I just spent the last hour or so retyping sermons I had written, typed on a typewriter, and delivered at Cong. Sha'ar Zahav in the 1980's. Quite a blast from the past.
But the sky is gray and so is my mood. My solar-powered emotions need more sunlight than I have been getting the past few days. And rain is in the weather forecast.
Must be time for some pick-me-ups: a good movie? dealing with paperwork? doing my stretches and/or some Tai Chi? sugar and caffeine?
I've a massage scheduled for tomorrow to look forward to. And maybe a community Chanukah candle-lighting and sufganyot (jelly donut) eating ceremony that evening in the Castro, weather permitting.
Tuesday, December 8, 2015
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
Again, Still, Less Writing and More Editing
I've pulled together a group of my blog pieces that focus on spirituality, and contracted with Xlibris to self-publish them as a small book, paperback and online. That decision frightened me so much that I promptly put the materials away for about a month. I've been dipping back into them in small chunks, every couple of days. I tinker with them until indecisiveness or feelings of unworthiness require me to step away and regain perspective.
But little bits of progress are being made. The pieces are starting to fall into groups and to suggest their proper order, and I'm even writing a few new words to fill gaps. Fortunately, there's no particular deadline, but that means that mine is the responsibility both to keep working on it and to decide when it's done.
There has been a hiatus in the sessions where I sit with friends and write to prompts, but they will soon return. I hope that such new writing sessions will replenish my creative juices and support my editing.
Now is the darkest and coldest (relatively speaking, in temperate San Fran) time of the year. I'm torn between huddling under a warm comforter and getting out into the brisk sun to recharge my energy and emotions. Striking a healthy balance between these occupations is a major goal this season.
May all beings find a happy balance between doing and being, warmth and cold, peace and hope.
But little bits of progress are being made. The pieces are starting to fall into groups and to suggest their proper order, and I'm even writing a few new words to fill gaps. Fortunately, there's no particular deadline, but that means that mine is the responsibility both to keep working on it and to decide when it's done.
There has been a hiatus in the sessions where I sit with friends and write to prompts, but they will soon return. I hope that such new writing sessions will replenish my creative juices and support my editing.
Now is the darkest and coldest (relatively speaking, in temperate San Fran) time of the year. I'm torn between huddling under a warm comforter and getting out into the brisk sun to recharge my energy and emotions. Striking a healthy balance between these occupations is a major goal this season.
May all beings find a happy balance between doing and being, warmth and cold, peace and hope.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
My Hair
I've always been rather fond of my hair. It's ruler-straight, fine in texture, and profuse in amount.
It seems to be Teflon-coated. All hair-holders slip right out except for rubber bands.
As to its color, the terms mouse brown, light brown, and dishwater blonde have been used. I used to wonder what would happen as it grayed, and now I know in part -- it's shot through with silver. I call it "salt and honey."
It seems to be Teflon-coated. All hair-holders slip right out except for rubber bands.
As to its color, the terms mouse brown, light brown, and dishwater blonde have been used. I used to wonder what would happen as it grayed, and now I know in part -- it's shot through with silver. I call it "salt and honey."
Pleasure Faire Tale
I had attended the Southern California version of the Faire while studying music at UCLA, dressed in a musician's robe and carrying a wooden recorder flute in a pouch at my waist. While there, I came upon four madrigal singers who were asking the crowd if it contained a singer who knew the second soprano part to The Silver Swan. As I was and I did, I came up and joined them for that and several other five-part selections.
While attending law school in San Francisco, I learned of the Northern California Faire, and went with a friend on a day when we could enter for free by bringing banners for a contest. I assembled one showing the scales of justice, anachronistically using fabric glue instead of sewing it.
There were two rounds of judging. While the judges were conferring after the first, the crowd was entertained by a man playing a pipe and tabor. He was absent after the second round, and the mistress of ceremonies asked the audience if anyone would provide entertainment by dancing or singing. So I got up and sang Dona, Dona, also quite anachronistic. But at the end of the song, the audience astonished me by throwing coins on the stage. I picked them up and removed myself.
Later, as I was headed towards the exit, the mistress of ceremonies stopped me. She told me that Phyllis (the head honcha) had enjoyed my singing and wanted me to come back to the Faire as a pass-the-hat artist. hey would admit me for free, costume me appropriately, and give me a license to keep any tributes that arose from my performance. I accepted enthusiastically.
I went back to the Faire, was crammed into Renaissance garb, instructed in basic Faire English, and given my license. However, any money I saved on my entrance fee or acquired for my songs was spent on food, a book of Renaissance songs, and perhaps one or two other remembrances. But it sure was fun.
While attending law school in San Francisco, I learned of the Northern California Faire, and went with a friend on a day when we could enter for free by bringing banners for a contest. I assembled one showing the scales of justice, anachronistically using fabric glue instead of sewing it.
There were two rounds of judging. While the judges were conferring after the first, the crowd was entertained by a man playing a pipe and tabor. He was absent after the second round, and the mistress of ceremonies asked the audience if anyone would provide entertainment by dancing or singing. So I got up and sang Dona, Dona, also quite anachronistic. But at the end of the song, the audience astonished me by throwing coins on the stage. I picked them up and removed myself.
Later, as I was headed towards the exit, the mistress of ceremonies stopped me. She told me that Phyllis (the head honcha) had enjoyed my singing and wanted me to come back to the Faire as a pass-the-hat artist. hey would admit me for free, costume me appropriately, and give me a license to keep any tributes that arose from my performance. I accepted enthusiastically.
I went back to the Faire, was crammed into Renaissance garb, instructed in basic Faire English, and given my license. However, any money I saved on my entrance fee or acquired for my songs was spent on food, a book of Renaissance songs, and perhaps one or two other remembrances. But it sure was fun.
Enough?
"Enough of that," I sometimes think when I have to get out of bed and face the day. When I have a morning appointment and need to be up and out, or at least awake and dressed.
An appointment and hunger are the two main motivators that get me out of bed in the morning. And they must be strong ones, because they need to outweigh the titanic pull of my bed in the morning.
I love me some morning sleep. Falling asleep at night is often a lengthy task. I rotate like a bird on a rotisserie as each position becomes uncomfortable in a different way. Left side, right side, back, mostly on my stomach. I lift the sheets off my body as I turn, lest I wind up wrapped like a burrito.
The discomfort shifts from one limb to the other, or to my neck or my lower back, or post-nasal slime makes me snort myself awake.
But by morning, my body is relaxed, and I float in consciousness, in and out, or dream deeply in complex and fascinating realms. If I wake, I drop right back into sleep.
And even after I've woken up, if I start to read Facebook or a book in bed, I'm there until hunger or an appointment drives me out.
But it's really the morning sleep that I love - like a shy forest animal that was skittish last night but has become tamed overnight, that I can now take in my arms and enjoy at will.
I love me some morning sleep. I can't get enough of that.
An appointment and hunger are the two main motivators that get me out of bed in the morning. And they must be strong ones, because they need to outweigh the titanic pull of my bed in the morning.
I love me some morning sleep. Falling asleep at night is often a lengthy task. I rotate like a bird on a rotisserie as each position becomes uncomfortable in a different way. Left side, right side, back, mostly on my stomach. I lift the sheets off my body as I turn, lest I wind up wrapped like a burrito.
The discomfort shifts from one limb to the other, or to my neck or my lower back, or post-nasal slime makes me snort myself awake.
But by morning, my body is relaxed, and I float in consciousness, in and out, or dream deeply in complex and fascinating realms. If I wake, I drop right back into sleep.
And even after I've woken up, if I start to read Facebook or a book in bed, I'm there until hunger or an appointment drives me out.
But it's really the morning sleep that I love - like a shy forest animal that was skittish last night but has become tamed overnight, that I can now take in my arms and enjoy at will.
I love me some morning sleep. I can't get enough of that.
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
Writings 9/30/15
When I Was 25 (in 3-word sentences)
Law school's over.
My first job. Court's law clerk.
AIDS is rampant. Too many funerals. Worry about friends.
Harvey Milk assassinated. Overlooking City Hall. Cop cars gather. March with candle. Attend his service. His recorded testament. Bullets open closets.
Join gay Lutherans. Trips to conventions. Flirtation in Minnesota. Canoe and kisses.
Fight Briggs Initiative. Surprisingly big win.
Equal rights marches. Swim on Sacramento. Rain mutes speakers.
Attend Daniel's seder. Too much wine. Tampons in bathroom. What a mensch!
Dan White's trial. Disappointing manslaughter verdict. Avoid the riot.
Join gay synagogue. Learn Hebrew songs. Lead many services. Chant the Torah.
Mothertongue Readers' Theater. Women speak openly. Love Corky Wick. That's for me. Write and perform. Survival, sexuality, peace.
March on Pride. Sing with synagogue. Blow plastic horn. Collect parade buttons. Feet get sore. Back gets sore. Crowds oppress me.
First SF relationship. Woman with baggage. Husband, child, dog. I end it. Breaks my heart. Grief outlasts relationship.
My next relationship. She moves nearby. Then moves repeatedly. We hold seders. We sing together. She wants kids. I do not. We break up. She moves away. Life goes on.
_______________
Layers of Clothing
She often shares her belief in the layered approach to dressing. It offers many gradations of warmth, which are increasingly needed, as her ability to regulate her own temperature seems to be fading.
A T-shirt and a long-sleeved blouse are standard. Part of the reason for the T-shirt is modesty, because her button-front shirts often gap between the buttons, or a button comes undone.
But the warmth is the main thing, in an air-conditioned office or her cool flat. She usually also wears an overshirt of corduroy of chamois. This is part of the uniform of a butch lesbian of a certain age, and increases the number of pockets she has available for storage.
Below the waist, she always wears long pants, knee socks, and laced shoes. The pants used to be corduroy, but recently they tend to be blue or black jeans, perhaps because they don't wear out as quickly as corduroy does. Only when it's really hot out does she wear lighter-weight pants or ankle socks.
The clothes mask her shape, which has been getting steadily rounder over the years. And, more recently, they protect her skin, which has started to have skin cancers and sun allergy.
_____________
Holiday from Hell
The worst holiday I can remember is when my father and I hiked to join my brother for the last night of Boy Scout Camp on some lake in the woods. I'm not an outdoorswoman. The scenery was spectacular, but I spent all of the hike in discomfort from having soft, tender feet in suboptimal shoes on an uneven path laden with sharp rocks. I must have been carrying a small pack, and probably got tired easily and often.
Then I can't imagine that the camp was very comfortable, the food very good, or that it was easy to fall asleep or find the facilities. I faintly recall some oddness about the sleeping arrangements -- were some folks seeking paired privacy?
What I do remember is slipping on a stone and somehow both cutting and bruising the sole of one foot, so that each step on the hike out was particularly painful. But at least we didn't travel very fast. My father was having g.i. problems, and he stopped to vomit at least once on the way back to the car.
Yep, that part of the holiday was a great deal of not fun. There may have been some pleasures on the road driving to or from the lake, but that part of the trip is shrouded in the mists of time.
________
Harvey and Me
I was working at my desk in the southwest corner of the old State Building when we noticed an unusual number of police cars parked hastily in front of City Hall. We wondered if something was up.
