Atmospher(a)

 

Today I was in Tacoma. I actually was there for a cool thing -- I watched some glassworkers at work for about an hour, and saw some really cool sculptures. The colors of the glass, the light from the forge...they were mesmerizing. Also, it was interesting to see the flow of the workers. Although I think the one guy was visiting from somewhere, and was clearly in charge, he barely needed to talk to the others. They worked together, seamlessly. The one dude with a ginormous fro that I was afraid was going to catch on fire at any moment (It was seriously an awesome 'fro) was the junior man on the account, and then there was a guy who clearly knew what he was doing, and another guy who answered all our questions while he was wrangling with 45 pounds of glass on the end of an eight foot pole that was approximately 1100 degrees. No big deal. It was epic -- and it would have taken away from the experience had I taken photos, so I didn't. 

But on the way to the cool thing, I saw kind of a lame thing. It was right across the street from the freeway and the industrial traintracks --which are still definitely in use-- and some very new apartment buildings, which were clearly having both the upside of location (proximity to public transport, freeways, and a cool museum) but also the downside (loads of cars, very loud trains, and did I mention, a general seedy industrial feel?). 

It was right by a posh restaurant that probably only the inhabitants of the several-story apartment complex frequented, but which probably kept them in business. There it is, in hard-to-see letters: ATMOSPHERA. Was it retail? Leasing agent office? Interior design consultant? It was unclear from looking at the wall; however, what was clear was the utter and complete neglect of the fish tank in full view -- the centerpiece, as it were, of the whole operation. I know you can't see it very well, because of the reflection, but that's not just a beige colored wall -- it's one very, very dirty fishtank. The walls are definitely fully coated with a thin layer of algae everywhere, and more in some places. If there was a filter, it hadn't been changed in forever. No lights, no nothing. And just one small fish, lonely and sluggish, then seeming to desperately dart. If you look closely, you can see it. It's slightly to the right of center tank. 

Atmosphera was doing its part to lend a sad, neglected atmosphere to Tacoma, which in many ways already seems sad and neglected. (Sorry to any native Tacomans, but everyone else knows what I'm talking about. At least there is [mostly] no longer a Tacoma Aroma to contend with, as well.)

burps and breakfast

A recent breakfast conversation:

Nephew: *burps loudly*
His mom: If you must do that, please do this. (Covers her face with a napkin.)
Nephew: You mean, covering it up?
His mom: Yes.
Nephew: But then no one will be able to HEAR IT!
*me shaking the table from silent laughter*
His mom: Yes, dear. That's the point.

I love family time. 

summary of sisterhood :: misplaced modifiers

Sisters are the best.

Sistern, sissies...sistahs...they're all little nicknames for marvelous people that have all the best ways to comfort you, the fastest ways to get under your skin, and the capacity give you tough but necessary love when you need it most.

Recently, I had a conversation with my li'l sis that went like this (via text):

Me: I got a message from so-and-so today. (So-and-So and I had been on a couple of dates.) He said he was sorry, the truth is that he "enjoyed getting to know me immensely" but that he was "focusing more on a girl he met in Utah" and that he would "appreciate any opportunity to remain friends and include me in social activities in the future."

[I should say that I was not surprised by what he had to say.  In fact, I gave him full points for actually letting me know, as most people don't even give that courtesy these days. The wording of his text seemed like he was...trying too hard to be nice. Perhaps I am extra critical of him, as being rejected, two dates or twenty, is not most people's idea of fun. I do believe he was trying to be kind, but it seemed a little over the top. Not that I'm really complaining, of course -- merely making an observation. I would much rather rejectors try too hard to be nice than to be jerkfaces.]

Her response came back almost immediately:

"Tell him he misplaces his modifiers. I doubt he knows you "immensely."

 I laughed and laughed, as the "immensely" was what caught my attention, as well.

jellyfish beach

little blob, you've got just enough:

mass for the receding tide to be unable to take you back to the sea
buoyancy to float in the little divet on the beach you're holed up in
tentacle length and clarity of membrane to attract old and young, plus random dogs
moisture to let the sand stick to you wetly, dehydrating you slowly as the sun beats down
life left that you're still pulsing slowly, mesmerizingly, angrily
sting to make life really, really miserable for awhile if I touch you.


