This past weekend was spent in Charleston, mostly, with my singing bird.
I drove up on Friday after work and then waited until he got off from his job and came home. I had known he would be at work and had no problem waiting, knowing I had about 45 minutes to myself and entertaining myself by catching up on some overdue phone calls. My bird was a little chagrined that I had to wait for so long in the car and, before I knew what was happening, he had given me a key to his apartment. Big step, for me certainly, and, I believe, for him, too.
Before you say anything, just let me state that some time earlier, I had attempted to give him a key to my place. When he came here to visit me, he would arrive a bit before I got off work and then he would wait in his car until I got home. I had told him I could leave a key outside, but he didn't think that was a good idea - color me relieved! Still, when he was visiting for a few days, with one of those days being a work day, I hadn't wanted him to feel trapped in the house, so I had placed my spare key by the door for him to use. He had chosen not to do so and the key remained where I had placed it throughout his visit.
Anyway, back to this past weekend. When he arrived home, we went to dinner, then watched the 2007 Oscar Shorts (two animated, two live-action, all excellent!) before going to bed. The next morning, we were up and off to Columbia and the Riverbanks Zoo & Garden. My favorite blues band, Elliott & The Untouchables, were performing for their Springtime In The Garden Festival. Beautiful!!! Cool blues in a green place on a warm spring day... heaven! I danced and danced while my bird lounged on the new grass of the hill fronting the amphitheatre. It was truly a little slice of perfection!
Later, we went to the Penn Center to hear Gullah folk songs. A friend of my bird's was performing and he had invited me to come along, as neither of us had heard that music before. I think we would both agree that Gullah folk is still folk. Nice, but not my cup of tea, so to speak. After enjoying our own Music Festival, we had a late dinner and headed back to Charleston and bed.
The next morning, we watched the news: CBS Sunday Morning, the only news program I deliberately seek out. The weather promised thunderstorms and severe rain, so I opted to return to Savannah rather than attend the Cajun Festival there in Charleston. That's when he bounced upstairs and returned ... with a key. He told me he didn't want me to ever have to wait out in the car for him to get home. Nice!
Then we're cuddling on the couch, watching a little Jim Carrey movie, commenting about the action. You know: not really doing anything, just passing a little time. And out of the blue he says, "My lease will be up in five and a half months." Whoa! What?! I'm sure I must have stiffened up as I turned my head to look at him. He then says he's been looking at other apartments and was thinking about a job transfer to my town and I told him the truth: I had also been thinking about that option, but I didn't think I was ready to move in with him yet. I told him straight up that ten years had lapsed between the end of my first marriage and the time I was ready to try it again.
I am definitely not yet ready to try that "m" word again, and I don't know how I feel about this other "m" word. Moving in together. All of the responsibilities, none of the protections. Still, we are both thinking along the same lines and that's pretty amazing. We talk about a lot of things, but we don't talk about our feelings for each other. I think we're both a bit leery of that word "love" and we're letting our actions speak for us. That's a good thing, but we ARE going to have to discuss that word "love" and define what it means to each of us, what we want it to mean.
Meanwhile, I enjoy his company and he enjoys mine. That's special.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
repo
Tonight, I thought I would have myself a double-header, so out the door I went. No, not to Grayson Stadium; my boys of summer don't start playing until April 8th. (And yes, I have been watching the calendar.) No, this is the two-movies-in-one-night type of double-header. I had done my research and found the two movies I wanted at the Regal Cinema, the two movies which would work well together to minimize sitting-around-waiting-for-the-next time.
I arrive and pull out my Entertainment card, my Regal Crown Club card, and what I thought was my discount coupon. Yeah, that last item, there... turns out it was the discount for a museum in Charleston. Doh! So, I moved out of line so the folks behind me didn't have to wait while I ransacked my wallet and my purse, with said ransacking of no avail. Dagnabbit! The young woman behind the counter went ahead and gave me the "senior" discount, though, which was very kind of her and no doubt was inspired by my having an obvious "senior moment." Sigh.
So, instead of a double-header, I opted for just one movie, the movie which would have been the first in my line-up: "Repo Men." I had known it was science fiction and featured Jude law and Forrest Whitaker as guys with the odious task of repossessing transplanted metallic organs from customers who fell behind on their payments. Interesting concept, yes? Most definitely, especially as I have known several would-be transplant patients of late.
Well, lemme tell you, the movie was MUCH more intense than I had expected. Yeah, I've watched enough "CSI" and such that the close-up shots of the live operation sites was bearable, so that wasn't the problem. In fact, I was good with the movie until the last twenty minutes or so... and then I was devastated. Truly.
There are levels of evil, just as there are levels of good. Sometimes, the levels overlap when the degrees of good and evil are subjective and dependent on extenuating circumstances, as the expression goes. You know: the guy steals a loaf of bread for his starving children, that sort of thing. Other times, the distance between the levels is vast and serves to accentuate the depravity of that level of evil.
This movie had various levels of good and evil, much as one would expect in such a film, or in many other science fiction films. But then the film added that unexpected level of pure evil masquerading as friendship, but utterly manipulative and twisted. And then, just to make sure, took it one more level down. Not since "Unbreakable" have I seen such devastating evil.
I don't think I'll ever see this film again, either. Its images, like those of the Bruce Willis & Samuel L. Jackson film, are burned on my brain, unfortunately.
I arrive and pull out my Entertainment card, my Regal Crown Club card, and what I thought was my discount coupon. Yeah, that last item, there... turns out it was the discount for a museum in Charleston. Doh! So, I moved out of line so the folks behind me didn't have to wait while I ransacked my wallet and my purse, with said ransacking of no avail. Dagnabbit! The young woman behind the counter went ahead and gave me the "senior" discount, though, which was very kind of her and no doubt was inspired by my having an obvious "senior moment." Sigh.
