Sometimes I'm reminded that I need to write more. I've never seen myself as a writer, never felt the call to be an author. Rather, I have to write. I would not be a happy, well-adjusted, fairly confident individual without writing. I wouldn't be a lot of things so it's easier to say what I would be: miserable.
I've been biking for my work commute as we've been blessed of late with this fresh, spring weather. This is a ten mile round trip with plenty of up and downhills. Add to that my vague training for a 10K (running) race at the end of May...My body has been telling me it's aging this past year. I feel damaged much more quickly if I don't stretch it and rest it like it wants. It's a whole new phase of life with sciatic nerves and ligaments and strangely specific muscle aches. Where raising my arm while dancing to Sam Cooke on soul night can pull a muscle and take a couple of months to heal. Bodies are weird and precarious and really special.
Another part of aging probably speaks to why I blog so little as of late. What you may not realize is that most of my posts for the past year were scheduled long ago, these photographs that appear periodically were set up to appear on the anniversaries of their creation as precious mementos for myself. I blog so little because I no longer heavily feel the weight of existential dilemmas that I did eight years ago. I'm sure I'll face another wave of those as I near middle age. For now, I have no children so I can relax in my knowledge that I know nothing.
Guys, I can comprehend now that I'll near middle age. Before you know it I'll be 30 and then it's just a fleetly, flittly, flying leap to 40. I can see 40 approaching. I've always seen years stretching out before me like a strange day (but year) planner, white boxes enclosed in structured black lines. Which is funny because no one actually experiences time this way, but I've always had this image and it continues on, now with 38, 39, and 40 in view.
Well, anyway, this is total blither meant to just get me to write for a few minutes. And I'll post because this is the internet which is comprised largely by blither and who doesn't want to fit in? Let's all be lemmings.
Showing posts with label agey agey age. Show all posts
Showing posts with label agey agey age. Show all posts
07 May 2015
11 May 2011
keepin' it real
For a while I thought it was significant that I was going to turn 24 (as I will do at the end of this month). It seems an age, it seems like a significant number–23 is the end of the set of early young person development, 24 is the beginning of adult numbers because after that comes 25, 26, 27....eventually you get to 30! People my age do things.
Then I remember I'm a baby. For example: Last night we were eating dinner at my house (these last couple of days have been extra lovely because we're all in town and reunionizing), and the others began wondering how it became so hard to find new friends (the last year has been a slow and great diaspora), we've done it once, can't we do it again? The general consensus was that it's harder as you get older. I'm a firm believer that we're not old so I peeked out of the pantry to say, "You guys! We're in our twenties you can't act that way!"
"Marge," says Alicia, "everyone here is in their late twenties except for you."
Oh.
Right.
I'm beginning to be convinced that I will almost always feel young.
07 August 2010
conscious stream with lilly pad edits
My mother says I've got bullets and poison darts in my ears. My father is a tightrope walker. Or maybe we just balance on train tracks together and then inspect flattened pennies.
In families where you're tied by love in ways that cannot be unwound you spend your life watching people grow and change and shift. Dynamics change and my mind is unfolding at the possibilities of what lies before us. I will not always be everyone's little rag doll girl. But I will. I will always be that girl but always as well new doors open and I burgeon and blossom into worlds that are removed from mi familia. I watched as my sister went through this process. It was strange, I thought I was watching her go and change into someone I had never known. But that was a lie, she was only getting married, and now I see more of who she is. It took my brother-in-law to bring out some magical tucks of personality ma soeur was holding in deep, dark hiddenness. We can only imagine what fantastical things I'm keeping secret from all of you.
This morning my parents made their departure from visiting us, their chillins. They drive the 1100 miles between here and there in a hearty two day trip. There was some debate about which route they should take this time.
"Have you made hotel reservations for tonight, yet?" my mother asks my father as they get into the car.
"No. I don't even know where we're going yet, dear."
"Oh...OK, well, I guess we'll call you all tonight and let you know where we are," my mom handles this new style of laissez-faire traveling amazingly well.
When I was growing up these trips were full of Nitty Gritty Dirtband, the Kingston Trio, Chick Corea. Michael Nesmith would fall to pieces. Dave Brubeck would be on time. By the end of my sub-18 years, Johnny Mathis and Carly Simon (not just the "you're so vain" years) were creeping in. And now I can never keep the refrain of "Sometimes I wish/ Often I wish/ I never knew/ Some of those secrets of yours" very far from my conscious. Thanks, Carly.
