"Sometimes, the only way to get a good look at yourself is through someone else's eyes. If you're lucky, you'll like what you see."
JD on "Scrubs"
I consider myself very fortunate. I had the very good luck in my late teens to have someone snatch me up short and tell me that I was being hurtful without cause. The guy I had been seeing started avoiding me, so I had gone to one of his friends to find out what was up. That friend of his had the decency to sit me down and explain, in plain English, how callous and self-centered I had been. A wake-up call, but not done with vicious language. The impact of that conversation has had repercussions to this day. Although the damage was done with that relationship, I did resolve to be more mindful of others' feelings, to treat others the way I would like to be treated, to acknowledge that men are not the enemy. So, thank you, Mr. Miller, for that valuable lesson from your friend. I do hope you have many who love you.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
impact
I was just catching up on facebook, stopping by for quick visits to those who truly exist in MY world, posting little remarks hither and yon. Then I find myself in an actual conversation, repartee through postings, centered on the "nonsense life situations" which are repeated in our personal histories. I took the tack about memories of bad choices being replayed over and over in the cinema of my mind; the other countered that the reruns of successes past were usually the root of present mental hiccups. And I realized that the two of us were, perhaps, not quite talking about the same thing. Then, again, maybe we were both playing the game "what if", but on different planes?
With my game, I'm usually trying to forgive myself for errors in in the past. Not that I've ever run anyone over... or killed anyone... or left anyone with lasting physical scars from an encounter. I guess that's all good. But I know sometimes I'm not as ... sociable... as, perhaps, I should be. Sometimes, I get so wrapped up in my own little world, that I don't stay in touch with folks I hold dear as much as I should. It's an ongoing issue with me, one I've tried to counter since I was a teenager. And I have made great strides in that area. Before I joined the Navy, I only interacted with a handful of folks, outside of family. I was shy to the extreme... or maybe I just could not relate to the whole "girls versus boys" scene. Are we NOT equally human, made of the same flesh, the parts simply rearranged? Another topic for another day, I assure you.
My days as a sailor changed much of that introversion. I was finally out seeing the world and by golly, see it I would! And touch it and smell it and taste it, too! I even got started with theatre work; not on stage, but behind the scenes, and integral component deep in the mix, but not seen except by those also in the mix. Lights, sound, props, wardrobe, whatever needed doing for those who would be SEEN trodding the floorboards. And although I had a grand social life, I also had a lot of self-chosen solitude. Ever since my early 20's, I've regarded myself as one of the most sociable antisocials I know. I do enjoy being part of a crowd, part of an audience, part of a larger whole. But I have no problem with going out and about on my own, as I had said in an earlier post. I've done that in Hong Kong, in Great Lakes, IL, in Imperial Beach, CA. My philosophy has been "don't wait for someone else to work it into their schedule to join you or you just might miss out on the event." So, many times, I don't even ask anyone to join me; I just go. And I always enjoy myself, too, but I do sometimes miss having someone with me for those good times. In many ways, facebook serves as the vehicle for me to share those events with those I call family, whether blood or chosen or both.
Where on Earth was I? Oh, yes, I was talking about my penchant for "me" time interfering with my interactions with those whose lives are important to me. I mean, hey, there are DAYS that go by that I call no one and no one calls me. My cell phone might as well be turned off, actually. And, for the most part, that's okay. Last year, I went through a spell where that bothered the heck out of me, but then I started blogging and I felt connected to the world, even if this version of the world is all ones and zeroes. Maybe I'm not connected to any one person when I write, maybe my audience is mostly me and my ghosts. But I know my words are out there, rolling on the digital waves, tugging on the ether ear, waiting to make an impact on someone - even me.
