new endeavors

I love writing and the visual arts, but I have decided to branch out. I have decided to try my hand at music.

Trying new things is necessary. It's what keeps us alert and alive. It feeds the part of us that is curious and likes to see what life can be all about. I want to be alert and alive. I am curious. I do want to see what life can be all about. This is a part of myself I haven't really explored until now.

For those of you who don't know, music runs in my family. No, not the tone deaf side of the family --the other side. My grandmother was a professional musician, playing harp and cello. My father plays bass, piano, organ, and tuba and sings. It was inevitable that a part of me would try to overcome the tone deaf side and make something beautiful for the ears.

I have decided to ease my way into music: a dance remix. That seems to be the way to go, right? Someone else does all the heavy lifting of writing and instrumentation, and I just play with it a bit on my computer. So that's what I've tried ...

John Cage's 4'33" is a favorite. The instrumentation is simple enough that I could grasp it as a novice, and it sounds great! Why not make it a dance track? I'm surprised no one thought of it earlier!

So here it is: my new endeavor. 4'33" (Bookbinder Mix). I hope you enjoy it. I believe it's up to my newly exacting standards (something slightly higher than my caterwauling in the shower but slightly below Mozart). 

Please click on the arrow below and strap on your dancing shoes! And thank you for listening.

Dear Writers, Why Do We Write?: The Revenge

" ...Maybe writing is a sort of really cheap drug that doesn’t actually get you high." -Dave Koster

Last night, a few of us on Twitter were trying to figure out what drives people to Write (capital W because everyone literate writes, but Writing is a far different animal). 

Dave Koster came up with several excellent observations last night and collected them in his blog post, "Dear Writers, Why Do We Write?"

I'm carrying on the tradition tonight with a not-exactly-a-response, not-exactly-a-sequel blog post for two reasons: it's a great question; I'd like to add to the canon; and I need something to write about tonight. Yes, I know. I write. I don't math.

There is something very special about having an idea and bringing it into the world. There is something very special about having an idea, full stop. And how do we share these things? We can share in different ways, but I talk about them.

That's what writing is for me: talking about ideas. Sometimes, the idea is about sounds and phrases. That's poetry. Sometimes, the idea is about people and their experiences. That's stories. Writing is giving the poetry and stories a physical form. It's still talking, though --one person giving their words to another person, with the hope the other person will understand and make the words mean even more.

Writing also helps me process the world. Kind of like Dave Koster's cheap drug, I need something to filter the world around me because, sometimes, it's too hard and complicated. There's a lot I don't understand. I try to. I want to. But I don't. That's when I turn to writing. It doesn't get me high --Dave's right. It makes things clearer or at least less fuzzy.   

And writing is cheap. Cheap? Heck, writing is free! A lot less expensive than painting, I'll tell you that.

So enjoy your cheap drug, if you're a writer. I'd love to hear why other people write. I'd love the sequel to this sequel ("Dear Writers, Why Do We Write? III"!). A request: make it closer to Dave's original post with actual life experiences. I've gone and gotten philosophical without adding personal details. Telling and not showing --the kiss of death in writing. 

Guess I should start on the follow-up post now ... 

"Dear Editors, Why Do We Edit?"

killing people on sunday nights with mom

We are somewhere in Virginia in the 1980s. The browns and oranges of the 1970s still linger in the house, but they are starting to be replaced. There is a large television set in the living room, to the right of the brick fireplace. Like many families of the time, we cluster around it and wait for our favorite shows. 

(None of this on-demand stuff, you little whippersnappers. If a show comes on on Sunday night, you watch it Sunday night or you have to wait for reruns in a couple of months --if ever.)

Sunday nights belong to my mother. The television set belongs to her. You're welcome to watch, of course, but shush.

Sunday nights are for killing people.

My mother is passing down a love of hers that persists to this day: a love for the puzzles that are people and crime. On Sunday nights, it is the program Mystery! on PBS (later to be supplemented with Murder She Wrote on CBS) that provides the vehicle. My mother has a dark sense of humor and doesn't mind the bloodshed. Agatha Christie is revered in our household, and whenever a new series based on her books comes on Mystery!, we look forward to it with an anticipation normally reserved for major gift-giving holidays.

In the early 1980s, we watch Tommy and Tuppence and Miss Marple. Beginning in the late 1980s, we watch Poirot.

While we wait for Sunday nights and new programs, Mom introduces me to the books that go along with the series. Her mother (my grandmother) has a bunch of old Agatha Christie paperbacks with illustrated covers that smell like dust. I discover there are other books that don't have recurring characters, like And Then There Were None and The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, that fascinate me, and my mother encourages this by discussing them. 

While we wait for Sunday nights and new programs, my mother plans her own murders. Not real ones. Don't worry.

My mother has an interesting habit of thinking about clever ways to kill people (never gruesome --always quick and clean) and noticing places. She thinks nothing of saying, aloud, "That would be a great place to find a dead body." 

My mother works at a job with the phone company during the week. She is told things at work like, "We don't pay you to think." She has a degree in Microbiology, but she works at the phone company, which allows her to raise her family with my dad. She bides her time. 