There are so many reasons to shy away from knowledge. This curiosity cat is trying to learn to hold back this summer. Don't look up where sex offenders live in your area, don't ask every question, don't watch that tape, don't make that move. No more dead curious cats. No more curious cats seeing death.
But do poke your pregnant sister's belly. And do try to be there for the birth. Do watch that sweet face that still has that stubbornness made famous in childhood. That childhood I wasn't there for but learned through pictures. I know how her face will be already, her hands on hips, and her saying, "This child is going to be born, dangit!" In just a few weeks we'll all be falling over doting on this little baby.
I just watched Jurassic Park for the first time. That's all.
In families where you're tied by love in ways that cannot be unwound you spend your life watching people grow and change and shift. Dynamics change and my mind is unfolding at the possibilities of what lies before us. I will not always be everyone's little rag doll girl. But I will. I will always be that girl but always as well new doors open and I burgeon and blossom into worlds that are removed from mi familia. I watched as my sister went through this process. It was strange, I thought I was watching her go and change into someone I had never known. But that was a lie, she was only getting married, and now I see more of who she is. It took my brother-in-law to bring out some magical tucks of personality ma soeur was holding in deep, dark hiddenness. We can only imagine what fantastical things I'm keeping secret from all of you.
This morning my parents made their departure from visiting us, their chillins. They drive the 1100 miles between here and there in a hearty two day trip. There was some debate about which route they should take this time.
"Have you made hotel reservations for tonight, yet?" my mother asks my father as they get into the car.
"No. I don't even know where we're going yet, dear."
"Oh...OK, well, I guess we'll call you all tonight and let you know where we are," my mom handles this new style of laissez-faire traveling amazingly well.
When I was growing up these trips were full of Nitty Gritty Dirtband, the Kingston Trio, Chick Corea. Michael Nesmith would fall to pieces. Dave Brubeck would be on time. By the end of my sub-18 years, Johnny Mathis and Carly Simon (not just the "you're so vain" years) were creeping in. And now I can never keep the refrain of "Sometimes I wish/ Often I wish/ I never knew/ Some of those secrets of yours" very far from my conscious. Thanks, Carly.
There are so many reasons to shy away from knowledge. This curiosity cat is trying to learn to hold back this summer. Don't look up where sex offenders live in your area, don't ask every question, don't watch that tape, don't make that move. No more dead curious cats. No more curious cats seeing death.
But do poke your pregnant sister's belly. And do try to be there for the birth. Do watch that sweet face that still has that stubbornness made famous in childhood. That childhood I wasn't there for but learned through pictures. I know how her face will be already, her hands on hips, and her saying, "This child is going to be born, dangit!" In just a few weeks we'll all be falling over doting on this little baby.
I just watched Jurassic Park for the first time. That's all.
16 December 2009
i always have ulcers at finals
and it's not because I care so much about them.
It's because by December I've lost patience with my migraines. So tonight it was two mt. dews, four pills from a bottle that said headache, and crackers for dinner. And maybe I shouldn't still be up at 1:07 a.m. to be experiencing this, but I'm getting the shakes, there's an uncomfortable hole being dug in my stomach, and the headache is coming back. I promise I normally take better care of myself.
I'm going to do nothing but do yoga and listen to vinyl all Christmas break. La la la, here I come The Byrds.
I.
If I could make this finals week last forever, I would. On Saturday my best friend, JG moves home and I'm trying not to think about it. And in April, E graduates and moves away, too. My biggest motivation to graduate is that in five months these, my closest dears, will all be gone and I'm going to want to bust this town. The thought of this impending depression spurs me to set goals. Goals like a December 2010 graduation (and I will not be walking. gross.) and internships. I just emailed Radiolab about internship possibilities with them. I'm also looking into the This American Life int. even though I think the staff and I would kill each other because of how FORMULAIC they are. Clever and lovely, but formulaic. You see, if I worked at TAL I could get a job anywhere I wanted. It would only mean loss of soul but growth of character and curriculum vitae for 60 hours/week for 6 months.
II.
I have a claymation set in my living room that I try to cover with a blanket when guests come over because I get embarrassed when people ask about it. Their reaction of awe makes me feel so awkward. And the plasticine kindergarten children are out of their crayon-colored cardboard chairs and are all in the fetal position on the plywood kindergarten floor. They look like casualties of nuclear fall-out.
III.