With my game, I'm usually trying to forgive myself for errors in in the past. Not that I've ever run anyone over... or killed anyone... or left anyone with lasting physical scars from an encounter. I guess that's all good. But I know sometimes I'm not as ... sociable... as, perhaps, I should be. Sometimes, I get so wrapped up in my own little world, that I don't stay in touch with folks I hold dear as much as I should. It's an ongoing issue with me, one I've tried to counter since I was a teenager. And I have made great strides in that area. Before I joined the Navy, I only interacted with a handful of folks, outside of family. I was shy to the extreme... or maybe I just could not relate to the whole "girls versus boys" scene. Are we NOT equally human, made of the same flesh, the parts simply rearranged? Another topic for another day, I assure you.
My days as a sailor changed much of that introversion. I was finally out seeing the world and by golly, see it I would! And touch it and smell it and taste it, too! I even got started with theatre work; not on stage, but behind the scenes, and integral component deep in the mix, but not seen except by those also in the mix. Lights, sound, props, wardrobe, whatever needed doing for those who would be SEEN trodding the floorboards. And although I had a grand social life, I also had a lot of self-chosen solitude. Ever since my early 20's, I've regarded myself as one of the most sociable antisocials I know. I do enjoy being part of a crowd, part of an audience, part of a larger whole. But I have no problem with going out and about on my own, as I had said in an earlier post. I've done that in Hong Kong, in Great Lakes, IL, in Imperial Beach, CA. My philosophy has been "don't wait for someone else to work it into their schedule to join you or you just might miss out on the event." So, many times, I don't even ask anyone to join me; I just go. And I always enjoy myself, too, but I do sometimes miss having someone with me for those good times. In many ways, facebook serves as the vehicle for me to share those events with those I call family, whether blood or chosen or both.
Where on Earth was I? Oh, yes, I was talking about my penchant for "me" time interfering with my interactions with those whose lives are important to me. I mean, hey, there are DAYS that go by that I call no one and no one calls me. My cell phone might as well be turned off, actually. And, for the most part, that's okay. Last year, I went through a spell where that bothered the heck out of me, but then I started blogging and I felt connected to the world, even if this version of the world is all ones and zeroes. Maybe I'm not connected to any one person when I write, maybe my audience is mostly me and my ghosts. But I know my words are out there, rolling on the digital waves, tugging on the ether ear, waiting to make an impact on someone - even me.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
loss, yet again
I had tears with my breakfast this morning. Not a particularly good way to start the day, I assure you. I have tears now, as I sit here attempting to compose my thoughts. The tears were initially for the horrible incident which befell a friend of mine two weeks ago, but they have persisted for my own loss. You see, I'm still in mourning for the loss of a place which I used to enjoy.
The place still exists, it hasn't burned down or been eaten by termites. In fact, I had once before reinvented and refashioned it as a place still on my map. One of my best friends had encouraged me to come back there, to share new good times with him and others from the not so distant past. For him, and for myself, I had done so, though it took a while for the image to gel. The place became a safe haven for me, a place to have fun and to flirt and to not have to worry about anyone taking me seriously, for I knew he had my back. It was THE place for me to finish up my Saturday nights into the small hours of my Sunday mornings.
Then, the one who had made it a safe haven died. I tried to go back a few times, partly in respect for his memory, partly from habit. After all, many of the same people I know and like can be found there, still, on a Saturday night, gracing the airwaves with their songs. But I've lost the feel of the place. I know it's ludicrous, absurd, ridiculous - and yet, regardless of what logic and reason dictate, nay, in spite of their decrees, I find that I keep looking for someone who isn't there anymore, someone who will never be there again. And that isn't fair to the place and it isn't fair to the folks I know who ARE still there, is it? Well, sometimes I don't care about what's fair. Circumstances out of my control, as most are, caused changes I wasn't ready for and that was unfair to me.
Last night, I gave the place another chance to change my mind, to show me what it had to offer. I think I'm done this time. The place is no longer a safe haven for me or others like me, single women who come alone and prefer to leave the same way. The place could have been a meat market, but certain folks kept that aspect of modern life at bay. Single women could come and enjoy a few drinks, a few laughs, make some new friends to look forward to seeing the next time there.