I don't remember who first found out, or how, but we came to learn that our mayor had just been assassinated, along with the City's first openly gay supervisor, my district's supervisor, Harvey Milk.
I was still in the closet at work, and was unable to share my full horror and grief in the offices of the appellate court where I was a law clerk. But I soon found out, from other gay friends, that a candlelight vigil would be held that night in front of City Hall.
I attended the event, and was comforted to be surrounded by gay and lesbian mourners.
I also attended a Jewish service for Supervisor Milk. Maybe it was there that I heard the statement he had recorded, anticipating that he might be killed in office. He said, "If a bullet should enter my brain, let that bullet destroy every closet door."
I took his words to heart, and was soon marching on Sacramento for equal employment rights, co-chairing the Council on Religion and the Homosexual, and representing my synagogue in the World congress of Gay and Lesbian Jewish Organizations.
I've been out of the closet ever since, and am not going back.
Law school's over.
My first job. Court's law clerk.
AIDS is rampant. Too many funerals. Worry about friends.
Harvey Milk assassinated. Overlooking City Hall. Cop cars gather. March with candle. Attend his service. His recorded testament. Bullets open closets.
Join gay Lutherans. Trips to conventions. Flirtation in Minnesota. Canoe and kisses.
Fight Briggs Initiative. Surprisingly big win.
Equal rights marches. Swim on Sacramento. Rain mutes speakers.
Attend Daniel's seder. Too much wine. Tampons in bathroom. What a mensch!
Dan White's trial. Disappointing manslaughter verdict. Avoid the riot.
Join gay synagogue. Learn Hebrew songs. Lead many services. Chant the Torah.
Mothertongue Readers' Theater. Women speak openly. Love Corky Wick. That's for me. Write and perform. Survival, sexuality, peace.
March on Pride. Sing with synagogue. Blow plastic horn. Collect parade buttons. Feet get sore. Back gets sore. Crowds oppress me.
First SF relationship. Woman with baggage. Husband, child, dog. I end it. Breaks my heart. Grief outlasts relationship.
My next relationship. She moves nearby. Then moves repeatedly. We hold seders. We sing together. She wants kids. I do not. We break up. She moves away. Life goes on.
_______________
Layers of Clothing
She often shares her belief in the layered approach to dressing. It offers many gradations of warmth, which are increasingly needed, as her ability to regulate her own temperature seems to be fading.
A T-shirt and a long-sleeved blouse are standard. Part of the reason for the T-shirt is modesty, because her button-front shirts often gap between the buttons, or a button comes undone.
But the warmth is the main thing, in an air-conditioned office or her cool flat. She usually also wears an overshirt of corduroy of chamois. This is part of the uniform of a butch lesbian of a certain age, and increases the number of pockets she has available for storage.
Below the waist, she always wears long pants, knee socks, and laced shoes. The pants used to be corduroy, but recently they tend to be blue or black jeans, perhaps because they don't wear out as quickly as corduroy does. Only when it's really hot out does she wear lighter-weight pants or ankle socks.
The clothes mask her shape, which has been getting steadily rounder over the years. And, more recently, they protect her skin, which has started to have skin cancers and sun allergy.
_____________
Holiday from Hell
The worst holiday I can remember is when my father and I hiked to join my brother for the last night of Boy Scout Camp on some lake in the woods. I'm not an outdoorswoman. The scenery was spectacular, but I spent all of the hike in discomfort from having soft, tender feet in suboptimal shoes on an uneven path laden with sharp rocks. I must have been carrying a small pack, and probably got tired easily and often.
Then I can't imagine that the camp was very comfortable, the food very good, or that it was easy to fall asleep or find the facilities. I faintly recall some oddness about the sleeping arrangements -- were some folks seeking paired privacy?
What I do remember is slipping on a stone and somehow both cutting and bruising the sole of one foot, so that each step on the hike out was particularly painful. But at least we didn't travel very fast. My father was having g.i. problems, and he stopped to vomit at least once on the way back to the car.
Yep, that part of the holiday was a great deal of not fun. There may have been some pleasures on the road driving to or from the lake, but that part of the trip is shrouded in the mists of time.
________
Harvey and Me
I was working at my desk in the southwest corner of the old State Building when we noticed an unusual number of police cars parked hastily in front of City Hall. We wondered if something was up.
I don't remember who first found out, or how, but we came to learn that our mayor had just been assassinated, along with the City's first openly gay supervisor, my district's supervisor, Harvey Milk.
I was still in the closet at work, and was unable to share my full horror and grief in the offices of the appellate court where I was a law clerk. But I soon found out, from other gay friends, that a candlelight vigil would be held that night in front of City Hall.
I attended the event, and was comforted to be surrounded by gay and lesbian mourners.
I also attended a Jewish service for Supervisor Milk. Maybe it was there that I heard the statement he had recorded, anticipating that he might be killed in office. He said, "If a bullet should enter my brain, let that bullet destroy every closet door."
I took his words to heart, and was soon marching on Sacramento for equal employment rights, co-chairing the Council on Religion and the Homosexual, and representing my synagogue in the World congress of Gay and Lesbian Jewish Organizations.
I've been out of the closet ever since, and am not going back.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
New Writings 9/13/15
Unhappy Dreams
I am happy to awake from most of my dreams, especially the ones that take place in a post-apocalyptic world. More often, though, my dreamwoes are mild. I often dream I have started a new school year and I haven't written down where and when each of my classes are, and then I have troubles finding out where I can get that information, troubles finding the classrooms, or both.
Another common dream is one where I'm looking for a bathroom and not quite finding what I need no matter where I look. These dreams probably stem from a full bladder, and I'm glad to have awoken so I can take care of it. It is less pleasant to awaken from a dream in which I've found a toilet and relieved myself -- which can result in a need for replacing my pajamas.
Another frequent dreamtheme is looking for my shoes. I have taken them off (a rare occurrence in reality) and now cannot find them. I attribute these dreams to cold feet.
Finally, there's the action thriller dream, where I'm on the run from a powerful enemy, or am actually fighting with one. A couple of years ago, I dreamed about physically fighting someone and awoke to find myself kicking the bedroom wall. I dropped back to sleep and did it again. The next time I awoke, I had the wits to turn onto my back, so at least my kicks would be directed at air rather than into the wall. This decision prevented additional damage, but ice packs were needed the next morning for my poor, stubbed toes.
________________
Multitasking
Modern neuroscience to the contrary notwithstanding, I firmly believe that I once was able to multitask to a fare-thee-well. When I was in high school, I distinctly remember spending my evenings watching TV, reading my homework, and knitting at the same time.
Recent evidence suggests that multitaskers believe they are getting a lot done, but that objectively they are accomplishing less by the end of the day than are people who tackle the same tasks one at a time.
Now, I don't know how to measure the efficacy of my high school TV viewing, nor can I recall if I knitted less effectively with a book in my lap than without. But the fact that I graduated second in my class of about 1,000 pupils does suggest that the quality of my studying couldn't get much better.
Nowadays, I deliberately switch between tasks, e.g., I read during the commercials while watching TV. Knitting with the TV on doesn't work as well as it used to, either. I tend to drop stitches when knitting while looking at the screen. I should probably pair knitting with listening to the radio; maybe NPR would provide a nice level of mental occupation while leaving my eyes unemployed.
I am happy to awake from most of my dreams, especially the ones that take place in a post-apocalyptic world. More often, though, my dreamwoes are mild. I often dream I have started a new school year and I haven't written down where and when each of my classes are, and then I have troubles finding out where I can get that information, troubles finding the classrooms, or both.
Another common dream is one where I'm looking for a bathroom and not quite finding what I need no matter where I look. These dreams probably stem from a full bladder, and I'm glad to have awoken so I can take care of it. It is less pleasant to awaken from a dream in which I've found a toilet and relieved myself -- which can result in a need for replacing my pajamas.
Another frequent dreamtheme is looking for my shoes. I have taken them off (a rare occurrence in reality) and now cannot find them. I attribute these dreams to cold feet.
Finally, there's the action thriller dream, where I'm on the run from a powerful enemy, or am actually fighting with one. A couple of years ago, I dreamed about physically fighting someone and awoke to find myself kicking the bedroom wall. I dropped back to sleep and did it again. The next time I awoke, I had the wits to turn onto my back, so at least my kicks would be directed at air rather than into the wall. This decision prevented additional damage, but ice packs were needed the next morning for my poor, stubbed toes.
________________
Multitasking
Modern neuroscience to the contrary notwithstanding, I firmly believe that I once was able to multitask to a fare-thee-well. When I was in high school, I distinctly remember spending my evenings watching TV, reading my homework, and knitting at the same time.
Recent evidence suggests that multitaskers believe they are getting a lot done, but that objectively they are accomplishing less by the end of the day than are people who tackle the same tasks one at a time.
Now, I don't know how to measure the efficacy of my high school TV viewing, nor can I recall if I knitted less effectively with a book in my lap than without. But the fact that I graduated second in my class of about 1,000 pupils does suggest that the quality of my studying couldn't get much better.
Nowadays, I deliberately switch between tasks, e.g., I read during the commercials while watching TV. Knitting with the TV on doesn't work as well as it used to, either. I tend to drop stitches when knitting while looking at the screen. I should probably pair knitting with listening to the radio; maybe NPR would provide a nice level of mental occupation while leaving my eyes unemployed.
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
More Recent Writings
Ink Stains
I keep in my wallet a slip of paper with the brand and model of my printer, so I can buy the correct type of ink should I remember that I need some while I'm out and about.
It's usually more efficient to buy in bulk online -- either the actual brand or some generic or remanufactured equivalent.
Some years ago, I was so appalled at the price of new ink cartridges that I bought a refilling kit and bottled ink. That worked for a while, I seem to recall, but the printer, like all its ilk, eventually died and I forgot about the refill option.
Which somehow casts my mind back to the ink cartridges I used to use in fountain pens when I was in high school and college. I savored the flowing line of ink and the link to the quills of gracious times past, without the hassle of sucking ink up from a bottle, whence I suspected it of wanting to issue in all directions. As it was, I got plenty of ink on my fingers and shirt pockets from the cartridge pens, and would occasionally smear the ink around the page before it had dried.
Which recalls another relic of times gone by - the ink blotter. How many mysteries have I read in which a clue was furnished by writing that was inadvertently transferred to a blotter and then read by the detective using a mirror?
And then there's the old trick of wiping a pencil edge on a pad of paper to reveal the impressions left by a person writing on the top page before removing it from the pad. Ahh, for the good old days of analog communication.
_________________
A Family Superstition
My mother would always light a cigarette when standing at a bus stop, to make the bus come. I mostly pull out something to read, but for much the same reasons.
The theory of the superstition is that the universe is perverse, and that by preparing for one outcome you encourage its opposite to happen. This perversity is also apparent in sayings about not counting one's chickens before they're hatched, etc.
But using such techniques also makes perfect psychological sense. Focusing my attention on a book keeps me from being impatient or fretting. Distraction really works for avoiding unpleasant thoughts or feelings.
That's not to say that distraction should blossom into full-blown denial, or at least not for very long. Reality can only be avoided for a little while, before it strikes back.