How, at 22 years old, do you make sure that your loved ones know they're loved? How do you have Christmas heart at the "selfish" time of life? I'm loss of words'd when it comes time to say you made my life, my soul is like claymation clay and you've become a permanent, vibrant strip in its plasticine pattern, you've got super8 mm style nostalgia written all over you, we're bound by yarn rope, you warm my heart more than a yarn pet or than the hallmark commercial from the 90s where the little boy is digging for a toy under his bed.
I learned from accidentally leaving my horrible and emotional teenage angst creative writing papers lying around the house that it was OK to say things in a fairly butchered way as long as you said them. So I probably won't be able to say these thing to you in person but I'm writing you all secret love notes (in a teenage angst way?).
I have almost used as many adjectives in this post as a certain S. Meyers uses.
Love you.
M
It's because by December I've lost patience with my migraines. So tonight it was two mt. dews, four pills from a bottle that said headache, and crackers for dinner. And maybe I shouldn't still be up at 1:07 a.m. to be experiencing this, but I'm getting the shakes, there's an uncomfortable hole being dug in my stomach, and the headache is coming back. I promise I normally take better care of myself.
I'm going to do nothing but do yoga and listen to vinyl all Christmas break. La la la, here I come The Byrds.
I.
If I could make this finals week last forever, I would. On Saturday my best friend, JG moves home and I'm trying not to think about it. And in April, E graduates and moves away, too. My biggest motivation to graduate is that in five months these, my closest dears, will all be gone and I'm going to want to bust this town. The thought of this impending depression spurs me to set goals. Goals like a December 2010 graduation (and I will not be walking. gross.) and internships. I just emailed Radiolab about internship possibilities with them. I'm also looking into the This American Life int. even though I think the staff and I would kill each other because of how FORMULAIC they are. Clever and lovely, but formulaic. You see, if I worked at TAL I could get a job anywhere I wanted. It would only mean loss of soul but growth of character and curriculum vitae for 60 hours/week for 6 months.
II.
I have a claymation set in my living room that I try to cover with a blanket when guests come over because I get embarrassed when people ask about it. Their reaction of awe makes me feel so awkward. And the plasticine kindergarten children are out of their crayon-colored cardboard chairs and are all in the fetal position on the plywood kindergarten floor. They look like casualties of nuclear fall-out.
III.
How, at 22 years old, do you make sure that your loved ones know they're loved? How do you have Christmas heart at the "selfish" time of life? I'm loss of words'd when it comes time to say you made my life, my soul is like claymation clay and you've become a permanent, vibrant strip in its plasticine pattern, you've got super8 mm style nostalgia written all over you, we're bound by yarn rope, you warm my heart more than a yarn pet or than the hallmark commercial from the 90s where the little boy is digging for a toy under his bed.
I learned from accidentally leaving my horrible and emotional teenage angst creative writing papers lying around the house that it was OK to say things in a fairly butchered way as long as you said them. So I probably won't be able to say these thing to you in person but I'm writing you all secret love notes (in a teenage angst way?).
I have almost used as many adjectives in this post as a certain S. Meyers uses.
Love you.
M
23 November 2009
Shin dealer's Liszt
"I was part of the Sixties," my professor says, "That was my generation, my youth. My parents and I argued about flower children and about our radical ideas but we thought we were going to change the world. I was young, I believed humanity could change, we really thought we were going to change the world. But I'm older now and a little more wise and so blah blah blah--" he continued on. I lost track of where he was going because I wanted to shout out, "STOP! STOP! We're YOUNG! Let us be young! Let us believe we can change the world, we all know that radical youth won't change things like you wanted it to, but let us hold on."
[sigh]
When I was in elementary school I was taught that (1) America was a melting pot and (2) that by the year two thousand we would have flying cars we could program to take us to our destination. I was (1) disturbed by autonomous cars and therefore glad when that hadn't been realized by 2000 and (2) I was disturbed to find out that the melting pot wasn't melted the way I thought it would be. It was this creeping realization I had as I progressed through my grade school years. As a wee child I learned about WWII and thought that was the end of war. Then I learned about Vietnam but that was OK, that was twenty years ago and there were thirty years in between that and WWII.
But then there was the Cold War and the Bay of Pigs and Korea and McCarthy's hunt for communists and the First Gulf War. "Wait, this can't be right, when do we stop fighting?" I wondered. But it was OK, there was still Martin Luther King, Woodrow Wilson, Edward Murrow, Susan B. Anthony, Dorothea Dix, women voting, Gandhi and Mother Theresa, and the Fall of the Berlin Wall.
