pomegranate

Way Too Much Work

on hiatus for probably two weeks, will write if windows open.

Just a quick Lightening Round

I'm behind in my work, and really shouldn't be here, but here's a couple of thoughts:

1)  I really, really like Pittsburgh. 

2)  Yesterday, I think a llama spit at me.  There was some question at the time whether it was a sneeze or a spit, but there was question at the time whether llamas actually spit or whether it was just camels.  Since then I've Googled llama and spitting, and find out that they do indeed do it, and one of the reasons is when people "pester" them.  But he was my buddy.  I think he's a he.  I even have a pet name for him, Mr. Bad Ass, because he acts like a bad ass, his ears back, and he'll look at us while we're on our walk, and then stare resolutely away in the opposite direction as if he never saw us at all, and I have just always found him to be so endearing.  I even have a photo of him that my friend took where I believe he strikes a honest to god pose.  But yesterday he was closer to the fence than usual.  Yesterday, we were with a group of people.  And yesterday, I made the mistake of calling him "Sweetie" and then he lifted up his head and sneezed or spit, probably spit, which missed me, but he made his point.  I gave him his space, although my cat loves it when I call her "Sweetie," and I believe I was addressing correctly the inner sweetie of Mr. Bad Ass, but perhaps I should in the future just do that privately in my head or I have to say it out loud not in front of so many people and not when we're so close to each other.  So, that's my lesson learned.  I still really like Mr. Bad Ass.

3) I'm in the midst of Gilmoredom, Season 5, and I thought I would hate Luke and Lorelai, and I'm thoroughly charmed.  Who knew?

4)  I'm reading "Lonesome Dove," which will probably take me four months to complete, and it will be a happy time.

now back to work.

On the Nature of Writing and the Golden Globes

I haven't been writing here this week, and there are probably more reasons than this, but here's two:

1)  I have a lot of work.

2)  I'm still in the midst of what is perhaps the age old question: What is it all about?  Reading all the stories about the memoirs that are really fiction, thinking about what in real life is shareable from my point of view and then what would a reader want to know, and then also seeing "Capote" this week, which boasted in my and many other people's opinion, a wonderful performance by Philip Seymour Horrman, but in the end, I just felt cynical.  Was there something I was supposed to learn from this movie?  IS the idea that a writer turns out to be narcissistic big news?

And I have to say that I can think among the people I know who are creative people and I know many who I would consider balanced, loving, admirable folk.  So, it can be done.  And that's where I aspire to be ,when I aspire to be creative.  But lately, I've just wanted to be better at business.  And maybe that's just a phase.  But I'm just more interested in creating good product, turning it on time, keeping good records, and having good relationships with my clients.  That's where my attention seems to turn these days.

But the other day, I found myself watching the Golden Globes.  Not watching it like sitting on the couch and staring at the screen, but watching it like I'll dust in the festivities and vacuum during the commercials and now I'll chop vegetables for a spaghetti sauce.  Oh, hey, time to wash some dishes kind of a thing. 

And I had some thoughts throughout. Here's one.  I've been watching Homicide: Life on the Streets lately, a show that began in the early 90's, and I have to say that I'm nostalgic for actors that looked like real people.  Nowadays, with the exception of a few, they all look cyber gorgeous.  It can't be good for them or for us, I think, to devote the time and resources to artificially maintain themselves, to create this illusion of seemingly effortless visual perfection. I was so happy to hear George Clooney's response to his red carpet question, "What was your dieting program to lose the weight from "Syriana"?"  "I went on the dieting program of eating less."

The red carpet itself was a strange fascination, one that I almost turned off, as its dual purpose seemed to be to fawn oven an actor and then to try to upset the actor's equilibrium.  Isaac Mizrahi took on the role of chief antagonist.  As an out gay man, he seemed to have some kind of permission to comment on the actresses' bodies, to ask them about their waxing habits, if they were wearing underwear, to look down their dress, to feel their breasts.  It was one of those occasions when I'd think, "Did I really hear that?  Did I really see that?"  He would ask women what was in their purse.  He would ask people how long they took to get ready (often the answer was several hours), what they ate that day (someone actually ate carbs, another person just a bite of a chocolate croissant.) 