I wonder if all your little blob friends you got separated from are emitting a song of sorrow for you, or gifting the water with a commemorative stinging symphony of electric impulses lighting up the sea as they float away.

Go Ahead With Your Own Life...Leave Me Alone!

I was a special eight year old. The Billy Joel song referenced above was literally my theme song. I hated being told what to do, when to do it, with whom I should do it, or how to do it. My emotions ran high pretty much all the time. It was during this phase of my life that I began self-imposed anger management seminars. I was so easily overwhelmed by emotion, and I so disliked being unable to control how I felt that after the third Saturday in a row of me crying my eyes out and embers of rage burning within me over something chore-related, I just couldn't take it anymore and decided there had to be a better way to live. It took awhile, and sometimes I still have meltdowns, but I think it's safe to say that things are better (overall) for me emotionally these days.

It's interesting that as an eight-year-old I related more to that song than I do now. Now the line that resonates with me is "Either way, it's okay, you wake up with yourself." The key is to being happy with the self you're waking up with. Doing the things you tell yourself you're going to do is so important. Being emotionally honest with yourself and with others is often the most difficult thing you can do in life, but if you can, you're so much better off. Hardly anybody wants to hear it (and here's where another Billy Joel song pops in my head, "Honesty...it's such a lonely word...everyone is so untrue. Honesty, it's hardly ever heard! But it's mostly what I need from you").

The more your actions align with your thoughts and your emotional plans to be honest, the happier you will be. In the last few months, I let go of some things that had been bothering me for a long time. I kept telling myself I was going to do it, that I needed to do it, but the fear of an emotional blowout kept me from it. In the end, it wasn't nearly as hard as I thought it was going to be. I had already distanced myself from the situation, and it was just in my mind that the things I was laying to rest had power over me.


I walked to the river of dreams and let the things holding me back from rising like a phoenix, triumphant, fiery, and brave slip into the depths. I told the little devils inside me to go ahead with their own lives and leave me alone. It was liberating. It was needed. It was wrenching.

I don't know if the imps are completely exorcised, but they are vacationing somewhere very warm -- too warm for me -- and I don't wish them to come back. If they ever do, here's hoping beyond hope that I'll sing with all the emotion of that angsty eight year old: "Go ahead with your own life. Leave me alone."

Icarus and Billy Joel

"So I would choose to be with you, as if the choice were mine to make...
But you can make decisions, too, and you can have this heart to break."

That song makes me so, so sad every time I hear it.

Earlier today I was contemplating Icarus in relation to dating. I knew that Icarus had wings, and that he flew too close to the sun. I misremembered the story -- I thought they got burnt into little stubbly nubs and he had to be earth-bound his whole life and long to feel the breeze under his wings, but no. He didn't have to live the pain and sorrow and longing that I attributed to him.

The real story actually makes more physics sense--the wings were made of feathers and wax, and, because he thought he was all that plus a bag of chips, he ignored the manual, which specifically stated that you shouldn't fly too close to the water or the wax will get soggy, and you shouldn't fly too close to the sun because the wax will melt. Icarus thought he was above the rulebook, which is why he ignored it and, when the wax melted, he went tumbling, perhaps as many as a few thousand feet into the ocean and died.

I was thinking about Icarus because a ridiculous number of my closest friends have recently gotten out of relationships. In a couple cases, they were the ones who ended it -- in a few, it was the other way around.

It seems that with dating, everyone has an Icarus story.  When you're just starting to date someone you're excited about, it's hard not to assume that gravity will win...Every. Single. Time.  But then things seem to be going really well, and -- it's not usually the case that my fellow single fliers get cocky, like Icarus -- it's that we start to hope too much, thinking that this time will not be like all the others. Surely! An investment is made. It starts generating interest. The interest compounds, the interest is reinvested -- and voila. Recipe for disaster and heartbreak has been written. Already the wax is beginning to soften. Softening isn't bad, if the wings are being reshaped to be more aerodynamically efficient when they cool.

