Yertle the Turtle

Another all-too-exciting night in the world of Spooner....
Tonight a friend and I were playing around on those online tests one can take, as we are female and we tend to absolutely love these things; they are like crack to the internet-savy chick. Why is this?
Anyway, I took one that was called "Discover Your Past Life" as I think past lives are a hilarious idea and about as pertinant to my present day as my present day will be to my future encarnation, which will probably be a worm of sorts. Here's what the test found for me:
Come on out of your shell — in your former life you were a turtle name Gifford. The details are a bit sketchy, but we do have a brief summary based on public records: You were born in a small pond beside a saloon. Despite having an exceptionally athletic father, you seemed to prefer sunbathing and mud baths to more active pursuits. Contrary to the rumor, your favorite color was never green, but actually blue. Few people knew that you were a talented poet because most of your work was destroyed during a flash flood that swept away not only your library, but your entire community. Fortunately you had the pluck to survive, settle down, make some eggs, and live happily ever after with your wife Melinda and your 20 offspring.

That might be the most fantastic thing I've read in recent memory, short of that story Murphy sent me about the man who peed his way out of the avalanche.

Chapin and Miss Cleo

Because there is literally nothing to do at work in midwinter, we've taken to bringing in the morning paper to have a go at the crossword puzzles. And the comics. As that is also the section that has the word jumble and the horoscopes, I've gotten especially intrigued in these....well ok, just the horoscopes. Word jumbles are just ridiculous.
Here's the thing: it's hard to believe that every person on the planet falls into one of twelve categories. I can't think of another set of categories that every person fits into, except "dead" and "not dead" (except in the case of Wesley of The Princess Bride, who was "mostly dead" all day) . I find it almost offensive to think that my future actions and/or thoughts are dictated and interpreted by someone else. I'd like to imagine that I write my own stars. Yet I have a strange fascination with what "they" say about me and my days. This is what one would call the 'crux' of the problem, if they felt so inclined. Here's my solution: I read my horoscope before I go to bed, just to see how close it actually was to the day I just lived. If they are way off, then I say, "Ha! Outsmarted you and your stars, SUCKA!" and go to bed, feeling as if, for just today, my life was my own. But as they are so vague that virtually anything can fall into what is written, most often I end up thinking, if only to the tiniest degree, "How'd they know?"
Why is it that I have even the smallest desire to have a glimpse into the future?
Are we so feeble that we will listen to the stars rather than face a day alone?
These questions cause me to start singing "I Feel Lucky" by Mary-Chapin Carpenter ad nauseum. The gist of the song is a woman who goes against her horoscope and wins $11 million in the lotto. It's a good song.
Well let's test my theory...Here's what my horoscope was for the day:
"You've gone out of your way to pacify them, keep them happy and do whatever you can to be cooperative. Still, members of your family don't seem to be all that appreciative of what you've done for them lately. You don't have to disown them, but you might want to sit them down and have a little chat. Talk about just how hard you've tried to keep the peace. It might not work -- but then again, it might. "
HA! I didn't even TALK to my family today!
And I've done jack for them anyway, so really I owe them.
Ya'll are way off! Master of my own life today!
It's like Chapin says, "The stars might lie, but the numbers never do."

Ketchup and Affirmations

Driving in the car this morning, listening to Patty Griffin's live album, I had a revelation.
Emmylou Harris is sort of the ketchup of the music world--she goes with everything that isn't sweet pop crap, she adds flavor to almost anything, she's an American classic and seriously, who can ever have enough Emmylou?
At least I thought it was pop culturally insightful.

Other note:
I get all worked up in self-consciousness about writing, pour over words obsessively but recently there's been an outpouring of unexpected affirmation. It kind of makes me stop and say, "Wait...maybe I could do this." I wonder when that point occurs; where that moment is when the tiny specks of lives and futures seem to coalesce, like quicksilver. They pour and bead and flow, forming those days, dreams and asipirations into a strange, humming present. I hope to see that soon.