Fast forward to the present: The 1980s have faded and peeled away like old wallpaper. We kids have left, and my parents have moved houses a couple of times. My mom retires. 

Now, she gets to write her own books. She has excuses to kill people in public. She has a reason to plan her own capers. I am left with the unfortunate habit of solving plot twists too quickly (The Usual Suspects? I figured it out within 10 minutes).

They are odd gifts we get from our mothers, but I wouldn't trade the gift of killing people on Sunday nights with my mother for anything.  She gave me logic and a love of intrigue and the persistence of dreams.

Thanks, Mom.

the secret is in the sauce

Your mission, should you choose to accept it: Write about the secret sauce. 

• How is it made?
• What is it made from? 
• Who holds the secret of the recipe?
• Who makes it?
• Is anyone else trying to find out the secret? If so, why?
• Does it have any special properties?
• What does it taste like?
• Under what circumstances is it eaten? On what foods? 

If you are a writer, you are familiar with writing prompts, and I hope you have fun with this one. 

If you are not a writer, why not give it a try anyway? 

I am posting this because, once again, world events are becoming overwhelming (at least to me, so I assume they may be to others). Coming up with silly little stories, especially if you tell them with other people, can be a fun distraction. Respite is important, and this is one way to get it: unleash the secret sauce!

And have a great evening.

judge one, judge all

There are many people in my 'categories' I have a lot in common with. There are many people I don't, though. 

Similarly, I have little in common with some people from different 'categories' (think race, gender, age, size, ...). Some of them, I do, though.

If you were to put me in the box of white woman, early 40s, size 6, living in the Pacific Northwest of the US, you would expect me to be a certain way. But I'm not big on boxes.

When bad things happen --and they will, just as good things and neutral things will happen --there may be people attached. Sometimes, it's accidental. Sometimes, it's on purpose. Regardless, the person or people responsible are the ones who are responsible, not the entire group.

Can you see how it happened? Yes. You can usually trace things back, if you're willing to take the time. Can it be prevented? Maybe. Again, if you're willing to take the time.

Blaming entire groups for anything works in the short term because you have closed yourself off from everything: it's hard to get hurt when no one can get near. But that's no way to live, and in the long term, it causes damage.

I prefer to take each person as they come, an amalgamation of parts that makes them uniquely them. Each one has strengths. Each one has challenges. Does this mean I don't consider individuals to be threatening? Sure I do, but it's a case-by-case thing. A label isn't going to be the thing that does it.

I try to judge a person by their actions, how they treat themselves, how they treat me, and how they treat others.

With events today, I certainly judge the man who attacked the Parliament in the UK. I do not judge Men. I do not judge Blacks. I do not judge Muslims. I judge one man who had a chance to do the right thing, and he turned away from that. He's not here to judge anyhow.

Please think before you make judgments about groups based on the actions of a few.

Thoughts with the families of all who were lost and with the injured.  

breathing

Inhale.

The sun slides through white blinds towards a thankful floor.

Exhale.

The smell of fresh coffee.

Inhale.

Ella Fitzgerald sings slowly with a swing band.

Exhale.

A soft cushion.

Inhale.

Ruffled blond hair on a precious head. He looks content.

Exhale.

A coverlet highlighted in turquoise, made long ago --a past success.

Inhale.

Lungs fill with cool air.

Exhale.

Lungs release hot breaths.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Repeat.

Have a wonderful day.

wish list

You will never guess what happened! I mean, besides beginning this blog post. It'd be easy to guess that. Something else ...

I found a genie in a bottle!

It didn't happen at all like it does in the fairy tales. There was none of this polishing up a nice bronze tea set from the market stuff. That would have been preferable. No, I found this genie literally in a bottle. 

I found him at the bottom of a bottle of gin. 

He was far too messed up to figure out how to get out by himself. He was hollering and fussing, and I could see him through the clear glass down there, alternately shaking his little genie fist and sobbing uncontrollable genie tears. He was quite pathetic. I felt bad for him.

"Hey, down there, little genie," I called. My voice whistled across the top of the bottle. "You okay?"

"What the hell do you think?" he called back. Clearly the gin was making the genie belligerent.

"Do you need help?" I asked, ignoring his tone. 

"I repeat: What. The. Hell. Do. You. Think?"

"I think no, not with that tone ..."

"I'm sorry!" he cried. "It's miserable down here! I was enjoying my gin, and then I was enjoying my gin a little too much, and then there was no more gin to enjoy. Now, it's just me and this stupid empty bottle. I miss the gin. We had a relationship ..."

"Can't help you with the gin, but maybe I can help get you out?"

"Would you?" He wiped his genie cheeks and his genie nose with his blousy genie shirt. Why do all genies dress like hippies?

I nodded. "Of course. Do I get anything for helping you out? I'd do it anyway, but I heard genies give you wishes or something. Figured it can't hurt to ask."