Sometimes, especially lately, it seems that as all Icarus daters fly along in their relationships, one of three things happens:

Option one, the one that doesn't really seem like a possibility for anybody on the ground, is to manage to make the up and down work, strengthening themselves and working together to dip and dive and soar and all those lovely-sounding things.

Option two is to do as Icarus did, not obey the rule book. The result is to tumble down, down, down, no parachute in sight, not doing a single thing slow the fall or look out for a safe landing. Splat. Failed love -- no more trying. This is very uncommon -- the least popular choice, I would say, as human beings are generally creatures of hope.

Option three, the one that seems to happen the most often to people in my life right now, is that the sun decides to dip down and singe the little relationship wings that were growing past all repair. The damage is done, and it seems like, instead of the fate of tumbling a fair distance and have the risk of essentially splatting, the wings are singed, and somehow the flier makes it back to safe ground, with a bit of a bumpy landing, and for their trouble they receive the option of being doomed to wander about with the burnt stubbly nubs I mentioned earlier, longing for the loft of a relationship. Eventually, after a good long bit of running back and forth madly in a futile effort to generate enough land speed to become airborne without wings, and perhaps much despair and fist-shaking at the sky, when acceptance comes, bit by bit, feathers come back, until one day a hop is taken, then a bound, and then a downright leap off the precipice is taken. Again. I know I'm mixing Greek stories and maybe even metaphors here, but come on, that Pandora's box of hope is a pesky, real thing.

The thing is, with option three, sometimes each person is Icarus in the relationship, and sometimes the sun. And sometimes, after the sun has just singed wings, all that's left is to sing Billy Joel and realize that each person can make decisions, and sometimes, that means hearts break.

Hugs to all those Icarii out there with singed, stubby wings. Sometimes it's a false alarm and it's just a few burnt feathers and you'll really make option 1 work -- it was just a scare. If not, I will wrap my arms around you, cry with you, and maybe together our tears will heal the little stubbly nubs and someday you can go flying again and find a beautiful partner, and option one WILL happen. It doesn't make it any easier now to hear that. I know, all too well. But keep a tight hold onto that pesky Pandora's box, and, with some luck and a lack of hubris and bitterness, you might just leave behind your Icarus days forever.

Emma

Recently, I finished reading "Emma" for the first time. The book is so much better than any movie adaptation. Though I admit, for the longest time I had a crush on Jeremy Northam, and I really want to find a copy of Emma so I can see him say, "Badly done, Emma! Badly done." Haha.

It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. I laughed, I had my heartstrings plucked, I squirmed at the social situations portrayed, and generally felt really involved with the experience. It doesn't happen that often anymore. I have to hand it to Jane Austen. I know her style isn't in vogue anymore, exactly, but I find the refreshing conversations -- the everyday conversations that people still have, even if not exactly the same, as the class differences, etc., have evolved somewhat since then -- but there are Miss Bates in every person's life, and little petty disturbances, and people who we feel we need to cater to. Perhaps not as much as Mr. Woodhouse is catered to, but still! I am grateful for good books -- books that are well-written but I also feel good after reading them.

Mr. Knightley is amazing. I want someone like him. A Knightley Orange. (See my post about orange relationships.) Although Mr. Darcy grows on you, Mr. Knightley is the real deal.

I'm impressed by his ability to tell Emma how it is, but still be sensitive. There were so many lines I loved, but perhaps one of my favorites: "Emma, if I loved you less, perhaps I could talk about it more."

Hip Hop Heat

It's been a crazy few weeks. I feel like I haven't gotten anything done...really, I have, but not the normal sorts of things that I usually do. I've been a little more social than usual and I have been listening to new music. A lot of music. And I've even gotten started on another song; when I have it done I'll put it up.

On Sunday I went south for my nephew's hip hop dance recital. He stole the show. He choregraphed his own solo and it got the loudest in-number applause of any dance recital. Perhaps he had the most people there representing him as well (he is well-loved: eleven people came to see him). It made me wish I had danced more as a child -- indeed, that I danced more now. There were some adult classes and the ladies were definitely getting up there. I liked the confidence with which they danced though. I wished there were more boys dancing, too. It seems in our culture we shame boys into thinking that dancing isn't cool. It IS cool. Very cool. I hope he continues, because he has such a talent, it would be so sad to see him not develop it.

