"I'm not calling you a liar, I'm just saying you are mistaken."
"Hey, you beat me with a straight, but look at the pair I have."
"The word 'labia' means lips, but it means a lot of other things in this poem."
Me: "I like those pictures of you and the elephant."
Him: "Yeah, and there are about two hundred more from where that came from."
Friday, March 09, 2007
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Aquarium Life: Cleaning the Octopus Tank
A Pacific Giant Octopus (Enteroctopus dofleini) is arguably the largest invertebrate. It is also the most intelligent and capable of solving complex puzzles, even removing a piece of fish from a jar by unscrewing the lid. During my almost two decades of volunteering at the Aquarium, I've experienced and heard many stories about these animals.
The first time I got a tour of the old Aquarium in all it's worn concrete, wet-rushing-water glory, I got to see the octopus tank. The tank was triangular shaped with concrete on two sides and the viewing window on the third. It wasn't a very large tank, but big enough for the octopus. If you wanted to see into the tank itself you had to climb onto the walkway and lean way over so you could peek inside.
"Why is there Astroturf on the sides of the tank openings?" I had asked. I thought this was for the person working in the area to hold onto.
"That's to keep the octopus from climbing out," my old friend Lloyd had told me. My friend Lloyd has passed on now, but I know he'd like that I was telling you this story. He went on to explain that the octopus would sometimes try to escape and they found the best way to keep them inside the tank is to put pieces of Astroturf or burlap around the openings. Apparently, an octopus doesn't like rough surfaces.
"But why is there Astroturf on the pipes over the tank?" I had asked. The ceiling of the old Aquarium was a twisted maze of pipes, some labeled "hot fresh" some labeled "salt," many with no labels at all.
"An octopus can swing it's legs high enough to grab the pipe and pull itself out of the tank," he explained. Then without further comment we moved on to the tropical section of the Aquarium.
I couldn't really pay attention to what Lloyd was telling me after that. I would have to learn about the tropical saltwater fish later on because I was too busy being stunned by visions of a giant octopus grabbing the pipe with one of its arms and swinging itself out of the tank, much like I used to swing on the monkey bars when I was in grade school.
A few years later Curator Biologist convinced me to take on the task of cleaning the octopus tank. I'm sorry I only did this task for a short period of time because it was such a blast.
The procedure was I had to drain the water out of the tank to about knee level, climb inside in my hip waders, carefully pick up Dungeness crab shell pieces while not startling the octopus, climb back out and refill the tank. I forget how many gallons the tank was, something like 400-500 gallons comes to mind, but the tank was deep enough for me to swim in.
While the tank was being drained, the octopus would move to the lower left corner where the viewing glass was and huddle there. It's arms would be constantly moving along the surface of the water, checking for when the water level would start to rise again. Once the water was shallow enough for me to stand in, I would pull myself over the top of the tank. The walls of the tank were thick enough for me to sit on. Then I would carefully drop into the tank, making sure I kept an eye on where the octopus was at all times.
The first time I did this, I was surprised at how cold the water was. The average air temperature in Battery A where the octopus tank was located was probably somewhere in the middle 60s. The temperature of the water in the octopus tank was in the lower to mid-40s. I would stand there with my plastic bucket picking up large crab pieces and start shivering from the cold.
I would move slowly and carefully. Although the octopus never moved far from that lower corner, I was still intimidated by its arms moving around constantly. Since I was visible to the visitors they were always rapping on the glass. I would turn, smile and wave. Sometimes they would take my picture although I'm sure the picture never came out well since the tank glass was always foggy.
A dilemma came when I was finished picking up all the crab shell pieces, but the octopus by now would feel a little bolder and start to move slowly along the viewing window glass. This meant that the octopus was sitting on some pieces of crab shell I needed to pick up. What to do? The first couple of times, I left it alone. I mentioned this dilemma to another volunteer and she said you can sort of shoo the octopus back into its corner by nudging it gently.
I was very skeptical about this idea, but after the third or fourth time I tried it. I moved until I was standing next to the octopus and then gave it a gentle nudge so it would get out of the way. This was the first time I had ever touched one and it was amazing. If you look at an octopus you might conclude that they are slimy to the touch. Instead, they are very soft and smooth, almost silky. If you were to pick one up, it would sort of ooze between your fingers and hands.
I never tried picking one up, but people who have had the pleasure of doing so assure me this is true.
When I was done, I would climb out, turn the water back on and perch myself on the end of the tank while the water refilled. This was to make sure the tank did not overflow and to make sure the octopus was all right.
I sure did love that little task, but it's not likely there will be another opportunity to do something like that in the new Aquarium. If there is an octopus, it will likely be put into a very large tank that people would have to dive into in order to do maintenance and I'm not a diver.
The first time I got a tour of the old Aquarium in all it's worn concrete, wet-rushing-water glory, I got to see the octopus tank. The tank was triangular shaped with concrete on two sides and the viewing window on the third. It wasn't a very large tank, but big enough for the octopus. If you wanted to see into the tank itself you had to climb onto the walkway and lean way over so you could peek inside.
"Why is there Astroturf on the sides of the tank openings?" I had asked. I thought this was for the person working in the area to hold onto.
"That's to keep the octopus from climbing out," my old friend Lloyd had told me. My friend Lloyd has passed on now, but I know he'd like that I was telling you this story. He went on to explain that the octopus would sometimes try to escape and they found the best way to keep them inside the tank is to put pieces of Astroturf or burlap around the openings. Apparently, an octopus doesn't like rough surfaces.
"But why is there Astroturf on the pipes over the tank?" I had asked. The ceiling of the old Aquarium was a twisted maze of pipes, some labeled "hot fresh" some labeled "salt," many with no labels at all.
"An octopus can swing it's legs high enough to grab the pipe and pull itself out of the tank," he explained. Then without further comment we moved on to the tropical section of the Aquarium.
I couldn't really pay attention to what Lloyd was telling me after that. I would have to learn about the tropical saltwater fish later on because I was too busy being stunned by visions of a giant octopus grabbing the pipe with one of its arms and swinging itself out of the tank, much like I used to swing on the monkey bars when I was in grade school.
A few years later Curator Biologist convinced me to take on the task of cleaning the octopus tank. I'm sorry I only did this task for a short period of time because it was such a blast.
The procedure was I had to drain the water out of the tank to about knee level, climb inside in my hip waders, carefully pick up Dungeness crab shell pieces while not startling the octopus, climb back out and refill the tank. I forget how many gallons the tank was, something like 400-500 gallons comes to mind, but the tank was deep enough for me to swim in.
While the tank was being drained, the octopus would move to the lower left corner where the viewing glass was and huddle there. It's arms would be constantly moving along the surface of the water, checking for when the water level would start to rise again. Once the water was shallow enough for me to stand in, I would pull myself over the top of the tank. The walls of the tank were thick enough for me to sit on. Then I would carefully drop into the tank, making sure I kept an eye on where the octopus was at all times.
The first time I did this, I was surprised at how cold the water was. The average air temperature in Battery A where the octopus tank was located was probably somewhere in the middle 60s. The temperature of the water in the octopus tank was in the lower to mid-40s. I would stand there with my plastic bucket picking up large crab pieces and start shivering from the cold.
I would move slowly and carefully. Although the octopus never moved far from that lower corner, I was still intimidated by its arms moving around constantly. Since I was visible to the visitors they were always rapping on the glass. I would turn, smile and wave. Sometimes they would take my picture although I'm sure the picture never came out well since the tank glass was always foggy.
A dilemma came when I was finished picking up all the crab shell pieces, but the octopus by now would feel a little bolder and start to move slowly along the viewing window glass. This meant that the octopus was sitting on some pieces of crab shell I needed to pick up. What to do? The first couple of times, I left it alone. I mentioned this dilemma to another volunteer and she said you can sort of shoo the octopus back into its corner by nudging it gently.
I was very skeptical about this idea, but after the third or fourth time I tried it. I moved until I was standing next to the octopus and then gave it a gentle nudge so it would get out of the way. This was the first time I had ever touched one and it was amazing. If you look at an octopus you might conclude that they are slimy to the touch. Instead, they are very soft and smooth, almost silky. If you were to pick one up, it would sort of ooze between your fingers and hands.
I never tried picking one up, but people who have had the pleasure of doing so assure me this is true.
When I was done, I would climb out, turn the water back on and perch myself on the end of the tank while the water refilled. This was to make sure the tank did not overflow and to make sure the octopus was all right.
I sure did love that little task, but it's not likely there will be another opportunity to do something like that in the new Aquarium. If there is an octopus, it will likely be put into a very large tank that people would have to dive into in order to do maintenance and I'm not a diver.
Monday, March 05, 2007
The Hallway Outside My Door, Part 2
The folks in charge finally installed the carpet today.
(see the my ramblings about the hallway in part 1)
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Miss Turtle's Desk
My computer screen is a 32 inch widescreen LCD TV. I only use it for watching DVDs and for working on the computer. I almost never watch TV. I don't have Cable and it's not set up to get channels. On the rare occasions I do watch TV (like the Oscars), I'll go to my Mom's house.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Two Steps Back
The last two days have been tough. Things are going along just swimmingly for me and then BAM, something throws me for a loop. Sometimes my response to these loops is to do something stupid. The good news is my stupid behavior probably won't be noticed this time, or at least ignored. Maybe.
Several people have told me the best way to deal with these situations is to be nice to yourself, pamper yourself a little (get a massage, buy some shoes, things like that). After pondering the alternatives I went to Nordstrom and plunked down a ton of money for a makeover. "I need to stop wearing makeup like I'm in high school," I told the very nice lady who helped me. She was stunned when I told her I would be taking everything she used on my face along with some alternative eye shadow colors for my eyes. I kept telling her that I viewed this makeover as an investment in my overall appearance.
I look great, by the way. See?
Whether I can duplicate the same results later on remains to be seen. However, the very nice lady did provide me with a cool coloring book style "face chart" where she colored in all the products so I could follow along at home. I love makeup the same way I love that 64 box of Crayola crayons. So many colors! So many possibilities! Too bad I was better at coloring than I am at putting on makeup.
At least if I fall flat on my face later, I'll be looking damn fine. Grrrg.
Several people have told me the best way to deal with these situations is to be nice to yourself, pamper yourself a little (get a massage, buy some shoes, things like that). After pondering the alternatives I went to Nordstrom and plunked down a ton of money for a makeover. "I need to stop wearing makeup like I'm in high school," I told the very nice lady who helped me. She was stunned when I told her I would be taking everything she used on my face along with some alternative eye shadow colors for my eyes. I kept telling her that I viewed this makeover as an investment in my overall appearance.
I look great, by the way. See?
Whether I can duplicate the same results later on remains to be seen. However, the very nice lady did provide me with a cool coloring book style "face chart" where she colored in all the products so I could follow along at home. I love makeup the same way I love that 64 box of Crayola crayons. So many colors! So many possibilities! Too bad I was better at coloring than I am at putting on makeup.
At least if I fall flat on my face later, I'll be looking damn fine. Grrrg.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
The Hallway Outside My Door
Along Love's well worn path marked by splatters of errant white paint, epoxy and chips from the plaster, I step carefully over the growing cracks in the cement, crumbling pieces staying low and lethal.
Even the short flights of stairs here and there are stripped bare only to reveal worn out wooden planks. Around the edges are the visible beginnings of dry rot. A stark contrast to the new paint are the doors at regular intervals. They are very heavy wooden doors, scratched and scraped, and don't match anything in the hallway not even the splatters of red paint on the floor below the fire extinguisher case. Some of the doors are fortified with gleaming fake gold metal plates as if to repair a break-in that happened sometime in the old past.
Folks in charge were in the process of giving the place a facelift or so the legend goes. That explains the newly painted ceilings and walls. The long walls are painted "babyshit green" as a woman told me when I stopped to talk to her. She had hollowed out cheeks, bright green eyes, even with all the fatigue hanging on her, and thin red hair. It was the faded red of a former copperhead child grown into an adult. She had been sitting alone in the hallway munching the last crumbs of an elaborate picnic.
"The wall surrounding the beginning and ending doorways are a dark forest green," she had said, "The same color as the nursery walls in my son's room." I tried to get her to talk more after that, but she would only look off into space. I had walked on, giving her privacy.
The trim of the walls are painted a light terra cotta. What Fucker came up with this color combination is anyone's guess. And guess we do.
"The walls in the other hallway are a burnt yellow," a young dark haired woman had told me. Thin wiry silver spectacles perched on her face, giving her a faint owlish look. She looked trustworthy in her oversized dark blue sweater, grey muffler and faded skinny jeans.
"What other hallway?" I had asked. I had no idea there were different hallways for this place.
"Love works in mysterious ways that include multiple levels. Much like there are different chambers of the heart," she had said. She'd opened a notebook she was carrying. The electric green cover was half torn and the inside cover full of heart doodles. She had shown me a sketch she had made of the four chambers of the human heart.
"I did that in anatomy," she had said proudly, "I got to see a real heart.
"God help you," I'd said and moved on. Beating hearts give me the creeps with their primeval squish-squish and unelegant shivering.
Another rumor says that the folks in charge will eventually (no one knows when) install new carpeting. We are all afraid, really afraid to see what they've come up with. As it is, the colors they've picked are completely unflattering to any living person's skin tone no matter how pale or deep it is. In the meantime, I walk down the hallway, sometimes completing household chores, sometimes writing novels, although most of the time I'm saving the world. No matter what I'm doing, I'm still wondering what they're going to do with the doors once they are finished.
Even the short flights of stairs here and there are stripped bare only to reveal worn out wooden planks. Around the edges are the visible beginnings of dry rot. A stark contrast to the new paint are the doors at regular intervals. They are very heavy wooden doors, scratched and scraped, and don't match anything in the hallway not even the splatters of red paint on the floor below the fire extinguisher case. Some of the doors are fortified with gleaming fake gold metal plates as if to repair a break-in that happened sometime in the old past.