So, instead of a double-header, I opted for just one movie, the movie which would have been the first in my line-up: "Repo Men." I had known it was science fiction and featured Jude law and Forrest Whitaker as guys with the odious task of repossessing transplanted metallic organs from customers who fell behind on their payments. Interesting concept, yes? Most definitely, especially as I have known several would-be transplant patients of late.
Well, lemme tell you, the movie was MUCH more intense than I had expected. Yeah, I've watched enough "CSI" and such that the close-up shots of the live operation sites was bearable, so that wasn't the problem. In fact, I was good with the movie until the last twenty minutes or so... and then I was devastated. Truly.
There are levels of evil, just as there are levels of good. Sometimes, the levels overlap when the degrees of good and evil are subjective and dependent on extenuating circumstances, as the expression goes. You know: the guy steals a loaf of bread for his starving children, that sort of thing. Other times, the distance between the levels is vast and serves to accentuate the depravity of that level of evil.
This movie had various levels of good and evil, much as one would expect in such a film, or in many other science fiction films. But then the film added that unexpected level of pure evil masquerading as friendship, but utterly manipulative and twisted. And then, just to make sure, took it one more level down. Not since "Unbreakable" have I seen such devastating evil.
I don't think I'll ever see this film again, either. Its images, like those of the Bruce Willis & Samuel L. Jackson film, are burned on my brain, unfortunately.
Monday, March 29, 2010
butterfly
As I was diddy-bopping through some of my bookmarks this evening, I stumbled across one I had forgotten: images from the Hubble Space telescope. Incredibly beautiful pictures of other worlds, of our world, of galaxies which are truly far away.
The featured image is of the Butterfly Nebula. Quite striking, is it not? How amazing it must have been for the astronomers who first saw this otherworldly, incandescent insect. Can you imagine? Downloading data from the instrument and having THIS appear? Not only are the wings clearly evidenced, but the dark, fuzzy body is also well-defined. What thoughts would such an image evoke when viewed from one's spacecraft hurtling in its direction?
How amazing if the butterfly were actually in the vicinity of the Rosette Nebula! Bearing in mind that space is more vast than the mind can comprehend, perhaps a distance of some hundred light-years is no greater than that between oceans on this pretty blue-green orb. Given the correct perspective, of course.
Sometimes, I wish I could see more of the stars which light the sky, not just at night but at all times. We must take care to remember that bit: the stars are always there, even when you cannot see them. Beloved friends and family are, like stars, always in your personal galaxy, even though great distances of either space or time may intervene.
I have other pictures from this site which I'm going to add to my beach. After all, it is MY beach, MY world, and I can populate it as I will. Things of beauty are always welcome here, with "beauty" being defined by MY eyes.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
why write?
Corrine Colarusso, a painter from Georgia, has this to say about her muse: "...what brings us to the studio every day - that mark, that surface, that color, that film of glaze, images formed, infinite possibilities unremediated and powerful."
I so get it. For me, it's words with precise meaning, nuances, inflections, the juxtaposition of syllables, the lure of a fine-turned phrase, the possibility of making marks that make sense to myself and others. I enjoy writing, even more so now that I don't have to do so. In college, I even enjoyed writing, but felt rather limited, as the professors weren't interested in random topics. Actually, I'd wager they would have preferred some randomness, rather than the same topic expressed through forty different pens.
Today, at work in a hardwood flooring store, just in casual conversation, I heard myself utter "auspices" and was amazed when it came through my lips. That is a word with a very precise meaning and I was talking on the phone with my Charleston bird at the time. He took it in stride; I was the one who noted what I had said and was surprised by it. Now that I think about that, it WAS rather nice that he took it as such a natural utterance. Yes, I do like that about him.
As I was saying, though, I am inspired to write because of things I hear, things I see, things I taste or touch or sense. Writing about these things makes them more real, gives them context in my world, helps me find my place in the universe. All artists create - not just paintings or poetry or songs, but a new piece of the world we all live in, a bridge between our personal space and that inhabited by all. I like to think that I'm helping to do that, too, for myself and perhaps, in some small measure, for others.
I so get it. For me, it's words with precise meaning, nuances, inflections, the juxtaposition of syllables, the lure of a fine-turned phrase, the possibility of making marks that make sense to myself and others. I enjoy writing, even more so now that I don't have to do so. In college, I even enjoyed writing, but felt rather limited, as the professors weren't interested in random topics. Actually, I'd wager they would have preferred some randomness, rather than the same topic expressed through forty different pens.
Today, at work in a hardwood flooring store, just in casual conversation, I heard myself utter "auspices" and was amazed when it came through my lips. That is a word with a very precise meaning and I was talking on the phone with my Charleston bird at the time. He took it in stride; I was the one who noted what I had said and was surprised by it. Now that I think about that, it WAS rather nice that he took it as such a natural utterance. Yes, I do like that about him.
As I was saying, though, I am inspired to write because of things I hear, things I see, things I taste or touch or sense. Writing about these things makes them more real, gives them context in my world, helps me find my place in the universe. All artists create - not just paintings or poetry or songs, but a new piece of the world we all live in, a bridge between our personal space and that inhabited by all. I like to think that I'm helping to do that, too, for myself and perhaps, in some small measure, for others.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
body parts
Perhaps it's that I'm getting older and have a birthday drawing nigh, but the aging of my bits and pieces has been on my mind lately. Actually, there are several factors which have combined forces to command my attention. A fellow member of the League of Savannah Bloggers, after a worrisome absence of some few weeks, has informed all that he is facing surgery on his parathyroid. I, myself, have been taking medication for hypothyroidism for some few years now, but wonder if I may face such surgery in the future.
