February

Lots going on in this head at the moment. It's that period of time when I simply have to tell myself what I should be thinking in order to quell all that my pessimistic mind would have me dwell upon. Part of this I blame on the impending doom of February.
I'm serious. February is that time of year when everything sort of looks grey, there is little that brings joy or hope or promise. Spring is an eternity away, daylight is as dull as a textbook and skin is dry and cracked. It just makes those things that are less than ideal even more disheartening. Dar Williams has an old song about February that I don't particularly like, but it does capture the time well, the freezing and the forgetting.

What I've been listening to lately:
Old school Hole, like "Doll Parts" and "Miss World". Why I don't know
"These Friends of Mine" album by Rosie Thomas, featuring Denison Whitmer and Sufjan Stevens
Old Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
"Fisherman's Woman" album by Emiliana Torrini
And, randomly, Styx. Like "Mr. Roboto" Styx. "Come Sail Away" Styx.
And then "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, Pt. 1" by the Flaming Lips.
(So songs about robots)
The Indigo Girls first album. I think this brings me comfort, since I've had it since I was 8.

(the above photo is with Natalie at my college graduation. Nat has been my mentor, friend, and mother figure for close to ten years. I owe much of who I am currently to her and her strength, humility, honesty and integrity. Last week we found out her cancer has returned. Her spirits are great, she's ready to beat it for a third time. I'm not, I'm a friggin' mess. I have puffy eye syndrome from bursts of tears. I want to take four shots of cheap whiskey and then kick something)

I'll Be Your Private Dancer

"Ladies and Gentleman of the Jury, I'd like to enter into evidence this photo as undeniable proof that Miss Spooner should be banned from public dancing, especially after the consumption of any beverages of the adult variety. Notice the bent arms close to the body, the concentration on the face, the awkward hip jutting. She calls this "the wheel." It is her only known dance move. Ladies and Gentleman, this is bad form. Have you no sense of decency? Next to her we see Carly E., an obviously gifted dancer. We see Miss Spooner not taking the cues. It is up to you, dear Jury. Stop the madness."

(special thanks to makejoefamous and his photography skills for this shot. He really is very, very talented you should check him out. And thanks to Chris and Rachel for getting married, setting up that delightfully fun night)

The 1,000

I found this photo the other day--the 1,000 steps. As one walks along Euclid Ave, between Maryland and Lancaster, a steep stairway arises from the cracked concrete and dashes of college houses. There seems to be no purpose to it; by darkness it is dangerous, a place to be avoided. In the winter it's the most entertaining sledding around. Yet at it's summit was a small park, an overlook onto Syracuse with one of the best views of city, day or night (short of the REALLY sketchy Air Force tower on top of the old ski hill on South Campus). Westminster Park, as it's known, is largely a secret. Most students never know it's there, and the city has all but forgotten its existence as well. I don't know why I'm thinking about that little park and those steps so much right now.
My first trip to that overlook was about a month into my freshman year, with a boy I'd kissed when we were drunk and he wasn't yet sure how to end it. He was a senior and to me seemed to know the world. He showed me places that would later become some of my favorite spots in the city. This was one. I recall standing up there next to him, feeling invincible, free, opulent, graceful and good, looking down onto a new place and claiming it as my own with a grin.
I didn't go back to that park again til my senior year. Time caught up, threw some viscous hooks and jabs and had left me simply weathered. My house was on Lancaster, and there was a way to get to the park without braving the steps. The first time I went up that year was with my roommate. It was late, the stars were out, and our friend who should've been in a house a block away was gone forever and we were still trying to process it.
The next visit was with a boy who was trying very hard to get me to love him, and I knew I couldn't, but still I was glad for the company. That night was spend with wooing and ultimate rejection, and in memory it is melancholy. Standing next to him that night I felt more alone than I ever thought possible.
After that I'd take walks up there to smoke a clove, sit on a little cement fence post and stare out. Be still. I could hear the parties, hear the drunkards, hear the mistakes being made like the breaking of glass. The world still felt like my own, like it was full, but not of what I'd claimed that night years before. Below those steps was the world I lived in and knew well, but in that little space I had my own cloister--my own reprieve in which to simply...I don't know. Remember maybe? Dream? Without it I think I would have cracked in the chaos.
I'm realizing I'm forgetting these things.
Some I'd like to keep.