Rosetta Stone

Today was a super-productive day, in that I might have finished two whole stories/essays.
In the world of writing, this is practically the speed of sound.
I don't know why I can sit at my computer for days on end and struggle to get out maybe two sentences, and why today I can have pages and concepts fly out of me. That's part of the mystery I guess. It's not necessarily hit or miss, it's more hit or foul ball.
One of my best friends said something to me today that made me stop and take notice. She is one of the three people who read this blog (including myself) and, knowing me very well, is quite adept at calling me out. Today she said, "You know I noticed something. You write a lot about your "heart" for someone who soooo knowingly and admitedly disobeys it constantly." All I could say was "Touche!" because it's true. I don't know why I do this, why I can't write about funny things or those basic silly ancedotes that are Mitch Albrom-esque (the guy who wrote Tuesdays with Morrie and The Five People You Meet In Heaven or whatever it is) or something vaguely vomitous, a la Chicken Soup For the Soul. I can't do the whitty puns like Sarah Jessica Parker's Carey Bradshaw, or the NPRish deep politcal thoughts of Sarah Vowell or David Sedaris.
Wow that was a paragraph of name dropping, if I (1) knew any of those people, or (2) was actually consciously trying to drop names. I mean, I reference Chicken Soup for the Soul. Don't be impressed.
So why do I write this way? Why ramble the way I ramble? Why so much about the heart when its the very thing I know the least about? I guess that's it. Writing is the Rosetta Stone to the rest of me. I knowingly and deliperately disobey my heart in favor of my head, but that does not mean I deny it. I want to see it, and others hearts, in a more clear light.

One Conversation about Three Things

(Written on some note paper at work)
About two years ago I wrote a short story that was essentially a conversation between my heart, my mind and my body. It was rather disjointed and not particularly good, but it did address my relationship with the trinity of tenants that make me. Body was an idiot, saying basic body things in capital letters and exclamation points, like "ummm...FRIED CHICKEN! SLEEP TIME! PEE! BACK HURT GIMME DRUGS! OOOOH...BOY." As that is all my body really does. Body will say, "LEGS COLD!" and Head will say, "Wear pants."
The character of Head was surprisingly harsh. Head sighed and rolled her eyes at the constant mumbling of Body and the ceaseless emotion of Heart--Head was clearly boss, with Heart serving a severe subordinate space and Body not listening at all. Head told Heart to shut up a lot; the irony is Heart never had the heart to argue.
Heart was extremely meek, scared to even speak to Head for fear of the inevitable reproach. She was weak, capable of being talked out of feeling anything. It is like Head said, "Heart, you are nothing more than a sense, like taste or touch. The hand does not know what it touches, only how it feels to touch it. You have no place to try to define or describe what it is you feel, only to tell me you felt it."
I don't necessarily believe that to be true, but I think at the time I did. I don't know if I beleive that anymore. I think I don't. Funny how views change.
Sorry if this is disjointed--written on paper scraps and between the tiniest scraps of conversations.

Bleed and Belief

I originally wanted to do an absolutely brilliant piece on mothers and the relationship of daughters to them, but that was just scrapped, because this is my blog and I can do so. Ha. Such power! Maybe later.
As I was driving home today I was listening to one of my favorite albums, Erin McKeown's Grand (trust me and go buy it). The song "An Innocent Fiction" came on and I was reminded about one of the first times I heard it. The climax of the song sounds as if Ms. McKeown sings, "You bleed what you believe" and I just thought that was brilliant. Such depth! Such insight! Of course I didn't realize til weeks later that the line was actually the simple "You believe what you believe", but that meant that now I had full reign of the bleed comment. Now I am the brilliant one! Sa-weet! Since I heard that song this evening, I've been thinking on and off about that idea of bleeding what you believe (while watching house mascot Big Ben lose in the AFC title game to hottie McBrady*) and I haven't come to any particularly insightful or even quasi-logical conclusions. What does it mean to bleed what I believe? Does it mean that those things that matter to my very core pulse through my veins and make me live and breathe, that keep my very blood flowing? Does it invoke a sense of martyrdom? I wonder if it calls the bluff of verisimilitude--it forces us to decide just what we will bleed for and what we will let slide. Too often I back out of those situations that would hurt me or cause me to bleed on some level--I am nothing if not a master at the practice of self-preservation. But I want to bleed what I believe. I want there to be no distinction between my convictions, my standards and myself.
Thoughts?

* I know his name is not "McBrady" I just said that to invoke the McDonalds reference. Unlike Emilie, I like football.