My earlier discussion of an art show I witnessed is also still front of mind, much as I would wish 'twere not so. Aldwyth's work truly got under my skin, with her propensity for displaying body parts as, literally, objects of art. Truly disturbing.
So, my body parts have come into question. In particular, I think the time may be fast approaching when a hysterectomy is in order. A few years ago, I was having intense abdominal pain and my doctor had an ultrasound done to try to determine the cause. Well, my body's ability to create cysts has not been limited to any one part of my body, apparently. Both ovaries have cysts and, at the time, were causing me such distress that I had bought a feather mattress pad, which allowed me some measure of sleep at night. My doctor told me that if the situation did not improve, I should consider surgery. Evidently, my "girl parts" got the message and ceased their torsion, ending my sense of urgency to be rid of them.
It's not like this would be anything that other women in my family have not already endured. My mother had a complete hysterectomy when she was only 45 years old... and so I've hung on to my ovaries, et al, for almost seven years longer than she did. Not that its a contest, mind. That would just be too bizarre. No, it's not the surgery that concerns me so much, it's the anesthesia. I have had several procedures in the past few years which required anesthesia. The first, for my 49th birthday, was an eviction of my gallbladder. That was followed the next year with upper endoscopy and colonoscopy (both to rule out possible serious problems for a condition which turned out to be lactose intolerance).
With each procedure, I found it increasingly difficult to get over being "put under" and I strongly dislike the disorientation and lack of control. How many days of fogginess would I have to endure this time? What about hormonal replacement therapy? Should I or shouldn't I? Just how out of whack have my hormones been for these past six or seven years? Would I even notice a difference?
I had told my singing bird that I would call the doctor last week for a consult. Of course I have not yet done so.
But I will tomorrow.
My earlier discussion of an art show I witnessed is also still front of mind, much as I would wish 'twere not so. Aldwyth's work truly got under my skin, with her propensity for displaying body parts as, literally, objects of art. Truly disturbing.
So, my body parts have come into question. In particular, I think the time may be fast approaching when a hysterectomy is in order. A few years ago, I was having intense abdominal pain and my doctor had an ultrasound done to try to determine the cause. Well, my body's ability to create cysts has not been limited to any one part of my body, apparently. Both ovaries have cysts and, at the time, were causing me such distress that I had bought a feather mattress pad, which allowed me some measure of sleep at night. My doctor told me that if the situation did not improve, I should consider surgery. Evidently, my "girl parts" got the message and ceased their torsion, ending my sense of urgency to be rid of them.
It's not like this would be anything that other women in my family have not already endured. My mother had a complete hysterectomy when she was only 45 years old... and so I've hung on to my ovaries, et al, for almost seven years longer than she did. Not that its a contest, mind. That would just be too bizarre. No, it's not the surgery that concerns me so much, it's the anesthesia. I have had several procedures in the past few years which required anesthesia. The first, for my 49th birthday, was an eviction of my gallbladder. That was followed the next year with upper endoscopy and colonoscopy (both to rule out possible serious problems for a condition which turned out to be lactose intolerance).
With each procedure, I found it increasingly difficult to get over being "put under" and I strongly dislike the disorientation and lack of control. How many days of fogginess would I have to endure this time? What about hormonal replacement therapy? Should I or shouldn't I? Just how out of whack have my hormones been for these past six or seven years? Would I even notice a difference?
I had told my singing bird that I would call the doctor last week for a consult. Of course I have not yet done so.
But I will tomorrow.
Monday, March 22, 2010
music festival
The Savannah Music Festival officially started on Thursday, but I have come to realize that I have my own version, and it's year-round.
As far as the SMF goes, this year I have only attended two events, one on Saturday and the other on Sunday. The event on Saturday was a family event, affordable and fun for all. Titled "The Amazing Musical Rescue", it was equal parts music lesson, history lesson, Bill Cosby-esque antics, and puppetry. I totally enjoyed it and was glad to see so many others there for this early afternoon event.
Then, on Sunday, I attended church, in a way. "Gospel with James Bignon", held in the open foyer of the Jepson Center For The Arts, was certainly a religious event. The high-ceilinged entrance, with its roof-to-floor windows overlooking the trees of Telfair Square, allowed the songs to rise and reverberate magnificently. Somehow, the overcast sky, with the soft rain falling all around, added to the overall message of hope: Even though the skies are gloomy, we will sing!
But these two events were certainly not the only musical entertainment I had last week. Far from it! First, I had the Saint Patrick's Day Parade, replete with bands of all denomination! High school bands, local and from South Carolina, Florida, and who knows where else? Fife and drum corps from New York, with their kilts swinging and their bagpipes singing! Military bands, looking razor sharp in uniform! Floats with their own music, either live or taped, engaging the crowd! Priceless... and free.
On Friday, I attended the Karaoke Party at Steed's, a smoky little place with cold beer and warm hearts. (No, I don't think there's a weblink for this!) I walked in for one of my favorite songs, "Breathe" by Anna Nalick, sung beautifully by Shelly, a very talented songbird. (Aside: When I was getting divorced, I was at work and the phone rang. On the other end was just this song playing. I was able to listen to the whole thing, uninterrupted. After the song ended, so did the call. I still don't know how that song came to be in my ear just when I needed it.) After she was done, others followed, all offering one-song concerts for my pleasure... as I did for them. Such fun!
On Saturday, after attending the SMF event, I went to Tybee and enjoyed the songs of nature for a while. The birds sending their messages skyward contrapuntal to the susurration of the waves. The playful shrieks of children as warm toes meet cold saline. Shouts of volleyball players and kite flyers and football tossers.