Folks in charge were in the process of giving the place a facelift or so the legend goes. That explains the newly painted ceilings and walls. The long walls are painted "babyshit green" as a woman told me when I stopped to talk to her. She had hollowed out cheeks, bright green eyes, even with all the fatigue hanging on her, and thin red hair. It was the faded red of a former copperhead child grown into an adult. She had been sitting alone in the hallway munching the last crumbs of an elaborate picnic.
"The wall surrounding the beginning and ending doorways are a dark forest green," she had said, "The same color as the nursery walls in my son's room." I tried to get her to talk more after that, but she would only look off into space. I had walked on, giving her privacy.
The trim of the walls are painted a light terra cotta. What Fucker came up with this color combination is anyone's guess. And guess we do.
"The walls in the other hallway are a burnt yellow," a young dark haired woman had told me. Thin wiry silver spectacles perched on her face, giving her a faint owlish look. She looked trustworthy in her oversized dark blue sweater, grey muffler and faded skinny jeans.
"What other hallway?" I had asked. I had no idea there were different hallways for this place.
"Love works in mysterious ways that include multiple levels. Much like there are different chambers of the heart," she had said. She'd opened a notebook she was carrying. The electric green cover was half torn and the inside cover full of heart doodles. She had shown me a sketch she had made of the four chambers of the human heart.
"I did that in anatomy," she had said proudly, "I got to see a real heart.
"God help you," I'd said and moved on. Beating hearts give me the creeps with their primeval squish-squish and unelegant shivering.
Another rumor says that the folks in charge will eventually (no one knows when) install new carpeting. We are all afraid, really afraid to see what they've come up with. As it is, the colors they've picked are completely unflattering to any living person's skin tone no matter how pale or deep it is. In the meantime, I walk down the hallway, sometimes completing household chores, sometimes writing novels, although most of the time I'm saving the world. No matter what I'm doing, I'm still wondering what they're going to do with the doors once they are finished.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Movie Musings: Buster Keaton and Sherlock Jr.
"Tragedy is a close-up; comedy, a long shot." - Buster Keaton
This evening a friend of mine and I attended the Balboa Theatre 81st Birthday Bash. During this yearly event they feature special films and performances. This year it was a short and a film by Buster Keaton, a magician who performed three tricks, a woman who sang 20s and 30s songs and a slide show lecture by a film scholar who talked about how Keaton did some of the scenes in the film we saw.
I've heard of Buster Keaton since I was a child, but I had never seen any of his films. When I was in junior high school I saw a documentary about great comedians (with Walter Matthau narrating) and saw a couple of famous scenes Keaton had filmed, but wasn't able to grasp the man's importance at the time.
This evening was the first time I've ever seen a Keaton film. The man was a genius.
We first watched the "The Playhouse" a silent film short made in 1921 and is notable for being a technical tour de force which features Keaton playing most of the roles in the film (including the women in the first half of the film) at the same time through multiple exposures. Also keep in mind that film projectors weren't electric at the time, they were manually turned by a hand crank. In order to set up these multiple exposure scenes, the cameraman had to make sure he was turning the crank at the same speed and having the camera in the right place to make the scenes work.
Oh yeah and the short is hilarious.
After more music and an intermission, we watched "Sherlock Jr."
What can I say about this film to even try to do it justice? First, the stats: a silent film made in 1924, Buster did all of his own stunts in addition to directing duties and it was all filmed in and around Los Angeles.
How good is this film? On a scale from one star to five with five stars being the absolute best, this film gets 75 stars. No lie. This is probably the funniest, one of the most incredible films I have ever seen. I can't remember the last time I laughed this hard. I can't remember screaming with laughter in a movie theater. I can't remember the last time I had to come home from the movie theater and take some hot tea and honey so I can soothe the sore throat I have from laughing so hard.
Buster's stunts are simply astounding. Conceptualizing, rehearsing and setting up these stunts must have taken him forever. Through it all he maintains that famous deadpan look, the Great Stone Face.
But don't read anymore of this post. Get onto Netflix or Blockbuster or your great local DVD rental store right now and get some of Buster's movies: "Sherlock Jr." for sure, but also "Steamboat Bill, Jr." and "The General." I have not seen the latter two, but people assure me that they are amazing. In fact, if you have seen them, please drop me a line in the comments section and let me know what you thought. Try to get restored/remastered versions with a soundtrack. It will add greatly to your viewing experience
Lastly, please watch these films with your kids if you have them. Kids love Keaton and for good reason. It's all brilliant, amazing, good clean fun. Enjoy.
This evening a friend of mine and I attended the Balboa Theatre 81st Birthday Bash. During this yearly event they feature special films and performances. This year it was a short and a film by Buster Keaton, a magician who performed three tricks, a woman who sang 20s and 30s songs and a slide show lecture by a film scholar who talked about how Keaton did some of the scenes in the film we saw.
I've heard of Buster Keaton since I was a child, but I had never seen any of his films. When I was in junior high school I saw a documentary about great comedians (with Walter Matthau narrating) and saw a couple of famous scenes Keaton had filmed, but wasn't able to grasp the man's importance at the time.
This evening was the first time I've ever seen a Keaton film. The man was a genius.
We first watched the "The Playhouse" a silent film short made in 1921 and is notable for being a technical tour de force which features Keaton playing most of the roles in the film (including the women in the first half of the film) at the same time through multiple exposures. Also keep in mind that film projectors weren't electric at the time, they were manually turned by a hand crank. In order to set up these multiple exposure scenes, the cameraman had to make sure he was turning the crank at the same speed and having the camera in the right place to make the scenes work.
Oh yeah and the short is hilarious.
After more music and an intermission, we watched "Sherlock Jr."
What can I say about this film to even try to do it justice? First, the stats: a silent film made in 1924, Buster did all of his own stunts in addition to directing duties and it was all filmed in and around Los Angeles.
How good is this film? On a scale from one star to five with five stars being the absolute best, this film gets 75 stars. No lie. This is probably the funniest, one of the most incredible films I have ever seen. I can't remember the last time I laughed this hard. I can't remember screaming with laughter in a movie theater. I can't remember the last time I had to come home from the movie theater and take some hot tea and honey so I can soothe the sore throat I have from laughing so hard.
Buster's stunts are simply astounding. Conceptualizing, rehearsing and setting up these stunts must have taken him forever. Through it all he maintains that famous deadpan look, the Great Stone Face.
But don't read anymore of this post. Get onto Netflix or Blockbuster or your great local DVD rental store right now and get some of Buster's movies: "Sherlock Jr." for sure, but also "Steamboat Bill, Jr." and "The General." I have not seen the latter two, but people assure me that they are amazing. In fact, if you have seen them, please drop me a line in the comments section and let me know what you thought. Try to get restored/remastered versions with a soundtrack. It will add greatly to your viewing experience
Lastly, please watch these films with your kids if you have them. Kids love Keaton and for good reason. It's all brilliant, amazing, good clean fun. Enjoy.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
City Life: Overheard on MUNI, 2/23/07, Friday Night
"He is so ugly. I mean, that's a kind of ugly you just can't get rid of. I mean, when I was younger I was a little chubby, but I got rid of it. That is just damn ugly."
"This is turning into an East-Coast-no-one-looks-at-each-other kind of thing. I mean, that's where this bus is AT."
- Travis, 26 year old guy.
While on the 6 Parnassus on the way home none of us could ignore the booming Tennessee twang of Travis as he ranted and raved on the bus. The guy was harmless enough, just spectacularly drunk. Several folks, including the young shit-faced exotic dancer he was with, tried to shut him up, but to no avail.
It is quite common to board MUNI later in the evening and encounter people who can't stop talking loudly, but this guy's ability to vocally project was so impressive he was even disturbing people wearing their iPods. He should be a stage actor.
"This is turning into an East-Coast-no-one-looks-at-each-other kind of thing. I mean, that's where this bus is AT."
- Travis, 26 year old guy.
While on the 6 Parnassus on the way home none of us could ignore the booming Tennessee twang of Travis as he ranted and raved on the bus. The guy was harmless enough, just spectacularly drunk. Several folks, including the young shit-faced exotic dancer he was with, tried to shut him up, but to no avail.
It is quite common to board MUNI later in the evening and encounter people who can't stop talking loudly, but this guy's ability to vocally project was so impressive he was even disturbing people wearing their iPods. He should be a stage actor.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Circa Notebook, Joint Security Area and My Family
I should be getting ready for work right now. I'm running late as it is, but I woke up in a funk this morning and decided to write a Three Beautiful Things post:
- Going back to paper and finally ditching my PDA. I feel guilty for doing that, but damn it! Paper just makes me happier. I bought a leather covered Circa notebook from Levenger (so beautiful!) and put an agenda inside along with some blank pages for all the notes I need to take and blank pages for drawings.
- "Joint Security Area." I love finding interesting movies no one has ever heard of. This is an early film by Korean director Park Chan-wook, the director who did the "Revenge" series. I thought it was going to be a shoot-'em-up action movie, but it turned out to be a haunting and thought-provoking murder mystery about DMZ separating North and South Korea.
- My family. My parents, brother and I are very close. I spend quite a bit of time at my Mom's house visiting them several times a month. Going over there is so much fun. My Mom and I get our time together in the evening after dinner, my brother and I always stay up until 2am or 3am talking about something or watching movies and my Dad and I get our alone time in the morning while making/eating breakfast as everyone else sleeps. I'm so fortunate!
Monday, February 19, 2007
The Gap, Saturday, Santa Cruz, CA
So I'm hanging out with one of my good friends at The Gap in downtown Santa Cruz. It's a beautiful, balmy afternoon and Pacific Garden Mall is packed with surfer/hippie/yuppie types. Shorts, skirts and sandals abound.
I'm struggling in the dressing room trying on several pairs of jeans. It's a bad time to be looking for jeans because a serious project like that can take at least five hours and this is a relaxed, catch up kind of shopping trip. My friend is out in the main part of the store also looking at jeans.
None of the jeans fit, of course (which is why this is considered a serious hours-long project), so I exit my dressing room. I almost run into a Fetching Young Man who is in front of the three way mirror. He is wearing a button down white shirt with needle thin stripes, a pair of dark charcoal slacks and white worn gym socks. He is dancing quite energetically in front of the mirror to a hip hop song and when I almost ran into him, he blushes beet red. I laugh and say something like "Don't worry." He smiles shyly at me. He has dark curly hair that needs cutting, dark eyes and dimples when he smiles. He is tall and very lanky, about 5'10" and can't be more than 16 years old. He has a wonderfully shy, slightly clueless air about him.
Every once in a great while I run into a Fetching Young Man. These are young men (under 21 years old), cute and for some reason feel very comfortable talking to me. I always enjoy these little encounters. There's something very compelling about watching a boy become a man even if you only get to witness it for a few moments.
Fetching Young Man: "Do you think these pants are too short?"
He is looking at himself in the three way mirror, skeptical. I look down carefully at his white socked feet, noting length of the pants and how they would fall if he were wearing shoes.
Me: "I think they look fine."
Fetching Young Man: "Hmm."
At this point, Another Young Man comes running in. He is wearing a black and white sports jersey, orange and black striped basketball shorts and expensive looking white sneakers. He glances at me.
"The pants look fine," I repeat just so his friend knows nothing strange is going on.
Another Young Man: "Dude!!! You can't wear pants halfway down your butt to a FORMAL!!! You have to wear slacks. SLACKS!!"
Fetching Young Man: "I guess so." He's back to checking himself in the mirror.
Me: "The pants look great on you and they are definitely not too short."
Another Young Man: "No pants halfway down your butt to a FORMAL!!!"
The Fetching Young Man has apparently tired of this discussion about the pants and looks at me again. He smiles (cute dimples!) and then starts dancing energetically to the music again. I dance too. We bounce around for a few minutes and then I say goodbye with a wave and a good luck.
I find my friend who is still looking at the stacks of jeans that run all the way up the wall. I'm so happy about this little encounter that I don't tell her about it until we are in the car on the way back to her house. Although she wanted to know where she was when all this was happening, I wanted to keep it all to myself for just a little while longer.
I'm struggling in the dressing room trying on several pairs of jeans. It's a bad time to be looking for jeans because a serious project like that can take at least five hours and this is a relaxed, catch up kind of shopping trip. My friend is out in the main part of the store also looking at jeans.
None of the jeans fit, of course (which is why this is considered a serious hours-long project), so I exit my dressing room. I almost run into a Fetching Young Man who is in front of the three way mirror. He is wearing a button down white shirt with needle thin stripes, a pair of dark charcoal slacks and white worn gym socks. He is dancing quite energetically in front of the mirror to a hip hop song and when I almost ran into him, he blushes beet red. I laugh and say something like "Don't worry." He smiles shyly at me. He has dark curly hair that needs cutting, dark eyes and dimples when he smiles. He is tall and very lanky, about 5'10" and can't be more than 16 years old. He has a wonderfully shy, slightly clueless air about him.
Every once in a great while I run into a Fetching Young Man. These are young men (under 21 years old), cute and for some reason feel very comfortable talking to me. I always enjoy these little encounters. There's something very compelling about watching a boy become a man even if you only get to witness it for a few moments.
Fetching Young Man: "Do you think these pants are too short?"
He is looking at himself in the three way mirror, skeptical. I look down carefully at his white socked feet, noting length of the pants and how they would fall if he were wearing shoes.
Me: "I think they look fine."
Fetching Young Man: "Hmm."
At this point, Another Young Man comes running in. He is wearing a black and white sports jersey, orange and black striped basketball shorts and expensive looking white sneakers. He glances at me.
"The pants look fine," I repeat just so his friend knows nothing strange is going on.
Another Young Man: "Dude!!! You can't wear pants halfway down your butt to a FORMAL!!! You have to wear slacks. SLACKS!!"
Fetching Young Man: "I guess so." He's back to checking himself in the mirror.
Me: "The pants look great on you and they are definitely not too short."
Another Young Man: "No pants halfway down your butt to a FORMAL!!!"
The Fetching Young Man has apparently tired of this discussion about the pants and looks at me again. He smiles (cute dimples!) and then starts dancing energetically to the music again. I dance too. We bounce around for a few minutes and then I say goodbye with a wave and a good luck.