It has been so hot. SO HOT. I get home and I roast. I can sweat by just standing still. It's ridiculous. Today I wore SHORTS to work. I have never done that in the history of ever. But I knew I had to stay at work all day (no escaping to the relative cool cave of the library) and so I just bit the bullet and did it.

And yesterday we had an outdoor chess tournament. I lost, as I always do, but I did it with a smile on my face.

If you're looking for some good songs to listen to, I recommend "You Don't Know Where Your Interests Lie" and "Punky's Dilemma" by Simon & Garfunkel. You who know me best know that it's hard to get me to laugh out loud -- I'm more of a smiler. I laughed out loud to BOTH of these. My favorite lines are "Obviously, you're going to blow it..." and when the English muffin makes the most of a toaster. Or perhaps "I'm a Citizens for Boysenberry Jam fan."  Either way, good stuff.

That's a lot of small almost-nothings that I hope turned into a something. In any case, life is going well. And that's something to write about.

Mars

Recently, a friend recommended a CD to me: a version of Holst: the Planets. I wasn't so sure I would like it -- after all, I am one who likes /the very version/ and all other versions that I hear afterward I am less likely to like.

It was probably because I listened to this first thing in the morning, when I was fresh and the temperature was just right. I was in my car, on the way to work, listening to it on a CD, old-school style. This song is the first on the CD.

You should listen to it, and then listen to it again while reading along with my journey. Or just listen and experience as I did. But I would really suggest doing the former. 

I started listening and it sounded like space travel. It already had me hooked, before the music box came on and made a lullaby from another Planets selection.

Then came the part I loved. It sounded like two aliens talking to each other, and then, seconds later, they're dolefully singing. And then real life comes in -- the alert. Help! Bad people are on the way. We're being invaded! Counterattack! (And then the alien not-counting counting that gets more and more animated before....mushroom cloud. Even though I know mushroom clouds cannot happen in space, my media indoctrination will not allow me to not have a mushroom cloud in my mental space.)

All the fallout! The ash is going everywhere. And then suddenly the ginormous ships are coming -- the big Empire ships from Star Wars, all angular and threatening in their relentless press through the stars toward their target. Then first army release their weapons, and they approach, and then all the other little ships and suddenly the second army is surrounded. The massive  first army just keeps assembling. Hurry up, you say. Gather an opposition! No, we will push you back. Yes, take that! We just hit five of your ships in succession.

Then comes more communication. "Yay, we are victorious!" And then off into hyperspace they go.

But! Little do they know, they are being followed. The insidious Death Star-like ship that is the End of All Enders is stalking the little hyperspeed space party. It's gaining creepily.

And as the general of the first army discovers the Death Star is behind, he says, we will not retreat! We are calling reinforcements! Look! Here they come!

Battle ensues for about a minute.

Then, at approximately 9:55, the climax happens. The Death Star has regenerated all its weapon power and now everything is aflame. Explosions on both sides. There is death and sadness everywhere. And then the Death Star just can't help itself and puts the final hammer down. End of all life. It seems like it even catches itself on fire in one big conflagration of an inferno that only one little tiny ship survives, sending its distress signal out to the world...

Turn-Offs

As a single person, I have encountered a few things that are just really turn-offs. They're not necessarily deal breakers, but when the person I'm dating does them, it makes my blood pressure go up or my bile level rise slightly, or both. Not great reactions, I'll grant you, but sometimes you have to take some superficial things you don't like in order to get a heart of gold you do like.

I decided to make a list, in case it will help me later.

1.  Spitting in public.
I think this is gross. Especially if you hack first. It is particularly nearing unpardonable if you happen to spit /across/ me in order to get your spit to the ground in the place you are aiming for. What if you miss? Eew. Just, eew.

2.  Calling me "dude" or "man" on a frequent basis.
I am not a dude. I am not a man. Even dudes do not like to be "dude-ed." I know, because I did it once to someone I was dating without even realizing what I had done, and he immediately called me on it. I'm not saying it's a turn-off to all of them, but it is a little casual and also not accurate (in my case).