Then off to the church I so enjoy, the church known for its music and dance and welcome of all. Saturday afternoon, the church was hosting a concert not its own, a message of love in the form of the Atlanta Gay Men's Chorus. "The Road Leads Back" was the name of the tour, and a tour de force it was. If you've never been graced with the opportunity to hear a 100-man chorus, you have no idea how high the harmonies can take your spirit. In the recently renovated sanctuary, I found myself closing my eyes to let my senses be overwhelmed, sometimes to the point of tears, by the voices melding together into a new, unified sound.
My Saturday was not yet done. Later that evening, I attended the concert at the Casbah Lounge, part of the Mansion On Forsyth Park. The group was Hear And Now, featuring a trumpet player I truly enjoy, as both a friend and an artist. I happened to enter as the band serenaded me with the James Taylor classic, "You've Got A Friend," letting me know at once that I was in the place I should be. I passed the next few hours listening to first one, then another of the bandmates regale the full house with song, with occasionally some dancing adding to the mix.
Yes, indeed, I had my own music festival these past few days, and much of it was free. How fortunate I am!
As far as the SMF goes, this year I have only attended two events, one on Saturday and the other on Sunday. The event on Saturday was a family event, affordable and fun for all. Titled "The Amazing Musical Rescue", it was equal parts music lesson, history lesson, Bill Cosby-esque antics, and puppetry. I totally enjoyed it and was glad to see so many others there for this early afternoon event.
Then, on Sunday, I attended church, in a way. "Gospel with James Bignon", held in the open foyer of the Jepson Center For The Arts, was certainly a religious event. The high-ceilinged entrance, with its roof-to-floor windows overlooking the trees of Telfair Square, allowed the songs to rise and reverberate magnificently. Somehow, the overcast sky, with the soft rain falling all around, added to the overall message of hope: Even though the skies are gloomy, we will sing!
But these two events were certainly not the only musical entertainment I had last week. Far from it! First, I had the Saint Patrick's Day Parade, replete with bands of all denomination! High school bands, local and from South Carolina, Florida, and who knows where else? Fife and drum corps from New York, with their kilts swinging and their bagpipes singing! Military bands, looking razor sharp in uniform! Floats with their own music, either live or taped, engaging the crowd! Priceless... and free.
On Friday, I attended the Karaoke Party at Steed's, a smoky little place with cold beer and warm hearts. (No, I don't think there's a weblink for this!) I walked in for one of my favorite songs, "Breathe" by Anna Nalick, sung beautifully by Shelly, a very talented songbird. (Aside: When I was getting divorced, I was at work and the phone rang. On the other end was just this song playing. I was able to listen to the whole thing, uninterrupted. After the song ended, so did the call. I still don't know how that song came to be in my ear just when I needed it.) After she was done, others followed, all offering one-song concerts for my pleasure... as I did for them. Such fun!
On Saturday, after attending the SMF event, I went to Tybee and enjoyed the songs of nature for a while. The birds sending their messages skyward contrapuntal to the susurration of the waves. The playful shrieks of children as warm toes meet cold saline. Shouts of volleyball players and kite flyers and football tossers.
Then off to the church I so enjoy, the church known for its music and dance and welcome of all. Saturday afternoon, the church was hosting a concert not its own, a message of love in the form of the Atlanta Gay Men's Chorus. "The Road Leads Back" was the name of the tour, and a tour de force it was. If you've never been graced with the opportunity to hear a 100-man chorus, you have no idea how high the harmonies can take your spirit. In the recently renovated sanctuary, I found myself closing my eyes to let my senses be overwhelmed, sometimes to the point of tears, by the voices melding together into a new, unified sound.
My Saturday was not yet done. Later that evening, I attended the concert at the Casbah Lounge, part of the Mansion On Forsyth Park. The group was Hear And Now, featuring a trumpet player I truly enjoy, as both a friend and an artist. I happened to enter as the band serenaded me with the James Taylor classic, "You've Got A Friend," letting me know at once that I was in the place I should be. I passed the next few hours listening to first one, then another of the bandmates regale the full house with song, with occasionally some dancing adding to the mix.
Yes, indeed, I had my own music festival these past few days, and much of it was free. How fortunate I am!
Sunday, March 21, 2010
random art
"What is the secret of life? I had a friend." Aldwyth
So said the artist in one of her works, "Corpus", a nine-part collection of odd bits. A huge collection of her collections is currently on display at the Jepson Center For The Arts. There are even videos of her handling her works on YouTube, should you care to take a gander. As one art expert, Mark Sloan, Director of the College of Charleston, says of her, "She is a voracious reader and inveterate collector of detritus."
And "detritus" is certainly the operative word. Much of her material has a history to it and has been collected from unusual places and unusual times. For example, one display is titled "A Walk In The Woods" and includes tiny bits of branches. The exhibit also has three works composed of the remnants of Hurricane Hugo's mark on Charleston, with the bits collected within days of the horrific event.
Horrific is an apt term for her works. In addition to the physical bits and pieces of nature and man-made items, there were also fashioned (or re-purposed) bits: misshapen torsos, eyes, eyeballs, arms and legs and hands. I found the resultant creations quite disturbing, with their tangible undercurrents of dementia, fear, violence, bedlam. I found myself unable to view all of the works shown because of the unease they evoked. I don't know when I've ever had such a reaction to art.
So said the artist in one of her works, "Corpus", a nine-part collection of odd bits. A huge collection of her collections is currently on display at the Jepson Center For The Arts. There are even videos of her handling her works on YouTube, should you care to take a gander. As one art expert, Mark Sloan, Director of the College of Charleston, says of her, "She is a voracious reader and inveterate collector of detritus."