During the ceremonies, the moments where people felt real were few and far between.  Drew Barrymore in an ill chosen dress, one where you'd tactfully tell a friend to go look in the closet and try again, Joaquin Phoenix radiating high emotion, Sandra Oh having some difficulty  navigating her way through the crowd to the podium, Larry McMurtry gleefully announcing that he still used a typewriter (and the real world voice in my head says, "Well, who scans it for you, or who types it into the computer for you so that you can really negotiate in this world?").  It was a jumble of moments like these, it was like having baseball on in the background while performing tasks, but these people were in evening wear.  It was a silly, yet oddly interesting thing to watch.

Deep in Sawdust

I'm thoroughly consumed with sawdust -- which is my word for when I have an abundance of jobs to do, which I now do.  So, I'm happy and consumed with sawdust.   So, I've been neglecting my blogs, because often it seems sawdust and creativity don't mix.

But here are two stories that I heard last week that stayed with me: One was on Fresh Air.  In the interview, Dion talked of being on tour with Buddy Holly and Richie Valens, and getting to be friends with them.  And when Holly chartered that plane and asked Dion if he wanted to go in on it, Dion said that Buddy Holly told him it would be $36, and Dion immediately, resolutely said no.  All the while he was growing up, his parents had argued about the rent money, which had happened to be $36.  The minute he heard that number, Dion knew he had to refuse.

A friend told me of  a study that McDonald's had conducted where they had asked people what they would like McDonald's to include on their menu.  All these people said that they wanted fresh salads.  So, McDonalds added that to the menu, and the people continued to order hamburgers.

I hope you're having a happy week.  Hopefully more in this space and in my other blogs soon.

Back at the Vet

Last week, I discovered my cat had worms, again.  I found pellets in her bedding, made the call to the vet, got her into her case, the Clipper 2, and we drove off to the vet where a client called my cellphone as we drove and she asked me how I was, and I told her I was fine, but my cat had worms, and Jewel meowed as if to punctuate the point, and then we had to hang up, because we had reached a tunnel, and then we hit another tunnel, and then we lost radio reception, and I introduced Jewel to the sophisicated sounds of my Bill Evans tape, and then we were back at the vet's again.

And this time, Jewel tried a new trick.  When I put the Clipper on the table and opened the door to let her out, she positioned herself so that she was facing the other way, and when I tried to lift her, she did that cat thing where all of a sudden, they feel 10 times heavier.  I thought it was quite ingenious.  And I said to her, "Jewel, I thought we had an agreement.  I thought at the vet, you were going to play the role of the perfect cat."  And then she relented and let me lift her out.

We had a different tech this day.  A young woman wearing tie dye and her hair were various shades of color never found in the natural world.  And I put Jewel on the scale and she told me that she thought that the Egyptians had it right, that all cats were truly gods.  She told me that she had a bumper sticker on her car where she had converted the Darwinian fish symbol into the shape of a cat.  I told her I understood.  Then she petted my cat, "Because I just had to," she said, "She's so beautiful."  Jewel let herself be lifted off the scale and leaned against me.

Then the vet came in and did more poking and prodding.  He told me my cat had a beautiful coat, and that she probably got the worms, because she is meticulous.  "If she just swallowed one flea," he said, "that could do it."  Then he told me the story of the scientist who discovered the antidote for worms by giving worms to herself.

"Now, that's dedication to your work," I said and he laughed.

They treat us well there.  They always give us a friends and family discount.  They are always extravagant in their praise, although well earned, to my cat.  It's always a nice place to go.