_________________
Underwater Living
I used to spend a lot of time in and near the swimming pool at the country club in Pennsylvania where my grandparents belonged. I even took some swimming classes there, because they didn't want any of the kids drowning on their watch.
My favorite part was being under the water. It was so silent and still, compared to the shouting and splashing that might be going on topside.
I'd practice swimming from one side of the pool to the other, completely underwater.
I'd turn somersaults under water, forwards and backwards, by curling up and waving my arms.
And once in a while, I'd get a friend to pretend to have a tea party with me, both of us seated on the floor of the pool and sipping from our pretend cups and saucers, in between visits to the surface for air. Our immersions troubled the lifeguards a bit, until they understood what we were up to.
I can't hold my breath very long, and my skin prunes up in no time, and the sunburns, ... But it was so hot in the Pennsylvania summers, and it was oh so quiet and cool at the bottom of the pool.
I keep in my wallet a slip of paper with the brand and model of my printer, so I can buy the correct type of ink should I remember that I need some while I'm out and about.
It's usually more efficient to buy in bulk online -- either the actual brand or some generic or remanufactured equivalent.
Some years ago, I was so appalled at the price of new ink cartridges that I bought a refilling kit and bottled ink. That worked for a while, I seem to recall, but the printer, like all its ilk, eventually died and I forgot about the refill option.
Which somehow casts my mind back to the ink cartridges I used to use in fountain pens when I was in high school and college. I savored the flowing line of ink and the link to the quills of gracious times past, without the hassle of sucking ink up from a bottle, whence I suspected it of wanting to issue in all directions. As it was, I got plenty of ink on my fingers and shirt pockets from the cartridge pens, and would occasionally smear the ink around the page before it had dried.
Which recalls another relic of times gone by - the ink blotter. How many mysteries have I read in which a clue was furnished by writing that was inadvertently transferred to a blotter and then read by the detective using a mirror?
And then there's the old trick of wiping a pencil edge on a pad of paper to reveal the impressions left by a person writing on the top page before removing it from the pad. Ahh, for the good old days of analog communication.
_________________
A Family Superstition
My mother would always light a cigarette when standing at a bus stop, to make the bus come. I mostly pull out something to read, but for much the same reasons.
The theory of the superstition is that the universe is perverse, and that by preparing for one outcome you encourage its opposite to happen. This perversity is also apparent in sayings about not counting one's chickens before they're hatched, etc.
But using such techniques also makes perfect psychological sense. Focusing my attention on a book keeps me from being impatient or fretting. Distraction really works for avoiding unpleasant thoughts or feelings.
That's not to say that distraction should blossom into full-blown denial, or at least not for very long. Reality can only be avoided for a little while, before it strikes back.
_________________
Underwater Living
I used to spend a lot of time in and near the swimming pool at the country club in Pennsylvania where my grandparents belonged. I even took some swimming classes there, because they didn't want any of the kids drowning on their watch.
My favorite part was being under the water. It was so silent and still, compared to the shouting and splashing that might be going on topside.
I'd practice swimming from one side of the pool to the other, completely underwater.
I'd turn somersaults under water, forwards and backwards, by curling up and waving my arms.
And once in a while, I'd get a friend to pretend to have a tea party with me, both of us seated on the floor of the pool and sipping from our pretend cups and saucers, in between visits to the surface for air. Our immersions troubled the lifeguards a bit, until they understood what we were up to.
I can't hold my breath very long, and my skin prunes up in no time, and the sunburns, ... But it was so hot in the Pennsylvania summers, and it was oh so quiet and cool at the bottom of the pool.
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
New Writings
Allison and Me
Allison Bechdel's graphic memoir, Fun Home, has become an award-winning Broadway musical, and I'm reminded of how much I identified with parts of her life when I read the book some years ago.
Her father was gay and closeted. She learned this during his life. My father was also gay and closeted, but it was only after his death that I understood what my mother had been trying to tell me about his friends and roomers. I wish we had had the chance to discuss our shared homosexuality and how it affected our lives.
Her father was run down by a truck on a road near their home, and she believes he committed suicide by throwing himself in its path.
My father overdosed on prescription medications that he had reportedly abused for years. His death certificate raised some question of suicide. But I don't believe he would deliberately overdose, then sit reading the newspaper in the living room of his own house, for his daughter to find him in the morning. But I imagine he was in such poor mental health that his intentions may have wavered. I'll never know for sure.
________________
I May Have Been Drunk
As the child of an alcoholic mother, who missed being raised by her because of that alcoholism, I have a healthy respect for booze. It helps that I dislike the taste of most of it. And it can easily upset my stomach.
When in bars, I usually have nonalcoholic Shirley Temples - which are Seven Up with grenadine syrup. Sometimes I'll have Kahlua and cream, on the rocks. The cream counters the acidity of the booze, and the melting ice dilutes it to an acceptable taste.
That being said, I think I was drunk once. During or shortly after law school, I somehow grew a little close to my straight male dentist. This may have been during my period of trying to be straight, for religious reasons. Or he may have known me for a lesbian and thought he could cure me of that affliction. Yes, on second thought, I think he know that I favored women. One evening, he took me out to dinner (whether after an office visit or on a separate occasion, I can't remember). I do remember having one or two drinks before dinner and drinking two glasses of wine during the meal. I may have been drunk, but I retained control over my behavior.
We had some very pleasant farewell kissing, and he was surprised at my ability. I said to him, Lesbians kiss, too - or something similar. That's where we left it, and he deposited me at my door.
Maybe I was more drunk than I recall, because I was sick as a dog the next day. Completely hung over, I called in sick to work and tried to believe that I was suffering from food poisoning.
___________
A Skill no Longer Needed
When I was much, much younger, and much, much lighter, I rode my bike all over Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. It was a blue Schwinn, I seem to recall, that I would occasionally customize with playing cards clothes-pinned to the wheel fork, that made a magical roar against the spinning spokes.
I had energy, and balance, and stamina, and the bike was the right size for my little legs. I flew down the street, the wind in my hair. I often rode in a skirt - believe it or not - since I was too young to be allowed to choose my own clothes.
Then I moved to Berkeley, California, and bikes were useless in the hills. I could have gotten another bike in flat Santa Monica four years later, but I didn't need one: I took the bus to high school, and was driven to the beach, and then was given a car in my senior year.
I did buy another bike and rode it in an AIDS benefit in San Francisco many years later. The ride was only 25 miles, and I trained for it for a month. But it was a deadly slog, especially since my partner at the time had injured herself and I rode alone, reaching the end long after the bulk of the riders.
That pretty much clinched it for me - I'm never going to be a cyclist again.
Allison Bechdel's graphic memoir, Fun Home, has become an award-winning Broadway musical, and I'm reminded of how much I identified with parts of her life when I read the book some years ago.
Her father was gay and closeted. She learned this during his life. My father was also gay and closeted, but it was only after his death that I understood what my mother had been trying to tell me about his friends and roomers. I wish we had had the chance to discuss our shared homosexuality and how it affected our lives.
Her father was run down by a truck on a road near their home, and she believes he committed suicide by throwing himself in its path.
My father overdosed on prescription medications that he had reportedly abused for years. His death certificate raised some question of suicide. But I don't believe he would deliberately overdose, then sit reading the newspaper in the living room of his own house, for his daughter to find him in the morning. But I imagine he was in such poor mental health that his intentions may have wavered. I'll never know for sure.
________________
I May Have Been Drunk
As the child of an alcoholic mother, who missed being raised by her because of that alcoholism, I have a healthy respect for booze. It helps that I dislike the taste of most of it. And it can easily upset my stomach.
When in bars, I usually have nonalcoholic Shirley Temples - which are Seven Up with grenadine syrup. Sometimes I'll have Kahlua and cream, on the rocks. The cream counters the acidity of the booze, and the melting ice dilutes it to an acceptable taste.
That being said, I think I was drunk once. During or shortly after law school, I somehow grew a little close to my straight male dentist. This may have been during my period of trying to be straight, for religious reasons. Or he may have known me for a lesbian and thought he could cure me of that affliction. Yes, on second thought, I think he know that I favored women. One evening, he took me out to dinner (whether after an office visit or on a separate occasion, I can't remember). I do remember having one or two drinks before dinner and drinking two glasses of wine during the meal. I may have been drunk, but I retained control over my behavior.
We had some very pleasant farewell kissing, and he was surprised at my ability. I said to him, Lesbians kiss, too - or something similar. That's where we left it, and he deposited me at my door.
Maybe I was more drunk than I recall, because I was sick as a dog the next day. Completely hung over, I called in sick to work and tried to believe that I was suffering from food poisoning.
___________
A Skill no Longer Needed
When I was much, much younger, and much, much lighter, I rode my bike all over Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. It was a blue Schwinn, I seem to recall, that I would occasionally customize with playing cards clothes-pinned to the wheel fork, that made a magical roar against the spinning spokes.
I had energy, and balance, and stamina, and the bike was the right size for my little legs. I flew down the street, the wind in my hair. I often rode in a skirt - believe it or not - since I was too young to be allowed to choose my own clothes.
Then I moved to Berkeley, California, and bikes were useless in the hills. I could have gotten another bike in flat Santa Monica four years later, but I didn't need one: I took the bus to high school, and was driven to the beach, and then was given a car in my senior year.
I did buy another bike and rode it in an AIDS benefit in San Francisco many years later. The ride was only 25 miles, and I trained for it for a month. But it was a deadly slog, especially since my partner at the time had injured herself and I rode alone, reaching the end long after the bulk of the riders.
That pretty much clinched it for me - I'm never going to be a cyclist again.
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
What's Up
So I'm starting to get back into the swing of my pre-show retired life. I'm picking off some of the chores that were stacking up.
In particular, I've been working on my will. I've mostly settled the questions around distributing my estate, but I'm still working on the disposition of my remains and household goods, and on what kind of memorial to have.
These efforts are complicated by my frequent desire to sleep all morning and spend the rest of the day on my sofa. I got out most days this past week: went out to shows Tuesday and Friday, sang karaoke on Saturday, and went to a dance class on Sunday.
Next week I'm off to San Rafael for a week-long meditation retreat that I attended a couple of years ago. I don't need to get away from my home to be silent, but the energy of a whole group of people seeking to quiet their minds and nourish their spirits pulls me along with it.
In particular, I've been working on my will. I've mostly settled the questions around distributing my estate, but I'm still working on the disposition of my remains and household goods, and on what kind of memorial to have.
These efforts are complicated by my frequent desire to sleep all morning and spend the rest of the day on my sofa. I got out most days this past week: went out to shows Tuesday and Friday, sang karaoke on Saturday, and went to a dance class on Sunday.
Next week I'm off to San Rafael for a week-long meditation retreat that I attended a couple of years ago. I don't need to get away from my home to be silent, but the energy of a whole group of people seeking to quiet their minds and nourish their spirits pulls me along with it.
Thursday, June 25, 2015
We Rolled Up the Pants
We performed Pants, The Musical, three times this week at the African-American Arts and Culture Complex. Their facilities are palatial compared to the variety of homes, churches, etc., where we rehearsed - two full dressing rooms and an elegant green room, not to mention lights and sound.
I met lots of charming and talented women, and managed to retain all my lines, songs, costume changes, and stage business. There weren't that many lines, but they were distributed among three different characters.
