The weapons, the victim, the place in to which the remains shall disappear forever. The "right" way to get rid of old registers at work...
Thursday, June 30, 2005
When Work is Fun
On Tuesday we finally got new registers at work. The old ones were horrendous and were referred to as "the abacai" (as in an abacus in multiples). The Tech guy casually said he was told to throw them away. My fellow Assistant Manger looked at me and said, "Do you have a baseball bat in your car?" I said, "No, but we do have a rubber mallet." And thus became the highlight of this job so far: hitting the crap out of the old registers. Be jealous.
The weapons, the victim, the place in to which the remains shall disappear forever. The "right" way to get rid of old registers at work...
The weapons, the victim, the place in to which the remains shall disappear forever. The "right" way to get rid of old registers at work...
Monday, June 27, 2005
Life in Two Parts
Act I:
This morning I woke up with a strange and clear image in my head. For some reason I was thinking about straight lines, and how, if enough of them are drawn in a very linear, very organized way, a circle forms. I was thinking about that parallel in life--how straight lines and circles are essentially opposites, and yet one can be formed from a collection of the other. How sometimes we set out so intent on one task and/or path that we look up and we've become/created the very antithesis of what we wanted. We've worked so hard to get somewhere we've just circumvented what we were fleeing. I am not thinking in specifics at all, it was just an observation.
Act II:
I went to Friday Night Live in Herndon a few weeks ago and was people watching like I tend to do. The kids struck me, because of how simple they make introductions and friendship. They see another child and a game forms. There is no awkward, "Hi my name is bla, what do you do for a living?" and obligatory personal space, introduction decorum to follow. It was refreshing. I do wish I could run up, tag someone and yell "you're it!" and just spontaneously have a game form. I think I'd take life, friendships, and time a little less seriously.
This morning I woke up with a strange and clear image in my head. For some reason I was thinking about straight lines, and how, if enough of them are drawn in a very linear, very organized way, a circle forms. I was thinking about that parallel in life--how straight lines and circles are essentially opposites, and yet one can be formed from a collection of the other. How sometimes we set out so intent on one task and/or path that we look up and we've become/created the very antithesis of what we wanted. We've worked so hard to get somewhere we've just circumvented what we were fleeing. I am not thinking in specifics at all, it was just an observation.
Act II:
I went to Friday Night Live in Herndon a few weeks ago and was people watching like I tend to do. The kids struck me, because of how simple they make introductions and friendship. They see another child and a game forms. There is no awkward, "Hi my name is bla, what do you do for a living?" and obligatory personal space, introduction decorum to follow. It was refreshing. I do wish I could run up, tag someone and yell "you're it!" and just spontaneously have a game form. I think I'd take life, friendships, and time a little less seriously.
Friday, June 24, 2005
Limits of Language
Look at the title, that's what I'm thinking about.
While I was mowing the lawn on Sunday I began to think about this (Mowing the lawn is my philosophical equivalent to some people's showers: it's my thinking spot) . There are words and phrases that only hold their meaning within the context of a language and are lost in translation if ever they attempt the linguistic leap. That is tragic; to be lost in translation. To be floating around as the flotsam and jetsam of dialects, languages, times and verses, trapped in the adverbs and conjugations that come from translation. I feel so limited in my language. I was thinking about songs, and how so much of what is said in lyrics is said in rhyme, and how in another language the words that would rhyme are totally different, so that what can be expressed is going to be completely new to a foreign ear. "Me" is not going to always rhyme with "be" "see" or even "tree". I am not used to the words "Dog" and "closet" rhyming, but in another language it's possible that they could, and could be put together. It just blows my concepts of creation wide open. I feel ignorant and small.
I struggle so relentlessly within the confines of my own tongue; how can I begin to fathom the intricacies of another language? I remember reading that the well educated American knows and uses only a fraction of the English language: something like 10,000 words out of 500,000. Words are wonders to me; I guess I should be introduced to the words in my neighborhood before I leave to meet those of another tongue entirely.
While I was mowing the lawn on Sunday I began to think about this (Mowing the lawn is my philosophical equivalent to some people's showers: it's my thinking spot) . There are words and phrases that only hold their meaning within the context of a language and are lost in translation if ever they attempt the linguistic leap. That is tragic; to be lost in translation. To be floating around as the flotsam and jetsam of dialects, languages, times and verses, trapped in the adverbs and conjugations that come from translation. I feel so limited in my language. I was thinking about songs, and how so much of what is said in lyrics is said in rhyme, and how in another language the words that would rhyme are totally different, so that what can be expressed is going to be completely new to a foreign ear. "Me" is not going to always rhyme with "be" "see" or even "tree". I am not used to the words "Dog" and "closet" rhyming, but in another language it's possible that they could, and could be put together. It just blows my concepts of creation wide open. I feel ignorant and small.