And "detritus" is certainly the operative word. Much of her material has a history to it and has been collected from unusual places and unusual times. For example, one display is titled "A Walk In The Woods" and includes tiny bits of branches. The exhibit also has three works composed of the remnants of Hurricane Hugo's mark on Charleston, with the bits collected within days of the horrific event.
Horrific is an apt term for her works. In addition to the physical bits and pieces of nature and man-made items, there were also fashioned (or re-purposed) bits: misshapen torsos, eyes, eyeballs, arms and legs and hands. I found the resultant creations quite disturbing, with their tangible undercurrents of dementia, fear, violence, bedlam. I found myself unable to view all of the works shown because of the unease they evoked. I don't know when I've ever had such a reaction to art.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
random quote
"Those were some storms we had over the last week; power outages, tornado watches, occasional hail. I was awakened in the wee hours one of those nights, and I just sat in the dining room, stared out the window, and listened to jazz. The time signatures matched the offbeat rhythms of the rain." Jeff McDermott, 03-14-2010, in his blog.
I do have to wonder what songs he was listening to that dark and stormy night. How incredible to have been able to have at hand music to watch a storm by! I'll have to try that sometime.
Truth to tell, I don't listen to music all that often at home. Generally, I'm lost in my own thoughts, with the white noise of the computer fan to blot out the rest of the world and its slight traffic chatter. Years ago, I had music on constantly, but I fell out of the habit.
Research has shown it takes only thirty days to create a new habit or to break an old one. I have certainly found that to bear truth. If the habit is to something one ingests, then the physical attraction to the item is done by Day 30. After that length of time, the mental desire for the item may flare up from time to time and, if relapse occurs, the body is right back at ground zero with its physical addiction and must begin anew its month-long battle.
I don't know why I stopped seeking an aural background for my thoughts, but just now, as I was writing, the need for Robbie Robertson's "Testimony" popped up. Hold on while I fetch it...
'Bear witness, I'm wailing like the wind... in my soul, I'm howling at the moon..." Ah, yeah! Words and horns and a tambourine and pounding drums!!! Later!
I do have to wonder what songs he was listening to that dark and stormy night. How incredible to have been able to have at hand music to watch a storm by! I'll have to try that sometime.
Truth to tell, I don't listen to music all that often at home. Generally, I'm lost in my own thoughts, with the white noise of the computer fan to blot out the rest of the world and its slight traffic chatter. Years ago, I had music on constantly, but I fell out of the habit.
Research has shown it takes only thirty days to create a new habit or to break an old one. I have certainly found that to bear truth. If the habit is to something one ingests, then the physical attraction to the item is done by Day 30. After that length of time, the mental desire for the item may flare up from time to time and, if relapse occurs, the body is right back at ground zero with its physical addiction and must begin anew its month-long battle.
I don't know why I stopped seeking an aural background for my thoughts, but just now, as I was writing, the need for Robbie Robertson's "Testimony" popped up. Hold on while I fetch it...
'Bear witness, I'm wailing like the wind... in my soul, I'm howling at the moon..." Ah, yeah! Words and horns and a tambourine and pounding drums!!! Later!
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
starfish
A man was walking down the beach at sunset. As he walked along, he saw a boy in the distance. He noticed this boy kept leaning down, picking up something and throwing it out into the water, again and again.
As he approached even closer, he noticed that the boy was picking up starfish that had been washed up on the beach. He was throwing them back into the water, one by one.
Puzzled, the man approached the boy and said, "Good Evening. I was wondering what you are doing."
"I'm throwing these starfish back into the ocean. You see, it's low tide, and all these starfish have been washed up onto the shore. If I don't throw them back into the ocean, they'll die."
"But, there must be thousands of starfish on this beach. You can't possibly get to all of them. And, don't you realize this is probably happening on hundreds of beaches all up and down this coast. Can't you see that you can't possibly make a difference?"
The boy bent down and picked up yet another starfish, and threw it back into the ocean. With a smile he replied, "Made a difference to that one!"
This is one of my favorites. I have no idea who first wrote it, but the story is old and recirculates on emails periodically. I try to regard it as part of my philosophy of life.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
random quote
"Is it better to live as a monster or to die as a good man?" So says Teddy Daniels in "Shutter Island," a movie that had me in tears well before its end. I seriously doubt that was the intention of the writer, but perhaps 'twas so, and I am one those so affected by this work.
It's truly a wonder I even saw the film. The previews I had seen left the distinct impression that this might be one of those films for me to avoid, a horror film designed to leave nightmares in its wake. Accordingly, I avoid such films as I prefer my dreams to be of a more peaceful nature. And yet, on a rainy Friday afternoon, I found myself buying a ticket for that very film, as well as one to distract me from its aftermath should it be nightmare-inspiring material.
So, just in case any readers might have stumbled upon these writings, one who has not seen the movie and might yet, perhaps such reader should now retreat to prevent knowing too much. N'est-ce pas?
As I was saying, the film had quite an emotional impact on me. "Shutter Island" is a thriller, of the psychological variety, and dealt with a man who had lost sight of the thin line which sometimes exists between truth and fiction. Sometimes the truth is exceptionally hard to accept, overwhelming all of the senses at once. Under such circumstances, the mind might bend and break, creating a more preferable explanation of the current circumstances. Especially if those circumstances involve the sudden death of someone loved, the sudden violent death at one's own hand of someone loved.
