere. Reliably. People I'd known for years, people who were complete strangers passing by. It was every woman's dream bag. It was big, it was rectangular, it had an alligator skin pattern, it was red.
The next red thing I think was my car. I had to buy a new car when I moved here, and I decided on the sensible option - reasonable price, good mileage, trusted brand, average. So, I decided to get the red one. At least.
Then the couch, I think, was next. I found the reclining chair first, one-of-a-kind, floor model, super-sale, discontinued, act now, and it had a bold geometric pattern of beige and red. So I got a beige chair, and a red couch.
On that same weekend, I know because my sister was visiting and helping me furnish my new flat, I went to Target to spend the gift certificate she had most thoughtfully got me for Christmas (Target's logo is very red, and the envelope it was in was white and red), and picked out a microwave and a tea kettle. The red ones. Metallic red, otherwise very similar to the usual white or chrome ones, but I arranged them in the kitchen on the counters either side of the stove and they looked fabulous. Truly.
Then the bedspread, and by this time it was getting ridiculous, and people were even commenting, "Oh, red, that's hardly your favorite color, ha ha", like it was my favorite color, but it's not at all, it had just been coming into my life at every corner.
About this time my sister mentioned to me the role that red plays in the film Stranger Than Fiction. Will Farell plays a boring, uptight, beige and white, buttoned-down, boring accountant who has not discovered passion or love or sex in his life. And whenever he starts to discover any of these things, there's red. They even chose a location in a building beside the only red skyscraper in Chicago to film in, especially so the red building could show outside the windows of the office - I've seen this red building from the second-to-top floor bar of the John Hancock building, which you must visit if you're in Chicago, best view in the city and it only costs the price of a drink to see it, less if you just duck into the ladies' room and look out those windows before heading back down the elevator all those many floors. Don't miss it. But look for the red building.
I needed to get a guest bedspread, and went to Bed Bath and Beyond and had in my mind exactly what I wanted. Dark blue, satin, shiny, with a panel down the center of a gold oriental fabric. Something elegant, navy blue, and oriental for my guest room. Was there such a bedspread? Nothing even remotely close. No navy blue anything in the whole store. I found a few other that might kind of do, that might kind of be alright. But were they in Queen size? Of course not. What was the one, only bedspread in the whole giant store that was even remotely attractive and okay and would do? The, yes you guessed it, red one. Shiny, deep, bold red, with a small strip pattern on one side and a bold strip pattern on the other.
I got the red towels at Target later just because I was tired of fighting. My own bathroom was done in grey, black and white, and my sister talked about how I could change to many colors, change seasonally, could do orange, could do teal, anything. But I got the red ones. And then went back and got a whole bunch more red ones for my guest bathroom, so all the towels match and are the same vintage, and I can just rotate them all out and around. All red, washcloths and hand towels too. Fuck it. What else would I buy?
Then it calmed down a bit. I didn't acquire anything, wasn't that aware of the overpowering redness of my home and belongings. The feng shui power of my red bed and red lamp beside it didn't bring me the powerful sexio-romantic adventure that I was believing it would. I thought maybe I was a bit sick of red. Maybe navy would have been a better option after all.
But tonight. I went to Office Depot, where I, months ago, had scouted out some filing cabinets which are the last bits of furniture I need to buy, the last things that will make me box-free. I picked out the middle color, the nice, medium brown ones. Took the slip to the front desk. I'm after four of these. Oh, dear, they didn't have four all in one warehouse. They have two? They have three? Hm, I'll have to get someone else to help you. I was sent to the back, to the furniture department, to talk to a very nice man who typed in all my details and helped me arrange the order. The didn't have four in one warehouse. Well, what if we change the color? What if we maybe tried this color? "Med Cherry" it was called on the slip. Guess what color that is?
"There are ten of them! And five in Green Bay. Do you just want to go with four of those?"
I didn't pick it out, but I need filing cabinets, I had a 15% off coupon good only for this week, I went to the shop, I chose what was easiest and most efficient to order and could be delivered and assembled all in one day, and what colour was it? Red, red, red, red.