I struggle so relentlessly within the confines of my own tongue; how can I begin to fathom the intricacies of another language? I remember reading that the well educated American knows and uses only a fraction of the English language: something like 10,000 words out of 500,000. Words are wonders to me; I guess I should be introduced to the words in my neighborhood before I leave to meet those of another tongue entirely.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Tom Cruise Makes Me Nervous, Part II
The Style section of the Washington Post yesterday had an article about the Katie Holmes/Tom Cruise engagement announcement and waxed nostalgic about our (as a culture) inability to just embrace romance. The Post called it "..a Harlequin romance in the era of chick lit...To post-feminist, post-ironic women, it's a great big "ick," right up there with the marriage proposal on the Jumbotron at a baseball game." Though it is a May-December relationship (he was getting his "Old records off the shelf" in "Risky Business" while she was making some risky business in her drawls) it has the makings of a classic 1940s Hollywood love story (with the eventual, present-day crash and burn coming forthwith) and we can't be anything but cynical and snide about it. Like Sarah Jessica Parker's "Sex and the City" character, Carrie Bradshaw, have we lost all faith in romance? In season 6, the Russian (Mikhail Baryshnikov) read her poems and other literary expressions of love, and she called it "the ick hear 'round the world." Are we women becoming romance-phobic?
I think about myself, and how distrusting I can be to those outward expressions of affections, and I am frustrated by my cynicism; my "oh he must be up to something" knee-jerk reaction. Is that a byproduct of the "independent woman" rhetoric that I've been fed, or something else? Pop culture? Experience? Genetics? Tom Cruise?
*The title is taken from "Tom Cruise Makes Me Nervous" by Sarah Vowell, off NPR's This American Life.
I think about myself, and how distrusting I can be to those outward expressions of affections, and I am frustrated by my cynicism; my "oh he must be up to something" knee-jerk reaction. Is that a byproduct of the "independent woman" rhetoric that I've been fed, or something else? Pop culture? Experience? Genetics? Tom Cruise?
*The title is taken from "Tom Cruise Makes Me Nervous" by Sarah Vowell, off NPR's This American Life.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Munn Dane
There's an old Tracy Chapman song with the lyrics,
"There is fiction in the space between/
the lines on your face and memory/
you will do and say anything/
to make your everyday life seem less mundane..."
Lately I've been wondering about that space between memory and story; where does it lie, and why does it, all too often, lie? In that crevice between memory and story is the element of storytelling: the difference between memory and story is that story is shared. My memories die with me; my stories may grow and evolve into anecdotal wisdom or insights into my personality. Stories are how other people understand and share us; memories are how we do the same for ourselves. How then, is it so easy to lie about it? I don't mean oversights, like there were four chairs instead of three, but the larger, more fundamental pieces of the story, like there wasn't emotion where it was inserted, or something was said that was later omitted? Is it subconscious or intentional? My sister and I have many shared memories, but how we express and interpret these makes them into very different experiences. Time blurs the sharp edges of memory.
Last year I started to write a short story about a man named Munn Dane, whose whole life was a long stretch of uneventful spaces, and how that slowly drove him to obsessively seek potential events, if only to have a story to tell. We as a people are desperate to have something to share, to connect through, to point to and say, "this is who I am in a story," to make life less lonely. We want to say, "I tell these stories because they are mine."
A little disjointed because I'm still thinking about it.
More to come I'm sure.
"There is fiction in the space between/
the lines on your face and memory/
you will do and say anything/
to make your everyday life seem less mundane..."
Lately I've been wondering about that space between memory and story; where does it lie, and why does it, all too often, lie? In that crevice between memory and story is the element of storytelling: the difference between memory and story is that story is shared. My memories die with me; my stories may grow and evolve into anecdotal wisdom or insights into my personality. Stories are how other people understand and share us; memories are how we do the same for ourselves. How then, is it so easy to lie about it? I don't mean oversights, like there were four chairs instead of three, but the larger, more fundamental pieces of the story, like there wasn't emotion where it was inserted, or something was said that was later omitted? Is it subconscious or intentional? My sister and I have many shared memories, but how we express and interpret these makes them into very different experiences. Time blurs the sharp edges of memory.