Our biggest and most energetic audience was on Tuesday night, and it was well provided with women from various arenas of my past - including one that I haven't yet identified.
I didn't panic before or during any of the performances, but the uncontrollable shaking of one hand while holding the mike for one of my solos makes me wonder about the state of my nerves, and whether there's some Parkinsonism in the family.
Anyway, I got compliments from my friends in the audience. One stranger hugged me and said I had broken her heart both nights. At something of a loss to respond, I was trying to apologize and offer her some glue.
Now I need to regather the threads of my life that I left hanging while focusing on the show.
I met lots of charming and talented women, and managed to retain all my lines, songs, costume changes, and stage business. There weren't that many lines, but they were distributed among three different characters.
Our biggest and most energetic audience was on Tuesday night, and it was well provided with women from various arenas of my past - including one that I haven't yet identified.
I didn't panic before or during any of the performances, but the uncontrollable shaking of one hand while holding the mike for one of my solos makes me wonder about the state of my nerves, and whether there's some Parkinsonism in the family.
Anyway, I got compliments from my friends in the audience. One stranger hugged me and said I had broken her heart both nights. At something of a loss to respond, I was trying to apologize and offer her some glue.
Now I need to regather the threads of my life that I left hanging while focusing on the show.
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
Poems for Janell's Last Class
Two Prose Poems About Common Objects
A wooden box without a bottom, solid on top except for an oval hole in the middle. It probably has a name, but I know it as a cover to hold down the kleenex box while I pluck tissues from its stomach.
_____
Standing in your base, a sentinel of sanitation, light blinking under soft button while charging, steady when charged. You serve your purpose when I pick you up, anoint you with the sacred cream, and stick you in my mouth.
_______
Two more poems on the topic of lost and found:
A flake
of something white and papery
fell from the heavens
into my lap
as I sat at the front of the church,
casting about
for a way
to stanch the bleeding
of a scab I'd just picked.
______
When I finally got around to watching the movie Rent,
it included a wedding scene
in a sanctuary I used to know
like the back of my hand.
It had been decades
since I'd helped lead services there,
or sung in the choir.
Seeing that old familiar place
was like a cool breeze
from a younger sky.
A wooden box without a bottom, solid on top except for an oval hole in the middle. It probably has a name, but I know it as a cover to hold down the kleenex box while I pluck tissues from its stomach.
_____
Standing in your base, a sentinel of sanitation, light blinking under soft button while charging, steady when charged. You serve your purpose when I pick you up, anoint you with the sacred cream, and stick you in my mouth.
_______
Two more poems on the topic of lost and found:
A flake
of something white and papery
fell from the heavens
into my lap
as I sat at the front of the church,
casting about
for a way
to stanch the bleeding
of a scab I'd just picked.
______
When I finally got around to watching the movie Rent,
it included a wedding scene
in a sanctuary I used to know
like the back of my hand.
It had been decades
since I'd helped lead services there,
or sung in the choir.
Seeing that old familiar place
was like a cool breeze
from a younger sky.
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
How I Got to Read My Writing on Public Radio
I write twice a month with a group of people led by a published non-fiction writer and editor. After we had been together for a month or two, the leader, Kathy, suggested that I try to get one of my pieces on the radio, the Perspectives spot on KQED FM. I'd heard one or two Perspectives - I'm seldom listening to the radio at the times they are aired - and had thought to myself: I could do that.
Whether I could write something radio-worthy was my main concern; I'd done enough public speaking and acting that I enjoy interpreting my pieces aloud. I looked up the submission guidelines for a Perspective, and let the thought fade away.
About two weeks ago, though, all the pieces came together. I had chosen to participate in a vigil, march, and demonstration concerning a questionable police killing. The pastor who had conducted the funeral and I both belonged to an interfaith community organizing group. When he told me about the event, I volunteered to either supply a rabbi to participate in the prayers or to come and do so myself, to show Jewish support. Although I'm not formally trained as a rabbi or cantor, I've led dozens of services at my synagogue. Since the event was on a Friday evening, I couldn't find a rabbi, so I donned my yarmulke and prayer shawl and came myself.
That was April 24. On the 27th, I was in a different writing class and wrote three paragraphs about the event and how I felt about the spate of police killings that's dominated the news lately. Kind of a vignette about the march and a little rant against senseless killings.
On the 28th, I read the stuff to my writing group at Kathy's. She told me that someone who had come to our public reading on the 13th had told her that she loved my works and how I read them, and that I belong on NPR. This time, I absorbed the compliment and assessment of my writing, and another member of the group looked up the submission guidelines and gave me the name and email I needed to submit the piece.
I went home and, the next day, emailed an edited version to KQED, and left a message on the editor's phone mail so he could hear my voice.
Two days later, on Friday May 1, he sent me an email accepting the piece and asking me to make it longer. I did so. I read it aloud to him over the phone, and now it was too long. He edited it a bit, and decided to air it the following Tuesday. He instructed me to contact the station and make an appointment to record it at the studio on Monday. I did so, excited out of my mind.
And immediately my body hit the panic button with a sore throat that turned into a head cold over the weekend. Monday I called the editor to be sure they would let me do the recording. My voice was cloudy and lower-pitched, but still serviceable. He said to go ahead.
I didn't want to spread the news of my success until after I'd made the recording, at which point I could be fairly confident that the universe wouldn't snatch the victory out of my hands.
So, after I finished recording an acceptable take of the piece, I got on Facebook and spread the word. Congratulations poured in from friends from all sectors of my life: synagogue, DIFO, SFOP/PIA, fellow writers, a former co-worker, and other contacts going back to my college and junior high years. I was so jazzed by the taping that my hands were shaking for hours afterwards, and I could hardly sleep that night.
Not only did I get to read my piece on the radio, but the tape and transcript of the piece, and a picture of me, are archived on KQED.org. Here's the link to Perspectives; my piece is dated May 5, 2015. www.kqed.org/radio/programs/perspectives/
My internal committee is flabbergasted. One voice, the one that had said "I can do that," is now saying, "I told you so. Why did it take you so long to do it?"
Another voice marvels that I was able to sell a piece of my creative writing to KQED on my first try. Most writers have to shop their stuff around enough to collect a pile of rejection slips.
A third voice says that I do well with short writings. I'd already published several prayers in my synagogue's prayerbook. I might take forever to write a novel and another eternity to sell it, but I can turn out several of my little creative non-fictions in an hour or so. So their number alone increases the odds that I'll kick out something interesting to someone.
And another voice suggests that spending over a decade writing little pieces for my blog (and another decade before that writing pieces for Mothertongue Feminist Readers' Theater), not to mention a 31-year career in technical writing and editing, may also have contributed to the quality of my work.
So now it's the day after my piece aired. I listened to one airing live, and recorded the last airing on my DVR for future reference. It's so cool hearing real radio announcers say my name, correctly.
I went to a brunch, a rehearsal, and a meeting of that writing group yesterday, where I shared with them the events of the past week. It was a full and draining day. Now my cold is worse, with a cough and my voice is really bad. Sure glad it waited until today to fall apart. I hear a nap calling my name.
Whether I could write something radio-worthy was my main concern; I'd done enough public speaking and acting that I enjoy interpreting my pieces aloud. I looked up the submission guidelines for a Perspective, and let the thought fade away.
About two weeks ago, though, all the pieces came together. I had chosen to participate in a vigil, march, and demonstration concerning a questionable police killing. The pastor who had conducted the funeral and I both belonged to an interfaith community organizing group. When he told me about the event, I volunteered to either supply a rabbi to participate in the prayers or to come and do so myself, to show Jewish support. Although I'm not formally trained as a rabbi or cantor, I've led dozens of services at my synagogue. Since the event was on a Friday evening, I couldn't find a rabbi, so I donned my yarmulke and prayer shawl and came myself.
That was April 24. On the 27th, I was in a different writing class and wrote three paragraphs about the event and how I felt about the spate of police killings that's dominated the news lately. Kind of a vignette about the march and a little rant against senseless killings.
On the 28th, I read the stuff to my writing group at Kathy's. She told me that someone who had come to our public reading on the 13th had told her that she loved my works and how I read them, and that I belong on NPR. This time, I absorbed the compliment and assessment of my writing, and another member of the group looked up the submission guidelines and gave me the name and email I needed to submit the piece.
I went home and, the next day, emailed an edited version to KQED, and left a message on the editor's phone mail so he could hear my voice.
Two days later, on Friday May 1, he sent me an email accepting the piece and asking me to make it longer. I did so. I read it aloud to him over the phone, and now it was too long. He edited it a bit, and decided to air it the following Tuesday. He instructed me to contact the station and make an appointment to record it at the studio on Monday. I did so, excited out of my mind.
And immediately my body hit the panic button with a sore throat that turned into a head cold over the weekend. Monday I called the editor to be sure they would let me do the recording. My voice was cloudy and lower-pitched, but still serviceable. He said to go ahead.
I didn't want to spread the news of my success until after I'd made the recording, at which point I could be fairly confident that the universe wouldn't snatch the victory out of my hands.
So, after I finished recording an acceptable take of the piece, I got on Facebook and spread the word. Congratulations poured in from friends from all sectors of my life: synagogue, DIFO, SFOP/PIA, fellow writers, a former co-worker, and other contacts going back to my college and junior high years. I was so jazzed by the taping that my hands were shaking for hours afterwards, and I could hardly sleep that night.
Not only did I get to read my piece on the radio, but the tape and transcript of the piece, and a picture of me, are archived on KQED.org. Here's the link to Perspectives; my piece is dated May 5, 2015. www.kqed.org/radio/programs/perspectives/
My internal committee is flabbergasted. One voice, the one that had said "I can do that," is now saying, "I told you so. Why did it take you so long to do it?"
Another voice marvels that I was able to sell a piece of my creative writing to KQED on my first try. Most writers have to shop their stuff around enough to collect a pile of rejection slips.
A third voice says that I do well with short writings. I'd already published several prayers in my synagogue's prayerbook. I might take forever to write a novel and another eternity to sell it, but I can turn out several of my little creative non-fictions in an hour or so. So their number alone increases the odds that I'll kick out something interesting to someone.
And another voice suggests that spending over a decade writing little pieces for my blog (and another decade before that writing pieces for Mothertongue Feminist Readers' Theater), not to mention a 31-year career in technical writing and editing, may also have contributed to the quality of my work.
So now it's the day after my piece aired. I listened to one airing live, and recorded the last airing on my DVR for future reference. It's so cool hearing real radio announcers say my name, correctly.
I went to a brunch, a rehearsal, and a meeting of that writing group yesterday, where I shared with them the events of the past week. It was a full and draining day. Now my cold is worse, with a cough and my voice is really bad. Sure glad it waited until today to fall apart. I hear a nap calling my name.
Saturday, May 2, 2015
A Morning Ritual
When I leave the house, I usually pray a Thank You song to God, for the morning and each new day, for friends and family, for my occupations, for every small pleasure, for music, light, and gladness. I pray thanks for folks who aggravate or intimidate me, and pray that I not be the one doing the aggravating or intimidating, and that I continue to grow into my role in the human family. I've always felt different and other, having social anxiety and abandonment issues.