3.  Wearing flip-flops year round.
I know this is slightly ridiculous, and truly peevish. But if your uniform is flip flops, shorts, and an (optional) sweatshirt, even when it's snowing, I'm not interested. (This was more of a problem when I was in college. Now, most people I'm remotely interested in do not dress like this. It could also be a function of where I live.)

4.  Commenting on how much a date does (or doesn't) cost while we are out.
If you planned the date, then you probably had an idea of how much it would cost to go out before we actually got out. I am a moderate person. I generally do not order the most expensive thing on the menu, just kind of out of principle, even though sometimes it does sound the very best. Please do not comment on how poor you will be after the date while we are on the date. This has happened to me many, many times and I just think to myself, "We don't have to be here. You didn't have to choose this restaurant. We could have gone somewhere free, and I wouldn't have cared. But now I think that you don't like it here, and you don't like being with me, and I'm a burden." Who wants to be a burden? Besides, talking about money matters at dinner, especially in initial courtship phase, is just in poor taste.

5. Always telling me what to do.
This needs no further explanation. I realize men like to solve problems! I do. But you can solve problems without talking down to me.

FFF

It occurs to me, on this F-is-for-Friday night, that the bulk of all my culinary wants can be categorized in the triple-F category:

Fat
Fiber
Fructose

I think if I could only ever eat three things, triple F is what I would eat. (If you wanted to be very lawyery and say that "bacon" does not fall in the "fat" category, I might have to file a countersuit. But I believe any reasonable fairy godmother granting three food wishes would let me have bacon as a fat, all leafy greens (and other things) for fiber, and all fruits for lettuces.

Sometimes it's better to be broader in your language so that you can let more of the good stuff in. I've discovered that life often tastes better that way.

Bits of Honey at Breakfast

A recent breakfast conversation:

K: "Mom, have I ever eaten any candy you didn't want me to eat?"
W (her mom): "You do that all the time."
K: "No, not like that! Candy that you think is super disgusting."
--pause--
W: "Bit o Honeys."
Me: *shudder of horror* "Yes! Bit o Honeys!"
K: "What are "Bit o Honeys?"
W: "They're candies that taste disgusting. When we were kids, nobody wanted to eat them at Halloween. All of us (her and her siblings) would eat everything else and then the icky Bit o Honeys would be all that was left."
K: "Why are they disgusting?"
A (her dad): Because they're made with only a little bit o honey!"
K: "Yeah"
--then, with all the derision a ten year old can muster--
"I bet they are made with PASTEURIZED honey!"
W, looking at A: "Wow, we have successfully raised food snobs, haven't we?" in between bursts of laughter. K looked extremely pleased with herself that she had managed to amuse the whole table so easily. 

Then, a couple of minutes later:

K: "Mom, what is pasteurization?"


---
Note: K had heard several times from her mom and other families of the health benefits of eating raw honey. She knew raw honey was superior, but hadn't yet picked up on all the nuances of exactly /why/ it is preferable. I am proud of her that she asked, later, why pasteurization is not preferable when choosing honey products, instead of just assuming that because someone said it is superior that it is, just because they said so.

This House of Sky

There's nothing like the beautiful sky of the Pacific Northwest.

Recently I took a trip northwester in the northwest. The sky was low, and the clouds were heavy, but it didn't rain all day.

There were two ferry rides and two pieces of pizza and two kids and two galleries and two museums.

There was also a a sketch artist and a Victorian costume festival and and five adults and one lighting museum and three galleries.

Furthermore, there were wet plants, gun batteries more than a hundred years old, pitch-black tunnels to wander in.

I even saw a whale on the ferry ride home. The thing about whale watching is that your eyes think that the whale is going to come up exactly in the same place that it did before. Even if your eyes track the direction it's going, depending on how fast the vehicle you're in is going, your eyes will never be able to accurately predict where the blowhole plume will appear next.

Green rocks and a thousand seagulls jabbering at each other as they floated along the swiftly moving current were also highlights. The light is beautiful. The old houses of the Port towns are beautiful. The northwest sky is just amazingly gorgeous. No filters. It fills me with such contentment to walk by the water. I hope you feel even a little of the joy I felt as you look at the pictures.