Last year I started to write a short story about a man named Munn Dane, whose whole life was a long stretch of uneventful spaces, and how that slowly drove him to obsessively seek potential events, if only to have a story to tell. We as a people are desperate to have something to share, to connect through, to point to and say, "this is who I am in a story," to make life less lonely. We want to say, "I tell these stories because they are mine."
A little disjointed because I'm still thinking about it.
More to come I'm sure.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Guest Post
"Heaven, such as it is, is right here on earth. Behold: my revelation: I stand at the door in the morning, and lo, there is a newspaper, in sight like unto an emerald. And holy, holy, holy is the coffee, which was, and is, and is to come. And hark, I hear the voice of an angel round about the radio, saying, "Since my baby left me I found a new place to dwell." And lo, after this I beheld a great multitude, which no man could number, of shoes. And after these things I will hasten unto a taxicab and to a theater, where a ticken will be given unto me, and lo, it will be a matinee, and a film that doeth great wonders. And when it is finished, the heavens will open, and out will cometh a rain fragrant as myrrh, and yea, I will have an umbrella." -Sarah Vowell, from Take the Cannoli
Thursday, June 9, 2005
Idle Worship
I went to my 14th Indigo Girls concert last night. It might have been my 15th, but I'm fairly sure it is 14. I'm beginning to lose count, which is a sign of familiarity to the event, a familiarity I welcome gladly. This is the third year that my boss Anna and I have gone as a birthday present to me. I met Anna in the middle of P-vegas and we drove in my little Roo out to Tysons for some delicious Thai food at Bandaras. Their curried peanut sauce is like the second tier of heaven.
About a quarter of the way through the set the Indigo Girls went from "Kid Fears" into "The Wood Song" and I could feel the joy and release and fearlessness that comes from their shows and I had an urge to close my eyes, sing with my whole self and raise my hands. I was struck how close this is to how some people worship.
When I am in church, I cannot get into the worship. I can sing along, but I am so caught up in the things around me, in the people around me, in the bulletin, in the whatever that I cannot stay focused enough to pour myself into the music. This is a source of great frustration. At the show I was thinking about the difference between my inability to worship in church and my ease at immersion in this music and where the distinction lies. This was my basic list:
(1) familiarity. I know all the words to all the Indigo Girls songs, and it's not a concern to know the rhyme or melody or lyric, because it is so ingrained. I'm not constantly looking for the next line; I am the next line.
(2) memory. Their songs are the soundtrack to much of my life. There are moments, emotions and promises that are frozen in the lines of their songs, and those are released with each performance.
(3) identity. I can relate to their songs. Maybe not every one, but I understand them, can feel with them, can apply them in my life. They speak to me and through me.
And the Indigo Girls are indicative of countless other songs and/or bands for which these basic differences hold true. Most worship songs hold none of these for me. I want them to, but the lines and lyrics are foreign, or sung so differently, or are so disconnected from my life that they are just words and music, not a lifeblood like music should be. What do I do about this? I do not want to worship idols, but I do not want to worship idly. I want to sing with a purpose, but I want the words and the music to have a life of their own, not some stagnant, B-grade, cliche turn of phrase like so many worship songs as of late.
How can familiarity, memory and identity combine to create the worship experience as it was meant to be? It is called the joy of proclamation for a purpose; where is the joy?
"Tune my heart to sing thy grace..."
About a quarter of the way through the set the Indigo Girls went from "Kid Fears" into "The Wood Song" and I could feel the joy and release and fearlessness that comes from their shows and I had an urge to close my eyes, sing with my whole self and raise my hands. I was struck how close this is to how some people worship.
When I am in church, I cannot get into the worship. I can sing along, but I am so caught up in the things around me, in the people around me, in the bulletin, in the whatever that I cannot stay focused enough to pour myself into the music. This is a source of great frustration. At the show I was thinking about the difference between my inability to worship in church and my ease at immersion in this music and where the distinction lies. This was my basic list:
(1) familiarity. I know all the words to all the Indigo Girls songs, and it's not a concern to know the rhyme or melody or lyric, because it is so ingrained. I'm not constantly looking for the next line; I am the next line.
(2) memory. Their songs are the soundtrack to much of my life. There are moments, emotions and promises that are frozen in the lines of their songs, and those are released with each performance.