Holiday
I've been on vacation. My mother's family gets together every two years for a reunion, one year close to the family seat of northern Wisconsin, and the alternate one out somewhere, where one of the far-flung cousins live. This year it was in Washington State at Lake Chelan. I went from Saturday to Wednesday, although those days were filled with travelling because it actually takes quite a long time to get from Appleton to Seattle and then four hours in, over two mountain passes, to the place where the landscape turns to high desert, fruit trees and vinyards, and you don't need to drink that much coffee because of all the apricots and Pinot Gris.
On the way there I was a bit strung out having worked really hard the two weeks before, and especially hard on the Friday afternoon and evening delegating all the things I had going on the next week.
At the airport I rose to the task of volunteering to drive my parents in the rental car. I remembered the terror I used to feel, the first few minutes in a rental car driving in an airport garage and trying to find the freeway, after flying from Australia and not having driven on this side of the road in a while, or actually at all much especially when I was living in inner-city Sydney. But this time it was easy, because I drive all the time, on this side of the road, in a car not that dissimilar to the rental one we were driving. It was pissing down rain, but that didn't bother me either because I had been in several really scary rainstorms, one coming from Madison with my cousin the day the houses broke off into the lake and floated away, and the other one morning coming from Milwaukee when my flight had been late and I'd had to stay overnight unexpectedly. So this was nothing. The feeling of confidence was like a different electrical current - the old one high and jangling, this time low and steady. I drove my parents and was fine - at least until hunger and jet lag kicked in, around Leavenworth, and I had to turn things over to my very fine, brave and capable Dad.
Tuesday we were planning a boat trip. We were staying near Lake Chelan, which is an 18-mile lake that has a lovely boat that goes all the way up it, into the high mountains, to a small town that is only accessible by boat. I'd wanted to see it since my parents first visited about 6 years ago, on another trip. On Monday we went down to the dock and sussed out the times, the ticket prices, the extras, the options. Mom communicated all this to the relatives back at the house, and had in her head who was going and who was giving a ride to whom and how it was all going to work. And I really wanted to go.
I woke up at 6ish, on my foam mattress in what was technically a walk-in closet off the main bathroom in the back of the house (long story - not enough rooms for everyone) - and walked through the main bathroom and into the master bedroom in which my parents were sleeping, and saw my mother who looked very weary and in pain, who said she hadn't hardly slept and wasn't going. Mom has a bad hip. She's scheduled to have it replaced with a titanium simulacrum on the Friday before Labor Day Weekend, August 29. I'll be in Denver with the family for it. But in the meantime, she hurts pretty bad. She's got a cane, just temporary mind you, and lots of pain managerial drugs. The previous day had been a good day and she overdid a bit - walked around, went swimming with a few of us (doing water-nymph synchronized swimming poses for her sister's fancy new camera), and when we were walking to the big house for dinner she said to me, "Oh, I forgot my pain pill, oh well, I'll just drink". Well, one watered down brandy and one beer don't replace prescription pain medication, and she was in bad bloody shape the next morning. And, especially as she had already done this boat trip once before in her life (because if it had been a new experience I'll bet she would have gone, she never wants to miss anything), she did not go. And Dad did not go. So my sister and I were left in charge, and while we were fine, I think we were both a bit nervous.
The trip up was grand. The family members who went along were completely mellow and self-sufficient, and we just moved and migrated and mutated from the upper deck to the lower snack bar to the comfy rows of seats inside. We all stood up and gazed over the side and took a million pictures when we passed the peninsula on which the big house was. We listened to the commentary over the loadspeaker that talked of the lake's length (18 miles) and depth (almost 1500 feet at the far end, with a bottom more than 300 feet below sea level) and history (lots of glamorous hotels burned down and boyscout camps washed away in flood, just a few private residences there now and some burned stands of pine).
By the time we got to the town at the end, my sister and I were both starving and a bit weak and dizzy with it all. But there was the bus to the Falls. The last stage of the long journey. We decided to skip it and eat. But then we re-decided and went on the bus. The bus driver was a local, married to a native of many generations, and as we drove past the narrow, winding road along the lake shore and amid the watery ditches and dense trees, he pointed out who lived in each secluded log house - the teacher, the post master, the man who owns the barge service, the folks who run the bakery - and told us how life worked there - only one satellite phone, kids go to the new school and play soccer on the newly cleared field until Grade 8, then have to be boarded out to relatives or friends or strangers, back in Lake Chelan, for high school. We made it to the falls, walked up the short dirt track, took a billion photos from every angle, I was glad there was enough water to make it worthwhile, it was high and dramatic, with clear green pools below and then a stream running away through the fallen branches of lovely trees.