Three Conversations About One Thing

These past few days have produced conversations (three of them, in fact) that initially seemed to be about separate things but that, when left to simmer, distilled to the same basic blocks...or at least I made them do that. The first was a conversation with a friend who seemed to have an intense desire to talk about anything and everything that was not personal or deep in any way. It was possibly the most consciously shallow conversation I have ever had. The second dealt with self-worth, and how it effects all relationships. The third dealt with knowing someone, and being known by them (not in a biblical sense, you perv).
The shallow conversation was interesting because as I sat there listening to my friend ramble on, I could hear so clearly what was subsurface. I could peel back the epidermis, see past the subcutaneous to the muscle and bone. I listened and I loved them for it. I realized how well I knew my friend, but wondered how well they knew me. Could they see through me as well? This question flowed into the third conversation, dealing with being known. Call me a cynic but I don't really think it's possible to truly be known by someone; to have them see right through your guises, insecurities, walls and wars. They may recongize them and be able to reach through them at times, but I don't think it's possible to be known. Communication gets in the way, as does our own filters, our own insecurities and our own desire to be known. My friend disagrees. She's too much of a sun-shiny optimist on this. That second conversation is what I think it all boils down to: self-worth. We hide because we fear rejection, we fear loneliness, we fear being known and having that not be enough. We become jealous, we grumble, we stare in the mirror, we furrow. We lose friends and relationships because of it. If only we could look at ourselves--that naked little spirit that sings quietly for the fear of its own voice--get past the bravado, the strut, the dismissals, the silence--and be. I remember realizing the difference between self-confidence and self-esteem and being floored. To me self-confidence is the belief in what you are capable of and self-esteem is the belief in the worth of who you are.
I dunno.

In This Quiet

Tomorrow at midnight I head to the airport to pick up Liz and Suz from their epic journey across the pond. I'm excited that they are coming home, but today I was surprised to realize that I was kind of sad about it as well--I mean I won't have all this personal space, this personal quiet. I've gone from feeling so overwhelmingly alone to being at peace in this quiet. It's not that I haven't missed my friends--hardly. I cannot wait to scream and hug and listen. But in this quiet I've found how loudly solitude can shout; the chorus of 1,000 thoughts like electrons circulating, bouncing, coming round again. And I've come to thirst for it.
Oh, and I feel that I must reinterate that I am marrying Zach Braff. Suck up to me now, cuz that will be a GREAT wedding.

New Skin

The other day in the shower my skin itched like crazy. I don't know why I've become so attuned to my skin and its preferences and habits; I fear it is as much boredom as it is solitude. Maybe this is just me, but if I'm in the shower and I scratch my back or my leg, I end up with old skin cells on my fingers; under my nails (what an appealing visual, eh??). I kind of laughed at it--isn't the skin replaced entirely every three days or so? Skin is new almost every morning. The whole process of scrubbing down and lathering up seems sort of fruitless and well, comical. But it reminded me of one rather vivid part in C.S. Lewis' The Chronicles of Narnia, which I love (yet I have no taste for Tolken--why? Deranged? Discuss later) in which Eustace, a particularly unlikable character, is, by his own greediness, turned into a dragon. Eustace the dragon finds himself face to face with Aslan, who leads him to a well in which to bathe and heal, but instructs him to undress first. Eustace scratches at his scaly skin and peels off the epidermis layer, much like a snake does, but finds himself looking exactly the same. He tries again. And again. Finally the Lion says to him, "Let me do it." Eustace describes the first tear as being so deep it felt as if it went into his heart. The process was so painful, made bearable only by the feeling of those layers being peeled away. Eustace said the difference was those first three layers he did himself didn't hurt, and hadn't gotten to the root of the problem. I wonder, my skin is new every day, but my scars are always there. Why are there some things even deeper than the hope of renewal?
I itch, thus I scratch. I scratch; I become marked. I am marked; I scar. I scar; I am.

The famous Grafton points glamorously to his oh-so-famous business card...on the kitchen floor of Lori and Brian's condo. It was the "pretty, pretty girl" night...