I find my friend who is still looking at the stacks of jeans that run all the way up the wall. I'm so happy about this little encounter that I don't tell her about it until we are in the car on the way back to her house. Although she wanted to know where she was when all this was happening, I wanted to keep it all to myself for just a little while longer.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Last Saturday
Jahleel assumes defensive velociraptor pose
You can see her mate's beak sticking out of their nestbox on the left there.
Jahleel moves closer...
And closer...
And closer...until she bites me on the left hand almost making me drop the camera.
Foolishly, I thought Jahleel was coming closer to check out my camera. One of the other penguins, Agulhas, does this all the time, but she wasn't. She was merely defending her house where her mate, Robben, was nesting in.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Movie Musings: Rashomon and Truth
I finally watched this film for the first time last week as part of my years long Akira Kurosawa film review. Kurosawa was only about 40 when he made this film and it's nothing short of brilliant.
Rashomon is the story of a rape and murder told from several different viewpoints. And I don't mean where there are niggling differences in details, I mean where the story each person tells is almost completely different. The event is told from the viewpoint of the Bandit (rapist), the woman, her husband the Samurai (the murder victim) and a Woodcutter (a witness of sorts).
This film is fascinating because it is almost impossible to figure out the truth of the matter. You start to see that each person has their own agenda and colors their telling of the story with their own fears, prejudices, social viewpoints and self-perceptions. Much like how each eyewitness will tell a different story at a car crash scene, Rashomon shows us in a startling and uncompromising way how different we can all perceive the same event.
This film got me thinking about the concept of whether we can ever perceive reality as it really is. As everyone has, I have encountered people who consistently tell skewered versions of things that happened to them. I have made it a priority in my life to tell things are they are to the best of my ability, and yet I'm certain that my telling is skewered as well. I just hope it's less skewered for all the effort I put into being accurate.
I wonder if this is the same as truth? In a way it might not be. One thing that fascinates me about observing objects at the subatomic level (electrons, for example) is that their behavior sometimes changes simply because we are looking at them. Yes, folks, this means that the fact that we are watching an electron will change its behavior for no reason at all. What does this mean? I have no idea, but it does give me interesting food for thought as in what if an event changes simply because we're looking at it? What is truth anyway? Are we a distorted lens through which everything is filtered with the truth just out of our reach OR does the event actually change as we are watching it?
I'll stop the strange and fun questions now. I'm sure you can tell I have almost no background in philosophy otherwise I wouldn't be wondering such things.
More about the film:
The cinematography is glorious black and white. Much of the film setting is in a large forest and Kurosawa makes the most of the play of light and shadow. The camera angles, the way the camera moves, the trees, the sunlight and shade are all poetic and beautiful. During the filming they used a large mirror to focus light on the actors faces in key scenes. The other setting is at a broken down temple gate and here we see the famous Kurosawa rain. The rain wasn't visible enough so he had it stained with ink so it would show up better on camera.
Rashomon was made in 1950 and the first of Kurosawa's films, or of any Japanese film for that matter, to capture international attention. It won the Golden Lion award at the Venice Film Festival in 1951. It also won an Oscar for Best Foreign film.
Rent it, watch it, watch the commentary. This is a great film by a master and will keep you thinking for a long time afterwards. Hopefully you won't be wondering about those electrons, though.
Rashomon is the story of a rape and murder told from several different viewpoints. And I don't mean where there are niggling differences in details, I mean where the story each person tells is almost completely different. The event is told from the viewpoint of the Bandit (rapist), the woman, her husband the Samurai (the murder victim) and a Woodcutter (a witness of sorts).
This film is fascinating because it is almost impossible to figure out the truth of the matter. You start to see that each person has their own agenda and colors their telling of the story with their own fears, prejudices, social viewpoints and self-perceptions. Much like how each eyewitness will tell a different story at a car crash scene, Rashomon shows us in a startling and uncompromising way how different we can all perceive the same event.
This film got me thinking about the concept of whether we can ever perceive reality as it really is. As everyone has, I have encountered people who consistently tell skewered versions of things that happened to them. I have made it a priority in my life to tell things are they are to the best of my ability, and yet I'm certain that my telling is skewered as well. I just hope it's less skewered for all the effort I put into being accurate.
I wonder if this is the same as truth? In a way it might not be. One thing that fascinates me about observing objects at the subatomic level (electrons, for example) is that their behavior sometimes changes simply because we are looking at them. Yes, folks, this means that the fact that we are watching an electron will change its behavior for no reason at all. What does this mean? I have no idea, but it does give me interesting food for thought as in what if an event changes simply because we're looking at it? What is truth anyway? Are we a distorted lens through which everything is filtered with the truth just out of our reach OR does the event actually change as we are watching it?
I'll stop the strange and fun questions now. I'm sure you can tell I have almost no background in philosophy otherwise I wouldn't be wondering such things.
More about the film:
The cinematography is glorious black and white. Much of the film setting is in a large forest and Kurosawa makes the most of the play of light and shadow. The camera angles, the way the camera moves, the trees, the sunlight and shade are all poetic and beautiful. During the filming they used a large mirror to focus light on the actors faces in key scenes. The other setting is at a broken down temple gate and here we see the famous Kurosawa rain. The rain wasn't visible enough so he had it stained with ink so it would show up better on camera.
Rashomon was made in 1950 and the first of Kurosawa's films, or of any Japanese film for that matter, to capture international attention. It won the Golden Lion award at the Venice Film Festival in 1951. It also won an Oscar for Best Foreign film.
Rent it, watch it, watch the commentary. This is a great film by a master and will keep you thinking for a long time afterwards. Hopefully you won't be wondering about those electrons, though.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
YouTube, Copyright, and the Democractic Way
Like many people I have become enamored of YouTube. I was introduced to it by way of SNL's Lazy Sunday (Chronicles of Narnia rap) digital short which was sent to me by an old boyfriend. By the way, I was just on YouTube and couldn't find Lazy Sunday anywhere. I was, however, able to find a whole bunch of parodies of it. More on that later.
This leads me an interesting aspect about YouTube: copyright issues. One of the things I love about Blogger.com, YouTube.com, craigslist.org and the internet in general is that it's democratic. This means I am free to get my blog on and say whatever the hell I want to say to a small audience of folks, some of who come here occasionally and some who stumble upon this blog by accident. If I want I can shoot a digital short and post it on YouTube and I can go on craiglist.org and look for/place an ad about...whatever.
This ability to express myself in a huge variety of forums is nothing short of revolutionary. When was the last time you or me had the opportunity to put ourselves out into the world like this? When was the last time we could say our piece without some publishing company to tell us what's good or bad based on whether it would sell? What about music? Film? This is a big deal time we're in now, full of possibilities.
There's also a huge amount of crap out there, but it's still better to give everyone the same opportunities as long as they have a way to get on the Net and a computer.
Copyright infringement is against the law and at least some of the material up on YouTube might unauthorized copies of videos (I'm trying to be careful in how I word this sentence). And yet I can't help but think that having some of that material up in an open forum like YouTube is either enjoying a revival and/or adding to its owner's bottom line.
For example, after Lazy Sunday was up on YouTube, Saturday Night Live's ratings went up. Could this be the result of YouTube and viral marketing? Is it possible that SNL, which seemed to be in a low ebb, got a boost because everyone was talking about, emailing and laughing over Lazy Sunday? Could it be that Lazy Sunday was the best thing to come out of SNL in a long time and, because it was available in an open place like YouTube, more people were watching it and deciding that SNL might be worth checking out again?
Could be, but then again maybe not.
And what about Lazy Sunday's parodies on YouTube, or all the parodies for that matter. Why is it okay to leave them up on YouTube even if you're using the actual song Lazy Sunday? Perhaps I'm wrong and maybe it's not all right. Maybe they just haven't gotten around to taking those parodies down. Still, SNL is legendary for doing some of the best parodies out there? How does that fit into this discussion?
Just so we're clear: this is all my personal opinion. I am not a lawyer, nor do I play one on this blog. Or anywhere else for that matter.
The fact is everyone needs to take a good hard look at these issues. I think YouTube is awesome because I can look up just about anything (TV shows, commercials, music videos, etc. from almost time frame) and watch to my heart's content. I like this openness in the same way I like being able to write this post.
I really hope YouTube doesn't go the way of Napster. It would be a shame if it did. There has to be a way for companies to take advantage of viral marketing and open access to everyone without ruining all the fun we're having here. I mean, I got to watch James Brown sing "I Got You (I Feel Good)" in a ski sweater. Where the hell else am I going to find something like that?
This leads me an interesting aspect about YouTube: copyright issues. One of the things I love about Blogger.com, YouTube.com, craigslist.org and the internet in general is that it's democratic. This means I am free to get my blog on and say whatever the hell I want to say to a small audience of folks, some of who come here occasionally and some who stumble upon this blog by accident. If I want I can shoot a digital short and post it on YouTube and I can go on craiglist.org and look for/place an ad about...whatever.
This ability to express myself in a huge variety of forums is nothing short of revolutionary. When was the last time you or me had the opportunity to put ourselves out into the world like this? When was the last time we could say our piece without some publishing company to tell us what's good or bad based on whether it would sell? What about music? Film? This is a big deal time we're in now, full of possibilities.
There's also a huge amount of crap out there, but it's still better to give everyone the same opportunities as long as they have a way to get on the Net and a computer.
Copyright infringement is against the law and at least some of the material up on YouTube might unauthorized copies of videos (I'm trying to be careful in how I word this sentence). And yet I can't help but think that having some of that material up in an open forum like YouTube is either enjoying a revival and/or adding to its owner's bottom line.
For example, after Lazy Sunday was up on YouTube, Saturday Night Live's ratings went up. Could this be the result of YouTube and viral marketing? Is it possible that SNL, which seemed to be in a low ebb, got a boost because everyone was talking about, emailing and laughing over Lazy Sunday? Could it be that Lazy Sunday was the best thing to come out of SNL in a long time and, because it was available in an open place like YouTube, more people were watching it and deciding that SNL might be worth checking out again?
Could be, but then again maybe not.
And what about Lazy Sunday's parodies on YouTube, or all the parodies for that matter. Why is it okay to leave them up on YouTube even if you're using the actual song Lazy Sunday? Perhaps I'm wrong and maybe it's not all right. Maybe they just haven't gotten around to taking those parodies down. Still, SNL is legendary for doing some of the best parodies out there? How does that fit into this discussion?
Just so we're clear: this is all my personal opinion. I am not a lawyer, nor do I play one on this blog. Or anywhere else for that matter.
The fact is everyone needs to take a good hard look at these issues. I think YouTube is awesome because I can look up just about anything (TV shows, commercials, music videos, etc. from almost time frame) and watch to my heart's content. I like this openness in the same way I like being able to write this post.
I really hope YouTube doesn't go the way of Napster. It would be a shame if it did. There has to be a way for companies to take advantage of viral marketing and open access to everyone without ruining all the fun we're having here. I mean, I got to watch James Brown sing "I Got You (I Feel Good)" in a ski sweater. Where the hell else am I going to find something like that?
Sunday, January 28, 2007
City Life: Inner Richmond
The Inner Richmond neighborhood of San Francisco is located a couple of blocks near the northeast area of Golden Gate Park. The entire Richmond area (Inner and Outer) is located north of Golden Gate Park and runs east to west from where the Park begins to the Ocean Beach and the Great Highway. Legendary for its fog, nonetheless I lucked out today and got some sunshine.
I concentrated today's walk on the hub of the Inner Richmond area which runs along Clement Street from Arguello (a block from 2nd Ave.) to Park Presidio (two blocks from 12th Ave.) The picture above shows the intersection at Clement between 6th and 7th Avenues.
Clement Street is known for several things: the best used bookstore in the City (Green Apple Books), many five and dime type stores, lots of neighborhood Asian grocers (and one large one) and what seems like hundreds of Asian restaurants. I'm not talking about a couple of Chinese restaurants here and there, I'm talking about a street that seems to have every possible Asian type of food known to man. Burmese, Korean, Indian, Cambodian, as well as the usual Chinese, Japanese, Thai, etc. There's also a couple of French restaurants and at least one Hawaiian restaurant.
For the record, I didn't eat any Asian food for lunch. Instead I ate at Hamburger Haven, a narrow greasy spoon diner that was packed with people waiting for a table. Since I sat at the counter, I was able to watch with amazement while the main cook, a very thin Asian man with a focused frown, worked his magic. This guy was making at least 10 meals at once (omlettes, burgers, pancakes, hashed browns, my eggs benedict, Joe's Special, etc.). He moved easily and smoothly from one task to another only getting thrown off when a waitress or bus boy tried to slip past him.
I'm sure by now that my diner obsession must be wearing thin as it keeps me from trying out other types of food more often than not, but I just love to eat at those greasy spoons!
You gotta love that Cheaper than Cheaper sign there. It's a serious five and dime store where you can get 48 rolls of toilet paper for $14.
They also had a comprehensive selection of rugs in all sizes in the back, a whole aisle of bed linens and a freezer full of Ben & Jerry's ice cream next to the register. Not to mention the usual tupperwear type containers, plastic storage shelves, a mind-boggling array of extension cords, many canned and boxed foods and personal hygiene items.
Although I failed to take a picture of the storefront for Green Apple Books, I have to talk about it (located at 6th and Clement). This is the best used bookstore in San Francisco. They also sell new books, DVDs and music. Two floors of books with all these little nooks and crannies. The floor is all wood and it creaks as you walk along. The walls are covered with pictures and signs. There are signs on the bookshelves pointing out staff favorites. Plan to spend a long time browsing here. Next door is the very narrow DVD section and next to that is the music area. A couple of blocks down (perhaps between 3rd and 4th) is yet another Green Apple store with nothing but used books, books on tape, software, CDs, DVDs and records (yes, vinyl records). Go there. Enjoy yourself. Support local bookstores.
At the Bargain Bank (at 7th Ave.), you can get some fairly upscale foods and sundries for really cheap. They also feature 1.5 aisles of nothing but wine. I had to take the picture of the Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. So nostalgic. My uncle let me taste it when I was only about eight years old. My first sip of wine.
