I sit at the computer to do something. I notice something else to do. I do that. I see something else I could do. I do that. And then another thing. And yet something else. And pretty soon it's an hour or three later and I'm no closer to doing whatever I was meaning to do than I was before I thought of it. I'm lost in the computer. Which is not a place. The internet is not a place. A web site is not a place. A blog, whether it's my blog or someone else's blog, is not a place either. And Snood is definitely not a place.
There was a time that I remember when I would go places. Places with names. Streets. Numbers. Highways. Roads. Walks. Mountains. Rivers. Hills. States. Countries. Museums. Zoos. Parks. Tours. And everything was different. Even from one state to the next, things were different--brands and styles and what you call a carbonated beverage and what you call a sandwich on a long roll. And Canada was foreign and Mexico was very foreign and London and Paris and Prague and Budapest were all really really foreign.
Once upon a time it was brave and challenging and adventurous to go places. Now it's all the same. Malls and standardization of signage and currency and everyone speaks English everywhere and somehow a Mercedes looks like a Toyota and it's all the same. Somebody must have realized that people like comfort and familiarity and promptly took all the adventure out of life. I even know how many calories something has before I eat it. And all the ingredients. In case of an allergy, I have to read all the labels. And take medicine to prevent the allergy. And take another medicine to lower blood pressure. And another to reduce anxiety. And there's something to stabilize your mood and something else to lift your mood. And something to help you sleep and something to help you wake up.
What happened? I don't want to leave my computer where I can safely wander from screen to screen and site to site and never hear music I don't choose for myself and never see a picture of anything unfamiliar or uncomfortable and never click on the link if I'm not sure I want to know what's happening.
The U.S. Open is going on, which is one of my favorite things . . . tennis . . . I love to watch tennis . . . I live about as close as is possible to the tournament without moving to Queens and I have been watching the Open all my life. But I've only been there once. In prior years I watched all the coverage I could on television. ESPN2 or whatever. This year, I'm watching coverage on a web site from my desk at work or my desk at home. I'm watching scores mount by looking at a screen every now and again. What is going on? Perhaps I'm exercising my imagination . . . I read the score; I picture the point; I see the players; I know the strategies. Maybe this is a higher level of tennis involvement.
This weekend I'm going to see a live college football game. I can't remember the last time I did that. I may have actually been in college at the time (Hint: Reagan was in his first term when I graduated). I will let you know if it's in a place.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Friday, August 19, 2011
Morose and Taciturn
I'm getting morose and taciturn. Look it up if you have to. And if the phrase sounds familiar, and you don't know my family story, you can check the literary origin. But trust me when I say, if ever I've said that I'm morose and taciturn, it was always a joke.
The joke started when my eldest--who is okay, by the way, that I mention her in my writing so long as I don't reveal her true identity, so we'll just call her Clark Kent for our purposes--anyway, Clark was a wee tot when her father began to say to her, when accused of being a silly dad, that he was not silly but "morose and taciturn." I'm not sure where he picked up the phrase, although perhaps I'll reveal its roots in English literature later in this post, depending on my mood.
Well, back to Clark. When she made her way, as we all do, to kindergarten, she participated in an exercise of writing her own stories. She was too little to actually write an entire story by hand, but the parent volunteers would swing through and take dictation for the kids, who then would illustrate the stories. At parent-teacher conferences, the story books would be trotted out (an apt phrase in this case as I may or may not later reveal) as evidence of the brilliance of the beloved child and the dedication of the clever instructor to guide them through this task at such an early age. When it was our turn, the teacher looked at us suspiciously, and asked Clark's father to perform a dramatic reading of Clark's composition. It went something like this: I like to play horsie with my Dad. I ride on his back. He says the horse's name is Old Glue. I tell him he is silly, but he says he's morose and taciturn. The illustrations were not spectacular. Clark would not have a future in oil painting. But the teacher was very unhappy that she had to look up words that her kindergarten pupil had written. A new experience for her clearly. Clark was nothing if not precocious.
But to my point . . . in my family, being morose and taciturn* was so far from any of our natures that it was always used as a joke. So imagine my surprise when it was the phrase that popped into my head to describe how I'm doing when queried by an old friend. I didn't say it out loud. It's a little pretentious for common conversation (I used to be precocious when I was younger, but at my present age, the best I can hope for is pretentious). I said something like, "okay" and then burst into tears, which may have given my old friend a bit of a shock. I found myself being myself and then being overtaken by moroseness and taciturnity. I may have just made up those words, but I have a masters degree that allows me some leeway in this regard.