I pray this prayer (sing it sometimes, when I'm alone in the car) to prepare myself for the day: to set my mind to notice good things, to set my heart open to other people, to counter my natural pessimism with a hint of hope, to at least acknowledge a possibility that the universe can be a friendly place and that I can both enjoy and contribute to it.
I pray this prayer (sing it sometimes, when I'm alone in the car) to prepare myself for the day: to set my mind to notice good things, to set my heart open to other people, to counter my natural pessimism with a hint of hope, to at least acknowledge a possibility that the universe can be a friendly place and that I can both enjoy and contribute to it.
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
The Cars of My Youth
Grandpa Lou drove a red pickup truck with the words "Vinicoff Electric Company" on the side. I think I rode in it only once, when he picked me up at a friend's house after he had an accident at work.
Grandma Mil drove an ancient black Volvo, like an overgrown Beetle. It had a small, rectangular window in the curved back. I was told she drove it so slowly that its transmission had grown accustomed to shifting into third gear at an absurdly low speed.
Family friend Nancy drove a little Karmann Ghia - I don't remember its color - that she described at a sheep in wolf's clothing - a sports car with no guts.
Dad's first car was a 1956 Ford Thunderbird convertible. It was white, with a white removable hardtop and a black ragtop. There were little porthole windows in the hardtop, and I think it was a two-seater. I faintly recall an occasion in which we somehow crammed three adults and two children into those two seats. Dad liked to drive with the top down. Often, I was so cold that I'd curl up on the floor in front of the passenger seat.
After my brother and I came to live with him, Dad bought a green Ford Mustang, which at least had a back seat. I liked its shape and the round logo on its rear end.
My brother inherited the T-bird after Dad died. It had an electrically adjustable seat, and so much horsepower that my mother worried about me driving it. But there was no need for worry. With the seat up and forward as far as it could go, and my leg and foot stretched out as far as they could go, that car wasn't going more than 30 mph. My legs were too short for speed.
Grandma Mil drove an ancient black Volvo, like an overgrown Beetle. It had a small, rectangular window in the curved back. I was told she drove it so slowly that its transmission had grown accustomed to shifting into third gear at an absurdly low speed.
Family friend Nancy drove a little Karmann Ghia - I don't remember its color - that she described at a sheep in wolf's clothing - a sports car with no guts.
Dad's first car was a 1956 Ford Thunderbird convertible. It was white, with a white removable hardtop and a black ragtop. There were little porthole windows in the hardtop, and I think it was a two-seater. I faintly recall an occasion in which we somehow crammed three adults and two children into those two seats. Dad liked to drive with the top down. Often, I was so cold that I'd curl up on the floor in front of the passenger seat.
After my brother and I came to live with him, Dad bought a green Ford Mustang, which at least had a back seat. I liked its shape and the round logo on its rear end.
My brother inherited the T-bird after Dad died. It had an electrically adjustable seat, and so much horsepower that my mother worried about me driving it. But there was no need for worry. With the seat up and forward as far as it could go, and my leg and foot stretched out as far as they could go, that car wasn't going more than 30 mph. My legs were too short for speed.
Friday, April 17, 2015
Ladder Poems
In my last writing class with Janell, we read a fairly gloomy poem by Adrienne Rich and were asked to spend some time writing something based on it. I wrote the following:
Adrienne's Ladder
Adrienne wrote of a succession of movements, each one making the next one possible. I reach for a ladder of such movements when mired in the paralysis of depression. I cast about for the lowest rung, for any movement at all that seems remotely possible from where I hunker in darkness, afraid even to look up, afraid to draw the attention of a malevolent universe to my timorous, vile self.
Then, at a time that comes to me as a gift, the thought, willingness, and energy to put my foot on that ladder all coincide as the first rung glides into view, offering enough challenge to get me moving but not a discouraging amount.
And I take that step, breaking the locks on my joints and my mood, climbing that little bit up from the depths towards the light, the next movement, and the movement beyond that, feeling better, stronger, more worthy with each step.
But then, I pause too long, and the next step drifts out of sight. The upward momentum cannot be sustained. My energy ebbs, and I slide back down the ladder, acquiring splinters and blisters, until the next time.
______________
Then, oddly enough, one of Janell's next prompts was a line about carrying a ladder. So I approached the same topic from a different angle:
Happy Ladder
We all need ladders to extend our reach,
to step on to touch the top shelf
or the sky.
Our legs and arms take us only so far;
we need help to go further
go deeper
go into a different realm
where fish swim through the air
and words array themselves on the page
and old thoughts are clothed in new words
and old words take on new meanings.
Ladders lift us up
take us over obstacles
up a fire escape
into a treehouse
through the looking-glass.
Each rung supports our weight
and lays a foundation for new realms
each step a higher realm
thrilling with more beauty and insight
taking us up and up and up.
Adrienne's Ladder
Adrienne wrote of a succession of movements, each one making the next one possible. I reach for a ladder of such movements when mired in the paralysis of depression. I cast about for the lowest rung, for any movement at all that seems remotely possible from where I hunker in darkness, afraid even to look up, afraid to draw the attention of a malevolent universe to my timorous, vile self.
Then, at a time that comes to me as a gift, the thought, willingness, and energy to put my foot on that ladder all coincide as the first rung glides into view, offering enough challenge to get me moving but not a discouraging amount.
And I take that step, breaking the locks on my joints and my mood, climbing that little bit up from the depths towards the light, the next movement, and the movement beyond that, feeling better, stronger, more worthy with each step.
But then, I pause too long, and the next step drifts out of sight. The upward momentum cannot be sustained. My energy ebbs, and I slide back down the ladder, acquiring splinters and blisters, until the next time.
______________
Then, oddly enough, one of Janell's next prompts was a line about carrying a ladder. So I approached the same topic from a different angle:
Happy Ladder
We all need ladders to extend our reach,
to step on to touch the top shelf
or the sky.
Our legs and arms take us only so far;
we need help to go further
go deeper
go into a different realm
where fish swim through the air
and words array themselves on the page
and old thoughts are clothed in new words
and old words take on new meanings.
Ladders lift us up
take us over obstacles
up a fire escape
into a treehouse
through the looking-glass.
Each rung supports our weight
and lays a foundation for new realms
each step a higher realm
thrilling with more beauty and insight
taking us up and up and up.
Monday, March 23, 2015
What's Happening These Days
So, I finally more or less got over my flu/cold - writes she while blowing her nose and nursing a lingering cough.
At least I'm well enough to have participated in two previews/fundraisers for Pants: The Musical in the past ten days, with another one this coming Saturday (at 2 pm at Take 5 Cafe in Berkeley, on Sacramento south of Ashby).
These previews give us cast members opportunities to perform our backup singing and solos with the music in front of us while we are in front of small, appreciative crowds.
On top of which, we have a mini-talent show afterwards, in which I get to read some of my little writings to the same appreciative folks.
Which has helped encourage me to get back into sorting said writings into batches that might work together and be interesting.
I reunited all the pages and sorted them back into my original topics. And have put into chronological order those topics for which it makes any sense.
I'm thinking that my next steps will include reading through the topic groups, making copies of my electronic files that are also sorted into these groups, and further refining those groups by splitting up blog posts that combine materials that pertain to different topics.
In other news, I spent four hours last week training with a coalition of people who seek to reform Proposition 13. Prop. 13 was intended to protect aging homeowners from steeply increasing property taxes. However, it applies even more strongly to commercial property, and its effects have shredded government services that depend on property taxes and shifted much of the remaining tax burden from commercial property owners to homeowners.
Finally, I got back to a Leather Soles dance class/party yesterday. Great exercise, and today, after a nice hot bath, my legs have almost recovered.
At least I'm well enough to have participated in two previews/fundraisers for Pants: The Musical in the past ten days, with another one this coming Saturday (at 2 pm at Take 5 Cafe in Berkeley, on Sacramento south of Ashby).
These previews give us cast members opportunities to perform our backup singing and solos with the music in front of us while we are in front of small, appreciative crowds.
On top of which, we have a mini-talent show afterwards, in which I get to read some of my little writings to the same appreciative folks.
Which has helped encourage me to get back into sorting said writings into batches that might work together and be interesting.
I reunited all the pages and sorted them back into my original topics. And have put into chronological order those topics for which it makes any sense.
I'm thinking that my next steps will include reading through the topic groups, making copies of my electronic files that are also sorted into these groups, and further refining those groups by splitting up blog posts that combine materials that pertain to different topics.
In other news, I spent four hours last week training with a coalition of people who seek to reform Proposition 13. Prop. 13 was intended to protect aging homeowners from steeply increasing property taxes. However, it applies even more strongly to commercial property, and its effects have shredded government services that depend on property taxes and shifted much of the remaining tax burden from commercial property owners to homeowners.
Finally, I got back to a Leather Soles dance class/party yesterday. Great exercise, and today, after a nice hot bath, my legs have almost recovered.
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Happy Pi Day
It's 3/14/15, which are the first five digits of pi.
I finally got back to my DIFO meeting in person today, and my support group resumed meeting this week after a hiatus, so I'm basking in the renewed support.
Which is needed. Traveling halfway around the globe without a companion was hard on this introvert, and I'm back on a psychiatric med to keep a current bout of anxiety from blossoming into major trouble.
It was also helpful getting back to my two writing groups: the class with Janell Moon, and writing at Folio Books with Kathy Dalle-Molle. Between an upcoming reading by our Folio group next month, and the musical comedy Corduroy Pants, which is in previews, I've had to write two short autobiographies in the past week. One focused on my writing, and the other focused on my theatrical experience, so there's not much overlap.
So here are some recent writings, including the biographies:
Public Speaking
Surveys relate that more people read public speaking than are afraid of death. Rank me with those who fear death the most.
I've been acting and engaging in various forms of public speaking since I was in grade school. Plays, forensics tournaments, the high school valedictory address. As long as I have a script to follow, or at least have some idea of what I want to say, I'm fairly content to stand up in front of people and sing, or act, or lead worship, or read poems or other writings.
But that doesn't make me an extrovert. No, no, no. Cocktail parties, meeting new people, hanging out in a group all terrify me. I can only spend a few hours in a party situation or with a group of people before I need to escape somewhere alone and replenish the energy I've lost. I'm definitely an introvert, albeit of the showoff or performer variety.
Watch me take a piece of my mind and share it with you. That's OK; it's what I do.
____________
Cast Bio
Dana Vinicoff played the chief elf in The Elves and the Shoemaker at age 8. In junior high, she played Ulga in Dinny and the Witches, and the Jester in Twelfth Night. She wrote and performed with Mothertongue Readers' Theater in the '80s and '90s. More recently, she played Harvey in Joan Furst's musical comedy, Dykes on Broadway. The next year, she played a Latina with mental health issues in Roke Noir's production, Mad Love.
________
Writing Bio
Dana Vinicoff came to San Francisco in 1974 to go to law school and never left. She has retired after 31 years as a legal writer, editor, and publication manager. In between acting gigs and community organizing, she writes creative non-fiction with any group she can find, maintains her blog, and tries to massage her writings into one or more collections that some people might enjoy reading.