Huh. Looking at this picture I can't help but wonder what the hell is "Citrus Wine?"
Another thing I found intriguing in this neighborhood is that some shops have adopted a two-shops-in-one method. My favorite examples are the Florist and the Aquarium shop (flowers and corals in one place!) and the shop that makes crepes and is also a mini-mart. I should say the crepes/mini-mart place was packed with people and smelled damn good. The best smelling place on Clement Street.
That's the kid-friendly sign for Toy Boat Dessert Cafe. People who grew up in this neighborhood and are my age say that Toy Boat has been around since they were kids. Fun, quirky decor featuring lots of toys, desserts and ice cream make this place a great first date and a place to bring the kids.
The good folks here also let me use their restroom as long as I told them Green Apple Books sent me.
This picture is of a traffic median between Funston (near 12th) and Park Presido. I've never seen a traffic median that was a little park unto itself, but this one and the one opposite going in the other direction appear to be just that.
Across the street from this traffic median is the Fourth Church of Christ, Scientist. I was interested in this large square white building because I like church architecture, but was unable to gain access to the interior.
Immediately next door is the Christian Science Reading room. I'm not religious at all, but I was very much interested in this week's Bible lesson.
Unfortunately (or fortunately) the reading room wasn't open so I couldn't go in and ask the good folks about their conclusions about Truth.
Several signs did promise that Everyone is Welcome though.
Like all neighborhoods in the City, I've barely scratched the surface. Hell, I hardly know anything about my own neighborhood and it boasts a spectacular array of restaurants. The fact of the matter is I need to get out there and get eating in these places. Now that I've satisfied my ever present diner fetish, I need to come back to Inner Richmond for some bargain shopping (tupperware type containers anyone?) and Asian food. You'll be reading about those adventures here.
I concentrated today's walk on the hub of the Inner Richmond area which runs along Clement Street from Arguello (a block from 2nd Ave.) to Park Presidio (two blocks from 12th Ave.) The picture above shows the intersection at Clement between 6th and 7th Avenues.Clement Street is known for several things: the best used bookstore in the City (Green Apple Books), many five and dime type stores, lots of neighborhood Asian grocers (and one large one) and what seems like hundreds of Asian restaurants. I'm not talking about a couple of Chinese restaurants here and there, I'm talking about a street that seems to have every possible Asian type of food known to man. Burmese, Korean, Indian, Cambodian, as well as the usual Chinese, Japanese, Thai, etc. There's also a couple of French restaurants and at least one Hawaiian restaurant.
For the record, I didn't eat any Asian food for lunch. Instead I ate at Hamburger Haven, a narrow greasy spoon diner that was packed with people waiting for a table. Since I sat at the counter, I was able to watch with amazement while the main cook, a very thin Asian man with a focused frown, worked his magic. This guy was making at least 10 meals at once (omlettes, burgers, pancakes, hashed browns, my eggs benedict, Joe's Special, etc.). He moved easily and smoothly from one task to another only getting thrown off when a waitress or bus boy tried to slip past him.I'm sure by now that my diner obsession must be wearing thin as it keeps me from trying out other types of food more often than not, but I just love to eat at those greasy spoons!
You gotta love that Cheaper than Cheaper sign there. It's a serious five and dime store where you can get 48 rolls of toilet paper for $14.They also had a comprehensive selection of rugs in all sizes in the back, a whole aisle of bed linens and a freezer full of Ben & Jerry's ice cream next to the register. Not to mention the usual tupperwear type containers, plastic storage shelves, a mind-boggling array of extension cords, many canned and boxed foods and personal hygiene items.
Although I failed to take a picture of the storefront for Green Apple Books, I have to talk about it (located at 6th and Clement). This is the best used bookstore in San Francisco. They also sell new books, DVDs and music. Two floors of books with all these little nooks and crannies. The floor is all wood and it creaks as you walk along. The walls are covered with pictures and signs. There are signs on the bookshelves pointing out staff favorites. Plan to spend a long time browsing here. Next door is the very narrow DVD section and next to that is the music area. A couple of blocks down (perhaps between 3rd and 4th) is yet another Green Apple store with nothing but used books, books on tape, software, CDs, DVDs and records (yes, vinyl records). Go there. Enjoy yourself. Support local bookstores.
At the Bargain Bank (at 7th Ave.), you can get some fairly upscale foods and sundries for really cheap. They also feature 1.5 aisles of nothing but wine. I had to take the picture of the Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. So nostalgic. My uncle let me taste it when I was only about eight years old. My first sip of wine.Huh. Looking at this picture I can't help but wonder what the hell is "Citrus Wine?"
Another thing I found intriguing in this neighborhood is that some shops have adopted a two-shops-in-one method. My favorite examples are the Florist and the Aquarium shop (flowers and corals in one place!) and the shop that makes crepes and is also a mini-mart. I should say the crepes/mini-mart place was packed with people and smelled damn good. The best smelling place on Clement Street.
That's the kid-friendly sign for Toy Boat Dessert Cafe. People who grew up in this neighborhood and are my age say that Toy Boat has been around since they were kids. Fun, quirky decor featuring lots of toys, desserts and ice cream make this place a great first date and a place to bring the kids.The good folks here also let me use their restroom as long as I told them Green Apple Books sent me.
This picture is of a traffic median between Funston (near 12th) and Park Presido. I've never seen a traffic median that was a little park unto itself, but this one and the one opposite going in the other direction appear to be just that.Across the street from this traffic median is the Fourth Church of Christ, Scientist. I was interested in this large square white building because I like church architecture, but was unable to gain access to the interior.
Immediately next door is the Christian Science Reading room. I'm not religious at all, but I was very much interested in this week's Bible lesson.Unfortunately (or fortunately) the reading room wasn't open so I couldn't go in and ask the good folks about their conclusions about Truth.
Several signs did promise that Everyone is Welcome though.
Like all neighborhoods in the City, I've barely scratched the surface. Hell, I hardly know anything about my own neighborhood and it boasts a spectacular array of restaurants. The fact of the matter is I need to get out there and get eating in these places. Now that I've satisfied my ever present diner fetish, I need to come back to Inner Richmond for some bargain shopping (tupperware type containers anyone?) and Asian food. You'll be reading about those adventures here.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Clean Desk, DVDs and No Coughing
Three Beautiful Things for Today:
- A clean desk. I finally figured out a way to deal with all those non-urgent tasks that keep piling up. My desk looks beautiful!
- A pile of fun DVDs to watch: Rashomon, Brick, Water and Joint Security Area.
- Very little coughing. I've had a bad cough for many weeks now. It was so bad that I sprained the muscles in my ribs. When the sprain acts up it hurts like a m*therf*cker. This morning was bad, but I'm feeling better now.
Stick To It
"It's not that I'm so smart, it's just that I stay with problems longer."
- Albert Einstein
I've always admired stick-to-it-ness, perseverance, fortitude. The ability to keep going, to keep moving forward no matter how others might beat you over the head is a quality that I find compelling.
I'm not sure where this admiration comes from. Perhaps it comes from the belief that in order for someone to love and admire me, they must have this kind of perseverance. Or it could be that I have a warped view of love in general and believe that real love only comes when you triumph over adversity.
I'm thinking these two ideas could use some rethinking.
My friends sometimes say that I should only go with what is easy. If something is difficult, it's not worth your time or effort. Perhaps this is true in love. After all, the belief goes, if someone is really right for you then everything will fall into place. Magically, perhaps.
I view these ideas with some skepticism, but am feeling generous and open-minded. Mostly I feel this way because I've gotten the shit kicked out of me in the Love Department in the last year. No matter, I've dusted myself off and gotten back up again. Fortitude is my friend at such times.
Certainly there's nothing wrong with tweaking your thoughts a little or trying out new approaches. It can't hurt.
At least I don't think so. We'll see.
- Albert Einstein
I've always admired stick-to-it-ness, perseverance, fortitude. The ability to keep going, to keep moving forward no matter how others might beat you over the head is a quality that I find compelling.
I'm not sure where this admiration comes from. Perhaps it comes from the belief that in order for someone to love and admire me, they must have this kind of perseverance. Or it could be that I have a warped view of love in general and believe that real love only comes when you triumph over adversity.
I'm thinking these two ideas could use some rethinking.
My friends sometimes say that I should only go with what is easy. If something is difficult, it's not worth your time or effort. Perhaps this is true in love. After all, the belief goes, if someone is really right for you then everything will fall into place. Magically, perhaps.
I view these ideas with some skepticism, but am feeling generous and open-minded. Mostly I feel this way because I've gotten the shit kicked out of me in the Love Department in the last year. No matter, I've dusted myself off and gotten back up again. Fortitude is my friend at such times.
Certainly there's nothing wrong with tweaking your thoughts a little or trying out new approaches. It can't hurt.
At least I don't think so. We'll see.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
My Top Five Favorite Homages to the Godfather of Soul
James Brown died on Christmas Day 2006.
...
There isn't much else to say there. I could say we'll miss him, that there's a massive hole left in our musical landscape. I could talk about all the people he's influenced, but it's all been said before by more capable and qualified people.
Here's what I will say: throughout my life I've seen people pay tribute to this man. Many tributes/references/homages have ingrained themselves in my psyche. Here's my top five favorite list:
#5 - Sonny Liston training for his fight with Cassius Clay (who later took the name Mohammed Ali) while listening to "Night Train." I remember seeing a documentary showing how the two fighters prepared for this match. "Night Train" (both the original and James Brown version) was Liston's favorite song. For some reason this image of Liston training to this song has stuck in my head over the years.
#4 - Jackie Chan finishing Brown's act in "The Tuxedo." Yes, Jackie can dance. Martial arts is just another form of chorography after all. "The Tuxedo" was very mediocre overall, but I did like that part of the movie.
#3 - MC Hammer's tribute in his video "Here Comes the Hammer (SUPERBAD)" This video is a kick. "Watch Me!"
#2 - JE works here in my office. He's pretty high up there on the food chain and is an ordinary, nice, well educated white guy. He stunned me during our annual karoke charity party last July by singing (including all the shouts) "I got you (I feel good)." It was a performance that brought the house down. He also ran the New York Marathon this year and beat Lance Armstrong and his posse! In the spirit of JE's campy performance, I'm including a link to James Brown performing (in a ski sweater!) "I got you (I feel good)" in the 1965 Frankie Avalon movie "Ski Party."
#1 - Eddie Murphy as Hot Tub Man #1 doing the "James Brown Celebrity Hot Tub Party" sketch on Saturday Night Live. One of my all time favorite sketches from this show. I love it.
I heard a killer version of "Sex Machine" while driving to my New Year's Eve weekend destination. It made me glad to be alive. I'm closing this post with great video (thanks to YouTube.com for the links to this post) of James Brown performing "Sex Machine" live in Paris 1971.
Rest in Peace, Mr. Brown.
...
There isn't much else to say there. I could say we'll miss him, that there's a massive hole left in our musical landscape. I could talk about all the people he's influenced, but it's all been said before by more capable and qualified people.
Here's what I will say: throughout my life I've seen people pay tribute to this man. Many tributes/references/homages have ingrained themselves in my psyche. Here's my top five favorite list:
#5 - Sonny Liston training for his fight with Cassius Clay (who later took the name Mohammed Ali) while listening to "Night Train." I remember seeing a documentary showing how the two fighters prepared for this match. "Night Train" (both the original and James Brown version) was Liston's favorite song. For some reason this image of Liston training to this song has stuck in my head over the years.
#4 - Jackie Chan finishing Brown's act in "The Tuxedo." Yes, Jackie can dance. Martial arts is just another form of chorography after all. "The Tuxedo" was very mediocre overall, but I did like that part of the movie.
#3 - MC Hammer's tribute in his video "Here Comes the Hammer (SUPERBAD)" This video is a kick. "Watch Me!"
#2 - JE works here in my office. He's pretty high up there on the food chain and is an ordinary, nice, well educated white guy. He stunned me during our annual karoke charity party last July by singing (including all the shouts) "I got you (I feel good)." It was a performance that brought the house down. He also ran the New York Marathon this year and beat Lance Armstrong and his posse! In the spirit of JE's campy performance, I'm including a link to James Brown performing (in a ski sweater!) "I got you (I feel good)" in the 1965 Frankie Avalon movie "Ski Party."
#1 - Eddie Murphy as Hot Tub Man #1 doing the "James Brown Celebrity Hot Tub Party" sketch on Saturday Night Live. One of my all time favorite sketches from this show. I love it.
I heard a killer version of "Sex Machine" while driving to my New Year's Eve weekend destination. It made me glad to be alive. I'm closing this post with great video (thanks to YouTube.com for the links to this post) of James Brown performing "Sex Machine" live in Paris 1971.
Rest in Peace, Mr. Brown.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Nordstrom's Dressing Room Trauma
I was at Nordstorm's last night wandering nervously around the Women's Undergarments section. I'm going to a BLACK TIE dinner on New Year's Eve and I bought a killer black velvet gown, and...well, let's just say Miss Turtle was in need of some new undergarments for her dress.
I wandered around looking at lacy frilly things. I picked out one or two items to try on in the dressing room. I get into the dressing room, disrobe, and stare in complete horror at my reflection in the mirror.
Am I really that fat? Am I really that ugly? Do I look that bad wearing light turquoise? Do I look that bad wearing black? Do I look that bad even existing?
Even my long, dark hair which flows halfway down my back and which I know is beautiful, looked horrible in that dressing room. Even my bright smile looked dim and gnarly.
I tried on several items trying to focus on finding what I needed, bought my stuff, and ran out of there. Looking at myself in the mirror this morning, I concluded that the lighting in the women's dressing room at Nordstrom's in the San Francisco Centre is calculated to make you want to slit your wrists.
I spent the rest of the evening lamenting the fact that I, who used to be unique and pretty, had suddenly turned into disgusting troll. Who would love me? Who would even look at me? Will the people who are my friends and family still want to talk to me? Am I Medusa?