Then Clinton had his scandals, Bush declared war on Afghanistan, people were hating on Mexican immigrants (regardless of legality), football games lasted four hours and fans were gross and mean.
That was it.
The world would never change. There were too many sweet bro's and crooked politicians.
The cynicism that my sister claims resided in my heart from birth hit a peak. Quick, tell me what's more true: we should send millions of more troops to Afghanistan or we should not and see what happens then.
Next question: Should we spend billions in bailouts and go into debt or let everybody close up shop, declare bankruptcy, and lay-off billions?
Next question: should we create six more planets just like earth so that everyone can eat the way people in North America eat or should we send our left overs to Africa?
Next question: Should Google go to China and submit to Chinese government censorship or should Google stand firm for personal freedoms and stay out?
Next question: When your best friend has finally confessed to you the severity of the abuse that went on in that relationship for three years should you do what you can to see that boy brought to justice?
JEOPARDY says, "What is World Peace?"
[ha...ohh...sigh]
STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP the train I'm YOUNG, can't follow Holden Caulfield to the backwoods where we live in a cabin hermitting ourselves from the world of Crash and Schindler's List. Can't do it. Can't be jaded already.
Last year, when I nannied, we loaded every nannykin of us into the red Radio Flyer wagon. We marched to the dinosaur museum and haphazardly ran to and fro between dinosaurs and waterfountains and fossils and then we went across the street and rolled down the big hill of grass. Well, the two year old kind of crawled down head first.
There's something in that rolling down hills and telling jokes that don't make sense and building forts. There's something about not looking for mutual interests just for time spent together.
So what I'm saying is that in lieu of any amazing solution to the world's problems, can we just spend time together?
Because I think that changes things.
In this movie I saw the other night* someone says of their lofty goals, "We're too young to know we can't do it."
Awe gee, it's great to be twentytwo and young.
*Amazing Grace
[sigh]
When I was in elementary school I was taught that (1) America was a melting pot and (2) that by the year two thousand we would have flying cars we could program to take us to our destination. I was (1) disturbed by autonomous cars and therefore glad when that hadn't been realized by 2000 and (2) I was disturbed to find out that the melting pot wasn't melted the way I thought it would be. It was this creeping realization I had as I progressed through my grade school years. As a wee child I learned about WWII and thought that was the end of war. Then I learned about Vietnam but that was OK, that was twenty years ago and there were thirty years in between that and WWII.
But then there was the Cold War and the Bay of Pigs and Korea and McCarthy's hunt for communists and the First Gulf War. "Wait, this can't be right, when do we stop fighting?" I wondered. But it was OK, there was still Martin Luther King, Woodrow Wilson, Edward Murrow, Susan B. Anthony, Dorothea Dix, women voting, Gandhi and Mother Theresa, and the Fall of the Berlin Wall.
Then Clinton had his scandals, Bush declared war on Afghanistan, people were hating on Mexican immigrants (regardless of legality), football games lasted four hours and fans were gross and mean.
That was it.
The world would never change. There were too many sweet bro's and crooked politicians.
The cynicism that my sister claims resided in my heart from birth hit a peak. Quick, tell me what's more true: we should send millions of more troops to Afghanistan or we should not and see what happens then.
Next question: Should we spend billions in bailouts and go into debt or let everybody close up shop, declare bankruptcy, and lay-off billions?
Next question: should we create six more planets just like earth so that everyone can eat the way people in North America eat or should we send our left overs to Africa?
Next question: Should Google go to China and submit to Chinese government censorship or should Google stand firm for personal freedoms and stay out?
Next question: When your best friend has finally confessed to you the severity of the abuse that went on in that relationship for three years should you do what you can to see that boy brought to justice?
JEOPARDY says, "What is World Peace?"
[ha...ohh...sigh]
STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP the train I'm YOUNG, can't follow Holden Caulfield to the backwoods where we live in a cabin hermitting ourselves from the world of Crash and Schindler's List. Can't do it. Can't be jaded already.
Last year, when I nannied, we loaded every nannykin of us into the red Radio Flyer wagon. We marched to the dinosaur museum and haphazardly ran to and fro between dinosaurs and waterfountains and fossils and then we went across the street and rolled down the big hill of grass. Well, the two year old kind of crawled down head first.
There's something in that rolling down hills and telling jokes that don't make sense and building forts. There's something about not looking for mutual interests just for time spent together.