No longer. A dark element has crept in the last few months. In the past, when a disruptive force tired to establish a foothold, that force was cast out by Blaxstone, a superman for the powers of fun. Street drugs tried to make their way in, only to find that was not going to happen on his watch. Single women were escorted into the parking lot to insure their safe passage to their vehicles. Lotharios hoping for quick action were strongly encouraged to take their search and their lust elsewhere, post-haste. No longer on any of those counts. An unattended drink can lead to horrible consequences for women. Not a safe haven anymore, in a world where such places are few. And that is certainly worth a few tears, from me, for my friend, for others like us: girls just wanting to have fun, not sex.
The place still exists, it hasn't burned down or been eaten by termites. In fact, I had once before reinvented and refashioned it as a place still on my map. One of my best friends had encouraged me to come back there, to share new good times with him and others from the not so distant past. For him, and for myself, I had done so, though it took a while for the image to gel. The place became a safe haven for me, a place to have fun and to flirt and to not have to worry about anyone taking me seriously, for I knew he had my back. It was THE place for me to finish up my Saturday nights into the small hours of my Sunday mornings.
Then, the one who had made it a safe haven died. I tried to go back a few times, partly in respect for his memory, partly from habit. After all, many of the same people I know and like can be found there, still, on a Saturday night, gracing the airwaves with their songs. But I've lost the feel of the place. I know it's ludicrous, absurd, ridiculous - and yet, regardless of what logic and reason dictate, nay, in spite of their decrees, I find that I keep looking for someone who isn't there anymore, someone who will never be there again. And that isn't fair to the place and it isn't fair to the folks I know who ARE still there, is it? Well, sometimes I don't care about what's fair. Circumstances out of my control, as most are, caused changes I wasn't ready for and that was unfair to me.
Last night, I gave the place another chance to change my mind, to show me what it had to offer. I think I'm done this time. The place is no longer a safe haven for me or others like me, single women who come alone and prefer to leave the same way. The place could have been a meat market, but certain folks kept that aspect of modern life at bay. Single women could come and enjoy a few drinks, a few laughs, make some new friends to look forward to seeing the next time there.
No longer. A dark element has crept in the last few months. In the past, when a disruptive force tired to establish a foothold, that force was cast out by Blaxstone, a superman for the powers of fun. Street drugs tried to make their way in, only to find that was not going to happen on his watch. Single women were escorted into the parking lot to insure their safe passage to their vehicles. Lotharios hoping for quick action were strongly encouraged to take their search and their lust elsewhere, post-haste. No longer on any of those counts. An unattended drink can lead to horrible consequences for women. Not a safe haven anymore, in a world where such places are few. And that is certainly worth a few tears, from me, for my friend, for others like us: girls just wanting to have fun, not sex.
Friday, August 14, 2009
irregular
These past few weeks have had their share of ups and downs, trials and triumphs. I suppose that's to be expected as I continue to explore my life post-divorce, in the midst of a new relationship, still learning how to live as a single woman in a world where couplehood is what I had known for so many years. These days, I feel a kinship to this Type I irregular galaxy, this collection of starlit chemicals known as NGC 55. A Type I irregular galaxy has no specific form and is composed of "a very diverse collection of objects." The descriptor informs me that "this highly detailed galaxy portrait [of NGC 55] highlights a bright core crossed with dust clouds, telltale pinkish star-forming regions, and young blue star clusters." (For more info, be sure to visit the website http://antwrp.gsfc.nasa.gov/apod/ap090812.html .)
Dust clouds. I travel with dust clouds, sometimes obscuring my vision with scenes of how things once were, how I had thought they would always be. "Always" is an insanely long time; "always" is a course of action doomed to fail in a world where change is the natural state of affairs. "Always" is an imaginary construct, useful only as an adverb. People change, situations change, attitudes change, and time marches on along its axis. I've said it before: One cannot travel back in time to the same place one once was and expect to find one can step right back into that moment. That moment is lost as soon as the next breath is taken. Time waits for no mere mortal, and mortal all are we.
