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.
Saturday, January 29, 2005
Thursday, January 27, 2005
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."
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."
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, January 24, 2005
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.
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.
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