So what I'm saying is that in lieu of any amazing solution to the world's problems, can we just spend time together?
Because I think that changes things.
In this movie I saw the other night* someone says of their lofty goals, "We're too young to know we can't do it."
Awe gee, it's great to be twentytwo and young.
*Amazing Grace
24 October 2009
just clipping
This morning I stuffed my roommate's speakers into my backpack and rode my B.C.clayta up to campus. I was dying for somebody to stop me to ask what I had in my bag so I could tell them about my odd cargo.
No one stopped me.
The speakers were for an interview via Skype for our (D, C, and me) documentary project (the one on women who have struggled with postpartum mood disorders/depression). There were two highlights of the interview. One, she went to school with a couple of our professors here, back when the three of them made up the entire body of students studying documentary film. We got her to tell us stories about them and you know they were good because she kept checking with us, "You're not recording this part are you?" Secondly, she was candid. And she told us a story about how she became entirely not herself and her husband of only three years never balked. She was suddenly, six days after giving birth, not the woman he married. But he just loved her. You can imagine a flitter-flat thinker like me was inspired to waxed sappy over lunch today.
This afternoon I sat on stools in a bookstore with my sister looking at books about mixed media art projects while my brother-in-law updated us periodically on the time and the rain.
And then it hailed. I had forgotten there was such a thing as hail.
And then I was at a halloween party this evening--my costume was amazing, I felt like I could make headlines--and I looked around at the kid dressed as a Japanese tourist fiddling with the Ratatat-like playlist, the Mexican Panda Bear playing the moraccas, the mermade dancing solo in the middle of the room and I thought, "Gee, this is grand."
And I meant it.
No one stopped me.
The speakers were for an interview via Skype for our (D, C, and me) documentary project (the one on women who have struggled with postpartum mood disorders/depression). There were two highlights of the interview. One, she went to school with a couple of our professors here, back when the three of them made up the entire body of students studying documentary film. We got her to tell us stories about them and you know they were good because she kept checking with us, "You're not recording this part are you?" Secondly, she was candid. And she told us a story about how she became entirely not herself and her husband of only three years never balked. She was suddenly, six days after giving birth, not the woman he married. But he just loved her. You can imagine a flitter-flat thinker like me was inspired to waxed sappy over lunch today.
This afternoon I sat on stools in a bookstore with my sister looking at books about mixed media art projects while my brother-in-law updated us periodically on the time and the rain.
And then it hailed. I had forgotten there was such a thing as hail.
And then I was at a halloween party this evening--my costume was amazing, I felt like I could make headlines--and I looked around at the kid dressed as a Japanese tourist fiddling with the Ratatat-like playlist, the Mexican Panda Bear playing the moraccas, the mermade dancing solo in the middle of the room and I thought, "Gee, this is grand."
And I meant it.
21 September 2009
tonight I lived a moment and that's a cheesy thing to say
I've been making a list of pros and cons comparing my chosen professions. There's no clear winner yet (remember the debate is between poltergeist and Kim Jong-il). If you have any opinions on the matter feel free to comment.
(obviously not from the house show, but the closest we come to a photo of me dancing)
(And I think that's actually from three years ago but anyway...)
I might smell like alcohol right now. I went to a house show tonight and I ignored the part where there was a communal beer being passed around (well, really I thought, "hey, that's the kind I bought nervously at the store to take home to make bread" and "hey, herpes") and I'm also ignoring what I think I heard someone say, and if they said what I think they said they were most definitely a groupie. Point being, I went to a house show. It was the kind of show that's got the beat that gets you every time. You stand there thinking, "I'm really a wise, world weary person, so I'm not going to dance." But then the drum kicks start ticking off the years and all of the sudden you realize you're only 22 and that's a great age to be. Old age? That's never going to happen. You're there there there and you're young and it's one moment and you're suddenly aware that you're tapping your feet knocking your knees twist and shouting and it's just grand.
Sometimes I need to be reminded that it's not enough to be ageless, sometimes I should be my age.
(obviously not from the house show, but the closest we come to a photo of me dancing)(And I think that's actually from three years ago but anyway...)