I've been working for a couple of years now on dismantling the dust clouds, allowing my inner light to shine forth more strongly on this new path I travel along time's ever-forward axis. I've gradually worked on letting in more light whilst also creating new light in the form of new adventures for my world. And I've been blessed to have new relationships forged with those stars close to me, those from the past as well as those new to my life. My energy is poured with both hands into new ventures, new spots of brightness to stave off the darkness of night, as I explore new beaches on other worlds.
Friday, August 7, 2009
tamales
I finally got around to turning on the tv about 10:30 tonight (hey! I was busy out and about with real people!) and watched the tail end of "Psych," one of my favorite shows for many reasons. But that would be another entry, another time. After the show ended, I thought I would see if a movie might be next up. Then, on my way to finding a movie of interest, I noticed "Good Eats" was just starting and tuned in. And there Mr. Brown was, talking about tamales. Tamales, of all things. So, I started this post, then returned to watch the show. My Daddy would have wanted it that way, you see. Tamales were his "thing." And watching a show that seamlessly combines science with everyday life is most definitely MY "thing."
So, I learned all about making tamales, in an episode titled, in his typical tongue-in-cheek style, "Tamale Never Dies." I kid you not. (My Daddy would have loved it, wishing he had been the one that came up with the name.)
The first thing I learned was the origin of the dish and of the word itself, in a South American jungle setting. I kid you not. (I truly LOVE this show. It's the ONLY one I watch on the Food Network.) "Tamale" is based on an Aztec word for "wrapped food", constructed to be portable meals for hunters and warriors on the go, made by their loving mates. The wrapper, the filling, the masa, the fabrication, and the cooking. very interesting, surprisingly easy, but one of those operations to do when you have some time on your hands, much like the making a Polish dish which uses cabbage leaves to make a Dutch oven FULL of rolled meat and rice packages. In other words, plan to spend a few hours on this dish.
So, it certainly isn't something I would normally even consider making. After all, I have a reputation as the queen of the 30-minutes-or-less meal and I am justifiably proud of that title. Not only that, but I tend to cook all in one pot, lessening the quantity of dishes to be cleaned after said meal has been enjoyed. And yet, I do find myself doing that very thing - considering the making of tamales. Still fairly theoretical, but gaining form. Why? Well, partly because tamales were such a cherished food for my father. He's been on my mind a lot these past few weeks and I see this food as a potential link between us, something to make me feel he isn't so far away. If he were still on this planet, I would have called to get his ideas on the subject and invited him to share in the repast once the project was complete.
Instead, I think I shall invite my singing bird to be my dinner guest. You see, Alton Brown also talked about the Tamale Trail in the Mississippi Delta. According to Mr. Brown, migrant Mexican workers brought their hot tamales with them to the area, where the slaves in that hot, swampy land really took to them. The Mississippi Delta, the same exact homeland of my singing bird. I think perhaps Daddy would have been right pleased about that. He and Harry could have had many a discourse on the merits of tamales, with future searches for eateries of worth which offered that culinary delicacy. Delicacy indeed! Tamales are a real man's food, made with meat and lard - yes, I said lard and I meant lard, just go ask Mr. Brown why - eaten with the hands, not forks or spoons, not even necessarily on a plate.
Yeah, I think a foray into the tamale world is on my agenda.
So, I learned all about making tamales, in an episode titled, in his typical tongue-in-cheek style, "Tamale Never Dies." I kid you not. (My Daddy would have loved it, wishing he had been the one that came up with the name.)
The first thing I learned was the origin of the dish and of the word itself, in a South American jungle setting. I kid you not. (I truly LOVE this show. It's the ONLY one I watch on the Food Network.) "Tamale" is based on an Aztec word for "wrapped food", constructed to be portable meals for hunters and warriors on the go, made by their loving mates. The wrapper, the filling, the masa, the fabrication, and the cooking. very interesting, surprisingly easy, but one of those operations to do when you have some time on your hands, much like the making a Polish dish which uses cabbage leaves to make a Dutch oven FULL of rolled meat and rice packages. In other words, plan to spend a few hours on this dish.