I'm sure this is the exact point when I unwound. We still hadn't had lunch, I was still hot and a bit dissheveled, and aggregately tired from the previous weeks of work, the flying, the drive, the shared responsiblity for everything in the morning. But despite that, I really did just let go. I relaxed, stopped worrying, and became confident. I was on vacation.
I can tell because of how I felt on the trip back down. It was the same length, exactly. On the same boat, exactly, although my family decided to camp out on the opposite side of the upper deck. I had bought a new hat (that said Stehekin, the name of the town at the lake's apex, in bold brown stitching), I had applied sunscreen thoroughly. I had had lunch - a lovely wrap sandwich and fries, bought by my resourceful sister while I was buying the hat and a t-shirt to match. I had enough water. We'd made it to the falls. I was with my family who loved me, loved each other, and were having a nice time. We had four more hours down the lake, past scenery that we'd already seen and already knew. We could just relax, and chat, or snack, drink, or do whatever.
I recall going to the ladies' room, on the lower deck just behind the snack bar, with its raised threshold and swinging bar doors on the stalls, and catching a glance of my face in the mirror. More tanned that in the morning, hair back in a pony tail, new hat, clothes fitting like on a hiker who's been at woods for a few days. Moving fluidly. Not worried about work, not worried about being in charge because of Mom's hip and parents' age. Knowing everyone had already had a good time, done what they wanted, accomplished their goals. Knowing the snack bar had everything I might need on the return trip. Surrounded by water, and dry hills, and pines and scrub, and lovely houses every now and again, only accessible by boat, some on a peninsula where a luxury hotel had once stood but had been lost to nature and history. Hours of it left to go. Somehow I felt completely relaxed. I had achieved the apex of my vacation.
I love that boat. I loved that trip and that town. If you ever get a chance to go, really do. And don't worry about lunch, you can grab something just before you weigh anchor and head back down again. Take the bus, listen to the funny local tour, see the falls.
On the way there I was a bit strung out having worked really hard the two weeks before, and especially hard on the Friday afternoon and evening delegating all the things I had going on the next week.
At the airport I rose to the task of volunteering to drive my parents in the rental car. I remembered the terror I used to feel, the first few minutes in a rental car driving in an airport garage and trying to find the freeway, after flying from Australia and not having driven on this side of the road in a while, or actually at all much especially when I was living in inner-city Sydney. But this time it was easy, because I drive all the time, on this side of the road, in a car not that dissimilar to the rental one we were driving. It was pissing down rain, but that didn't bother me either because I had been in several really scary rainstorms, one coming from Madison with my cousin the day the houses broke off into the lake and floated away, and the other one morning coming from Milwaukee when my flight had been late and I'd had to stay overnight unexpectedly. So this was nothing. The feeling of confidence was like a different electrical current - the old one high and jangling, this time low and steady. I drove my parents and was fine - at least until hunger and jet lag kicked in, around Leavenworth, and I had to turn things over to my very fine, brave and capable Dad.
Tuesday we were planning a boat trip. We were staying near Lake Chelan, which is an 18-mile lake that has a lovely boat that goes all the way up it, into the high mountains, to a small town that is only accessible by boat. I'd wanted to see it since my parents first visited about 6 years ago, on another trip. On Monday we went down to the dock and sussed out the times, the ticket prices, the extras, the options. Mom communicated all this to the relatives back at the house, and had in her head who was going and who was giving a ride to whom and how it was all going to work. And I really wanted to go.