I might smell like alcohol right now. I went to a house show tonight and I ignored the part where there was a communal beer being passed around (well, really I thought, "hey, that's the kind I bought nervously at the store to take home to make bread" and "hey, herpes") and I'm also ignoring what I think I heard someone say, and if they said what I think they said they were most definitely a groupie. Point being, I went to a house show. It was the kind of show that's got the beat that gets you every time. You stand there thinking, "I'm really a wise, world weary person, so I'm not going to dance." But then the drum kicks start ticking off the years and all of the sudden you realize you're only 22 and that's a great age to be. Old age? That's never going to happen. You're there there there and you're young and it's one moment and you're suddenly aware that you're tapping your feet knocking your knees twist and shouting and it's just grand.
Sometimes I need to be reminded that it's not enough to be ageless, sometimes I should be my age.
14 July 2009
an age for an age for you to stop talking to me, addended again
I wore my helmet bicycle helmet today.
I realized as I was riding (helmet-less) to the grocery store that I have reached the point in my life where I care very little about how nerdy, odd, uncool, etc I look to other people. It's like I'm a fifty-year-old twenty-two-year-old. But face it, I am unescapably who I am, so I've decided to jump headlong into me. And my parents would really like it. And I'm really nervous about brain damage....
So instead of going: home, g-store, friend's hiz; I stopped home again and wore my helmet to friend's. But then a list of predicaments came up. Do I wear my helmet when I ride up to campus? Or when I go bike riding with friends? Is there safety in bike riding numbers? As a helmet wearer am I supposed to stand strong and wear my helmet at all biking times so that others will be less embarrassed to wear theirs? Am I really going to get into an accident? Should I get a pocket protecter?
If I start wearing a helmet can I really be choosy about when I wear it or not? It's not like me being a vegetarian which usually centers on me not wanting to eat meat but me needing to eat what people feed me to keep from getting a headache. Unless my helmet starts giving me a headache, which would be entirely possible with my head...
I don't know about this... I just keep repeating "brain damage, brain damage, brain damage, brain damage" to remind me why I would wear a helmet. Because it seems to be my biggest fear. Second only to chalk. So second biggest fear.
Or third.
I would hate to be trapped to someone for eternity who would turn to me at different junctures in our life and say, "You go into galleries that aren't hip?" or "I hate those pointy shoes and when girls wear scarves around their necks or have belts around their waists." Waste you. I feel like wearing a helmet will cut down on those people in my life.
In some other news, in case you're still reading, I got a seven page letter from someone in Denmark yesterday who said he thinks about me sometimes when he sees the boats come into harbor or when he meets a Norweigan fisherman.
It's always nice to be told that.
Blah, how did that all end up relating back to men?
ADDENDS:
Now I've been doing some reading. I'm stuck on the helmet fence. Apparently, when you do wear a helmet drivers give you less room as they pass you, increasing your risk of collision.
This is definitely true though, “When people try cycling, they nearly always say it changes the way they treat other road users when they get back in their cars.” That actually makes me frustrated and wish that everyone would do some bicycling time.
Any thoughts, anyone? anyone? Bueller?
I realized as I was riding (helmet-less) to the grocery store that I have reached the point in my life where I care very little about how nerdy, odd, uncool, etc I look to other people. It's like I'm a fifty-year-old twenty-two-year-old. But face it, I am unescapably who I am, so I've decided to jump headlong into me. And my parents would really like it. And I'm really nervous about brain damage....
So instead of going: home, g-store, friend's hiz; I stopped home again and wore my helmet to friend's. But then a list of predicaments came up. Do I wear my helmet when I ride up to campus? Or when I go bike riding with friends? Is there safety in bike riding numbers? As a helmet wearer am I supposed to stand strong and wear my helmet at all biking times so that others will be less embarrassed to wear theirs? Am I really going to get into an accident? Should I get a pocket protecter?
If I start wearing a helmet can I really be choosy about when I wear it or not? It's not like me being a vegetarian which usually centers on me not wanting to eat meat but me needing to eat what people feed me to keep from getting a headache. Unless my helmet starts giving me a headache, which would be entirely possible with my head...
I don't know about this... I just keep repeating "brain damage, brain damage, brain damage, brain damage" to remind me why I would wear a helmet. Because it seems to be my biggest fear. Second only to chalk. So second biggest fear.
Or third.
I would hate to be trapped to someone for eternity who would turn to me at different junctures in our life and say, "You go into galleries that aren't hip?" or "I hate those pointy shoes and when girls wear scarves around their necks or have belts around their waists." Waste you. I feel like wearing a helmet will cut down on those people in my life.
