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.
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