On Memories

I was talking to a friend this morning about memories. Specficially false memories, not the serious "my uncle molested me" variety,b ut just things of everyday life. For example, I like to read before I go to sleep at night. If I'm packing a bag for a sleepaway, the first thing I put in the bag is books. Even if I'm just going to be gone for a night, I'll usually put in two, just in case I have insomnia. I want to make sure I have books. So, the other night my friend told me he didn't pack a book. It astounded me. But I told him he could have one of mine, if he wanted, and I told him what I had brought, and he chose one, and then I went to my case, and there was only the other one there. The weirdest thing was I have this memory of packing them both, but I really didn't. Then the other day, I was doing computer stuff, and a question arose re: the monitor. I was talking to my friend about it over the phone, and he said that I'd have to check the manual. Huh. I had no idea where the manual was. But I nad a sneaking suspicion, this vague yet clear memory of giving the monitor box to Jewel to play in and finding some random, crappy pieces of paper in there with diagrams and such and in my memory, Jewel has already chewed on them a bit, and I just think, "I'm never going to need those" and throw them out. I had this image in my brain accompanied with some remorse of my actions, but I still looked for the manual. There wasn't many places to look. So, I looked in three, couldn't find it, and had begun the process of looking ont eh brand Web site for documentation and tech support, when my eye caught a glimpse of a binder where I keep computer documents. It was the most logical place to look, and the one that I had almost forgot. Sure enough, it was there. It was the strangest thing though, both of the memories felt stronger to me than what was actually true and real.

More Sleep Stuff

I never realized before how much one's identity, at least my own, can be defined by sleep. On Monday, which was a holiday here, although I don't really understand these Monday holidays after holidays that are based on actual dates, but anyway, on the morning of the Monday holiday, my mother called me.  It was a little after 9 o'clock.  Her first words to me were, "How do I turn down the volume on my cellphone?" 

This made me smile.  In my family, I'm asked questions like this.  In any other of the tribes I know, I would be the one calling someone else to ask the question.  So, I said to my mother, "I didn't know you had a cellphone." She said she had gotten one several months ago.  I said she would most likely need to go to the menu and find settings and sounds.  And then she said, "Oh, I think I got it," and I took a sip of coffee and t hen told her that I had just gotten up, that I was just sitting down to my first cup of coffee.. And she said, "That's not like you." And I said, "I know.  I do this now."

It's one of the resolutions I made to myself way before New Year's.  It was a decision borne out of necessity, not one that I always like, because it takes away things that I took pride in.  Like getting up really early and being productive.  Like getting up early and reading all the newspapers online.  Like getting up early and taking a walk and seeing people practice Tai-Ching and Chi-Kung by the water, and everything feels quiet and still and people say good morning to you, because there's so few of us up. I don't do any of that any more.

Now I don't set an alarm.  I get up when I wake up naturally and it turns out that natural for me is normal.  It's mundane.  It's average.  It means that I don't get to wake up and watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer in the morning much, and I really liked eating breakfast to "Buffy."  But when it all comes down to it,  it turns out I'm not one of those special people who doesn't need much sleep.  It turns out I need about eight hours or else I have to take a nap in the afternoon.  And I really have to.  I was going to go to the movies last Friday afternoon with a friend I hadn't seen for a while and I had to cancel, because I was tired, and sleep is a priority. It's one of the strangest priorities that I can imagine.  Not writing a novel, not making the big bucks, not world peace.  Adequate sleep.

But sometimes it makes me cheerful. Like New Year's night, we stayed at a Ramada Limited, that lived up to that second word.  We had gone to see comedy in San Jose, a place apparently known for its lack of parking, and so we had booked rooms, sight unseen, at this known chain, which turned out to be a place of noise, where we were up at all hours, laughing  and speculating on what illegal activities were now taking place.  Often, it kind of sounded like they were performing "Riverdance" right above our heads.  At 3 o'clock in the morning, when you're not on the ground floor, that should earn you some type of citation.  But it just seemed funny to me now, because I knew that I had a big nap in the my future, and that was something I now can look forward to.