In some other news, in case you're still reading, I got a seven page letter from someone in Denmark yesterday who said he thinks about me sometimes when he sees the boats come into harbor or when he meets a Norweigan fisherman.
It's always nice to be told that.
Blah, how did that all end up relating back to men?
ADDENDS:
Now I've been doing some reading. I'm stuck on the helmet fence. Apparently, when you do wear a helmet drivers give you less room as they pass you, increasing your risk of collision.
This is definitely true though, “When people try cycling, they nearly always say it changes the way they treat other road users when they get back in their cars.” That actually makes me frustrated and wish that everyone would do some bicycling time.
Any thoughts, anyone? anyone? Bueller?
22 March 2009
quince
I have an Abuela who doesn't speak any English. Yet every Sunday dinner she spills out her compliments and questions and I look around for a relative to translate as I say, "Que ? Que ? ¡Si !"
Today we had an extra long time to sit across the table and chat with each other as the rest of the family worried about the cooking time, consistency, and location of brown saffron rice compared to white (final and only consensus was that brown rice takes a lot of planning ahead). She showed me how her wrists hurt and and how it's hard because you use your wrists as you eat, but what are you going to do? You eat anyway. And today, as she has every Sunday for the last two months, she asked about my novio (boyfriend). My Tia (aunt) explained that we had broken up. But I liked him, Abuela said. I couldn't remember how to say, "Yo tambien," quickly enough so I made Tia teach me how to say "I'm good, he's bad." And also, "Voya querer atantos muchachos commo pueda." Which may not be remembered exactly, but at the time I did tell my Grandma correctly in Español, "I'm going to love as many boys as I can."
She then explained how when she was young she always had boyfriends, if she didn't have real ones, she'd make them up.
Yes, Grandma and I had some great bonding today.
Today we had an extra long time to sit across the table and chat with each other as the rest of the family worried about the cooking time, consistency, and location of brown saffron rice compared to white (final and only consensus was that brown rice takes a lot of planning ahead). She showed me how her wrists hurt and and how it's hard because you use your wrists as you eat, but what are you going to do? You eat anyway. And today, as she has every Sunday for the last two months, she asked about my novio (boyfriend). My Tia (aunt) explained that we had broken up. But I liked him, Abuela said. I couldn't remember how to say, "Yo tambien," quickly enough so I made Tia teach me how to say "I'm good, he's bad." And also, "Voya querer atantos muchachos commo pueda." Which may not be remembered exactly, but at the time I did tell my Grandma correctly in Español, "I'm going to love as many boys as I can."
She then explained how when she was young she always had boyfriends, if she didn't have real ones, she'd make them up.
Yes, Grandma and I had some great bonding today.
23 February 2009
here's some from the mason jar
I can't not post today because a dearest friend tagged me as being a fantastic blog she reads. Hopefully she reads good blogs.
[me]
Thought six:
I don't know what children are about, but I think maybe it's absurdism with a dash of transcendentalism.
I wish there was more salt involved. Because my family loves salt. I'm not sure if the full weight of our love of salt can be carried across the web rays to you. For example, There are family dinners every Sunday, and every Sunday there averages one mini salt shaker for every 1.4 people. And my sister spreads her toast with butter (the salted kind) then sprinkles all with salt.
My cousin has always said she thinks her Monstruo Dos, who is dos, looks like my Dad. For those who need to know, I nanny her two little'uns. This afternoon as he was running around the parking lot with either a broken umbrella or a mini soccer ball, I saw it. Mon père. Monstruo Dos smiled (a smile verging on all the mischeiviousness in the world) and I looked closely and critically and there was a mini fuzz-head version of mon père. Oh there he was, my dear funny Pa, dancing around with a broken umbrella just as he would dance around the house with laughter at the puns he would find.
When I saw this on PostSecret on Sunday, I was wishing it would be from that person I know.
And now, I need to commence the writing of my compare and contrasting of Life of Pi and Catcher in the Rye. Let me tell you about that later.
Love you all,
Marge
[me]Thought six:
I don't know what children are about, but I think maybe it's absurdism with a dash of transcendentalism.
I wish there was more salt involved. Because my family loves salt. I'm not sure if the full weight of our love of salt can be carried across the web rays to you. For example, There are family dinners every Sunday, and every Sunday there averages one mini salt shaker for every 1.4 people. And my sister spreads her toast with butter (the salted kind) then sprinkles all with salt.