I got over it by settling in with the wonderful jacuzzi style footbath my brother got me for Christmas, sipping a cup of hot tea, and counting my blessings:
Happy New Year's everybody and don't let the dressing room lighting get you down.
I wandered around looking at lacy frilly things. I picked out one or two items to try on in the dressing room. I get into the dressing room, disrobe, and stare in complete horror at my reflection in the mirror.
Am I really that fat? Am I really that ugly? Do I look that bad wearing light turquoise? Do I look that bad wearing black? Do I look that bad even existing?
Even my long, dark hair which flows halfway down my back and which I know is beautiful, looked horrible in that dressing room. Even my bright smile looked dim and gnarly.
I tried on several items trying to focus on finding what I needed, bought my stuff, and ran out of there. Looking at myself in the mirror this morning, I concluded that the lighting in the women's dressing room at Nordstrom's in the San Francisco Centre is calculated to make you want to slit your wrists.
I spent the rest of the evening lamenting the fact that I, who used to be unique and pretty, had suddenly turned into disgusting troll. Who would love me? Who would even look at me? Will the people who are my friends and family still want to talk to me? Am I Medusa?
I got over it by settling in with the wonderful jacuzzi style footbath my brother got me for Christmas, sipping a cup of hot tea, and counting my blessings:
- Sure, my arms and legs are ugly as sin, but at least I have them.
- My eyes might look beady in those awful dressing room lights, but at least I'm not blind.
- I'm a smart girl. Really.
- I have a good job, good friends, and a family that loves me.
- I'm going to a BLACK TIE dinner for New Year's and I'm going even if I have to put a bag over my head.
- My dog loves me. So do the penguins.
- My feet are small, my hands are capable and I have great cleavage (when I feel like showing it).
- I do have beautiful long, dark hair. At least in the sunlight I do.
- I have very few wrinkles, although I have big "smile" lines.
Happy New Year's everybody and don't let the dressing room lighting get you down.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Miss Turtle's Mostly Christmas Haiku 2006
The Ex-Mas Bells Ring
Trees blurt out their Pine-Sol scent
Cold fingers my toes
Brother's gift is late
Forgot to wrap the others
Remember gift cards!
Head cold, sleepy, snarf
Move slowly, my parents wait
Must get going now
Although I complain
I still like the trees and lights
Electric snowflakes
So Merry Christmas
And a Happy Holiday
Wishing you love, peace
A Note - Folks, progress has been made. A year ago I would not even DREAM that I would have enough courage to write a Mostly Christmas Haiku. A year ago I was so afraid of verses and syllables that I would have done anything to get away from them. Haiku? Just say the word to me and I'd look away, eyes downcast, face blushed, unable to even try it. I credit this change to the Choka and the good people who run and contribute to it.
When the Choka first started, I was even afraid to go on there and look around. When I finally did all I could do was read it and marvel at everyone's cleverness. Now, I contribute regularly, have been famed and shamed, and was even included in awgeez' "Sam I Am" Shame Alley write up from Week 38.
Choka on everyone. And if you haven't checked it out, please do so. The more, the merrier.
Trees blurt out their Pine-Sol scent
Cold fingers my toes
Brother's gift is late
Forgot to wrap the others
Remember gift cards!
Head cold, sleepy, snarf
Move slowly, my parents wait
Must get going now
Although I complain
I still like the trees and lights
Electric snowflakes
So Merry Christmas
And a Happy Holiday
Wishing you love, peace
A Note - Folks, progress has been made. A year ago I would not even DREAM that I would have enough courage to write a Mostly Christmas Haiku. A year ago I was so afraid of verses and syllables that I would have done anything to get away from them. Haiku? Just say the word to me and I'd look away, eyes downcast, face blushed, unable to even try it. I credit this change to the Choka and the good people who run and contribute to it.
When the Choka first started, I was even afraid to go on there and look around. When I finally did all I could do was read it and marvel at everyone's cleverness. Now, I contribute regularly, have been famed and shamed, and was even included in awgeez' "Sam I Am" Shame Alley write up from Week 38.
Choka on everyone. And if you haven't checked it out, please do so. The more, the merrier.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
It's My Birthday...
Today I am 41. The thing that has been running though my head all day is Smeagol saying to Deagol, "It's my birthday and I wants it!" I have no "one ring" to sustain me through 76 years of searching. No literary masterpiece to couch my exploits in, no Led Zepplin song inspired by me.
It's just me and my dog. Me and my good friends. Me and my family. Me and the killer chocolate cake my secretary made for me. It's not a bad life. It could be a whole lot worse. I could be filing for bankruptcy like someone I know.
There are good things happening, no doubt about that.
No doubts at all.
Ugh.
In the back hallways of my mind, a barely audible voice is singing:
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday, Miss Turtle
Happy Birthday to you.
I'm sitting here slumped in front of my computer screen/32 inch widescreen TV. I'm gearing myself up to go out into the cold night so my dog can "do her business."
Universal heartache abounds.
Happy birthday to me.
It's just me and my dog. Me and my good friends. Me and my family. Me and the killer chocolate cake my secretary made for me. It's not a bad life. It could be a whole lot worse. I could be filing for bankruptcy like someone I know.
There are good things happening, no doubt about that.
No doubts at all.
Ugh.
In the back hallways of my mind, a barely audible voice is singing:
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday, Miss Turtle
Happy Birthday to you.
I'm sitting here slumped in front of my computer screen/32 inch widescreen TV. I'm gearing myself up to go out into the cold night so my dog can "do her business."
Universal heartache abounds.
Happy birthday to me.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
A Conversation, Clean Sheets and a Book Cover
Three Beautiful Things for today:
- I have a difficult time meeting people in my day to day life and can even be shy around people I know in structured situations like a party so I decided I would "practice" by talking to people I don't know as a way of getting used to making the first contact. Today I talked to a guy named Bruce while we were waiting to be called for a massage at Nordstrom Spa. I asked him how his day was, he said he was here on business and tweaked his back while playing golf. I said I was recovering from last night's firm party and needed "balancing." A short but fun conversation.
- I have to say one of my favorite feelings on this EARTH is climbing into bed right after I've put on clean sheets. I wriggle my feet around, I sigh and roll a bit. I squeeze the covers with my fingers, relishing that wonderful feeling. Ahhhhh!
- Last, but not least: one of my best friends had to do a book cover for an assignment and she did one for the novel I just drafted "A Lament for KP." Although the novel title will likely change and I won't start revising it until the New Year, this book cover is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Makes me cry as I close this post. 'sniff' A lovely photo will follow in the next couple of days.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
A Beautiful Day Along The Embarcadero
A friend of mind showed me pictures of a mother and child sculpture she took at Burning Man two years ago. I'm almost certain this is the same sculpture but without the the fire coming out the hands and the fire-laden footprints behind them. That's the Bay Bridge in the background
I'm surprised at how well this shot of the Bay Bridge came out. I didn't even realize the red boat was in the picture until I viewed it later.
Speaking of Red, this small diner-style "Java House" is an iconic fixture. They serve a great breakfast.I must have taken these pictures over a month ago just before I started writing my novel. The weather lately has been cold, rainy, and foggy. Very different from the glorious blue skies in these photos.
Random Jangle
Today I marched through screens and tags and duplications. I've been on that march for weeks now, but all I get is .tiff files stuck to the bottom of my heels for my trouble.
I'm still waiting for the new lamp that's supposed to liven up my already live office. Smaller, yes, but it's got damn good feng shui (although it's missing the goldfish bowl). No matter, fish swim in my waters on a regular basis, the natural light from the skyscrapers outside my window encouraging them to no end.
The eternal army is unhappy with their new quarters. They keep sending me irritated dispatches. "No one can see us from this angle," they whine, "No one oohs and aahhs anymore."
To which I respond, "I guess my oohhing and aahhing ain't enough for you guys, eh?" They're just jealous of the native americans, coal miners and beekeepers across the way. And they still haven't figure out which aerial shot is London. I made it easy for them, made sure the London Eye was almost dead center in the picture, but they're still guessing.
Mother octopus guards her brood. Her eyes are closed, must conserve energy. An octopus has that Zen monk air until they surprise the crowd by unscrewing the jar lid and pulling out the prize fish of the day. Spectators gape in shock. They learned something new today.
Head and neck. Nose made of cartilage. The person turns this way and that, but is tired of the exposure. They want a rest, keep asking me to turn to the part about the structure of the sun or how a microprocessor works. Energy lurks within these realms.
I'm still waiting for the new lamp that's supposed to liven up my already live office. Smaller, yes, but it's got damn good feng shui (although it's missing the goldfish bowl). No matter, fish swim in my waters on a regular basis, the natural light from the skyscrapers outside my window encouraging them to no end.
The eternal army is unhappy with their new quarters. They keep sending me irritated dispatches. "No one can see us from this angle," they whine, "No one oohs and aahhs anymore."
To which I respond, "I guess my oohhing and aahhing ain't enough for you guys, eh?" They're just jealous of the native americans, coal miners and beekeepers across the way. And they still haven't figure out which aerial shot is London. I made it easy for them, made sure the London Eye was almost dead center in the picture, but they're still guessing.
Mother octopus guards her brood. Her eyes are closed, must conserve energy. An octopus has that Zen monk air until they surprise the crowd by unscrewing the jar lid and pulling out the prize fish of the day. Spectators gape in shock. They learned something new today.
Head and neck. Nose made of cartilage. The person turns this way and that, but is tired of the exposure. They want a rest, keep asking me to turn to the part about the structure of the sun or how a microprocessor works. Energy lurks within these realms.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Time, Structure and Balance
Lately, I've been focusing on the big TSB. This is probably in response to November's novel writing accomplishment and my own self-marauding feelings. Having been acutely aware of both ends of the spectrum of my deepest self, I can see how both sides contradict, feed and can even co-exist together. Here's what I mean:
While writing the novel, I learned that I was able to take the zillions of ideas and swirling thoughts inside my own head and condense/collapse them into a story. Even more amazing, I was able to do that in a specific, demanding time frame. This is huge for me (and probably for others who participated). The number of stories/scenes/scenarios rolling around inside my head are probably countless, but I've learned they are useless up there in my skull. The real trick is to get it down on paper/computer where you can actually do something with it if you choose.
And I was able to do all of this noveling while standing on the plateau of my own despair getting the crap kicked of myself by my own persistent brokenhearted feelings. Sure, it was time to move on, and has been for quite some time, but that didn't stop me from continually torturing myself in this way.
I learned that even in my darkest, most self-indulgent times I could move forward in other ways even if I was still on that plateau. And, because everything else is moving forward, I have no choice but to follow by climbing down from that plateau to cheerier possibilities. The key for me is Time, Structure and Balance.
While writing the novel, I learned that I was able to take the zillions of ideas and swirling thoughts inside my own head and condense/collapse them into a story. Even more amazing, I was able to do that in a specific, demanding time frame. This is huge for me (and probably for others who participated). The number of stories/scenes/scenarios rolling around inside my head are probably countless, but I've learned they are useless up there in my skull. The real trick is to get it down on paper/computer where you can actually do something with it if you choose.
And I was able to do all of this noveling while standing on the plateau of my own despair getting the crap kicked of myself by my own persistent brokenhearted feelings. Sure, it was time to move on, and has been for quite some time, but that didn't stop me from continually torturing myself in this way.
I learned that even in my darkest, most self-indulgent times I could move forward in other ways even if I was still on that plateau. And, because everything else is moving forward, I have no choice but to follow by climbing down from that plateau to cheerier possibilities. The key for me is Time, Structure and Balance.
- Time - I've started scheduling my activities into specific time slots. This came directly out of learning to figure out when I was going to work on my novel in such a way as to meet that 11/30/06 deadline. While this seems confining, especially since I like some degree of spontaneity, I find it liberating because it allows me to focus on what I'm doing in the moment. One of my problems is I don't have a good sense for how long it takes me to do things in my personal life. I tend to over-schedule or not schedule at all. Scheduling in this manner really helps me.
- Structure - I started setting goals and mapping out the steps to accomplish them (also the result of writing a novel in a month). I've done this many times in the past, but never made it past the planning stages. Slipping goal-related tasks into time slots along with everything else seems like a natural next step.
- Balance - I need Balance like a fish (or turtle) needs water. I'm learning that internal vs. external, active vs. passive, open vs. closed, etc. is crucial to my feelings of contentment. If I start spending too much time doing something/not doing something then it's time to focus on the other side of things.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
The Song That Keeps Following Me Around
"Miss Turtle."
"Miss Turtle."
I can hear Mr. Gryphon talking to me, but I can't respond to him. I'm standing in the concrete BART station at Glen Park. It's Friday night and I'm leaning up against a pillar. Trains going to the airport keep pulling up and departing, causing the wind from the tunnel to whoosh around me. Trains going back downtown are not coming any time soon and that's where I need to go. I missed my station because I so upset. I'm sending an email message. Another futile one. Tears stream down my face. People are walking by. I know they are glancing uneasily at me. I'm not sobbing, but my tears are unmistakable. I refuse to look up at them.
I turn away from Mr. Gryphon so I can focus on finishing my email message. I finally do and another train to SFO pulls up. I briefly think of that line from Casablanca. Something about "a man with a comical look on his face standing on the train platform looking like his teeth has been kicked in." Too bad I'm not wearing a putty colored trenchcoat and black fedora. Both look good on me.
The side of the train platform going towards downtown fills up. More people steal glances at me. I focus on the far wall. A dirty stone wall with sharp, mottled tiles. I glance up at the ceiling. The concrete beams seem to be decorated with worn out striped fabric. Very odd, early 70s.
I continually wipe my eyes. The tears have settled on my fingertips like drew drops clinging to a half-closed rose petal. Salt from my tears is starting to dry on my face. Perhaps if I cry enough, the salt will eventually form crystals on my lashes. I hear Mr. Gryphon behind me, but still ignore him.
"Miss Turtle." Mr. Gryphon comes around the other side of the pillar. I don't talk, just cry some more. He hands me one of his handkerchiefs. I really need one. The skin on my face feels tight. I once read that tears release some kind of toxin in your system. I'm not sure what good a toxin would be on my skin, but it doesn't matter I guess.