A person forced to confront such a hard truth might find their mind twisted such that the truth becomes part of a conundrum, a puzzle to be solved, with oneself as the hero of the day, setting out to right a wrong done by... someone else. An intelligent mind may well recognize the doer of the misdeed, but fashion a code to disguise the identity of the criminal from itself, to create a hero from the heart of the killer. Eventually, the hero would discover the truth, the oh-so-hard truth and be forced to accept it or to retreat into the fabrication once more.
As hard as that truth may be on the criminal, the fabrication affects all around them, especially those who recognize that person as having a good heart. They are forced to watch him re-enact his myth, hoping that this time he will accept the truth at the end of this play, that he will stay in one character, his true self. They have seen him go through this pain before and they try with all their might to help him work through the story one more time, hoping this will be the last time.
The incredibly sad part of this film lies in the recognition by the good man of the monster he has become, the monster he cannot escape and cannot accept. Does he continue to live the lie his mind has proffered, growing increasingly aware that the two personae are one and the same, or does he seek to end the lives of both the good man and the monster?
It's truly a wonder I even saw the film. The previews I had seen left the distinct impression that this might be one of those films for me to avoid, a horror film designed to leave nightmares in its wake. Accordingly, I avoid such films as I prefer my dreams to be of a more peaceful nature. And yet, on a rainy Friday afternoon, I found myself buying a ticket for that very film, as well as one to distract me from its aftermath should it be nightmare-inspiring material.
So, just in case any readers might have stumbled upon these writings, one who has not seen the movie and might yet, perhaps such reader should now retreat to prevent knowing too much. N'est-ce pas?
As I was saying, the film had quite an emotional impact on me. "Shutter Island" is a thriller, of the psychological variety, and dealt with a man who had lost sight of the thin line which sometimes exists between truth and fiction. Sometimes the truth is exceptionally hard to accept, overwhelming all of the senses at once. Under such circumstances, the mind might bend and break, creating a more preferable explanation of the current circumstances. Especially if those circumstances involve the sudden death of someone loved, the sudden violent death at one's own hand of someone loved.
A person forced to confront such a hard truth might find their mind twisted such that the truth becomes part of a conundrum, a puzzle to be solved, with oneself as the hero of the day, setting out to right a wrong done by... someone else. An intelligent mind may well recognize the doer of the misdeed, but fashion a code to disguise the identity of the criminal from itself, to create a hero from the heart of the killer. Eventually, the hero would discover the truth, the oh-so-hard truth and be forced to accept it or to retreat into the fabrication once more.
As hard as that truth may be on the criminal, the fabrication affects all around them, especially those who recognize that person as having a good heart. They are forced to watch him re-enact his myth, hoping that this time he will accept the truth at the end of this play, that he will stay in one character, his true self. They have seen him go through this pain before and they try with all their might to help him work through the story one more time, hoping this will be the last time.
The incredibly sad part of this film lies in the recognition by the good man of the monster he has become, the monster he cannot escape and cannot accept. Does he continue to live the lie his mind has proffered, growing increasingly aware that the two personae are one and the same, or does he seek to end the lives of both the good man and the monster?
Thursday, March 11, 2010
death and taxes
Two things you cannot avoid: death and taxes. The latter is, of course, very top-of-mind as April 15th approaches, a grim reaper of one's finances, so to speak. How very nice that we're all getting a little something back in the form of the "Making Work Pay" incentive. Wow, the government is paying me $400 for working and contributing to the national treasury! Woohoo! That bit of smoke and mirrors is to distract from the $3456 paid for federal withholding and the $1805 paid to the Withholding Division at the Georgia Department of Revenue. And let us not forget the monies paid to Social Security and Medicare, neither of which I'll get to partake of for quite some few years yet.
Still, the situation could be a lot worse. I know family and friends who are benefiting from the government's social programs. Several are drawing Social Security, some are on disability or have been, some are drawing unemployment or have been, and quite a few are on the government-run health care programs of Medicare, Medicaid, or PeachCare. Several others I know are working for the city, county, or state government and so I like to think I'm helping pay their way in this world, too. Then there are those working at facilities which receive money from the state or federal government: hospitals, fire departments, universities, schools. Yes, indeed, those are MY tax dollars at work! So, don't be asking for a raise, 'cause I haven't seen such a thing in more than three years!
Then there's death. That topic reared its head tonight whilst enjoying an art show reception at Hospice Savannah this evening. A dear friend and I were enjoying the "Savannah Sightings" display, vibrant works featuring the trees of Savannah: oaks, pines, palms, and driftwood. Some of the pieces were especially beautiful to me and all were affordable. Where else could you find a framed, signed, original work of art for less than $400? The most expensive piece was still a good deal at $800.
So there we were, enjoying each other's company, fine art, and a nice glass of wine on a cool rainy evening. Nice! Then the talk turned more serious and I found myself talking about the approaching Mother's Day, which would mark the tenth one I've observed since Mama's death. Talking about that led on to this Father's Day being the second one without Daddy. Then... I found myself talking about Sam's death and his brother finding him, two days after his heart attack. And she told me about her sister finding her dad, two days after his heart attack. And then we were sharing the heartaches in our lives, the heartaches of knowing loved ones awaiting organ transplants.
Two things you cannot avoid: death and taxes. So many interpret that with respect to their own deaths. But I'm here to tell you, in unequivocal terms, that the "death" in the saying refers to those who leave this planet before you. Those deaths are a reminder that one's time of existence is a finite Quantity which should be filled with as much Quality of life as possible. Enjoy NOW those you hold dear.
Still, the situation could be a lot worse. I know family and friends who are benefiting from the government's social programs. Several are drawing Social Security, some are on disability or have been, some are drawing unemployment or have been, and quite a few are on the government-run health care programs of Medicare, Medicaid, or PeachCare. Several others I know are working for the city, county, or state government and so I like to think I'm helping pay their way in this world, too. Then there are those working at facilities which receive money from the state or federal government: hospitals, fire departments, universities, schools. Yes, indeed, those are MY tax dollars at work! So, don't be asking for a raise, 'cause I haven't seen such a thing in more than three years!