Gravity

So I wanted to write this last night but by 8pm I was literally sound asleep on the couch. I think I have narcolepsy, and possibly pneumonia, and even hypochondria. Bygones.
Yesterday I was exhausted; I felt as if gravity was grappling to my skin and pulling it down. My skin literally felt heavy. Even my eyelids desperately wanted to succumb to its powers. Gravity is amazing stuff, isn't it? I look at my face and know that gravity and youth are waging war across the battlefield of my skin, and that gravity shall always win. There is a finality in gravity. I vaguely remember learning that the larger an object is the more gravitational pull it will have; hence the earth having more than the moon, and the sun having more than the planets. I wonder if it's true with the issues and conflicts in life as well. We talk about the "gravity" of a situation; what do we mean? We are drawn in and weighed down...There's an old Eddie From Ohio song (aptly titled "Gravity") that sings, "Gravity? there's some serious stuff/it pulls you down but it kinda keeps you up..."
Sidebar (here's to you, Hatcher and J.Moore for getting me to use that): Eddie from Ohio has a new album out, go get it it's probably good. Also, they are coming to Rochester February 11, we are going. All of us.
Anyway I can't concentrate--I had great things to say and they have fallen from me...I guess that's the gravity in it all.

Something to Prove

With Liz and Suzy in London, Carey in Costa and others flung to the far reaches of the lower 48 my life has taken on a rather stripped-down look. It's hard to stave off doing the same things virtually every day when there is no one around to act as a kink in a way. There's no spontaneity. I'm a droid.
I remember in college being so absolutely fearful of constancy, of habitual actions, of having a fixed routine. It was like resolving to be boring, something I fear more than most major surgeries. I was so worried that it would invariably become this mindless road of regularity, of having the same breakfast every day at the same time, of having my traffic flow be the same, of that familiarity. I love and fear it. There is comfort in knowing that I don't have to reset my alarm every night, or that I know what is expected of me that day, but I miss being challenged; I miss having something to prove. I miss waking up with the day a blank slate of sorts.
Lately I've been reading a lot. I reread Blue Like Jazz a few weeks ago, and have moved on to The Story of B by Daniel Quinn (see some previous post where I talk about this) and Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott. Both good, both rather spiritual in content. Surprising; I avoided such books and usually stuck to fiction/biographies, not it seems its all I read. So much for knowing me, eh? Even I'm not constant.

Elbow in

So after working a youth-group lock-in on Saturday night (a story that truly requires its own book) I decided on a whim to go to my old church in Syr, UCF. A greater blessing could not be fathomed. It was a reminder of what community looked like, and what it felt like to be a part of it all. My friend Hannah was praying for me and said something that broke me. She said, "God won't break your elbows. You hold people at arm's length--always have. And you have a free will, so he won't break your elbows to bring those people closer. You have to decide to do it." that shattered me. It's something I try so hard to do, but I simply don't know how. I don't know how to let people get closer, I am at a loss. Give me a set of instructions and I'll try to follow them, but I honestly have not a clue. How frustrating to want so badly to be close to those I love, but lacking the basic abilities to do so. I worry it's foreshadowing for the rest of my life, but my rational side sees melodrama in that statement. Is it pride? Is it fear? Is it habit? Is it comfort? Is it innate? Nurture vs. Nature? Is it all the above? I dunno, but I pray I'm getting close...

Allegiance

So my friend Dylan, whom I love and adore, let me borrow a book a few weeks ago and I'm about half-way through. It's The Story of B by Daniel Quinn, the author of Ishamel, a book every ESFer* has read some time or another (I own it if you need to borrow it). The Story of B is basically about population growth and food sources, but is told as a novel so its at least interesting. It also addresses the idea of the Antichrist and other bastions of religiousity. Well today I read this excerpt, and it really broke my heart.
"Always has been my guiding principle for forty years to say, 'Never trust a Christian.' Not once has [a Christian] ever given me a reason to change...Always your allegiance is in doubt, is....tainted. Your loyality is always subject to change. Always subject to revision according to some line inside of you that marks the beginning of your allegiance to God. If I unknowingly cross that line, then, although you continue to smile at me like a friend, you may see that it has become your holy duty to destroy me. This week you're my friend, but next week they say I'm a witch and God wants witches to be burned, so you burn me. This week you're my friend, but next week they say I'm an Anabaptist and God wants Anabaptists to be drowned, so you drown me. This week you are my friend, but next week they say I'm a Waldensian and God wants Waldensians to be hanged, so you hang me."
I think if someone ever said that to me, I would burst into tears. I hate being tied to history like that; I want to sever myself from it, but invaribly I am just as bad, to be that person who will smile like a friend then do something contraray. How I long to be genuine in every situation. I've been struggling with doubt lately but not about my personal faith, rather about larger theological concepts: anthropocentrism, Absolutes, anthropological history--you know, those fluffy topics you think of while taking a shower or waiting at a red light. This book doesn't help, nor does listening to Tori Amos. I've done a lot of both lately. Bah.