I woke up at 6ish, on my foam mattress in what was technically a walk-in closet off the main bathroom in the back of the house (long story - not enough rooms for everyone) - and walked through the main bathroom and into the master bedroom in which my parents were sleeping, and saw my mother who looked very weary and in pain, who said she hadn't hardly slept and wasn't going. Mom has a bad hip. She's scheduled to have it replaced with a titanium simulacrum on the Friday before Labor Day Weekend, August 29. I'll be in Denver with the family for it. But in the meantime, she hurts pretty bad. She's got a cane, just temporary mind you, and lots of pain managerial drugs. The previous day had been a good day and she overdid a bit - walked around, went swimming with a few of us (doing water-nymph synchronized swimming poses for her sister's fancy new camera), and when we were walking to the big house for dinner she said to me, "Oh, I forgot my pain pill, oh well, I'll just drink". Well, one watered down brandy and one beer don't replace prescription pain medication, and she was in bad bloody shape the next morning. And, especially as she had already done this boat trip once before in her life (because if it had been a new experience I'll bet she would have gone, she never wants to miss anything), she did not go. And Dad did not go. So my sister and I were left in charge, and while we were fine, I think we were both a bit nervous.
The trip up was grand. The family members who went along were completely mellow and self-sufficient, and we just moved and migrated and mutated from the upper deck to the lower snack bar to the comfy rows of seats inside. We all stood up and gazed over the side and took a million pictures when we passed the peninsula on which the big house was. We listened to the commentary over the loadspeaker that talked of the lake's length (18 miles) and depth (almost 1500 feet at the far end, with a bottom more than 300 feet below sea level) and history (lots of glamorous hotels burned down and boyscout camps washed away in flood, just a few private residences there now and some burned stands of pine).
By the time we got to the town at the end, my sister and I were both starving and a bit weak and dizzy with it all. But there was the bus to the Falls. The last stage of the long journey. We decided to skip it and eat. But then we re-decided and went on the bus. The bus driver was a local, married to a native of many generations, and as we drove past the narrow, winding road along the lake shore and amid the watery ditches and dense trees, he pointed out who lived in each secluded log house - the teacher, the post master, the man who owns the barge service, the folks who run the bakery - and told us how life worked there - only one satellite phone, kids go to the new school and play soccer on the newly cleared field until Grade 8, then have to be boarded out to relatives or friends or strangers, back in Lake Chelan, for high school. We made it to the falls, walked up the short dirt track, took a billion photos from every angle, I was glad there was enough water to make it worthwhile, it was high and dramatic, with clear green pools below and then a stream running away through the fallen branches of lovely trees.
I'm sure this is the exact point when I unwound. We still hadn't had lunch, I was still hot and a bit dissheveled, and aggregately tired from the previous weeks of work, the flying, the drive, the shared responsiblity for everything in the morning. But despite that, I really did just let go. I relaxed, stopped worrying, and became confident. I was on vacation.
I can tell because of how I felt on the trip back down. It was the same length, exactly. On the same boat, exactly, although my family decided to camp out on the opposite side of the upper deck. I had bought a new hat (that said Stehekin, the name of the town at the lake's apex, in bold brown stitching), I had applied sunscreen thoroughly. I had had lunch - a lovely wrap sandwich and fries, bought by my resourceful sister while I was buying the hat and a t-shirt to match. I had enough water. We'd made it to the falls. I was with my family who loved me, loved each other, and were having a nice time. We had four more hours down the lake, past scenery that we'd already seen and already knew. We could just relax, and chat, or snack, drink, or do whatever.
I recall going to the ladies' room, on the lower deck just behind the snack bar, with its raised threshold and swinging bar doors on the stalls, and catching a glance of my face in the mirror. More tanned that in the morning, hair back in a pony tail, new hat, clothes fitting like on a hiker who's been at woods for a few days. Moving fluidly. Not worried about work, not worried about being in charge because of Mom's hip and parents' age. Knowing everyone had already had a good time, done what they wanted, accomplished their goals. Knowing the snack bar had everything I might need on the return trip. Surrounded by water, and dry hills, and pines and scrub, and lovely houses every now and again, only accessible by boat, some on a peninsula where a luxury hotel had once stood but had been lost to nature and history. Hours of it left to go. Somehow I felt completely relaxed. I had achieved the apex of my vacation.
I love that boat. I loved that trip and that town. If you ever get a chance to go, really do. And don't worry about lunch, you can grab something just before you weigh anchor and head back down again. Take the bus, listen to the funny local tour, see the falls.