Then there's death. That topic reared its head tonight whilst enjoying an art show reception at Hospice Savannah this evening. A dear friend and I were enjoying the "Savannah Sightings" display, vibrant works featuring the trees of Savannah: oaks, pines, palms, and driftwood. Some of the pieces were especially beautiful to me and all were affordable. Where else could you find a framed, signed, original work of art for less than $400? The most expensive piece was still a good deal at $800.
So there we were, enjoying each other's company, fine art, and a nice glass of wine on a cool rainy evening. Nice! Then the talk turned more serious and I found myself talking about the approaching Mother's Day, which would mark the tenth one I've observed since Mama's death. Talking about that led on to this Father's Day being the second one without Daddy. Then... I found myself talking about Sam's death and his brother finding him, two days after his heart attack. And she told me about her sister finding her dad, two days after his heart attack. And then we were sharing the heartaches in our lives, the heartaches of knowing loved ones awaiting organ transplants.
Two things you cannot avoid: death and taxes. So many interpret that with respect to their own deaths. But I'm here to tell you, in unequivocal terms, that the "death" in the saying refers to those who leave this planet before you. Those deaths are a reminder that one's time of existence is a finite Quantity which should be filled with as much Quality of life as possible. Enjoy NOW those you hold dear.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
inspiration, deux
A while back, I was at a film festival with some friends. After the film, we were all helping to change the viewing area back into coffee shop seating, moving the couches and tables and two very different types of dining chairs.
So, there we are, moving chairs, and one of the guys says "No, don't put those chairs there, they need to match around the table."
And out of my mouth come the words "Why? The chairs in my dining room are two different colors and I have them alternating around the table in an aromatic configuration. The blue ones represent the single bonds and the green ones are the double bonds. You know, because the green ones have both blue and yellow in the color!"
Honestly, I could scarce believe it myself. I had no idea I was going to say that, no conscious effort on my part. Like everyone there, I was just as surprised when that bit of logic was emitted by my lips.
Perhaps the thought was germinating whilst I was teaching hydrocarbon nomenclature during the preceding days.
Perhaps.
Who knows how the brain draws connections between disparate topics?
But 'twas inspired, was it not?
So, there we are, moving chairs, and one of the guys says "No, don't put those chairs there, they need to match around the table."
And out of my mouth come the words "Why? The chairs in my dining room are two different colors and I have them alternating around the table in an aromatic configuration. The blue ones represent the single bonds and the green ones are the double bonds. You know, because the green ones have both blue and yellow in the color!"
Honestly, I could scarce believe it myself. I had no idea I was going to say that, no conscious effort on my part. Like everyone there, I was just as surprised when that bit of logic was emitted by my lips.
Perhaps the thought was germinating whilst I was teaching hydrocarbon nomenclature during the preceding days.
Perhaps.
Who knows how the brain draws connections between disparate topics?
But 'twas inspired, was it not?
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
inspiration
"When inspiration calls, you pick up the phone and give it directions to your house." So said Will I Am of the Black-Eyed Peas. Sounds like good advice, too. The trick is trying to sort out the calls from Inspiration from all the other calls you get.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
new paths, new ideas
There's a saying in support groups: If nothing changes, then nothing changes.
Lately, I find myself seeking change and that desire has been manifesting itself in my travels. Heretofore, my trips to Hiram have involved driving a stretch of road I have come to detest, to abhor, to loathe. This stretch of multi-lane highway between McDonough and Jonesboro, along I-75, begs for a catastrophic collision of automobiles. Every time I have driven this patch of madness, the traffic has gone from 80+ miles per hour to a screeching, all lanes, STOP. Every time. I have found it matters not whether I am traveling north or south, spring, summer, winter, or fall, good weather or sheeting rain. In addition, I have yet to find a time of day when the road is passable without this screeching, all lanes, STOP. Morning, midday, early afternoon, late afternoon, after nine in the evening. Absolutely insane.
The last time I went to Hiram, and drove through this patch of hell on earth, I resolved to find a new way. Accordingly, on my drive home, I continued on I-20 in an easterly direction rather than turning off onto I-285 South. What a nice surprise! Not only did I avoid the issue with McDonough and environs, I had a quite pleasant drive through Atlanta, with all lanes flowing smoothly. Yes, it was a Sunday afternoon, on a non-holiday weekend, so the scientist in me knew more experiments would need to be run, but this was a promising start.
I had looked at my Safe Driver Road Atlas prior to this quest, so I knew I wanted to exit at either GA-129 or GA-441 and I knew I wanted to stay on the roads marked "south" and "east." And so I did, having a nice little adventure, seeing bits of scenic Georgia I had never known. I chose exit 114, where both highways of interest were merged. I passed through Eatonton, with its Uncle Remus Museum, where I had to choose: 129 or 441? I knew naught of either, but didn't particularly want to drive to Milledgeville on this trip, so I selected GA-129. South, of course.
Good choice. The road bordered the Oconee National Forest, offering stunning views of valleys amid tree-draped, overlapping, hills. I should have pulled over to take a picture, but I have it firmly in the camera of my mind's eye. I have to wonder how much of these views will be blocked when the trees are fully clothed in their spring finery? No matter, I am sure the forest will still be beautiful and rich and calming.