Well, that's my point. I am morose and taciturn. Really and actually. And I totally meant for this blogging thing to be comedic. Sorry.
*Re-read Animal Farm for the quote regarding Benjamin's mood following the death of Boxer. Re-read it anyway. It's pretty amazing. And it will only take you a few hours. While you're at it, hit up To Kill a Mockingbird and Huck Finn. A lot of the stuff they forced us to read when we were teenagers was actually good stuff. Even The Outsiders is a pretty finely crafted tight little story, if a little simple in its approach to morality.
The joke started when my eldest--who is okay, by the way, that I mention her in my writing so long as I don't reveal her true identity, so we'll just call her Clark Kent for our purposes--anyway, Clark was a wee tot when her father began to say to her, when accused of being a silly dad, that he was not silly but "morose and taciturn." I'm not sure where he picked up the phrase, although perhaps I'll reveal its roots in English literature later in this post, depending on my mood.
Well, back to Clark. When she made her way, as we all do, to kindergarten, she participated in an exercise of writing her own stories. She was too little to actually write an entire story by hand, but the parent volunteers would swing through and take dictation for the kids, who then would illustrate the stories. At parent-teacher conferences, the story books would be trotted out (an apt phrase in this case as I may or may not later reveal) as evidence of the brilliance of the beloved child and the dedication of the clever instructor to guide them through this task at such an early age. When it was our turn, the teacher looked at us suspiciously, and asked Clark's father to perform a dramatic reading of Clark's composition. It went something like this: I like to play horsie with my Dad. I ride on his back. He says the horse's name is Old Glue. I tell him he is silly, but he says he's morose and taciturn. The illustrations were not spectacular. Clark would not have a future in oil painting. But the teacher was very unhappy that she had to look up words that her kindergarten pupil had written. A new experience for her clearly. Clark was nothing if not precocious.
But to my point . . . in my family, being morose and taciturn* was so far from any of our natures that it was always used as a joke. So imagine my surprise when it was the phrase that popped into my head to describe how I'm doing when queried by an old friend. I didn't say it out loud. It's a little pretentious for common conversation (I used to be precocious when I was younger, but at my present age, the best I can hope for is pretentious). I said something like, "okay" and then burst into tears, which may have given my old friend a bit of a shock. I found myself being myself and then being overtaken by moroseness and taciturnity. I may have just made up those words, but I have a masters degree that allows me some leeway in this regard.
Well, that's my point. I am morose and taciturn. Really and actually. And I totally meant for this blogging thing to be comedic. Sorry.
*Re-read Animal Farm for the quote regarding Benjamin's mood following the death of Boxer. Re-read it anyway. It's pretty amazing. And it will only take you a few hours. While you're at it, hit up To Kill a Mockingbird and Huck Finn. A lot of the stuff they forced us to read when we were teenagers was actually good stuff. Even The Outsiders is a pretty finely crafted tight little story, if a little simple in its approach to morality.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Judgment or Judgmental
So this morning I was making my way to the office from public transit and I was startled by a small very blond boy of about three years dashing past me on the sidewalk about twenty feet ahead, jumping in the air and simultaneously making a neat 180 degree turn, landing on the sidewalk with his arms and legs taking up as much space as possible, and shouting "Hah!" at me. I smiled and walked around him a little sheepishly. I didn't want to ruin his little play. Seconds later a slightly older boy of maybe five years, also blond, but not quite as blond, made an identical move dashing past me and then blocking my way. "Hah!" I was totally charmed and turned to smile at whomever might be accompanying the boys and saw a handsome couple in their thirties with a very nice stroller, presumably for the younger, blonder boy. A nice family out for a stroll. Nothing alarming about that, is there?
The couple was chatting and the boys continued taking turns running out ahead and blocking my way. And then I slowed a little and let the couple catch up. I meant to say something about how adorable the boys were, but before I could express myself I realized they were speaking German, which doesn't make the boys any the less adorable, does it?