I'm finally able to talk a little, "Why am I so stupid? Why do I do these things?"
"I can't answer that. I can tell you the decor in this place is really bad. Are we going to wander the airport like accusing ghosts or go back downtown?" he asks. He is looking down at me, arms folded. People move around him, having conversations about co-workers and television shows.
"We're definitely going back downtown." I wipe my eyes some more. They keep streaming like I'd been hit with the white billowing clouds of tear gas.
He nods and leans on the pillar with me. I hear a song starting. One with the following lyrics:
"Does life seem nasty, brutish and short
Come on up to the house
The seas are stormy
And you can't find no port
Come on up to the house
(Chorus)
There's nothin in the world
that you can do
You gotta come on up to the house
And you been whipped by the forces
that are inside you
Come on up to the house
Well you're high on top
of your mountain of woe
Come on up to the house
Well you know you should surrender
but you can't let go
You gotta come on up to the house"
(Tom Waits, Come On Up to the House, Mule Variations (1999)
"Are you playing that, Mr. Gryphon?"
"No. I noticed it keeps following you around, though," he says. I smile a little. He's smart enough not to say the next thing and I'm grateful for it.
"I don't know where the damn house is so how can I surrender and go on up there?" I look up at the black BART sign with flashing red letters. It tells me that the train going downtown will show up in 4 minutes.
"You're asking me where it is?" he fluffs his feathers much like how the penguins do when they want to relax.
"No, I'm not. Perhaps we should hang out at the Casino tonight."
"Not a good idea. There's a brawl that's been going on there for the last two weeks."
"I guess we should go home then, Mr. Gryphon," I sigh. I really don't know what else to do. "Why does this shit take so much time? Why do I have to learn to be patient with my bombed out feelings? Why can't I just turn them off?"
"The price you pay for that kind of behavior can be problematic," says Mr. Gryphon. I look up at him. "It's not in your nature to turn off your feelings. You are not a faucet and wishing you were one is a waste of time. Wishing you were anything other than what you are or wishing you'd done something differently is also a waste of time."
"I hate this whole thing, Mr. Gryphon."
"I know you do,"he says. His tone reminds me of someone and I wince.
The train is coming now and everyone moves towards the platform. Before we join the boarding crowd, I turn and look at him again, "I know what to do now, Mr. Gryphon. I really do."
"Then do it," he says. He has to bend down and pull his wings in tightly to get on the train. We manage to find two seats together. We do not speak again for the rest of the night. I am too busy trying to figure out the how of what needs to happen next.
"Miss Turtle."
I can hear Mr. Gryphon talking to me, but I can't respond to him. I'm standing in the concrete BART station at Glen Park. It's Friday night and I'm leaning up against a pillar. Trains going to the airport keep pulling up and departing, causing the wind from the tunnel to whoosh around me. Trains going back downtown are not coming any time soon and that's where I need to go. I missed my station because I so upset. I'm sending an email message. Another futile one. Tears stream down my face. People are walking by. I know they are glancing uneasily at me. I'm not sobbing, but my tears are unmistakable. I refuse to look up at them.
I turn away from Mr. Gryphon so I can focus on finishing my email message. I finally do and another train to SFO pulls up. I briefly think of that line from Casablanca. Something about "a man with a comical look on his face standing on the train platform looking like his teeth has been kicked in." Too bad I'm not wearing a putty colored trenchcoat and black fedora. Both look good on me.
The side of the train platform going towards downtown fills up. More people steal glances at me. I focus on the far wall. A dirty stone wall with sharp, mottled tiles. I glance up at the ceiling. The concrete beams seem to be decorated with worn out striped fabric. Very odd, early 70s.
I continually wipe my eyes. The tears have settled on my fingertips like drew drops clinging to a half-closed rose petal. Salt from my tears is starting to dry on my face. Perhaps if I cry enough, the salt will eventually form crystals on my lashes. I hear Mr. Gryphon behind me, but still ignore him.
"Miss Turtle." Mr. Gryphon comes around the other side of the pillar. I don't talk, just cry some more. He hands me one of his handkerchiefs. I really need one. The skin on my face feels tight. I once read that tears release some kind of toxin in your system. I'm not sure what good a toxin would be on my skin, but it doesn't matter I guess.
I'm finally able to talk a little, "Why am I so stupid? Why do I do these things?"
"I can't answer that. I can tell you the decor in this place is really bad. Are we going to wander the airport like accusing ghosts or go back downtown?" he asks. He is looking down at me, arms folded. People move around him, having conversations about co-workers and television shows.
"We're definitely going back downtown." I wipe my eyes some more. They keep streaming like I'd been hit with the white billowing clouds of tear gas.
He nods and leans on the pillar with me. I hear a song starting. One with the following lyrics:
"Does life seem nasty, brutish and short
Come on up to the house
The seas are stormy
And you can't find no port
Come on up to the house
(Chorus)
There's nothin in the world
that you can do
You gotta come on up to the house
And you been whipped by the forces
that are inside you
Come on up to the house
Well you're high on top
of your mountain of woe
Come on up to the house
Well you know you should surrender
but you can't let go
You gotta come on up to the house"
(Tom Waits, Come On Up to the House, Mule Variations (1999)
"Are you playing that, Mr. Gryphon?"
"No. I noticed it keeps following you around, though," he says. I smile a little. He's smart enough not to say the next thing and I'm grateful for it.
"I don't know where the damn house is so how can I surrender and go on up there?" I look up at the black BART sign with flashing red letters. It tells me that the train going downtown will show up in 4 minutes.
"You're asking me where it is?" he fluffs his feathers much like how the penguins do when they want to relax.
"No, I'm not. Perhaps we should hang out at the Casino tonight."
"Not a good idea. There's a brawl that's been going on there for the last two weeks."
"I guess we should go home then, Mr. Gryphon," I sigh. I really don't know what else to do. "Why does this shit take so much time? Why do I have to learn to be patient with my bombed out feelings? Why can't I just turn them off?"
"The price you pay for that kind of behavior can be problematic," says Mr. Gryphon. I look up at him. "It's not in your nature to turn off your feelings. You are not a faucet and wishing you were one is a waste of time. Wishing you were anything other than what you are or wishing you'd done something differently is also a waste of time."
"I hate this whole thing, Mr. Gryphon."
"I know you do,"he says. His tone reminds me of someone and I wince.
The train is coming now and everyone moves towards the platform. Before we join the boarding crowd, I turn and look at him again, "I know what to do now, Mr. Gryphon. I really do."
"Then do it," he says. He has to bend down and pull his wings in tightly to get on the train. We manage to find two seats together. We do not speak again for the rest of the night. I am too busy trying to figure out the how of what needs to happen next.
Friday, December 01, 2006
O-ZO-MATLI! Ya Se Fue! Ya Se Fue!
Ozo playing in the middle of the audience. We were all sitting on our knees around them.
Ozo playing on the very narrow stairs in the lobby of The Fillmore.
Years ago when Ozo came out with their first self-titled CD, I stumbled on it in the Hear store at Stanford Mall in Palo Alto, CA. I was working in Palo Alto at the time and had started going to the Hear store after work to listen to CDs. It was the only store I had been in at the time where you could wander from display to display listening to whatever CD was on the headphones. Curious about the CD display card's "kitchen sink" description, I gave Ozo a listen.
...
Things haven't been quite the same for me since. I had never heard such a band before. 10 guys from East LA who play a combination of hip-hop, salsa, and funk, all with a Latin music undercurrent. I bought the CD and listened to it over and over. When Ozo came out with Embrace the Chaos, I bought that too.
I only have the first two CDs, but I'm going to remedy that situation tomorrow evening after I hang out with the penguins. One thing I love about this band is the sound is very nostalgic for me. Since I'm half Mexican, that Latin undercurrent/Mariachi sound reminds me dearly of my grandfather, who used to play the guitar for me, and of my childhood.
I had never seen Ozo live until last night although I figured they must play a monster live show. I was right. Late last month when I was feeling like the broken hearted loser completely incapable of ever finding someone who will actually care about me (okay, so I'll admit it's over a month later and I still feel that way much of time, but I'm getting over it - very slowly), I decided that I needed to have some kind of fun so I bought my single Ozo ticket.
Yes, I went to a concert alone for the first time. I was too upset to go through the sometimes humiliating process of trying to find someone to go with me. I don't know anyone who's even heard of Ozo except one person and he doesn't want to have anything to do with me.
Last night I had my doubts. I've been to The Fillmore before to see the Stay Cats (what a fucking monster show that was!), but that was a long time ago and I was worried about it. I also thought that going to a concert alone would be like going on a roller coaster alone: somewhat fun, but a curiously empty experience when you don't have someone else there to scream with.
I went anyway. Thank God.
I've seen a few shows in my life and THAT WAS THE BEST FUCKING SHOW I'VE EVER SEEN! They were unbelievable! I danced for so long and so hard that I must have lost five pounds from slamming my ass around and sweating buckets. My neck, hips and back were so stiff when I left The Fillmore and walked out elated into the cold San Francisco night that I had to take a muscle relaxer when I went to bed. I lost my voice because I sang to all the songs I knew, all the songs in Spanish (even though I don't speak Spanish and most certainly had them wrong) and even sang to the songs I'd never heard before. I lost my voice because I screamed my head off.
Carlos Santana was in house but he didn't play. They were very proud of that and kept mentioning it. Chali 2na was in the house (he was on the first album) and they played one of my all time favorite Ozo songs the Cut Chemist Suite. We were in the house and the walls were burning and sweating.
Did I miss having someone there with me? Not really. It would have been nice, but it didn't detract from what will probably rank as one of the top three shows I've ever seen in my life when I look back as I'm laying on my deathbed.
Ozo is playing tonight and tomorrow too. I thought about going again, but I'm still really muscle sore. We'll see. I may decide to chuck everything and go see them tomorrow too.
***
I have learned the hard way that it does help, no matter how deep your grief is or how much you just want to curl up into a ball and die, to fill your life with glorious experiences like seeing the best concert of your life or writing a novel in a month. It doesn't make the pain go away, but it does prove that you can make your life better and you do have the power to make great things happen even when all seems lost.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
The Casino
Today I wandered through the Casino of my torched love life. It's still there, some parts of the building are black with soot, but everyone just stays on the side that's still good. It's warm outside this evening (it's always evening) so the sheared off parts of the building don't bother anyone.
It's crowded here, but not because I've had a lot of lovers. It's crowded because the angels and demons of my psyche like to come here for recreational purposes. You do know that they like to gamble, don't you? I often wonder why they don't repair the place, but I realized they don't care at all. So much for divine intervention.
Various characters and monsters also show up. On Thursday nights, everyone gets a real 100% bonus so the place is packed. Sometimes it looks like the occupants of the Cantina scene were transported here (there is no Han Solo even though I've wished for it often enough).
The Casino looks like the Bellagio or some facsimile of it complete with fake Chihuly flowers. All day and all night the tables go on. The sounds of video poker, slot machines sounding everywhere. Bells and whistles. There are cushion chairs that look like overstuffed tomatoes (reference to E.M. Forester), the people who work there are running two and fro. They all know me and nod, but no one smiles.
A brawl breaks out approximately every hour on the hour. For some reason, angels and demons get petty hotheaded while they're gambling. The fights can go on for hundreds of years which is why security's first priority is to get them out of the building as soon as possible. Every once in a while there's a full scale fight that half the Casino takes part in. The tables are smashed, chips fly everywhere, holes are punched in the walls, the sound of unearthly screams and shouts are everywhere. We've learned that it's best to move to the other side of the building (the side that isn't fighting) and wait it out. The last one lasted about a week. Group fights are always shorter. Afterwards, everyone apologizes profusely and they clean up the place. I figure when they finally brawl on the side of the building that's burned out, it will finally get repaired.
Big gaudy flower displays, lots of overpriced restaurants and, of course, the wedding chapel. I try to stay as far away from that place as possible. There's even huge Ferrari dealership, the largest ever seen by human eyes (several floors). I never get to drive them or even ride in the cars. Too expensive. At least there's a world class art museum, but I'm the only one who visits.
I don't know how to gamble. I'm too shy to try my luck at the tables. Hell, I'm even too shy to try to learn how to play. The employees always ask me if I want a lesson or two. I shake my head, saying nothing.
On the other side of the building, I see Mr. Gryphon in the poker room. He's a little difficult to spot since everyone in there is immortal and sporting feathery or scaly wings. He's a great poker player, has offered to teach me several times, but I always decline. I've always been bad at bluffing.
Tonight with the sounds of the games playing on, I decide to stop and sit on the floor in the middle of the wide thoroughfare. Everyone steps politely around me. It's my place, after all.
It's crowded here, but not because I've had a lot of lovers. It's crowded because the angels and demons of my psyche like to come here for recreational purposes. You do know that they like to gamble, don't you? I often wonder why they don't repair the place, but I realized they don't care at all. So much for divine intervention.
Various characters and monsters also show up. On Thursday nights, everyone gets a real 100% bonus so the place is packed. Sometimes it looks like the occupants of the Cantina scene were transported here (there is no Han Solo even though I've wished for it often enough).
The Casino looks like the Bellagio or some facsimile of it complete with fake Chihuly flowers. All day and all night the tables go on. The sounds of video poker, slot machines sounding everywhere. Bells and whistles. There are cushion chairs that look like overstuffed tomatoes (reference to E.M. Forester), the people who work there are running two and fro. They all know me and nod, but no one smiles.
A brawl breaks out approximately every hour on the hour. For some reason, angels and demons get petty hotheaded while they're gambling. The fights can go on for hundreds of years which is why security's first priority is to get them out of the building as soon as possible. Every once in a while there's a full scale fight that half the Casino takes part in. The tables are smashed, chips fly everywhere, holes are punched in the walls, the sound of unearthly screams and shouts are everywhere. We've learned that it's best to move to the other side of the building (the side that isn't fighting) and wait it out. The last one lasted about a week. Group fights are always shorter. Afterwards, everyone apologizes profusely and they clean up the place. I figure when they finally brawl on the side of the building that's burned out, it will finally get repaired.