____________
Santa Monica Summers
At the beach, the smell of Coppertone lotion and the pricier Bain du Soleil. The stickiness they left on the skin. The heat of the sun beating down on my hair, freckling my nose, and setting my skin up for cancer and my eyes for cataracts.
Stepping into the water and plowing above, below, or through the waves until I get in a good location for body surfing. I catch one wave, and travel halfway back to shore. Another wave sneaks up on me and I am tumbled in a washing machine.
Sand accumulates in my swimsuit and I duck down and try to swish it out. I step on seaweed and cringe away from its slippery feel.
Having been hit by three more washing-machine waves, I've had enough for today. I head back to my beach towel, after some searching with my near-sighted eyes.
I sit down on the towel, and the sand that already clung to my feet is gradually joined by wind-blown grains all over my body. And I pick up more sand from my towel itself.
But there's a can of soda in a cooler to wash the salt out of my mouth. And a taco stand not far away, where I can buy a mystery meat taco wrapped in yellow paper and a rainbow snow cone. I bring my prizes back to my towel, triumphant.
______
I met Beverly Sills once. Nee Bubbles Silverman, she was proudly claimed as Jewish by my family. She was at the peak of her career as an opera singer, and had a voice of the type my voice teacher claimed I was acquiring.
I'm not quite remembering where we met. It probably was the Hollywood Bowl or some other Los Angeles concert venue, since I was a music major at U.C.L.C. in those years - the early 1970's.
I congratulated her on the wondrous facility of her coloratura runs. I've a faint memory that she had sung florid variations on "Ah, vous dirais-je, Maman," a tune we Americans know as Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.
I can be fairly sure of having actually met her, because I still have her autograph on the page from that tiny notebook I carried with me even then.
But as for encouraging me to take my musical gifts in the direction of opera? Nope. I decided that I was not going to earn a living in music, and went on to law school.
Now that I'm retired, though, I'm returning to the artistic endeavor I favored in junior high school - musical theater.
__________
I'm reminded of the time I spent a day at the Elizabeth Arden salon in Los Angeles - a gift from my mother to prepare me for the high school juniors' ball. When I was done there, I looked like a million bucks. To be more precise, I looked like a 35-year-old woman whose husband was a millionaire.
And I didn't exit the building before a young man came up to me and tried to charm himself into my life. Nonplussed, I wound up inviting him to the small Santa Monica apartment where I was living with my mother and brother, to swim in the pool.
When he arrived and saw my true age and circumstances, the dollar scales fell from his eyes, and he faded away at the first opportunity.
I finally got back to my DIFO meeting in person today, and my support group resumed meeting this week after a hiatus, so I'm basking in the renewed support.
Which is needed. Traveling halfway around the globe without a companion was hard on this introvert, and I'm back on a psychiatric med to keep a current bout of anxiety from blossoming into major trouble.
It was also helpful getting back to my two writing groups: the class with Janell Moon, and writing at Folio Books with Kathy Dalle-Molle. Between an upcoming reading by our Folio group next month, and the musical comedy Corduroy Pants, which is in previews, I've had to write two short autobiographies in the past week. One focused on my writing, and the other focused on my theatrical experience, so there's not much overlap.
So here are some recent writings, including the biographies:
Public Speaking
Surveys relate that more people read public speaking than are afraid of death. Rank me with those who fear death the most.
I've been acting and engaging in various forms of public speaking since I was in grade school. Plays, forensics tournaments, the high school valedictory address. As long as I have a script to follow, or at least have some idea of what I want to say, I'm fairly content to stand up in front of people and sing, or act, or lead worship, or read poems or other writings.
But that doesn't make me an extrovert. No, no, no. Cocktail parties, meeting new people, hanging out in a group all terrify me. I can only spend a few hours in a party situation or with a group of people before I need to escape somewhere alone and replenish the energy I've lost. I'm definitely an introvert, albeit of the showoff or performer variety.
Watch me take a piece of my mind and share it with you. That's OK; it's what I do.
____________
Cast Bio
Dana Vinicoff played the chief elf in The Elves and the Shoemaker at age 8. In junior high, she played Ulga in Dinny and the Witches, and the Jester in Twelfth Night. She wrote and performed with Mothertongue Readers' Theater in the '80s and '90s. More recently, she played Harvey in Joan Furst's musical comedy, Dykes on Broadway. The next year, she played a Latina with mental health issues in Roke Noir's production, Mad Love.
________
Writing Bio
Dana Vinicoff came to San Francisco in 1974 to go to law school and never left. She has retired after 31 years as a legal writer, editor, and publication manager. In between acting gigs and community organizing, she writes creative non-fiction with any group she can find, maintains her blog, and tries to massage her writings into one or more collections that some people might enjoy reading.
____________
Santa Monica Summers
At the beach, the smell of Coppertone lotion and the pricier Bain du Soleil. The stickiness they left on the skin. The heat of the sun beating down on my hair, freckling my nose, and setting my skin up for cancer and my eyes for cataracts.
Stepping into the water and plowing above, below, or through the waves until I get in a good location for body surfing. I catch one wave, and travel halfway back to shore. Another wave sneaks up on me and I am tumbled in a washing machine.
Sand accumulates in my swimsuit and I duck down and try to swish it out. I step on seaweed and cringe away from its slippery feel.
Having been hit by three more washing-machine waves, I've had enough for today. I head back to my beach towel, after some searching with my near-sighted eyes.
I sit down on the towel, and the sand that already clung to my feet is gradually joined by wind-blown grains all over my body. And I pick up more sand from my towel itself.
But there's a can of soda in a cooler to wash the salt out of my mouth. And a taco stand not far away, where I can buy a mystery meat taco wrapped in yellow paper and a rainbow snow cone. I bring my prizes back to my towel, triumphant.
______
I met Beverly Sills once. Nee Bubbles Silverman, she was proudly claimed as Jewish by my family. She was at the peak of her career as an opera singer, and had a voice of the type my voice teacher claimed I was acquiring.
I'm not quite remembering where we met. It probably was the Hollywood Bowl or some other Los Angeles concert venue, since I was a music major at U.C.L.C. in those years - the early 1970's.
I congratulated her on the wondrous facility of her coloratura runs. I've a faint memory that she had sung florid variations on "Ah, vous dirais-je, Maman," a tune we Americans know as Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.
I can be fairly sure of having actually met her, because I still have her autograph on the page from that tiny notebook I carried with me even then.
But as for encouraging me to take my musical gifts in the direction of opera? Nope. I decided that I was not going to earn a living in music, and went on to law school.
Now that I'm retired, though, I'm returning to the artistic endeavor I favored in junior high school - musical theater.
__________
I'm reminded of the time I spent a day at the Elizabeth Arden salon in Los Angeles - a gift from my mother to prepare me for the high school juniors' ball. When I was done there, I looked like a million bucks. To be more precise, I looked like a 35-year-old woman whose husband was a millionaire.
And I didn't exit the building before a young man came up to me and tried to charm himself into my life. Nonplussed, I wound up inviting him to the small Santa Monica apartment where I was living with my mother and brother, to swim in the pool.
When he arrived and saw my true age and circumstances, the dollar scales fell from his eyes, and he faded away at the first opportunity.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Back In One Piece
A few of my hopes came true:
I petted a few kangaroos and a wallaby. I saw koalas and Tasmanian devils. I ate some exotic tropical fruits I'd never had before - passion fruit and dragon fruit.
I set foot in Sydney, Australia; Hobart, Tasmania; Dunedin (accent on the second syllable, and the 'e' is long), New Zealand; the port town nearest to Tauranga and Rotorua, New Zealand; and Auckland, New Zealand.
I met some lovely women from all over the world. Danced a wild tango (with the ship's rolling casting us towards and away from each other} with an Aussie named Lizanne. Exited the Syndey Hop On Hop Off bus at King's Cross station after eyeing a likely looking lady {who I later met in the line to board the ship}, and found my way back to my hotel with a little help from a local lass who was handing out free passes to a gym. Sat at a table in the Lido Restaurant with a woman I knew I had met before. When she gave me her name, I remembered that we had met in the Chinese Garden in Sydney and that she had been knitting something complex.
What are the chances of running into someone I know on the opposite end of the world? A few hours after we disembarked the Oosterdam in Auckland and were back at the ferry terminal for a harbour tour, I heard a male voice call "Dana?" It was Glen Shannon - an East Bay-dwelling recorder player and composer friend of mine. He was headed to board the Oosterdam for a gay male cruise to Sydney for the upcoming gay Mardi Gras festivities.
I'll try to upload some of my better pictures, but don't get your hopes up - they were taken with my ipod touch.
Be it ever so humble, ...
I petted a few kangaroos and a wallaby. I saw koalas and Tasmanian devils. I ate some exotic tropical fruits I'd never had before - passion fruit and dragon fruit.
I set foot in Sydney, Australia; Hobart, Tasmania; Dunedin (accent on the second syllable, and the 'e' is long), New Zealand; the port town nearest to Tauranga and Rotorua, New Zealand; and Auckland, New Zealand.
I met some lovely women from all over the world. Danced a wild tango (with the ship's rolling casting us towards and away from each other} with an Aussie named Lizanne. Exited the Syndey Hop On Hop Off bus at King's Cross station after eyeing a likely looking lady {who I later met in the line to board the ship}, and found my way back to my hotel with a little help from a local lass who was handing out free passes to a gym. Sat at a table in the Lido Restaurant with a woman I knew I had met before. When she gave me her name, I remembered that we had met in the Chinese Garden in Sydney and that she had been knitting something complex.
What are the chances of running into someone I know on the opposite end of the world? A few hours after we disembarked the Oosterdam in Auckland and were back at the ferry terminal for a harbour tour, I heard a male voice call "Dana?" It was Glen Shannon - an East Bay-dwelling recorder player and composer friend of mine. He was headed to board the Oosterdam for a gay male cruise to Sydney for the upcoming gay Mardi Gras festivities.
I'll try to upload some of my better pictures, but don't get your hopes up - they were taken with my ipod touch.
Be it ever so humble, ...
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Tomorrow I Travel
How many months have I been planning this trip? Since last July, I learn from checking the paperwork. Which I'm now sorting through several times to see what can be recycled, what left behind, what can be packed, and what needs to go to the airport with me.
It's been raining pretty steadily the last several days and is to continue raining tomorrow. May lots and lots of the rain find its way into the reservoirs. Ordinarily I would be getting pretty depressed about now, since my emotions are solar-powered, but my pre-trip anticipation/anxiety is an effective antidote.
Since I was reminded that my flight leaves in the evening (somehow it had morphed into morning in my mind a few months ago), and especially since learning that I had bid for and won a moderate-cost upgrade to first class, I'm looking forward to the 13-hour flight with much less trepidation, and even a little anticipation. It's also helping with my pre-trip anxiety that I posted my flight on the cruise's Facebook group and found five other cruisers who will be on the flight. We plan to band together Down Under to make our way out of the airport and to our hotels.
A few ladies from Australia and New Zealand seem to be finding their way to this blog from my postings to the FB group. Kia ora, gals, and hope to see you soon!
It's been raining pretty steadily the last several days and is to continue raining tomorrow. May lots and lots of the rain find its way into the reservoirs. Ordinarily I would be getting pretty depressed about now, since my emotions are solar-powered, but my pre-trip anticipation/anxiety is an effective antidote.