But it kind of did. And I feel a little silly thinking about it, but what with all the talk of the end of the world and the wild ride on the stock markets and babies appearing and people dying who aren't old enough for such things and unemployment and my house kind of falling apart in little bits--the door knob, the cabinetry, the big air conditioner in the living room, the sink stopper in the bathroom--its all got me a little on edge. More than a little. Really tense. Stressed. In a knot. Grinding my teeth even when I'm awake.
So suddenly I was thinking it was the 30's and I was a nice Jewish girl in Berlin or somewhere artsy like that and it was so okay to be anti-Semitic that even little boys could stop me on the street to keep me from getting where I wanted to go. As I'm walking to work in 2011.
But here's the thing. I feel like that myself these days. I look at a member of another political party on television and I don't know whether I hate them more for their stupidity or their aggressiveness or their stubbornness or for ruining the economy or the environment or WHAT. So what does that make me? Am I passing judgment or being judgmental?
I remember in my younger days teaching rhetoric and composition at a respected university that part of the curriculum was to teach classical rhetoric and modern rhetoric. The difference was that in the modern world, where it is so easy to destroy huge numbers of people at a swipe, we can no longer argue using old techniques of calling our opponent an idiot or a liar or saying any of those things that would, in Greek times, lead to war. Now our goal is to remain at the table with our enemy. To use language that is not inflammatory or accusatory. To be gentle, civilized, fair-minded, collaborative, understanding, even complimentary.
Boy those Tea Party ladies sure do dress nicely.
I'm trying.
The couple was chatting and the boys continued taking turns running out ahead and blocking my way. And then I slowed a little and let the couple catch up. I meant to say something about how adorable the boys were, but before I could express myself I realized they were speaking German, which doesn't make the boys any the less adorable, does it?
But it kind of did. And I feel a little silly thinking about it, but what with all the talk of the end of the world and the wild ride on the stock markets and babies appearing and people dying who aren't old enough for such things and unemployment and my house kind of falling apart in little bits--the door knob, the cabinetry, the big air conditioner in the living room, the sink stopper in the bathroom--its all got me a little on edge. More than a little. Really tense. Stressed. In a knot. Grinding my teeth even when I'm awake.
So suddenly I was thinking it was the 30's and I was a nice Jewish girl in Berlin or somewhere artsy like that and it was so okay to be anti-Semitic that even little boys could stop me on the street to keep me from getting where I wanted to go. As I'm walking to work in 2011.
But here's the thing. I feel like that myself these days. I look at a member of another political party on television and I don't know whether I hate them more for their stupidity or their aggressiveness or their stubbornness or for ruining the economy or the environment or WHAT. So what does that make me? Am I passing judgment or being judgmental?
I remember in my younger days teaching rhetoric and composition at a respected university that part of the curriculum was to teach classical rhetoric and modern rhetoric. The difference was that in the modern world, where it is so easy to destroy huge numbers of people at a swipe, we can no longer argue using old techniques of calling our opponent an idiot or a liar or saying any of those things that would, in Greek times, lead to war. Now our goal is to remain at the table with our enemy. To use language that is not inflammatory or accusatory. To be gentle, civilized, fair-minded, collaborative, understanding, even complimentary.
Boy those Tea Party ladies sure do dress nicely.
I'm trying.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
ACK
Sometimes everything looks sad to me. I watch a favorite television sitcom and notice the obstacles to the happiness of my favorite characters. I don't laugh at the jokes. I wish my life were perfectly aligned to achieve the goals I have. But it's not.
And I'm not extravagant about my goals--I just want a few things in life: dinner out whenever I don't feel like cooking; nice ingredients to cook with when I do; movie and theatre and dance and music and sports tickets now and then; lots of books and enough bookshelves to keep them organized; a visit to Italy; a really nice pair of walking shoes; the ability to fix a hole in the wall of my house; friends I can lean on.
I don't need a private jet at my disposal or a swimming pool in my backyard. I don't need a butler or a collection of fur coats or a hundred pairs of expensive shoes. I don't need to have a summer place in the mountains or a winter place on an island. I don't need fame or recognition or uncountable gold pieces or a car collection.
I would like to achieve only one thing in my life. I would like to beat the snot out of my husband at Snood. Is that so much to ask of the universe? Huh?
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
What Do I Know?
So I'm middle-aged (whatever that means--in the middle--between birth and death?) and have noticed that there are a lot of us out there and that most of us are complaining fairly loudly and somewhat bitterly about the low-level brain damage that goes inevitably with aging. I've heard quite a few comedians reference it lately and they get me right where I live.