Big gaudy flower displays, lots of overpriced restaurants and, of course, the wedding chapel. I try to stay as far away from that place as possible. There's even huge Ferrari dealership, the largest ever seen by human eyes (several floors). I never get to drive them or even ride in the cars. Too expensive. At least there's a world class art museum, but I'm the only one who visits.
I don't know how to gamble. I'm too shy to try my luck at the tables. Hell, I'm even too shy to try to learn how to play. The employees always ask me if I want a lesson or two. I shake my head, saying nothing.
On the other side of the building, I see Mr. Gryphon in the poker room. He's a little difficult to spot since everyone in there is immortal and sporting feathery or scaly wings. He's a great poker player, has offered to teach me several times, but I always decline. I've always been bad at bluffing.
Tonight with the sounds of the games playing on, I decide to stop and sit on the floor in the middle of the wide thoroughfare. Everyone steps politely around me. It's my place, after all.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
NaNoWriMo Update: 50,179 Words!!!!!
I'M THE GREATEST!!!! I SHOOK THE WORLD!!!!! I SHOOK THE WORLD!!!! I'M A BAAAAAAAAD [WO]MAN!!!!! I'M THE GREATEST!!!! I SHOOK THE WORLD!!!!!
(with apologizes to Mr. Ali)
Yes, Dear Reader, I officially crossed the NaNoWriMo finish line. I can run around my apartment shouting and dancing my jigs, but it does feel a little lonely because there's only me and my dog. It's a bit late to start making phone calls so I can't do my Ali imitation over the phone right now.
Still, I was working so hard at getting to the right word count that I didn't realize what I achieved until after I scrambled my novel (all 147 pages of it) and prepared to have it word counted at the official NaNoWriMo website. As I browsed for the "Final Lament Scramble.txt" I felt a faint glow which grew brighter and brighter. When I got the web page that said "WINNER!" I almost couldn't believe it. Then I started to giggle. And then laugh. And then belly laugh.
My only wish is for a significant other to share this victory with. Oh well. Perhaps I'll get my wish next year when I do this all over again.
Tomorrow I'm sending out a huge email detailing my victory and then me and my friends are going out and CELEBRATING!!!
(with apologizes to Mr. Ali)
Yes, Dear Reader, I officially crossed the NaNoWriMo finish line. I can run around my apartment shouting and dancing my jigs, but it does feel a little lonely because there's only me and my dog. It's a bit late to start making phone calls so I can't do my Ali imitation over the phone right now.
Still, I was working so hard at getting to the right word count that I didn't realize what I achieved until after I scrambled my novel (all 147 pages of it) and prepared to have it word counted at the official NaNoWriMo website. As I browsed for the "Final Lament Scramble.txt" I felt a faint glow which grew brighter and brighter. When I got the web page that said "WINNER!" I almost couldn't believe it. Then I started to giggle. And then laugh. And then belly laugh.
My only wish is for a significant other to share this victory with. Oh well. Perhaps I'll get my wish next year when I do this all over again.
Tomorrow I'm sending out a huge email detailing my victory and then me and my friends are going out and CELEBRATING!!!
NaNoWriMo Update: 42,648 Words So Far
So they put up their automatic word counter over at the NaNoWriMo website and since they mentioned that word counters can differ from one another, I decided to scramble my novel according to their instructions and submit it to the word counter just to see far off it is from my counter in Word.
The very good news: Yes, folks, Miss Turtle has officially gained 2,641 words without doing any more work this evening. That's almost 10 pages of writing. Amazing!
The bad news: I fear when I reach 50,000 words, my novel will not have the obligatory "The End" written at words 49,998 and 49,999 and I'll have to continue to do some writing after November 29th until the first draft is finished.
I guess I'll just have to start writing leaner and meaner so everything ends at 50,000 words or thereabouts. How I'm going to do that, I don't know. Like everything, I'm going to have to figure it out.
The very good news: Yes, folks, Miss Turtle has officially gained 2,641 words without doing any more work this evening. That's almost 10 pages of writing. Amazing!
The bad news: I fear when I reach 50,000 words, my novel will not have the obligatory "The End" written at words 49,998 and 49,999 and I'll have to continue to do some writing after November 29th until the first draft is finished.
I guess I'll just have to start writing leaner and meaner so everything ends at 50,000 words or thereabouts. How I'm going to do that, I don't know. Like everything, I'm going to have to figure it out.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
NaNoWriMo Update: 40,007 Words so Far
Yes, I'm going to reach my goal of 50,000 words by November 29, 2006. Why by November 29th and not November 30th? Because I'm going to a concert on November 30th that's why.
Actually my hope is to finish the last 10,000 words tomorrow. Whew! I'm completely burned out from spending the entire evening writing that I don't know if I can handle writing all day tomorrow, but we'll see. We'll see.
I'm babbling, I know. Sorry about that. I'll be doing "real" posts as soon as I finish this 50,000 word monster. I've got a backlog of posts to do for this blog, but I don't have the strength or mental capacity for it since I've been doing NaNoWriMo. I can't even update the 5-7-5 space.
More later. It's time to for bed.
Oh and I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving.
Actually my hope is to finish the last 10,000 words tomorrow. Whew! I'm completely burned out from spending the entire evening writing that I don't know if I can handle writing all day tomorrow, but we'll see. We'll see.
I'm babbling, I know. Sorry about that. I'll be doing "real" posts as soon as I finish this 50,000 word monster. I've got a backlog of posts to do for this blog, but I don't have the strength or mental capacity for it since I've been doing NaNoWriMo. I can't even update the 5-7-5 space.
More later. It's time to for bed.
Oh and I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
NaNoWriMo Update: 20,112 Words
I had hoped to make it to 25,000 words today, but doubling my word count is still good progress. Total number of pages written is 63.
Once again, I spent all day writing. I was having a tough time of it. I kept getting distracted by the charms of Wikipedia, figuring out what to eat, trying to decide if I should look for more classical music CDs, pondering the history of drug use in the 19th century, and I kept reading plot spoilers for movies (most notably Saw II and Saw III).
My story still wants to write itself with very little conscious input from me. I was trying to decide how to I was going to introduce several important elements, but while I was trying to figure it out, I found I had already written said elements down without paying much attention to what I was putting down.
The plot still has holes and lacks some fundamental character development, but I've made notes of all that and will take care of those flaws when I do the re-write.
I'm very tired. It's almost midnight again and I have to walk the dog before I go to bed. I hope to have 5,000 more words by Wednesday, but I won't be surprised if I decide to take Monday and Tuesday off again.
Once again, I spent all day writing. I was having a tough time of it. I kept getting distracted by the charms of Wikipedia, figuring out what to eat, trying to decide if I should look for more classical music CDs, pondering the history of drug use in the 19th century, and I kept reading plot spoilers for movies (most notably Saw II and Saw III).
My story still wants to write itself with very little conscious input from me. I was trying to decide how to I was going to introduce several important elements, but while I was trying to figure it out, I found I had already written said elements down without paying much attention to what I was putting down.
The plot still has holes and lacks some fundamental character development, but I've made notes of all that and will take care of those flaws when I do the re-write.
I'm very tired. It's almost midnight again and I have to walk the dog before I go to bed. I hope to have 5,000 more words by Wednesday, but I won't be surprised if I decide to take Monday and Tuesday off again.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
The Picnic Table
"Miss Turtle, you're supposed to be writing your novel, not sitting here with me."
"I know, but I've missed you. It's been forever since you've made an appearance on this blog," I say. Gryphon and I are sitting at our picnic table. In the forest paradise of my own psyche, the picnic table is a place where we meet often. There's a plastic red and white checkered tablecloth, fine cheeses from Cowgirl Creamery, upscale crackers I've never heard of (forget Saltines and Ritz), some fresh grapes, stuffed marinated olives, truffle pate and some pears. The usual beverage accompaniment would be a soft white wine or a medium red, but since neither Gryphon or I hardly drink alcohol, there's Martinelli's.
I pick up a stuffed olive and bite into it. Yum. "I was just thinking that when NaNoWriMo is over, perhaps I'll start up The White City again" (a blog I started for about week which featured Mr. Gryphon and I in adventures).
"That would be fun, Miss Turtle, but we have regular adventures already," he says. He is picking up an upscale soda cracker and delicately spreading a very soft brie on it. The forest is life affirming. Everywhere the trees are lush and sustaining.
"Well, yes, of course we do, but those are personal adventures that I can't really share with anyone," I take a sip from the flute of apple cider, "Don't you get tired of being my protector and savior during my nightmares?"
"Never. I welcome it. I don't like dying, by the way. I just wanted to tell you that," Gryphon suddenly looks up through the trees. His wings open just slightly, the tips of his claws just show. I look at what is making him uneasy. It's only the T-Rex crashing through the trees. I wave him over, but he only smiles his killer smile and waves back before moving on.
"Mr. Gryphon, you might not like dying, but you only had to die once. I died at least two times before being scattered as part of the Universe."
"That sounds painful," said Grphyon. He is completely unconcerned.
"It wasn't. It was wonderful, in fact."
"I know," I wince a little at that. The way he says it reminds me of someone. This makes me think of something. "Mr. Gryphon, aren't you at all curious about who you're based on? Don't you want to know?"
"Not really. Does it matter? Besides, I get the feeling I might have started out based on someone, but I think I'm different now," he says. He stretches his long legs out under the table. There is a life-changing warm breeze. The kind of breeze that makes you want to weep with joy.
"You're different, but some of you is the same. I think I've taken the aspects I needed for a companion like you and kept them with me."
Gryphon smiles at me. He yawns. "I'm feeling very relaxed, Miss Turtle. Thank you for joining me here."
"You're welcome," I reply. As he turns to pick up a bunch of grapes, I look at him longingly. "I love you," I say so softly that he doesn't hear. But it's not him I'm telling that to, it's someone else. Perhaps this is my way of finally moving on. I thought I lost everything, but I still have my dearest Gryphon, my dreams and wishes, (painful) personal growth, this blog and the belief that love is (still) everything.
A trio of frogs dressed in tuxedos come around the bend. They are carrying their musical instruments and take a moment to set up. We watch them in silence, eating and drinking. The forest is awash with colors from a Van Gogh painting, all brights and yellows. The frogs start to play Mozart, of course. I look at Gryphon and smile. The forest is alive with birdsong to enhance the musical experience.
Things have changed, yes, but I have no doubt that all the questions rolling around in my head will be answered sooner rather than later.
"I know, but I've missed you. It's been forever since you've made an appearance on this blog," I say. Gryphon and I are sitting at our picnic table. In the forest paradise of my own psyche, the picnic table is a place where we meet often. There's a plastic red and white checkered tablecloth, fine cheeses from Cowgirl Creamery, upscale crackers I've never heard of (forget Saltines and Ritz), some fresh grapes, stuffed marinated olives, truffle pate and some pears. The usual beverage accompaniment would be a soft white wine or a medium red, but since neither Gryphon or I hardly drink alcohol, there's Martinelli's.
I pick up a stuffed olive and bite into it. Yum. "I was just thinking that when NaNoWriMo is over, perhaps I'll start up The White City again" (a blog I started for about week which featured Mr. Gryphon and I in adventures).
"That would be fun, Miss Turtle, but we have regular adventures already," he says. He is picking up an upscale soda cracker and delicately spreading a very soft brie on it. The forest is life affirming. Everywhere the trees are lush and sustaining.
"Well, yes, of course we do, but those are personal adventures that I can't really share with anyone," I take a sip from the flute of apple cider, "Don't you get tired of being my protector and savior during my nightmares?"
"Never. I welcome it. I don't like dying, by the way. I just wanted to tell you that," Gryphon suddenly looks up through the trees. His wings open just slightly, the tips of his claws just show. I look at what is making him uneasy. It's only the T-Rex crashing through the trees. I wave him over, but he only smiles his killer smile and waves back before moving on.
"Mr. Gryphon, you might not like dying, but you only had to die once. I died at least two times before being scattered as part of the Universe."
"That sounds painful," said Grphyon. He is completely unconcerned.
"It wasn't. It was wonderful, in fact."
"I know," I wince a little at that. The way he says it reminds me of someone. This makes me think of something. "Mr. Gryphon, aren't you at all curious about who you're based on? Don't you want to know?"
"Not really. Does it matter? Besides, I get the feeling I might have started out based on someone, but I think I'm different now," he says. He stretches his long legs out under the table. There is a life-changing warm breeze. The kind of breeze that makes you want to weep with joy.
"You're different, but some of you is the same. I think I've taken the aspects I needed for a companion like you and kept them with me."
Gryphon smiles at me. He yawns. "I'm feeling very relaxed, Miss Turtle. Thank you for joining me here."
"You're welcome," I reply. As he turns to pick up a bunch of grapes, I look at him longingly. "I love you," I say so softly that he doesn't hear. But it's not him I'm telling that to, it's someone else. Perhaps this is my way of finally moving on. I thought I lost everything, but I still have my dearest Gryphon, my dreams and wishes, (painful) personal growth, this blog and the belief that love is (still) everything.
A trio of frogs dressed in tuxedos come around the bend. They are carrying their musical instruments and take a moment to set up. We watch them in silence, eating and drinking. The forest is awash with colors from a Van Gogh painting, all brights and yellows. The frogs start to play Mozart, of course. I look at Gryphon and smile. The forest is alive with birdsong to enhance the musical experience.
Things have changed, yes, but I have no doubt that all the questions rolling around in my head will be answered sooner rather than later.
The Coffee Table, Tiny Fry and Mindfulness
It's hard to think of three beautiful things right now. There are many, but my state of mind doesn't want to go look for them. I scratch and dig anyway. It's good to challenge your sadness and lethargy.
1) The Coffee Table - Biologist #1 at the Aquarium found and placed a coffee table in the middle of a four-cubicle space. We talked about it, discussed board games that we can put underneath it, talked about the flowers Biologist #4 had put on top of it, Biologist #6 said he would bring in a carpet (it's sitting on bare concrete right now) and we ate our lunch around it. Biologist #1 outdid himself even more by setting up his self-spinning disco ball above it.