I travel as far as Gray and find myself questioning the road signs. If GA-129 were still going south, then why was the road now facing the evening sun?? I surely did not want to travel back toward Atlanta! My trusty map being in the trunk - definite mistake - and me being unwilling to take a break from driving to fetch said map, I made a command decision to try a road less traveled. Off I turned onto County Road 18, proceeding easterly! And less traveled it certainly was. There were long stretches of up and down, sweetly curving, pavement on which I alone drove on that blue-sky afternoon, with my window open partway to catch the sweet breeze of my passage.
After a while, though, I began to question my impromptu decision to take this little road. Where were the signs for I-16? Just how far away WAS the interstate? After all, I did want to end up on I-16 again, as I had no quarrel with it. But where was it??? And about the time I was thinking I might want to stop and actually peruse my map, there it was: I-16 that-a-way, following County Road 96. Whew!
My relief turned to dismay once I actually regained the interstate. Mile marker 25?! Oh, no! I must have backtracked and lost time! I was apparently not very far outside Macon and had miles to go to reach Dublin. And yet, a calculation of the time remaining on my journey revealed that I had only added about 30 minutes to my trip. Success!!! I would study my atlas when I arrived home and would see just how well I had done, driving by the seat of my pants, so to speak.
And I found I had done pretty well, bolstering my confidence in myself as a navigator. I've mapped out some other routes to try for the next time I venture to Atlanta, or beyond, and look forward to testing those theories.
I also found that Macon is much further along on the path homeward than I had recalled. Sometimes, an idea gets set in one's mind, an idea with no truth to it, yet an idea which holds fast. My take on Macon is such an idea. In my mind, Macon is almost to Atlanta... when, in truth, the city is only about two-thirds of the distance there and lies some 70-odd miles to the southeast of the metropolis. I'm going to have to work on that mistaken belief which my mind holds so closely. Perhaps the best way to erase a lie is to keep the proof in front of one's eyes.
Lately, I find myself seeking change and that desire has been manifesting itself in my travels. Heretofore, my trips to Hiram have involved driving a stretch of road I have come to detest, to abhor, to loathe. This stretch of multi-lane highway between McDonough and Jonesboro, along I-75, begs for a catastrophic collision of automobiles. Every time I have driven this patch of madness, the traffic has gone from 80+ miles per hour to a screeching, all lanes, STOP. Every time. I have found it matters not whether I am traveling north or south, spring, summer, winter, or fall, good weather or sheeting rain. In addition, I have yet to find a time of day when the road is passable without this screeching, all lanes, STOP. Morning, midday, early afternoon, late afternoon, after nine in the evening. Absolutely insane.
The last time I went to Hiram, and drove through this patch of hell on earth, I resolved to find a new way. Accordingly, on my drive home, I continued on I-20 in an easterly direction rather than turning off onto I-285 South. What a nice surprise! Not only did I avoid the issue with McDonough and environs, I had a quite pleasant drive through Atlanta, with all lanes flowing smoothly. Yes, it was a Sunday afternoon, on a non-holiday weekend, so the scientist in me knew more experiments would need to be run, but this was a promising start.
I had looked at my Safe Driver Road Atlas prior to this quest, so I knew I wanted to exit at either GA-129 or GA-441 and I knew I wanted to stay on the roads marked "south" and "east." And so I did, having a nice little adventure, seeing bits of scenic Georgia I had never known. I chose exit 114, where both highways of interest were merged. I passed through Eatonton, with its Uncle Remus Museum, where I had to choose: 129 or 441? I knew naught of either, but didn't particularly want to drive to Milledgeville on this trip, so I selected GA-129. South, of course.
Good choice. The road bordered the Oconee National Forest, offering stunning views of valleys amid tree-draped, overlapping, hills. I should have pulled over to take a picture, but I have it firmly in the camera of my mind's eye. I have to wonder how much of these views will be blocked when the trees are fully clothed in their spring finery? No matter, I am sure the forest will still be beautiful and rich and calming.
I travel as far as Gray and find myself questioning the road signs. If GA-129 were still going south, then why was the road now facing the evening sun?? I surely did not want to travel back toward Atlanta! My trusty map being in the trunk - definite mistake - and me being unwilling to take a break from driving to fetch said map, I made a command decision to try a road less traveled. Off I turned onto County Road 18, proceeding easterly! And less traveled it certainly was. There were long stretches of up and down, sweetly curving, pavement on which I alone drove on that blue-sky afternoon, with my window open partway to catch the sweet breeze of my passage.
After a while, though, I began to question my impromptu decision to take this little road. Where were the signs for I-16? Just how far away WAS the interstate? After all, I did want to end up on I-16 again, as I had no quarrel with it. But where was it??? And about the time I was thinking I might want to stop and actually peruse my map, there it was: I-16 that-a-way, following County Road 96. Whew!
My relief turned to dismay once I actually regained the interstate. Mile marker 25?! Oh, no! I must have backtracked and lost time! I was apparently not very far outside Macon and had miles to go to reach Dublin. And yet, a calculation of the time remaining on my journey revealed that I had only added about 30 minutes to my trip. Success!!! I would study my atlas when I arrived home and would see just how well I had done, driving by the seat of my pants, so to speak.
And I found I had done pretty well, bolstering my confidence in myself as a navigator. I've mapped out some other routes to try for the next time I venture to Atlanta, or beyond, and look forward to testing those theories.
I also found that Macon is much further along on the path homeward than I had recalled. Sometimes, an idea gets set in one's mind, an idea with no truth to it, yet an idea which holds fast. My take on Macon is such an idea. In my mind, Macon is almost to Atlanta... when, in truth, the city is only about two-thirds of the distance there and lies some 70-odd miles to the southeast of the metropolis. I'm going to have to work on that mistaken belief which my mind holds so closely. Perhaps the best way to erase a lie is to keep the proof in front of one's eyes.
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