It's the little things I forget. Mostly short-term memory problems that crop up. I walk into the bathroom and forget why I'm there. I'm asked a question at work about something I was just talking about to my boss, and I forget what we decided. I come up with an idea about a blog and by the time I log in I forget the idea. I start a sentence and I forget the key word. I describe a movie and I forget the name of the actor I want to talk about. I go to the grocery store and forget the key ingredient I need.
I'm not forgetting my address or how to drive or anything truly significant. Just little things. A lot of little things. And when I was younger, maybe until I turned forty, I had a mind like a steel trap. I remembered everything I ever heard or read or saw. No longer.
I certainly buy into the premise that I'm not doing a very good job exercising my brain to keep it in shape--I don't do crossword puzzles anymore, I rarely play trivia games now, and I will quickly give up and Google a question that I once might have struggled to answer on my own. That probably doesn't help me any in the long run. But the conversations are very entertaining . . . you know, the thing, at the place, with the guy, and the stuff . . .
But along with forgetting what everything is called, I know much more than I ever did before. So when my friend at work says, "You know that painting in Washington . . . the really famous one . . . " I know exactly which painting he means . . . Ginevra de'Benci's portrait is the only Da Vinci that lives in the United States. And he says, " . . . and do you know why the back of it is in a glass case?" and I reply instantly, "Of course, that's his emblematic portrait of Ginevra on the back of the poplar panel with a painting of a laurel branch . . . "
On the elevator at work, I overhear three young women laughing about this funny old-fashioned expression that their boss used and I know what it means and its literary origin. I know all of the musical theatre references on the television shows my kids watch. I know that William Frawley was funny and had impeccable timing because he was a vaudeville star before playing Lucy's neighbor. I know what the connection is between Brecht and Shakespeare, to say nothing of why he went to East Germany when he did. I know how to write a joke and why Vivaldi wrote so many fabulous pieces for bassoon. I know how to cook and sew and do basic carpentry and plumbing and why the sky is blue and why sourdough is associated with San Francisco.
Now that I'm middle-aged, I know a lot of stuff about this guy and that guy and the place and the thing and the other thing.
It's the little things I forget. Mostly short-term memory problems that crop up. I walk into the bathroom and forget why I'm there. I'm asked a question at work about something I was just talking about to my boss, and I forget what we decided. I come up with an idea about a blog and by the time I log in I forget the idea. I start a sentence and I forget the key word. I describe a movie and I forget the name of the actor I want to talk about. I go to the grocery store and forget the key ingredient I need.
I'm not forgetting my address or how to drive or anything truly significant. Just little things. A lot of little things. And when I was younger, maybe until I turned forty, I had a mind like a steel trap. I remembered everything I ever heard or read or saw. No longer.
I certainly buy into the premise that I'm not doing a very good job exercising my brain to keep it in shape--I don't do crossword puzzles anymore, I rarely play trivia games now, and I will quickly give up and Google a question that I once might have struggled to answer on my own. That probably doesn't help me any in the long run. But the conversations are very entertaining . . . you know, the thing, at the place, with the guy, and the stuff . . .
But along with forgetting what everything is called, I know much more than I ever did before. So when my friend at work says, "You know that painting in Washington . . . the really famous one . . . " I know exactly which painting he means . . . Ginevra de'Benci's portrait is the only Da Vinci that lives in the United States. And he says, " . . . and do you know why the back of it is in a glass case?" and I reply instantly, "Of course, that's his emblematic portrait of Ginevra on the back of the poplar panel with a painting of a laurel branch . . . "
On the elevator at work, I overhear three young women laughing about this funny old-fashioned expression that their boss used and I know what it means and its literary origin. I know all of the musical theatre references on the television shows my kids watch. I know that William Frawley was funny and had impeccable timing because he was a vaudeville star before playing Lucy's neighbor. I know what the connection is between Brecht and Shakespeare, to say nothing of why he went to East Germany when he did. I know how to write a joke and why Vivaldi wrote so many fabulous pieces for bassoon. I know how to cook and sew and do basic carpentry and plumbing and why the sky is blue and why sourdough is associated with San Francisco.
Now that I'm middle-aged, I know a lot of stuff about this guy and that guy and the place and the thing and the other thing.
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