Two Sides to a River

My friend asked me the other week if I could housesit and puppy-sit for him this weekend, so currently I'm sitting on his plush leather couch, watching CNN in HD and the puppy is sound asleep...for the moment. Next minute he may be up, just peeing wherever he deems fit. This experience once again reminds me that I am not parental material, as it seems to be a lot of work and I am inherently lazy, selfish and narcissistic. And I like my mornings and my sleep too much. And don't do well with stray fecal matter. Last night I was up every two hours, taking the 6-week old weinreimer out to relieve himself, and then he was up for good at 8. (which wouldn't be bad if I hadn't been at work til 11:30 last night and will be again tonight, so 8am is a little early)
I don't mean to sound whiney but at the same time I'm tired and cranky, so maybe I do. It is such a strange adjustment to have this precious little creature that needs to be constantly monitored; who cries when he's hungry or tired, who doesn't know when he has to go out, who wants to be held whenever he's not toddling around, getting into things. When I'm at work I call the person who's watching him to check in. So odd. I love River and love that I get to watch him, but this experience is just confirming that this mothering skill is not one I own. I respect the hell out of those that do, I simply know that I am not one of them.
(Now he is trying to chew on my foot)
Did anyone see all the press about Sen. Barbara Boxer's comment to Condi Rice about the personal investment in increasing the troop numbers in Iraq? Boxer basically said, "You and I don't have a personal investment in this; my kids are too old and my grandkids are too young and I understand that you don't have any immediate family that would be of age to fight," and somehow it has become a case of Boxer belittling Rice for being a single woman with no children. I frankly don't see it as an attack. Some are made to be mothers, some aren't and by including herself in her statement Boxer made it clear it wasn't an attack on Rice. Don't be so defensive or sensitive, Condi.
(Now River is asleep on my arm so I'm typing with one hand)

Life Goes On, Bra!

I realized I'm getting older when I heard "Ob-La-Dee, Ob-La-Da" the other day and, when hearing how Desmond buys Molly a 20-carat golden ring, my thought was, "Who does he think they are, Bennifer?"

The Splits

Last week I had the chance to have dinner with two old friends I haven't seen in almost 6 years. They are both artists, and their house is full of creation, beauty, uniqueness and life. I didn't realize how much I missed creativity until I was around it again. It is what I think life looks like.

These past few years the decisions I've made have all been directed toward the stable, rather than life. Let me put it less dramatically: it is possible to have confidence in that which isn't life-giving, just as it is possible to be talented in a field in which confidence is lacking. Currently I feel torn between the two. My confidence is misaligned. Maybe it's just my two worlds smacking me in the face with a big cold fish. Being very Type-A and creative hasn't ever been a conducive mix to either school of thought—I want to create, but get so caught up in getting all the details right that very often I never get past the good idea stage; my need to be organized kills my need to create. Similar in my desire to serve and yet to live my own damn life. I've loved this time of serving others as a vocation, but am done at this point (Burned out? Maybe), I'm wanting my schedule and my tasks to be less tedious and more meaningful and, well, a bit more about me. I need more discussion and thinking and conversations more weighty in their width and breadth. I miss being with people passionate about the same things as me. I feel like I've let that part of me suffer for the “greater good” of my social life. As if I have to shut up about what I truly prioritize in order to fit in with the people around me, and there is something tragically wrong about that.

And that feeds into this tsunami of doubt that has thrown me to the sands and pebbles these past few weeks. My science background reminds me constantly how ridiculous it all is, while my faith (however feeble) reminds me to stay focused on the heart of the matter, rather than the delivery of it. But then the science side says, “So you are telling me to ignore the messenger but trust the message? What?” and I'm thrown for the loop again. Like today in worship time my boss was reading from Genesis where Eve was talking to the serpent and the whole time I was trying to find a way to rationalize such a fable from the lesson.

Maybe my Gemini birth has more of an affect on me than I've ever thought. But this being of two minds predicament has me exhausted at all this damned straddling I've been doing, between the social and the political, the real and the easy, the faith and the science, the servitude and the ambition. I've got decisions to make. 2007 is already shaping up to be one of those years...

Believe it Or Not

I'm being more honest with myself in 2007. This is what happens when I don't have much to do at work. Emilie--Yes I know that it ends in a preposition. Suck it up.

Things I am Really Not Very Good At:

1. Basketball
2. Hair. (This is the reason my hair is either always tied back or just cut off)
3. Softball/Baseball
4. Diving and diving boards.
5. Golf. Both mini and regular.
   
6. Letting people finish a thought before moving on to another topic
7. Driving standard transmission vehicles
8. Skiing/Snowboarding and most activities involving things strapped to my feet
   
9. Wearing casual athletic wear, like windpants or tennis shoes.
10. Flossing regularly
11. Putting things away in a timely fashion
12. Bowling. I once bowled 12 gutter balls in a row.
    
13. Preparing and consuming a full meal for one (I'll eat just the chicken. Or just the veggie. But never think to actually make them together)
14. Jigsaw Puzzles
15. Remembering people's names
    
16. Exercising regularly
17. Solo beer pong
18. Dancing (except for my "freelance" moves). Anything choreographed.
19. Accessorizing
20. Crafts that are meant to be cute
    

I vow to improve my basketball skills this year, while I live at a place that has a court at my disposal. Come to think of it, I'm pretty bad at volleyball too. And frisbee golf. I wasn't allowed to play organized sports as a kid. It's still causing shocks.