My cousin has always said she thinks her Monstruo Dos, who is dos, looks like my Dad. For those who need to know, I nanny her two little'uns. This afternoon as he was running around the parking lot with either a broken umbrella or a mini soccer ball, I saw it. Mon père. Monstruo Dos smiled (a smile verging on all the mischeiviousness in the world) and I looked closely and critically and there was a mini fuzz-head version of mon père. Oh there he was, my dear funny Pa, dancing around with a broken umbrella just as he would dance around the house with laughter at the puns he would find.
............................
When I saw this on PostSecret on Sunday, I was wishing it would be from that person I know.{sigh}
And now, I need to commence the writing of my compare and contrasting of Life of Pi and Catcher in the Rye. Let me tell you about that later.
Love you all,
Marge
18 September 2008
seasons of transfixture
YOU
had me at hello.
And then I was looking around today and I saw the boy who was the first...oh no, the second to ask for my phone number but I was so naive I believed in platonicy, I mean we were all there as a chummy little group and I thought, great wonderful I'm in a new place lets all have each others' phone numbers, and I asked for his friend's number.
He's married now.
And she, over there, is a widow.
And we're all 21?
What markers do we rate ourselves by? The generalizations of age and grade and promotion. Class descriptions and money makers lenders borrowers takers.
Well, I'm 21, sometimes aimless, frequently on the quiet side, happy to curl up in my hovel and imagine everyone's stories. My friend from high school who is a month younger than I am is married with a child who is almost two. I explained sex to her when we were 15. My junior prom date is married and has two kids, one named Bubba. That transfixes me.
The Onion Cutter I used to work with, I think is 24. He would write love notes on paper towel to the Danish girl. And he dreamed of being a chef.
T is 22 and she dies her hair black and feels like 21 is so very young.
The Dreamer is 30 and he's my best friend. Sad, I think I've neglected him since I left the grille. Must rectify that.
Ma soeur âgée told me she sometimes thinks I'm more mature than her. I think she likes to make jokes, sometimes.
Some day I'll be 50 and I'll still feel like me. Not like one of those people who are 50. But like I'm me and 50 and all of my peers (all 50 of them) are just 50 like me. So to speak, when I came to university and they put me in a world full of my peers I realized it will be like this for the rest of my life. There will never again be that mystery of having mature people to run the world. Tomorrow they will expect me to run the world. It's utter mayhem out there. None of us are qualified and we're only skin filled with organs, blood, opinions, heart, inspiration and sometimes lice.
I have no lice.
Thank heavens.
But somewhere a 21 year old has lice.
If you think this post is confusing, heads up because I get to vote this year.
Il mondo è bello perchè è vario. Vive la difference!
had me at hello.
And then I was looking around today and I saw the boy who was the first...oh no, the second to ask for my phone number but I was so naive I believed in platonicy, I mean we were all there as a chummy little group and I thought, great wonderful I'm in a new place lets all have each others' phone numbers, and I asked for his friend's number.
He's married now.
And she, over there, is a widow.
And we're all 21?
What markers do we rate ourselves by? The generalizations of age and grade and promotion. Class descriptions and money makers lenders borrowers takers.
Well, I'm 21, sometimes aimless, frequently on the quiet side, happy to curl up in my hovel and imagine everyone's stories. My friend from high school who is a month younger than I am is married with a child who is almost two. I explained sex to her when we were 15. My junior prom date is married and has two kids, one named Bubba. That transfixes me.
The Onion Cutter I used to work with, I think is 24. He would write love notes on paper towel to the Danish girl. And he dreamed of being a chef.
T is 22 and she dies her hair black and feels like 21 is so very young.
The Dreamer is 30 and he's my best friend. Sad, I think I've neglected him since I left the grille. Must rectify that.
Ma soeur âgée told me she sometimes thinks I'm more mature than her. I think she likes to make jokes, sometimes.
Some day I'll be 50 and I'll still feel like me. Not like one of those people who are 50. But like I'm me and 50 and all of my peers (all 50 of them) are just 50 like me. So to speak, when I came to university and they put me in a world full of my peers I realized it will be like this for the rest of my life. There will never again be that mystery of having mature people to run the world. Tomorrow they will expect me to run the world. It's utter mayhem out there. None of us are qualified and we're only skin filled with organs, blood, opinions, heart, inspiration and sometimes lice.
I have no lice.
Thank heavens.
But somewhere a 21 year old has lice.
If you think this post is confusing, heads up because I get to vote this year.
Il mondo è bello perchè è vario. Vive la difference!
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