four five seven five

all little moments
coalesce into a life:
habits, character

climate, not weather
is determined by small choice
steady rotations

inexorably
seasons change, but in rhythm
a cadence steady

same things over and over
small tweaks of navigation
hope is powerful

impossibilities

Thoughts swirl in every possible prepositional position through the grey matter between my ears. Always.
If they were electrical impulses, they would light up the grey 'sky' like lightning streaks
on a recorded loop whose rhythm is just slightly off, but never turning off.
Not even while I sleep.

The emotions I feel are spurs of energy that carry their charge
and jolt through my body -- usually straight through my heart.
There is no predictability to the tide, to the ebb and flow.
Even neap tides are large, and largest when my body's energy is drained.

It never ceases to amaze me how tiredness
seeps
leaches
melts
whispers insidiously
sidles up and overwhelms even the firmest of resolves; makes all situations seem worse.
Fatigue opens the door to emotional entropy; sweet slumber does not always close it. 

At times when the tide is out, when the sandbags under the eyes are stacked down to the bottoms of the molars, and some of the sandbags have burst and gotten in the eyes and the grain is just too much to bear, it seems impossible to stop the emotions from overwhelming. The sadness is sadder, stronger...it's like the swamp of sadness from Neverending Story is real, living inside me. Hounds of sadness bay, the echoes growing nearer. Sometimes it feels like I can hear their snarling and they're nipping at my heels.

But sometimes the relief of going to bed before you're too exhausted to sleep, just because you can, is enough to make the hounds quiet, the swamp evaporate just a little, and the sandbags a little less full, and life turns around a few degrees -- enough so you can see all the good things in life a little more clearly through the tired fog, and that sometimes relaxing isn't as impossible as it seems.

Escorts

I love my nephews. I adore my nieces, too, but there is a special spot in me for my nephews. Today I held one for almost an hour while he banged his fist on the table (he was so very obliging, and did not bang in my food or spit up all over me, though he is a "drool-bot" and could win a contest with one gland tied, probably. (This is a joke.) He is almost three months old and is in a very smiley stage of life. He is so cute! His li'l eyebrows are so expressive, his eyes so blue, his eyelashes so long, his need to suck on things so great...he is a gift. Every new thing he does astonishes; he smells so sweet and his skin just shines with light. It made me think that even if I didn't believe in heaven, that I might believe that's where he came from anyway, because of how his whole being shines.

My other nephew is empathetic. He knows what I need and just how to touch my heart and make it tender again. Today, he told me that he hoped that I would be able to enjoy every day at work, that I could relax, that my friends would be nice to me, and that he wished I would call him on Friday afternoon so we could be in better contact. He gave me so many hugs and kisses today, freely, without prompting. He held my hand and squeezed it sweetly. He told me he loved me, and walked me to my car to say goodbye, before opening the door for me, and then, upon being told that I needed the drivers seat door open, promptly walked around the car and did it again, perfectly intent on helping me. I wanted to cry. It was so genuine, so caring, so unselfconcious, so freely given. And the tenderness with which he and my niece each kissed my cheek and hugged me, and the determination with which he ran after me yelling, "Goodbye! I love you! Goodbye!" until he couldn't see me anymore nearly broke my heart. I teared up and could barely drive away.

I feel so grateful for the love of these boys and their families. Being told repeatedly that I am "Best Auntie Ever" (a title for which there are unending "ties" in terms of number of places) makes me feel so popular, so wanted, so cared for. If, indeed, I am tied for "Best Ever," it's because I have the best nieces and nephews ever -- so easy to love, and some of that stems from the love my siblings have for me.

Thank you, siblings. Thank you, nieces and nephews. Thank you, everybody who loves me and makes me feel special, even on days when I'm just sure that all the special beans for the day got sown in someone else's field (forgive the reference, but I played Bohnanza today) and mine is all hopelessly dried up and there is no special crop to harvest.

Sky and Pumpkin

1. I found an artist the other day I really like. I happened to hear him first when at a restaurant. It had Latin American food. The people I was with both spoke Spanish, but one mostly Dominican and the other Chilean. They compared food and platano dishes while I ate my ropa vieja and was grateful I didn't embarrass myself with the pronunciation of it when I ordered.
   
   If you can get past the first 30 seconds, you will like this a lot. This is an alternate link in case it doesn't work if you're not a Spotifier.
   
   Also, this needs no 30 second buffer. It's Ron Murray's version of While My Guitar Gently Weeps.
    
2. Today, the sky as I came home from working at the coffee shop was perfect.  This is a couple hours later, and is not so perfect. It was the most lovely grey -- grey in the way that only Pacific Northwest skies are.
   
   here is something:
   
   The clouds are perfect in their coverage.
   Not one inch of sky is blue; neither can the label "grey" be uniformally applied.
   They maintain a dimensional appearance. And although they end up resembling
   polyester quilt batting that has been washed with denim jeans on accident,
   and has subsequently been played with by the family cat, they are not unfriendly.
   No soft mists of rain are currently being bestowed; the marks on the pavement
   tell me they finished giving out such generosity about twenty-five minutes ago.
   The soft sworls and swirls of grey aren't really "marble," though I do not have a better descriptor. Although the thickness appears to vary, the light ends up falling uniformly anyway, and only those who look up would notice the shades of the shade.
   This sky is not a simple canopy, but ever-changing, and would defy even Monet an accurate portrayal.
   
   
   
   The sky fit my mood perfectly. It isn't a dull grey, but a grey that's ever changing. Darkness ebbs and flows, but the overall effect is slightly melancholy and calming, simultaneously.
3. I had fried rice with bacon in it that was then baked in a whole "pumpkin" for dinner last night, along with yakiniku. It was definitely An Experience. My dinner companion and I ate the whole thing. We also hate Washugyu beef and outside skirt. I wonder if inside or outside skirt tastes better. Either way, it's probably delicious.
   
   

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...