(3) identity. I can relate to their songs. Maybe not every one, but I understand them, can feel with them, can apply them in my life. They speak to me and through me.
And the Indigo Girls are indicative of countless other songs and/or bands for which these basic differences hold true. Most worship songs hold none of these for me. I want them to, but the lines and lyrics are foreign, or sung so differently, or are so disconnected from my life that they are just words and music, not a lifeblood like music should be. What do I do about this? I do not want to worship idols, but I do not want to worship idly. I want to sing with a purpose, but I want the words and the music to have a life of their own, not some stagnant, B-grade, cliche turn of phrase like so many worship songs as of late.
How can familiarity, memory and identity combine to create the worship experience as it was meant to be? It is called the joy of proclamation for a purpose; where is the joy?
"Tune my heart to sing thy grace..."
Tuesday, June 7, 2005
Crying of the Frogs
My back deck saves the best of me. I look at that small wooden structure--nothing architecturally inspiring to be sure--and some of the best moments of my life come back to me. Conversations deep in heart and mind, laughter that was easy and fluid, honesty that was refreshing and loving; I see it in the old 2x4s, in the wax spilled on the boards, the worn teak rocker and the heavy Adirondack chairs. I remember the night Caroline and I stayed up til dawn talking, the time I taught Francie to fly fish off it's side, the nights with Seth in deep convos and cigars, the night Carey coined a rather inappropriate name for it, more July 4ths than I can remember. I sit out there and watch the sunset in all four seasons, tracking the sun across the Blue Ridge skyline, north to south as the axis spins. Spring peepers to fireworks to geese to snowflakes and bonfires. The deck makes the passage of time less painful and more fluid; breaks it into seasons and moments, rather than this rather large and looming bouncer before me. It got me thinking about time, change, and the simplicity of it. Every little thing is simply steps I guess. I wonder when that moment is when someone goes from friend to best friend and, if it happens, best friend back to friend. Was there a specific day when I said, "X is my best friend" and the next day I said, "X was my best friend"? Does a day change is to was? If not, what does? Relationships are not switches or knobs, to be turned at the whim of the controller. They affect and are affected, they change, they bloom, they whither. They are beautiful, mournful, priceless in their time, bittersweet in memory, comforting in familiarity.
"I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk
Between me and the crying of the frogs?" -E.St.V.M*
The back deck answers the questions that I cannot begin to ask myself.
*Portion of "Assault" by Edna St. Vincent Millay. From Second April. 1921.
"I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk
Between me and the crying of the frogs?" -E.St.V.M*
The back deck answers the questions that I cannot begin to ask myself.
*Portion of "Assault" by Edna St. Vincent Millay. From Second April. 1921.
Today
The AC in my house decided this was the perfect time to break, so the inside temperature at 6pm yesterday was 88 degrees.
Basically, it's too hot to write.
Ugh.
Yesterday was June 6th. These past few years it's been a tough day: June 6, 2001 Anna's father killed himself. June 6, 2002 Jeff died. June 6, 2004 I had my cancer scare. I woke up yesterday morning waiting for the sky to fall. Are there dates that are just unlucky? The April 19ths (Waco, Lexington and Concord, Oklahoma City Bombing; Columbine was the next day), September 11ths, December 7ths of the world; a date with a stigma about it? I do not like the idea of greeting a day with jitters, but I found myself doing it yesterday, seeking out some peace in the present tense.
Today I do a walk-through of Maskey's townhouse, where I hope to be moving in a month.
I am moving on.
Basically, it's too hot to write.
Ugh.
Yesterday was June 6th. These past few years it's been a tough day: June 6, 2001 Anna's father killed himself. June 6, 2002 Jeff died. June 6, 2004 I had my cancer scare. I woke up yesterday morning waiting for the sky to fall. Are there dates that are just unlucky? The April 19ths (Waco, Lexington and Concord, Oklahoma City Bombing; Columbine was the next day), September 11ths, December 7ths of the world; a date with a stigma about it? I do not like the idea of greeting a day with jitters, but I found myself doing it yesterday, seeking out some peace in the present tense.
Today I do a walk-through of Maskey's townhouse, where I hope to be moving in a month.
I am moving on.
Thursday, June 2, 2005
Four of a Kind is a Full House
The four sisters! Sunday night we had a sort of spontaneous sister campout (with three kids under the age of 4 and two dogs); this was Monday morning. Katie is 11, then from L to R: Me (24), Amanda (26), and Carolyn (32). It was the first time we'd been together since Christmas of 1999.
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