Verbal Video
Tonight right outside my garage there's a smell of wet grass. Not wet from the rain but from the sprinklers, and it's vividly a smell from my childhood.
I expect mosquitos but there are only clouds of little insects, hovering around wet places in the road. Also from my childhood.
A man is walking with two little kids by the lake. The lake is still and glassy, the green algae sludge that was there a few weeks ago is gone (who knows what scary counteracting chemical they put it to do it, but I appreciate it), the fountain is going but besides its small ripples it's just a cool metallic reflection of the beautiful light in the beautiful sky. The man is an older man, not the man from across the street, which is good - the across the street man was a little while ago married from someone who works on my floor at work, and it's clear he traded her in for a younger model because the girlfriend is there on weekends when the kids are not, walking his black dog and smiling wanly at me. The girls, on the alternate weekends, spend all day riding slow circles in the driveway on their bikes or scooters and look sideways at me as I come and go, and I'm sure one day I'm either going to run them down or be rude to them. Anyway, the man walking tonight is not that man, and I am relieved.
I walk to the mailboxes and there's a big white disk of a moon hanging over the identical little buildings. The buildings out of context would be quite scary, but the vivid medium blue (not light, not dark, just blue) of the sky and the fabulousness of the large moon hanging low there are just beautiful, and I understand about the little identical condo buildings and forgive them.
The sky in the West, above the barn and silo and field across the road (not corn this time, some kind of grass that has sprouted to seed at the top, a whole field exactly the same height but I don't know what plant it is or what it's for or if the cows over there will like to eat it) has pink streaks across, and a yellow glow. Sunset. Summer sunset.
I walk back to my house with the mail, mostly catalogues but one postcard with handwriting, have to see who sent that (feel a pang of guilt at the thought of it, who do I owe a letter to who wrote me presumptively first?), and the sky's blue is deepening and the pinks are getting darker and the man and his daughters are further around the lake.
The lake, the sunset, the moon over the houses. The smell of wet grass. Four things to capture.
I expect mosquitos but there are only clouds of little insects, hovering around wet places in the road. Also from my childhood.
A man is walking with two little kids by the lake. The lake is still and glassy, the green algae sludge that was there a few weeks ago is gone (who knows what scary counteracting chemical they put it to do it, but I appreciate it), the fountain is going but besides its small ripples it's just a cool metallic reflection of the beautiful light in the beautiful sky. The man is an older man, not the man from across the street, which is good - the across the street man was a little while ago married from someone who works on my floor at work, and it's clear he traded her in for a younger model because the girlfriend is there on weekends when the kids are not, walking his black dog and smiling wanly at me. The girls, on the alternate weekends, spend all day riding slow circles in the driveway on their bikes or scooters and look sideways at me as I come and go, and I'm sure one day I'm either going to run them down or be rude to them. Anyway, the man walking tonight is not that man, and I am relieved.
I walk to the mailboxes and there's a big white disk of a moon hanging over the identical little buildings. The buildings out of context would be quite scary, but the vivid medium blue (not light, not dark, just blue) of the sky and the fabulousness of the large moon hanging low there are just beautiful, and I understand about the little identical condo buildings and forgive them.
The sky in the West, above the barn and silo and field across the road (not corn this time, some kind of grass that has sprouted to seed at the top, a whole field exactly the same height but I don't know what plant it is or what it's for or if the cows over there will like to eat it) has pink streaks across, and a yellow glow. Sunset. Summer sunset.
I walk back to my house with the mail, mostly catalogues but one postcard with handwriting, have to see who sent that (feel a pang of guilt at the thought of it, who do I owe a letter to who wrote me presumptively first?), and the sky's blue is deepening and the pinks are getting darker and the man and his daughters are further around the lake.
The lake, the sunset, the moon over the houses. The smell of wet grass. Four things to capture.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Target-Rich Environment
So I was having a pretzel break at work, during a hectic day where I was buttoning everything up before going away for three days next week, and was catching up on the other Sam in the Sydney Morning Herald, and her post about how to get over an ex. In one of the comments someone recommended to "visualise on a daily basis someone wonderful coming into your life".