Since I was reminded that my flight leaves in the evening (somehow it had morphed into morning in my mind a few months ago), and especially since learning that I had bid for and won a moderate-cost upgrade to first class, I'm looking forward to the 13-hour flight with much less trepidation, and even a little anticipation. It's also helping with my pre-trip anxiety that I posted my flight on the cruise's Facebook group and found five other cruisers who will be on the flight. We plan to band together Down Under to make our way out of the airport and to our hotels.
A few ladies from Australia and New Zealand seem to be finding their way to this blog from my postings to the FB group. Kia ora, gals, and hope to see you soon!
Saturday, February 7, 2015
Pre-Trip Wish List
Written at Write Now! to the prompt "What I want is."
What I want is to have a safe trip Down Under. To get myself where I need to be when I need to be there, in a relatively unfrazzled state.
I want to have packed wisely with clothes and accessories that contribute equal amounts of comfort and attractiveness.
I want to have fun adventures with a minimum of injury, illness, or anxiety. I want to make good enough decisions about what to eat and what to do - not to paralyze myself by trying for perfection.
I want to get to know some of my fellow cruisers better and have deep, nourishing conversations with them. I want to be helpful to my fellow travelers by sharing any information or expertise I can offer.
I want to have cared wisely for myself in choosing when to get out and about, and when to recharge alone in my cabin. I want to fall asleep within a reasonable time each night, and awaken in the morning with as much energy and enthusiasm as I can reasonably expect from myself.
I want to experience no dyke drama. I want to come home with good pictures and stories, and postcards, T-shirts, and maybe a new journal or two.
What I want is to have a safe trip Down Under. To get myself where I need to be when I need to be there, in a relatively unfrazzled state.
I want to have packed wisely with clothes and accessories that contribute equal amounts of comfort and attractiveness.
I want to have fun adventures with a minimum of injury, illness, or anxiety. I want to make good enough decisions about what to eat and what to do - not to paralyze myself by trying for perfection.
I want to get to know some of my fellow cruisers better and have deep, nourishing conversations with them. I want to be helpful to my fellow travelers by sharing any information or expertise I can offer.
I want to have cared wisely for myself in choosing when to get out and about, and when to recharge alone in my cabin. I want to fall asleep within a reasonable time each night, and awaken in the morning with as much energy and enthusiasm as I can reasonably expect from myself.
I want to experience no dyke drama. I want to come home with good pictures and stories, and postcards, T-shirts, and maybe a new journal or two.
Friday, January 30, 2015
How to Sort?
So I've been thinking about how to arrange my blog files, and even dreaming about the possibilities. Maybe putting the options down in writing will help clarify matters.
My chief temptation is to present the files sorted chronologically, as if they were historical data whose value rests in part on their timing. There are some older writings that I've copied into the blog, which I'd have to pull out and label separately - writings from junior high and high school, writings from college and law school years, writings for Mothertongue Readers' Theatre - but the bulk of the blog was written for the blog or at least was posted there near the time of its writing.
Or, I could sort the pieces by the purpose for which they were written: English classes and writing workshops, the blog itself, Mothertongue, the synagogue, and Christian self-expression.
Or, finally and most difficult, would be to organize the pieces by the subject of the writing. There are many different subjects and ways of splitting them up, and a single piece often touches on two different subjects. My original subject list: current happenings, my past, my mental blocks, spirituality, commentary on others' writings, and general non-fiction. A list proposed by my writing coach includes: inspiration, observations, musings, memories, faith/shul, san francisco, outside, and panic.
I suppose that the decision should rest less on my convenience and more on what would be most accessible and interesting to a reader. Some authors can tell a story with graceful interjections that seem fairly far afield. I'm reading a book that's the story of the life of a pet pig in New Hampshire, but every so often the author spends a few months in India or Brazil studying other animals, and she manages to weave these trips into the narrative without any loss of momentum.
If I were to identify a basic story arc, say moving into retirement or recovering from major depression, maybe I could weave my political, artistic, and other excursions into the narrative. Maybe.
My original sorting included prioritizing my first three topics: current happenings, my past, and my mental blocks. But the downside of that was that the chosen topics included some relatively dull stuff and this sorting omitted some pieces I really liked from the excluded topics. So then I pulled out some of the duller stuff and pulled in some stuff from the other topics. But then I resorted the pages in chronological order and lost the original sort. And the more I look at the current pile of pages, the less cohesive and more amorphous it seems.
Maybe some subjects need to be in chronological order. Certainly reports of what I was then doing would make more sense in the order of their occurrence. But even a biography is seldom told in strict chronology; the author chooses an angle of approach and opens with a good hook before digging into the subject's ancestors and early childhood.
I seem to have a bit of a dilemma: I can't find a good arrangement for the pieces until I decide what I'm trying to accomplish with them, and I can't figure out what I'm saying with them until I get the pieces sorted in my mind. Along with whatever explanation and expansion seems necessary.
And part of the problem is that the pieces are so disparate in origin, subject, and purpose. Por ejemplo, I've got prayers and sermons on the one hand, and bawdy pieces about sexuality and lesbianism on the other hand. Now, reconciling these parts of myself has been one of the major themes of my life. Maybe that could be an organizing principle. Hmm.
Alternatively, breaking the pieces into several different projects may be the way to go. For example, I could pull together all the Christian, Jewish, and Buddhist material, and enough of the circumstances of my life to explain my interest in all three religions. But queer spirituality has been written about in each flavor, I'm sure. Don't think I'd buy a book on that subject alone.
Well, this has all been pretty helpful. I'll be curious to see if I stop dreaming about editing the files or if the content of the dreams changes.
Stay tuned for future developments.
My chief temptation is to present the files sorted chronologically, as if they were historical data whose value rests in part on their timing. There are some older writings that I've copied into the blog, which I'd have to pull out and label separately - writings from junior high and high school, writings from college and law school years, writings for Mothertongue Readers' Theatre - but the bulk of the blog was written for the blog or at least was posted there near the time of its writing.
Or, I could sort the pieces by the purpose for which they were written: English classes and writing workshops, the blog itself, Mothertongue, the synagogue, and Christian self-expression.
Or, finally and most difficult, would be to organize the pieces by the subject of the writing. There are many different subjects and ways of splitting them up, and a single piece often touches on two different subjects. My original subject list: current happenings, my past, my mental blocks, spirituality, commentary on others' writings, and general non-fiction. A list proposed by my writing coach includes: inspiration, observations, musings, memories, faith/shul, san francisco, outside, and panic.
I suppose that the decision should rest less on my convenience and more on what would be most accessible and interesting to a reader. Some authors can tell a story with graceful interjections that seem fairly far afield. I'm reading a book that's the story of the life of a pet pig in New Hampshire, but every so often the author spends a few months in India or Brazil studying other animals, and she manages to weave these trips into the narrative without any loss of momentum.
If I were to identify a basic story arc, say moving into retirement or recovering from major depression, maybe I could weave my political, artistic, and other excursions into the narrative. Maybe.
My original sorting included prioritizing my first three topics: current happenings, my past, and my mental blocks. But the downside of that was that the chosen topics included some relatively dull stuff and this sorting omitted some pieces I really liked from the excluded topics. So then I pulled out some of the duller stuff and pulled in some stuff from the other topics. But then I resorted the pages in chronological order and lost the original sort. And the more I look at the current pile of pages, the less cohesive and more amorphous it seems.
Maybe some subjects need to be in chronological order. Certainly reports of what I was then doing would make more sense in the order of their occurrence. But even a biography is seldom told in strict chronology; the author chooses an angle of approach and opens with a good hook before digging into the subject's ancestors and early childhood.
I seem to have a bit of a dilemma: I can't find a good arrangement for the pieces until I decide what I'm trying to accomplish with them, and I can't figure out what I'm saying with them until I get the pieces sorted in my mind. Along with whatever explanation and expansion seems necessary.
And part of the problem is that the pieces are so disparate in origin, subject, and purpose. Por ejemplo, I've got prayers and sermons on the one hand, and bawdy pieces about sexuality and lesbianism on the other hand. Now, reconciling these parts of myself has been one of the major themes of my life. Maybe that could be an organizing principle. Hmm.
Alternatively, breaking the pieces into several different projects may be the way to go. For example, I could pull together all the Christian, Jewish, and Buddhist material, and enough of the circumstances of my life to explain my interest in all three religions. But queer spirituality has been written about in each flavor, I'm sure. Don't think I'd buy a book on that subject alone.
Well, this has all been pretty helpful. I'll be curious to see if I stop dreaming about editing the files or if the content of the dreams changes.
Stay tuned for future developments.
Thursday, January 22, 2015
Some New Stuff
German Coincidences
This morning I was talking to myself in German, which I do from time to time. I never lived in Germany; I only studied German in college. But every so often, a simple phrase or sentence springs from me, apparently without cause.
This morning, though, it occurred to me to wonder why. I've studied other languages, and while an occasional French exclamation or Latin saying will issue from me, that's about it. No Hebrew, no Spanish, no Italian, or New Testament Greek.
So it occurred to me, maybe German arises spontaneously because I grew up with relatives who spoke Yiddish, which is essentially German written with Hebrew characters.
Then later this morning I met with my weekly coffee/brunch group. I shared with the three women sitting nearest me, who were all Jewish, what I had realized about my Yiddish and German experiences. They seemed to agree with my reasoning.
A bit later still, Maria came to the group for the first time in several months. She had returned to her home in Germany after her stay in San Francisco, and was now back for another visit.
So, first I spoke to myself in German, then I wondered about why I spoke in German, then I talked with my friends about why I speak in German, then finally an actual speaker of German returns to our group after a long absence. What are the odds of all that happening within a few hours?
____________
Fast Food
Fast food is the choice of the poor, unhappy, or both. It's cheap and readily available. To put together even a hamburger from fresh, organic scratch would cost considerably more than the buck price of a fast food burger. And a restaurant burger? Forget it.
As for the unhappy, I tend to equate unhappiness with depression. And as I well know, a depressed person thinks so little of herself and is so immobilized that she's not about to take herself out to a nice restaurant or buy and fix herself a lovely meal.
And that's assuming she's even hungry. When I was depressed, I had no interest in food. I lost some 60 pounds because I just didn't want to eat anything. So, no food at all would have been my choice then, not fast food.
And I think that patience and anticipation are both characteristics that are not abundant in unhappy or depressed folks. And the ability to plan ahead and then follow that plan? Not so much. I don't think about food until I'm hungry or in a restaurant, and then I want that food now.
Fast food is also tremendously unhealthy - see "Supersize Me." If you weren't unhappy before eating it, indigestion and ill health are likely to sour your mood afterwards.
That said, about once a year I just have to have some Jack in the Box tacos. Because they remind me of Santa Monica beach tacos, they have major nostalgia value.
_____________
Disputing About Tastes
My favorite Latin saying comes to mind, and usually then issues from my mouth, every couple of weeks. The saying is "De gustibus non disputandum est," there can be no arguing about tastes.