So, it certainly isn't something I would normally even consider making. After all, I have a reputation as the queen of the 30-minutes-or-less meal and I am justifiably proud of that title. Not only that, but I tend to cook all in one pot, lessening the quantity of dishes to be cleaned after said meal has been enjoyed. And yet, I do find myself doing that very thing - considering the making of tamales. Still fairly theoretical, but gaining form. Why? Well, partly because tamales were such a cherished food for my father. He's been on my mind a lot these past few weeks and I see this food as a potential link between us, something to make me feel he isn't so far away. If he were still on this planet, I would have called to get his ideas on the subject and invited him to share in the repast once the project was complete.
Instead, I think I shall invite my singing bird to be my dinner guest. You see, Alton Brown also talked about the Tamale Trail in the Mississippi Delta. According to Mr. Brown, migrant Mexican workers brought their hot tamales with them to the area, where the slaves in that hot, swampy land really took to them. The Mississippi Delta, the same exact homeland of my singing bird. I think perhaps Daddy would have been right pleased about that. He and Harry could have had many a discourse on the merits of tamales, with future searches for eateries of worth which offered that culinary delicacy. Delicacy indeed! Tamales are a real man's food, made with meat and lard - yes, I said lard and I meant lard, just go ask Mr. Brown why - eaten with the hands, not forks or spoons, not even necessarily on a plate.
Yeah, I think a foray into the tamale world is on my agenda.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
validation
Tonight, I went to my philosophy group meeting for the first time in a long time... and was greeted with warm smiles and hugs! How wonderful to feel valued and respected for my opinions and my thoughts! I've been going through a rather difficult time at work lately, through no fault of my own, I can assure you. Business has been slow - we're talking retail here - and the phone has been more quiet of late. Still, I see the cycle, whether anyone else does or not, and things are improving, albeit slowly. Slow, but sure. And I'll be sure to surround myself on my time away from work with people who understand that I have much to contribute.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
collection
Everyone I know collects something. Comic books, movies, books, music. My mother collected teapots. She had several stoneware teapots that had been in the family since her grandmother's time. She had other collections over the years, of course: clowns, dolls, Christmas ornaments, Dr. Seuss books. Once she let us know that teapots were her new favorites, we made sure her collection was enlarged on almost every birthday or other special day. Lovely ceramic teapots, artful pieces that were absolutely too nice to ever use. By her death on January 2, 2001, she had over 25 teapots in her collection. Most graced shelving in the living room, shelving built specifically for them, with new shelves added as her collection grew.
And all of this popped into my head this morning as I was watching VH1 with my coffee. (Yeah, yeah, bad habit watching tv whilst dining.) I was enjoying the countdown of top videos, a show with a fairly obnoxious host, but great videos, and I was pretty much using that as a background for my breakfast and planning out my day. Then I stopped. A video had come on for a song I was glancingly familiar with, thinking it was about love lost. What I realized when I actually listened to ALL of the lyrics: the love was not merely out of sight, but gone from this planet, making them visible never more. I can totally relate to that. I seem to be sensitive to such songs these past few years. You could say I collect them.
The Airborne Toxic Event: Sometime Around Midnight
And all of this popped into my head this morning as I was watching VH1 with my coffee. (Yeah, yeah, bad habit watching tv whilst dining.) I was enjoying the countdown of top videos, a show with a fairly obnoxious host, but great videos, and I was pretty much using that as a background for my breakfast and planning out my day. Then I stopped. A video had come on for a song I was glancingly familiar with, thinking it was about love lost. What I realized when I actually listened to ALL of the lyrics: the love was not merely out of sight, but gone from this planet, making them visible never more. I can totally relate to that. I seem to be sensitive to such songs these past few years. You could say I collect them.
The Airborne Toxic Event: Sometime Around Midnight
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