"Sure. Why not? One of these days, I wish someone would do it out of the goodness of their heart --yes, I fall into gin bottles a lot --but I guess if you're going to fall into gin bottles a lot, you have to be willing to grant a few wishes to keep people from walking away, shaking their heads. I'll give you ...three wishes sound good?" he offered, holding up four fingers and squinting at them.

"Sounds great! That's three more wishes than I had this morning!"

That's my story. I found a genie. But now, I need to know: what three things should I wish for?

Any ideas? Gin genie's waiting ... 

hey, good-looking!

Yeah, I'm talking to you! Yeah, you! Hey ...

Why don't you come on over here and let's chat for a bit. Just you and me and the rest of the Internet ...

Can you please define 'attractive' for me? I find it a very confusing concept. It seems like a lot of people base that on physical attractiveness, or good looks. It's very confusing. "Could you help me figure it out?" she asks, twirling her hair on her finger.

Looks are a very small part of 'attractive' for me. I called you 'good-looking' because I noticed what you're interested in, heard you say some very intelligent things, felt the lightness of laughter when you made a joke that was clever, ... 

If I am around someone enough, all I can see are the physical parts that meet some standard of beauty (I'll be using 'beauty' for everyone because it's about symmetry, balance and proportion), if you have a great personality --and you do. I see your smile. I notice the twinkle in your eye. I'll think, "Wow, what great ankles!" Not kidding --if that's what you have, that's what I will see. And I will take in the rest and think the whole package is beautiful because it is you.

If I'm around someone and they have 'good looks' (which I'll call youth, bone structure, symmetry, balance and proportion), but it is immediately apparent something's off about his or her personality, all I can see is what's off physically, even if it's ever so slight, or I find them boring. That's not you, so don't worry. 

I'm always amazed at how hung up on physical appearance people can get. It's everywhere, it seems. Even I get hung up my own physical appearance sometimes, and I know better than to do that because I have little to no control over things like my height, my body type, my age, my gender, or my health status. Maybe I shouldn't have called you 'good-looking'. Maybe I should have told you what I really find attractive about you?

You are attractive to me because of the following:

• Intelligence and curiosity
• Humor
• Kindness
• Creativity
• Bravery (especially if you're naturally apprehensive)

And those things change very little over time, thank goodness, except maybe to become more pronounced. Always looking ahead, that's me. Let me tell you, you are looking good ahead!  

When it comes to looks, you have little control over that. You are the size you are. You are the age you are. You are the height you are. You have the color eyes you have. You have whatever medical conditions you have. Some of that you can't change --you were born with it. Some of that will change, but you can't control it. So let worrying about those things go.

And concentrate on what really makes you good looking to people who matter: the things inside.   

giving up

"What are you giving up for Lent?" A popular question for Ash Wednesday.

I have decided to give something up again this year. Usually, I give up chocolate, but at some point, I either 1) miss that something had chocolate in it and accidentally eat it and feel horrible, or 2) get really cranky and borderline homicidal and only chocolate will soothe the savage beast. This year, I have decided on something different (which is personal, so I won't tell you what it is --it's not about trying to impress you anyhow).

So here's the obvious question: Am I religious?

Here's the less obvious answer: No, not at all.

Then why celebrate Lent? George Mallory's explanation for climbing Mount Everest is as good a response as any: "Because it's there."

Why engage in a religious obligation when you aren't religious? It's not so much the religious aspect of it that appeals to me; it's the giving up. 

It's the doing without. 

It's the being thoughtful and deliberate.

In my limited experience, things given up for Lent fall into two categories: things we want, and things we don't want. 

I'll put chocolate in the first category. Do I want chocolate? Yes, please. Oh yeah. Giving it up for a period of time makes you enjoy it more when you have it again. Imagine how much you love chocolate (if you don't love chocolate, stop reading this blog because there is no way we have anything in common). You say you love it, but you'll never truly know how much until you set it free for six weeks. You will be weeping happy tears when you are reunited --believe me on this because I've been there.

In the second category, I'll place my Bad Habit that I'm going to work on this year. I don't want to do it, but I do it without thinking. When I don't do it, I notice because it's a compulsive thing. I have to do it. I want to do it. But it is a Bad Habit. I shouldn't do it, and intellectually, I know that.  This Lent experience will force me to catch myself and find substitute behaviors that won't be as harmful to me (or harmful to me at all!) in the long run.

All of this is well and good, but why Lent? Why not just do it whenever? 

Because Lent happens once a year around the same time, so it's a tradition. Because my family are all practicing Christians, and I was raised with it, so it is familiar. Because there are a bunch of people doing the same thing at the same time, and that's a nice feeling, doing things with other people. And because I don't hate religion. It has a lot of problems, but I also recognize that it helps a lot of people, too, and like most tools, it's all in how you use it.

Religious celebrations from other religions (Ramadan springs to mind) would work just as well. Try any that appeal to you. One of these years, I might try fasting. Or not. Anyway, giving up is a good idea every once in a while to help you be more mindful of what you have and what you do.

So, good luck to my Christian friends as they abstain from things during the Lenten season. I'm with you in spirit.