I probably picked it up in a Latin class. I continue to use it because I live by the sentiment and love the way it sounds. It's certainly less sexist than the roughly equivalent saying, "One man's meat is another man's poison." And it's much more elegant than "Different strokes for different folks." And I'm not sure how to pronounce the French version, "Chacun a son gout" (or spell it, for that matter).
More to the point, I keep on needing to assert this concept because I'm surrounded by people who believe that their own tastes are eternal verities, and that, if mine differ, I must be flawed, stupid, cowardly, or dull.
No, no, no, no!
Every person has the right to her own likes and dislikes. The only fault that could possibly attach to a dislike is to assert it without actually having tried the substance or activity in question. And I would maintain that we have no moral duty to try any new thing. Some activities I can be fairly confident that I won't enjoy without having to sample them - especially ones that are apt to result in pain, bleeding, or nausea.
Keeping an open mind is a virtue to some folks, so I usually try a new food or drink, say, at least once.. On the other hand, my mind doesn't need to be so open that things fall out. By which I mean that revisiting known pleasures is also a good thing.
____________
State of the Union Rant
Pres. Obama certainly deserves to take a victory lap after all the disrespect, trash talk, lies, and nearly treasonous obstruction he has received from Republicans and other haters.
He inherited several steaming messes courtesy of the Decider, Bush Junior - Iraq, Afghanistan, Wall Street collapse, real estate collapse, job losses, etc. etc.
And by ignoring the haters and following Democratic principles and just plain persistence, he saved the American economy, encouraged the creation of millions of new jobs, got millions of people health insurance, got Don't Ask Don't Tell repealed and the Defense of Marriage Act off the books, and cut gas prices by half, and saved the American auto industry, and, oh yeah, while bringing budget deficits way down.
If anything, we need to be spending much more federal money to repair roads and bridges, and on education, child care, and Social Security.
Our economy is doing so much better, yet the country is still so divided. Why people vote to preserve the privileges of the 1% at their own expense is nearly impossible to understand. My best guess is that they believe Republican lies about the government getting in the way of opportunity. And they think that they actually have a decent chance of getting rich without relying on their parents' wealth or government help re education, policing, roads, food and water safety, etc. etc. But the evidence is strongly to the contrary. In fact, upward mobility in other countries is strongly tied to the extent to which the government maintains a strong safety net.
________
Having Too Much
In this age of clutter-consciousness and voluntary simplicity, having too much stuff is a problem for all but the homeless, and maybe for some of them. Our problems with stuff support reality shows about hoarding, and new books about clearing out clutter appear every day.
I buy too much stuff. I'm given too much stuff. I have no place to put all my stuff. I don't remember where I put my stuff.
After two complete rounds of going through every item I own, paring them down, and organizing the remainder, things are starting to build up again. And it's oppressive and depressing. And that's literally depression-inducing, which is a risk I shouldn't be running.
There must be some member of my interior committee who wants to have lots and lost of stuff, who is greedy and acquisitive. Well, acquisitiveness is a very common failing (and one deemed patriotic for us 'consumers'), especially for Americans. But, more charitably, maybe my inner child, who got plucked up and transplanted twice during her tender years, gets security from having stuff that stays with her. Surrounding herself with toys and memories and books acts as a barrier to change, as a cushion against threat and danger.
Thinking about my talismans, books, and teddy bears, and the records that have given me joy, brings a warm feeling to my chest.
I like knowing where my next teddy bear and my next good read are coming from. I don't have to be greedy to want some touchstones for security. But enough is probably enough.
This morning I was talking to myself in German, which I do from time to time. I never lived in Germany; I only studied German in college. But every so often, a simple phrase or sentence springs from me, apparently without cause.
This morning, though, it occurred to me to wonder why. I've studied other languages, and while an occasional French exclamation or Latin saying will issue from me, that's about it. No Hebrew, no Spanish, no Italian, or New Testament Greek.
So it occurred to me, maybe German arises spontaneously because I grew up with relatives who spoke Yiddish, which is essentially German written with Hebrew characters.
Then later this morning I met with my weekly coffee/brunch group. I shared with the three women sitting nearest me, who were all Jewish, what I had realized about my Yiddish and German experiences. They seemed to agree with my reasoning.
A bit later still, Maria came to the group for the first time in several months. She had returned to her home in Germany after her stay in San Francisco, and was now back for another visit.
So, first I spoke to myself in German, then I wondered about why I spoke in German, then I talked with my friends about why I speak in German, then finally an actual speaker of German returns to our group after a long absence. What are the odds of all that happening within a few hours?
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Fast Food
Fast food is the choice of the poor, unhappy, or both. It's cheap and readily available. To put together even a hamburger from fresh, organic scratch would cost considerably more than the buck price of a fast food burger. And a restaurant burger? Forget it.
As for the unhappy, I tend to equate unhappiness with depression. And as I well know, a depressed person thinks so little of herself and is so immobilized that she's not about to take herself out to a nice restaurant or buy and fix herself a lovely meal.
And that's assuming she's even hungry. When I was depressed, I had no interest in food. I lost some 60 pounds because I just didn't want to eat anything. So, no food at all would have been my choice then, not fast food.
And I think that patience and anticipation are both characteristics that are not abundant in unhappy or depressed folks. And the ability to plan ahead and then follow that plan? Not so much. I don't think about food until I'm hungry or in a restaurant, and then I want that food now.
Fast food is also tremendously unhealthy - see "Supersize Me." If you weren't unhappy before eating it, indigestion and ill health are likely to sour your mood afterwards.
That said, about once a year I just have to have some Jack in the Box tacos. Because they remind me of Santa Monica beach tacos, they have major nostalgia value.
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Disputing About Tastes
My favorite Latin saying comes to mind, and usually then issues from my mouth, every couple of weeks. The saying is "De gustibus non disputandum est," there can be no arguing about tastes.
I probably picked it up in a Latin class. I continue to use it because I live by the sentiment and love the way it sounds. It's certainly less sexist than the roughly equivalent saying, "One man's meat is another man's poison." And it's much more elegant than "Different strokes for different folks." And I'm not sure how to pronounce the French version, "Chacun a son gout" (or spell it, for that matter).
More to the point, I keep on needing to assert this concept because I'm surrounded by people who believe that their own tastes are eternal verities, and that, if mine differ, I must be flawed, stupid, cowardly, or dull.
No, no, no, no!
Every person has the right to her own likes and dislikes. The only fault that could possibly attach to a dislike is to assert it without actually having tried the substance or activity in question. And I would maintain that we have no moral duty to try any new thing. Some activities I can be fairly confident that I won't enjoy without having to sample them - especially ones that are apt to result in pain, bleeding, or nausea.
Keeping an open mind is a virtue to some folks, so I usually try a new food or drink, say, at least once.. On the other hand, my mind doesn't need to be so open that things fall out. By which I mean that revisiting known pleasures is also a good thing.
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State of the Union Rant
Pres. Obama certainly deserves to take a victory lap after all the disrespect, trash talk, lies, and nearly treasonous obstruction he has received from Republicans and other haters.
He inherited several steaming messes courtesy of the Decider, Bush Junior - Iraq, Afghanistan, Wall Street collapse, real estate collapse, job losses, etc. etc.
And by ignoring the haters and following Democratic principles and just plain persistence, he saved the American economy, encouraged the creation of millions of new jobs, got millions of people health insurance, got Don't Ask Don't Tell repealed and the Defense of Marriage Act off the books, and cut gas prices by half, and saved the American auto industry, and, oh yeah, while bringing budget deficits way down.
If anything, we need to be spending much more federal money to repair roads and bridges, and on education, child care, and Social Security.
Our economy is doing so much better, yet the country is still so divided. Why people vote to preserve the privileges of the 1% at their own expense is nearly impossible to understand. My best guess is that they believe Republican lies about the government getting in the way of opportunity. And they think that they actually have a decent chance of getting rich without relying on their parents' wealth or government help re education, policing, roads, food and water safety, etc. etc. But the evidence is strongly to the contrary. In fact, upward mobility in other countries is strongly tied to the extent to which the government maintains a strong safety net.
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Having Too Much
In this age of clutter-consciousness and voluntary simplicity, having too much stuff is a problem for all but the homeless, and maybe for some of them. Our problems with stuff support reality shows about hoarding, and new books about clearing out clutter appear every day.
I buy too much stuff. I'm given too much stuff. I have no place to put all my stuff. I don't remember where I put my stuff.
After two complete rounds of going through every item I own, paring them down, and organizing the remainder, things are starting to build up again. And it's oppressive and depressing. And that's literally depression-inducing, which is a risk I shouldn't be running.
There must be some member of my interior committee who wants to have lots and lost of stuff, who is greedy and acquisitive. Well, acquisitiveness is a very common failing (and one deemed patriotic for us 'consumers'), especially for Americans. But, more charitably, maybe my inner child, who got plucked up and transplanted twice during her tender years, gets security from having stuff that stays with her. Surrounding herself with toys and memories and books acts as a barrier to change, as a cushion against threat and danger.
Thinking about my talismans, books, and teddy bears, and the records that have given me joy, brings a warm feeling to my chest.
I like knowing where my next teddy bear and my next good read are coming from. I don't have to be greedy to want some touchstones for security. But enough is probably enough.
Friday, January 9, 2015
More Editing, Less Writing
So, what I've been up to in recent weeks is working with the last ten years of blog entries and other writings that I've posted in the blog. I dumped it all into a single Word document, and it was nearly 400 pages long!
I got it printed out on heavy paper, and sorted it into rough categories: current happenings, my past, my mental blocks, spiritual matters, poems and songs, general writings, and my responses to others' writings.
I asked Kathy (the leader of Write Now!, a professional "Editorial Strategist") for some guidance, and her first suggestion was to choose the 50% of the pieces that most interest me. Not wanting to undo my sorting efforts, I chose the first three categories as my favorites. However, they included pieces that weren't so fascinating and left out other pieces that were pretty good. So I went back to Kathy with an update. She didn't know I had already done the sorting, and her second suggestion would have been to sort my favorites. So I went back to the rejected categories and pulled in my favorite pieces, and went through the chosen categories and pulled out my less favorite pieces.
I've been doing the sorting and choosing in the paper version, and updating the Word document as I go along. This morning I've been deleting the deselected pieces and copying in the newly chosen ones. Then I don't know what I'll do, but am inclining to want to stick to working with the paper version for the nonce.
I got it printed out on heavy paper, and sorted it into rough categories: current happenings, my past, my mental blocks, spiritual matters, poems and songs, general writings, and my responses to others' writings.
I asked Kathy (the leader of Write Now!, a professional "Editorial Strategist") for some guidance, and her first suggestion was to choose the 50% of the pieces that most interest me. Not wanting to undo my sorting efforts, I chose the first three categories as my favorites. However, they included pieces that weren't so fascinating and left out other pieces that were pretty good. So I went back to Kathy with an update. She didn't know I had already done the sorting, and her second suggestion would have been to sort my favorites. So I went back to the rejected categories and pulled in my favorite pieces, and went through the chosen categories and pulled out my less favorite pieces.
I've been doing the sorting and choosing in the paper version, and updating the Word document as I go along. This morning I've been deleting the deselected pieces and copying in the newly chosen ones. Then I don't know what I'll do, but am inclining to want to stick to working with the paper version for the nonce.
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