2) Tiny Fry - Since we'll be moving into the new aquarium in the process of being built, biologists have been setting up temporary holding areas in any place they can. The temporary space we're in is very small. Tanks are everywhere, especially in the basement. The "Holding Room" has new racks of fresh and salt water tanks. We've been lucky to hatch out many tiny fry (baby fish so small that sometimes it's hard to see them) and many of them are growing up healthy in large numbers. Good thing because we're going to need them all.
3) Mindfulness - I spent time practicing mindfulness today and I was amazed at how beautiful the world is. This prompted me to start conversations with people I wouldn't have normally tried to talk to: families lost in Union Square, couples on MUNI, men and women. From the polished worn out door to the elevator in my building to how it feels to slowly pet my dog while sitting on the floor with my eyes closed to watching the bus lights flash and shadow on black asphalt, I felt like the world was open to me somehow and thinking about revealing its secrets.
1) The Coffee Table - Biologist #1 at the Aquarium found and placed a coffee table in the middle of a four-cubicle space. We talked about it, discussed board games that we can put underneath it, talked about the flowers Biologist #4 had put on top of it, Biologist #6 said he would bring in a carpet (it's sitting on bare concrete right now) and we ate our lunch around it. Biologist #1 outdid himself even more by setting up his self-spinning disco ball above it.
2) Tiny Fry - Since we'll be moving into the new aquarium in the process of being built, biologists have been setting up temporary holding areas in any place they can. The temporary space we're in is very small. Tanks are everywhere, especially in the basement. The "Holding Room" has new racks of fresh and salt water tanks. We've been lucky to hatch out many tiny fry (baby fish so small that sometimes it's hard to see them) and many of them are growing up healthy in large numbers. Good thing because we're going to need them all.
3) Mindfulness - I spent time practicing mindfulness today and I was amazed at how beautiful the world is. This prompted me to start conversations with people I wouldn't have normally tried to talk to: families lost in Union Square, couples on MUNI, men and women. From the polished worn out door to the elevator in my building to how it feels to slowly pet my dog while sitting on the floor with my eyes closed to watching the bus lights flash and shadow on black asphalt, I felt like the world was open to me somehow and thinking about revealing its secrets.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
NaNoWriMo Update: Total No. of Words - 12,697
That's a total of 40 pages so far.
This week has been tough. I've been stomping my feet and talking about how my novel is crap. Last week's disappointment keeps showing up and getting in my face (I'm alternating between anger and lots of pain). Work has become politically annoying.
Today I got home and felt like throwing things around. A writer needs a notebook or something to take quick notes on and even though I have a basket full of mostly blank books I was incapable of making a decision as to which notebook to use. I started to cry from the frustration, but boiled some water for tea and decided to go back to my old habit of taking notes on three-by-five cards. Problem solved.
According to "No Plot, No Problem," the NaNoWriMo website and the emails I keep getting from these folks, feeling like your novel is crap during week two is very common. It's also common to feel like your story has no focus and that your characters are as two dimensional as cardboard. And I guess most people quit during week two.
I finally sat my butt down on the chair with some fresh tea and opened my novel. I started out by reading it, you're not supposed to read it because it will only depress you, but I did anyway. Then I began filling in some back story and fleshed out some of the scenes which adds to the word count. As I read it, it didn't seem all that terrible. What seems pedestrian turned out to be a skeletal draft: the crucial bones are there, but the possibilities are endless.
I picked up at the end and wrote on. The story unfolded easily, almost languidly. I was surprised at the turn of the events even if the basic outline of the story is known to me. Things are starting to come together.
I'm feeling all right. Good even. Even in my pain and loneliness, I was able to crank out over 2,500 words tonight and none of those words were filler. The story actually moved along and now there's some real character development happening. Best of all, I don't really know how this is going to end. I'm looking forward to seeing what happens next.
This week has been tough. I've been stomping my feet and talking about how my novel is crap. Last week's disappointment keeps showing up and getting in my face (I'm alternating between anger and lots of pain). Work has become politically annoying.
Today I got home and felt like throwing things around. A writer needs a notebook or something to take quick notes on and even though I have a basket full of mostly blank books I was incapable of making a decision as to which notebook to use. I started to cry from the frustration, but boiled some water for tea and decided to go back to my old habit of taking notes on three-by-five cards. Problem solved.
According to "No Plot, No Problem," the NaNoWriMo website and the emails I keep getting from these folks, feeling like your novel is crap during week two is very common. It's also common to feel like your story has no focus and that your characters are as two dimensional as cardboard. And I guess most people quit during week two.
I finally sat my butt down on the chair with some fresh tea and opened my novel. I started out by reading it, you're not supposed to read it because it will only depress you, but I did anyway. Then I began filling in some back story and fleshed out some of the scenes which adds to the word count. As I read it, it didn't seem all that terrible. What seems pedestrian turned out to be a skeletal draft: the crucial bones are there, but the possibilities are endless.
I picked up at the end and wrote on. The story unfolded easily, almost languidly. I was surprised at the turn of the events even if the basic outline of the story is known to me. Things are starting to come together.
I'm feeling all right. Good even. Even in my pain and loneliness, I was able to crank out over 2,500 words tonight and none of those words were filler. The story actually moved along and now there's some real character development happening. Best of all, I don't really know how this is going to end. I'm looking forward to seeing what happens next.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
NaNoWriMo Update: Total No. of Words - 10,004
I've made some progress, thank goodness. Today I wrote a total of 23.5 pages. There are many things to blog about, but since I spent the entire day writing it's going to have to wait. The target for the first week is 11,669 words. I'm hoping to surpass that tomorrow and Tuesday so I'll have a built in buffer if the going gets tough during weeks 3 and 4.
Since my Palm and Mac are finally talking to each other, I'm planning on attending some of the many writing gatherings that are going on here in SF next week.
The more I thought about the previous excerpt, the more mortified I felt, but then I decided that crappy posts of my first draft shouldn't deter me from posting more of them. What the hell. I gotta get some fruits from this labor, right?
***
Outside the snow was magical. Paul was feeling thankful about Stiggs and Annabelle, but bittersweet. He felt he would never find a wife of his own. He quickly put those thoughts out of his head since they made him sad.
Ahead of him, Kasper walked lightly on the ground. They were climbing a slight rise that Paul knew would give them a nice overview of the gardens and the hedge maze. The wind blew gently around them sending the snowflakes into white swirls. They reached the top of the rise and looked out together. All over the garden were the quiet drifts of snow. Snow formed as clumps on the naked trees. The tops of the hedge maze were crowned with white. All around them were the gentle rolls hills of the estate and all the “rooms” each section of the garden represented (note to self: elaborate on the “rooms”). Just beyond the hedge maze, they could see the small bridge and frozen little river that Joseph had drowned in.
Paul glanced at Kasper who was blissfully unaware. He looked peaceful and happy. Paul watched the swirls of snow blanket Kasper’s curls and then looked out at the view once more.
Since my Palm and Mac are finally talking to each other, I'm planning on attending some of the many writing gatherings that are going on here in SF next week.
The more I thought about the previous excerpt, the more mortified I felt, but then I decided that crappy posts of my first draft shouldn't deter me from posting more of them. What the hell. I gotta get some fruits from this labor, right?
***
Outside the snow was magical. Paul was feeling thankful about Stiggs and Annabelle, but bittersweet. He felt he would never find a wife of his own. He quickly put those thoughts out of his head since they made him sad.
Ahead of him, Kasper walked lightly on the ground. They were climbing a slight rise that Paul knew would give them a nice overview of the gardens and the hedge maze. The wind blew gently around them sending the snowflakes into white swirls. They reached the top of the rise and looked out together. All over the garden were the quiet drifts of snow. Snow formed as clumps on the naked trees. The tops of the hedge maze were crowned with white. All around them were the gentle rolls hills of the estate and all the “rooms” each section of the garden represented (note to self: elaborate on the “rooms”). Just beyond the hedge maze, they could see the small bridge and frozen little river that Joseph had drowned in.
Paul glanced at Kasper who was blissfully unaware. He looked peaceful and happy. Paul watched the swirls of snow blanket Kasper’s curls and then looked out at the view once more.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
NaNoWriMo Update - Total No. Words Written: 2,500
There's a story in here about how I was thwarted at every turn from starting this novel, but I'm back and things are up and running again. I'll relay the story in the next day or two. I wasn't going to post an excerpt, but I posted one on the NaNoWriMo website and I'm surprised at how good it felt. Keep in mind this is a very first, rough, dump draft and is in dire need of editing. With that warning, here it is:
A Lament for KP (the title will change later)
“Hey! Hey!” both men heard a familiar voice. Joseph was running into the stable, out of breath.
“Where’ve you been, anyway?” asked Paul. He couldn’t help but smile for Joseph was grinning from ear to ear.
“I’ve been in the house. The main house, Paul, and I saw him,” he said grinning even wider.
“What?” Paul stopped smiling.
“I saw ‘em Paul. The mysterious boy, in the flesh. He caught a glimpse of me and smiled,” said Joseph, relishing the looks on their faces.
“You did not! You’re just bragging! You didn’t see him at all,” said Stiggs.
“What did he look like? How tall is he?” asked Paul. Earlier he had told himself he didn't really care about this guest. His lordship had many distinguished guests and this one was the same as the others.
“He’s about you’re height, Paul. Brownish curly hair, like mine. Blue, blue eyes. He’s a little fragile looking, but dressed very fine. He has big eyes,” Joseph folded his arms across his chest and smiled. He was very satisfied.
“Excuse me,” said a soft, cultured voice. All three young men turned to look. Joseph stared and then quickly bowed. Paul and Stiggs bowed too.
The young man, undoubtly the man Joseph saw, ignored their bows and walked towards them. Although Joseph had said the mysterious boy’s eyes were blue, they were unlike any blue he had ever seen. They were the color of the bluest sky in the summer, clear and open. His clothes were made of the finest materials, very ornate. Paul watched as the boy stepped thoughtlessly into the muddy parts of the stable, apparently not caring that his very fine shoes would be ruined.
“I want to see the horses,” the man said simply. He looked them expectantly.
“Of course, Sir. Of course you may see the horses. Would you like to see one in particular?” Stiggs took over since the stable was his domain. The young man linked his arm in Stiggs and led him down the stable. Stiggs stiffened and then relaxed. They stopped in front of Thunderbolt, his lordship’s prize horse. Paul watched Stiggs answer the young man’s questions. He slowly went back to brushing the mare in front of him. Joseph nodded to him and then went back to the main house.
Paul continued to work. He could hear Stiggs talking to the young man and he felt envious. He peeked at them. They had moved on to another horse, and were absorbed in conversation. Paul turned back to his work. A little later, he took another peek and this time the young man glanced at him. He and Stiggs were coming down the stable row, arms still locked. The young man had looked back at Paul in open curiosity. Paul started sweeping the mare’s stable when the young man stopped in front of him. He unlinked his arm from Stiggs’ and openly stared at Paul.
“Can I help you, Sir?” asked Paul. He glanced quickly at Stiggs. The young man did not reply, but continued to look at Paul. Paul stood steady and openly met his stare. He waited.
“What’s your name?”
“Paul Winslow, Sir.”
“My name is Kasper Hauser. Do you know who I am?”
A Lament for KP (the title will change later)
“Hey! Hey!” both men heard a familiar voice. Joseph was running into the stable, out of breath.
“Where’ve you been, anyway?” asked Paul. He couldn’t help but smile for Joseph was grinning from ear to ear.
“I’ve been in the house. The main house, Paul, and I saw him,” he said grinning even wider.
“What?” Paul stopped smiling.
“I saw ‘em Paul. The mysterious boy, in the flesh. He caught a glimpse of me and smiled,” said Joseph, relishing the looks on their faces.
“You did not! You’re just bragging! You didn’t see him at all,” said Stiggs.
“What did he look like? How tall is he?” asked Paul. Earlier he had told himself he didn't really care about this guest. His lordship had many distinguished guests and this one was the same as the others.
“He’s about you’re height, Paul. Brownish curly hair, like mine. Blue, blue eyes. He’s a little fragile looking, but dressed very fine. He has big eyes,” Joseph folded his arms across his chest and smiled. He was very satisfied.
“Excuse me,” said a soft, cultured voice. All three young men turned to look. Joseph stared and then quickly bowed. Paul and Stiggs bowed too.
The young man, undoubtly the man Joseph saw, ignored their bows and walked towards them. Although Joseph had said the mysterious boy’s eyes were blue, they were unlike any blue he had ever seen. They were the color of the bluest sky in the summer, clear and open. His clothes were made of the finest materials, very ornate. Paul watched as the boy stepped thoughtlessly into the muddy parts of the stable, apparently not caring that his very fine shoes would be ruined.
“I want to see the horses,” the man said simply. He looked them expectantly.
“Of course, Sir. Of course you may see the horses. Would you like to see one in particular?” Stiggs took over since the stable was his domain. The young man linked his arm in Stiggs and led him down the stable. Stiggs stiffened and then relaxed. They stopped in front of Thunderbolt, his lordship’s prize horse. Paul watched Stiggs answer the young man’s questions. He slowly went back to brushing the mare in front of him. Joseph nodded to him and then went back to the main house.
Paul continued to work. He could hear Stiggs talking to the young man and he felt envious. He peeked at them. They had moved on to another horse, and were absorbed in conversation. Paul turned back to his work. A little later, he took another peek and this time the young man glanced at him. He and Stiggs were coming down the stable row, arms still locked. The young man had looked back at Paul in open curiosity. Paul started sweeping the mare’s stable when the young man stopped in front of him. He unlinked his arm from Stiggs’ and openly stared at Paul.
“Can I help you, Sir?” asked Paul. He glanced quickly at Stiggs. The young man did not reply, but continued to look at Paul. Paul stood steady and openly met his stare. He waited.
“What’s your name?”
“Paul Winslow, Sir.”
“My name is Kasper Hauser. Do you know who I am?”
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