On the Whole Writer Thing

The other night, A friend told others about my writing credentials.

It feels awful just typing those two words, but he told them that I had a masters in creative writing, and then they all turned to look at me with these open, questioning faces.  So, I didn't mention my blogs.  Too immediate, too something that they could actually look up.   I told them that I had also taught creative writing.  It seemed like the best of those automatic responses like the doctor's hammer hits your knee and you kick.  And they kept looking at me, and so then I told them that when I attended grad school, I had a part time personal assistant job where I had the wrong temperament.  If you're a personal assistant, part of the whole deal is that you do a wide variety of errands for someone, and I just have never liked doing that, even when I like my employer, and I had a great employer.  But the first day on the job, my boss did hand me a box of tapes and said, "Can you do something with these?"  And I said, "I think I can," and that started my career as a transcriptionist.  Fortunately, it turned out to be a big part of this job, and it paid my way through graduate school and the years beyond.  I'm still a transcriptionist to this day, and it's a much less glamorous job than being a writer, but there's something meat and potatoes about it that I understand.

Part of it is a lot of writers make me cringe.  They talk about their characters and creating in this elevated tone, as if they've invented penicillin, and I just want to run out of the room screaming.  There was one such person on "Car Talk" the morning that I had this evening conversation with my friends.  The woman said she was a writer and she wanted her character to have certain car skills and she thought the Car Talk guys could help her figure them out. One of them told her his son wanted to be a writer.  "He works at Starbucks," he told her. "And you?"

I told that story to my friends, too, and the subject then changed.

Today, on this holiday, I thought about writing more, but spent the bulk of the day researching products that would help me become a better transcriptionist.  On this holiday, where it rained until it didn't, and then I walked and wondered if there would ever come a time when I would admit to writing with comfort and ease.

Where Were you When the Lights Went Out?

This weekend, I experienced two power outages -- one just of cable on Friday night for about an hour.  and then another systemic outage Saturday from 9:45 in the morning until about 1:30.  I knew it had happened because it crashed my computer.  And I thought, "Well, okay, it is storming. It won't be for long.  I'll just go about and do other errands of the day."

I opened the door and realized that the halls were in complete darkness.  I then realized that although I knew I had flashlights, I had no idea where they were.  I remembered then that a friend had given me a little portable light and I took that out wtih me.  No elevator today, I thought, and then walking down the stairs I wondered if I would be able to get my car out. We have a parking garage with gates that open through the use of cards.  I got in my car, drove to the gate, and found several people standing by the gate and other cars idling nearby.  I went to the other gate and backed up when I saw the line going nowhere. One of my errands was to mail some letters. The mailbox was a block away.  So, I said hello to my neighbors and did that. 

When I came back, they asked me if I ahd talked to management. I told them I had gotten into an argument with them a few weeks ago.  I didn't tell them what it was about -- that they had signed for a package and then not held on to it.  Why would anyone sign for a package and then give it back to the UPS person?  But that's what they had done, and since it had been a Christmas present for someone else, it seemed doubly frustrating.  But it was eventually worked out, and we had gotten back in our good graces, and I didn't want to be the one to make waves again so soon. There were some men by the gate reminding me of my friends.  They were discussing how to dismantle it so we could all get out.  Someone else volunteered to talk to management.  In 15 minutes or so, the maintenance guy came and overrode the gate's system, and the door opened, while we all cheered, and hastened to our cars to co tinue our lives.

I went and did my errands, many of them around town. "Did you have  a power outage?" I asked and they shook their heads no.  The only other example I could find was the traffic light near was out when I left.  When I came back, it was functioning, which seemed to me to be a good sign, but it turned out that the power was still not on.  It didn't come back on again for another hour or so, and when it did, I looked at electricity in completely different way.  I hope  to continue to appreciate it.