So I was trying it. One scenario I visualized was a colleague appearing at the door with a handsome stranger, saying, "Ellen, I'd like you to meet X, he's joined our team and the two of you will be working together on intense and important project Y." But, given that it's only remotely likely that Mr. Next will show up at my office door while I'm busy doing other things, I also tried to imagine myself meeting a handsome stranger while out doing something.
And the only thing I could imagine, that might lead to some kind of spark and interest and romance, was someone seeing me talk in front of a group and watching me say smart things. I think all my great loves have started out roughly this way. Those are my key strengths, I think, and also they are the good qualities in myself that I myself value, so if someone else values them that means our values are aligned.
It would be very rare for someone to come up and start a conversation with me just because he liked the way I look. And even if someone did think I looked good enough to come up and talk to, I don't value that quality in myself, or value people for whom it's the highest value in a courtship situation, so I would not be pleased by their attraction to me, I would view it with contempt. I think I have done exactly that in the past, actually. I have a vague memory of some boring guy or other talking about my nice smile, like that was going to impress me, and me feeling like going out of my way to demonstrate how punk and edgy and bad-ass I actually am, once you get to know me.
So. Where am I going to be where Mr. Next might see me talking in front of a group and being smart and insightful? One answer. I need to start up a Philorum. I want to have the same reaction I got after my very first Philorum three-minutes, when I made a boy go "Wow." under his breath.
September would be a good time - the Philosophy majors would all be coming back to college. I have August to put it together. I could totally do the first talk, the Free Will one is always a barnstormer that draws in the crowds. So.
Strangely, in almost the same mental breath, I was enthusiastically thinking about taking on the Appleton Knitting Meet-Up group, in which I would probably meet exactly zero boys, and where I would not be able to impress anyone with my vastly developed talent. But I'm excited about it anyway, and you do need women friends as well.
So. Once I get back into town, assuming I can quarantine my demanding job to leave enough time and spiritual bandwidth to be in charge of something, I think it's time to do this thing. And set up an environment where I can be my very most attractive self.
So I was trying it. One scenario I visualized was a colleague appearing at the door with a handsome stranger, saying, "Ellen, I'd like you to meet X, he's joined our team and the two of you will be working together on intense and important project Y." But, given that it's only remotely likely that Mr. Next will show up at my office door while I'm busy doing other things, I also tried to imagine myself meeting a handsome stranger while out doing something.
And the only thing I could imagine, that might lead to some kind of spark and interest and romance, was someone seeing me talk in front of a group and watching me say smart things. I think all my great loves have started out roughly this way. Those are my key strengths, I think, and also they are the good qualities in myself that I myself value, so if someone else values them that means our values are aligned.
It would be very rare for someone to come up and start a conversation with me just because he liked the way I look. And even if someone did think I looked good enough to come up and talk to, I don't value that quality in myself, or value people for whom it's the highest value in a courtship situation, so I would not be pleased by their attraction to me, I would view it with contempt. I think I have done exactly that in the past, actually. I have a vague memory of some boring guy or other talking about my nice smile, like that was going to impress me, and me feeling like going out of my way to demonstrate how punk and edgy and bad-ass I actually am, once you get to know me.
So. Where am I going to be where Mr. Next might see me talking in front of a group and being smart and insightful? One answer. I need to start up a Philorum. I want to have the same reaction I got after my very first Philorum three-minutes, when I made a boy go "Wow." under his breath.
September would be a good time - the Philosophy majors would all be coming back to college. I have August to put it together. I could totally do the first talk, the Free Will one is always a barnstormer that draws in the crowds. So.
Strangely, in almost the same mental breath, I was enthusiastically thinking about taking on the Appleton Knitting Meet-Up group, in which I would probably meet exactly zero boys, and where I would not be able to impress anyone with my vastly developed talent. But I'm excited about it anyway, and you do need women friends as well.
So. Once I get back into town, assuming I can quarantine my demanding job to leave enough time and spiritual bandwidth to be in charge of something, I think it's time to do this thing. And set up an environment where I can be my very most attractive self.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
little poem on hearing that he's now living in Berlin permanently
I thought he left in order to be free,
but he just wanted her instead of me.
but he just wanted her instead of me.
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