*ESFer: one who attended the State University of New York-College of Environmental Science and Forestry at Syracuse. Other books almost every ESFer has read/owns: A Sand County Almanac by Aldo Leopold; Guns, Germs and Steel by Jared Diamond; Silent Spring by Rachel Carson, at least three Peterson's Field Guides.

At the Carwash, yeah!

Discovery of the day:
I am terrified of car washes.
The kind where it takes your car and you are to keep your hands off the wheel and feet off the pedals?
Yup, terrified.
Like, hyperventilate, twitchy terrified.
I took my car through one today, as I live in NY and the roads are covered with car-eating salt for about 10 months of the year and I would like to see my blessed 'Roo make it at least through the warranty.
I had to do everything in my power not to scream during the whole ordeal; I guess I never realized how much I hate not being in control in that situation; how not being able to see or control the next event made me want to vomit.
A metaphor for life?
I don't even have faith in Delta-Sonic; I am a piece of work.

Faith (in) My Eyes

Talked to my mom today--since I moved we've begun to talk a lot more--like it's opened up some of the walls that have spent the past two decades building and settling. We were talking about my writing and she told me something interesting that I never knew about myself. Apparently, when I was seven or so, the eye doctor told my mother that my eyes had so many problems that he wasn't sure if I'd ever be able to read, or read without serious headaches. My mom said she, to this day, is absolutely shocked that I can read, and that I like to read.
I just learned this.
Interesting.
Cool, ok well feels good to overcome some adversity that I didn't know I had.
I totally could've used that in college to get out of some assignments I'm sure. Dangit.
It's strange irony that the thing I wasn't supposed to be able to do I now want to do with the rest of my life.
I do get the headaches though, I just thought that was me being a hypochondriac. Oh well.

Suspended Gratification

My roommate and I got into a conversation about ownership. I don't remember how it started, as our conversations never seem to have stops or starts, merely trickle from one zygote of an idea to the next. I get so frustrated that I can't afford a new winter coat, or that cute Wellesley cable knit crewneck from J.Crew or whatever fickle item crosses my mind, but I know fully that whatever it is I want will still leave me as empty as whatever it is I bought previously (except my backpacking guitar--THAT was a lovely purchase. And my PFD--I love my PFD). In one religion class I took in college we called it 'suspended gratification'--that idea that your happiness was within grasp if only that next purchase was made, that next thing was attained. Stretch your fingers and happiness was yours.
I've come to hate things.
They just complicate, clutter, bog down and distract.
I remember when my friends and I paddled the Everglades in 2000--we each brought a total of three shirts for 14 days. It was refreshing when we had 'clean shirt day' , we all got to celebrate that one day that week that we had a clean shirt. It was so basic. (In a bit of fate, "Mountains of Things" by Tracy Chapman just came on the internet radio) There were no outfits, no looking good, no matching, no mirrors. It was just us. I wish that happened more often.

Opposites and Absences

Happy New Year!
Mine was interesting, long and now my hours are all messed up. While driving back from Syracuse this afternoon I got to thinking about trying to explain the importance of dating only guys who are Christians to guys who aren't. It's a kind of sticky situation sometimes, but that got me thinking about the opposites in my life, and I realized that most aren't opposites but absences. For example, darkness is not the opposite of light, merely the absence of it. Darkness is not measured, light is. Cold is not the opposite of heat, merely the absence. If God is good, then evil is not the opposite of good, merely the absesnce of it, of God. Death is not the opposite of life, but the absence of it. The reason this matters (because clearly, it does) is because of the discourse of it all. If situations are viewed as an "us vs. them"--an opponent or an opposite, then it's much much harder to have compassion for the other viewpoint. However if it is viewed as the absence of something, how much more are we willing to stop attacking and start sharing? I think about this because trying to explain why it is important to date only those who believe the same as me is virtually impossible. I can't do it, and it frustrates me. I wish I had a good similie or metaphor or analogy or anagram or venn diagram or flowchart or something, but I am at a loss. It's simply the absence of the most important presence in my life, however complex that simplicity may be.