Climbing the Walls

I am afraid of heights. This is fairly well established to anyone who knows me well. Walking on sidewalks looking down at the curb can make me kind of dizzy. I have to close my eyes when I go up on tiptoe. Don't get me started on getting in and out of Hummers. (Because I am this eco-obnoxious, may I just state that I have never, in my life, gotten in or out of a Hummer?) Okay.

What is the most logical form of exercise for such a one, may I ask? Obviously, rockclimbing. Or wall-climbing. But you know, anything that gets you sixty or so feet off the ground, dangling from a dubious purple string and a carabiner between your legs. But for some strange reason, I have always wanted to do it. And on Tuesday (and again today!) I did. 
Injuries sustained. (Yes, they hardly exist, but the one on my elbow hurts like a BITCH!!)

I can't begin to describe how proud I am of myself for this. When it comes to physical fitness, I usually lack a little in the way of... motivation? Confidence? Reflexes? Going on a treadmill was enough to make me sweat (I mean, not in the... you understand). Why? Because I might look like I didn't know what I was doing. And let me tell you, being the only one on a climbing wall in the middle of a gym screaming your fool head off is not the way to deflect attention. But I don't care. Because it was really fun, felt like I was doing something (unlike the treadmill) and allowed me to overcome a fear. Or at least, ignore it for a little while. I think I may have to sleep on the floor tonight, though-- the bed seems a little altitudinous for me today.

PS-- I must also note that it was Friday the 13th! That must account for the elbow bruise.

In the Pursuit of my Life-Long Desire to be a Crotchety Old Lady

Not only do I drink Cape Cods, not only do I have more cats than bathrooms, not only do I wear flat orthopedic sandals, not ONLY do I hate children and make inappropriate sexual comments at any turn, I partake in needlework, darlings. And not just any needlework: this is the queen of all crotchety old lady needlework-- it is in fact, CALLED "crochet." Crotchety, crochet. Get it?

At any rate, these are Granny Squares for the afghan I am currently completing in my head. I've made seven (Granny Squares, that is: not afghans) in the last four days, with speedy progress in the pattern-reading department, and here are them (why do I adore bad grammar so much? Seriously? It just makes me laugh to write like that. My mother will be horrified. Hi Mom!). There are the Loopy Flower Granny Squares (not so hard to pick out), the Basic Granny Squares, the Diamond Granny Square Variation C, and then the one and only "Splendor in the Grass" which reminds me of the CDB song "Uneasy Rider." You know, the part, where said uneasy rider is trying to convince the other rednecks that the greenteethed one is actually a "friend of those long-haired, hippie-type pinko fags." "He's a snake in the grass, I tell you guys/ He make look dumb, but that's just a disguise/ He's a mastermind in the ways of espionage."

Aside from crochet, I am enjoying summer vacation enormously, despite my twentieth cold of the year (!) catching up on my reading. Recommendations thus far include Pricksongs and Descants by Robert Coover if you like fairy tales, short fiction, or fantastic prose, and Kay Ryan's Flamingo Watching-- fantastic short, rhyming poems. I'm looking forward to the Blotner Faulkner biography and as much Carson McCullers as I can cram in before school starts again!

Ladybird

Ladybird is the newest addition to the family, with probably the most dramatic story. I was dumping our recyclables in our neighbor's bin (I am probably the world's guiltiest recycler-- I always sneak out late at night and drop them in one at a time to minimize noise, afraid I might be found out!), I heard this little squeak, looked down, and saw a bedraggled white kitten, wearing a flea collar. I patted her and went on my merry way, convinced she had owners if she had a collar. 

Over the next two weeks, I brought my trash out more often than I ever have or will in the future. She was always hanging around my dumpster or the recycling bin, getting thinner and thinner. Eventually I couldn't deny that she wasn't getting the care she needed, even if she was technically someone's cat. I fed her a couple of times next to the dumpster, but I knew I couldn't take another cat. My eldest, Rooster, is a nervous wreck around other animals, and my husband is at best a begrudging cat lover. So I called a couple of friends, trying to convince them that they really needed a fluffy! white! (flea-ridden) kitten! All I have to say about that is that it's a good thing I'm not  a pimp, because evidently I fell short. Nobody could or would take said kitten.

So a few days before Thanksgiving I came home around 2 in the afternoon and found her sitting on my stoop. My heart just kind of fell because I knew this was it: she'd never been to the house before, she'd never seen me in the broad light of day, and that meant that she probably really did need a place to live. So I sat out on the porch with her for about an hour, trying to convince myself to walk away, then opened the door for her. 

Luckily she's one of the most lovable creatures ever to walk the earth, a fantastic, generally mellow lap-cat with a squeaky meow but a mighty purr like thunder!

Bestand this, bee-yotch!

So, due in no small part to a continuing conversation with Mighty Maya (fellow: 1.  Exonian, 2. layabout, and 3. semi-latent creative genius) I have been thinking about... well... lying about. Specifically, I've been wondering about the difference between laying low, limbo, paralysis, biding one's time, recouping, shoring up one's creative juices, etcetera. Is there a productive sort of lying about? When does that productivity tip over the edge into non-productivity? Is it possible to spend most of one's life not being productive, but still being meaningfully productive, if that makes sense? It's enough to give one a headache. Perhaps it's time for a nap.

Instead, a poem: (Bear with me). It's by Milton. (No--really. Bear with me)

When I consider how my light is spent,

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent which is death to hide 

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest He returning chide;

"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"

I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent 

that murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need 

Either man's work or His own gifts. Who best

bear his mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state

is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,

and post o'er land and ocean without rest;

They also serve who only stand and wait.

Okay, on a religious level, I'm not particularly down with this. I'm not certain I even understand it on a religious level. But there's something incredibly resonant about this poem even outside of its subject matter, and I wonder if it's just the shock of the last line, which CLEARLY says it's better to get stoned and play Katamari than to make a difference in the world.

Another pretentious guy I can turn to for some back up for the layabout's lifestyle is Heidegger, who basically says that the only way to get close to the world is to stand back and observe it. When we take things apart in an attempt to understand them, when we get too close, in other words, we loose perspective. The "essence" of the thing escapes, and we're left with an empty shell. Much like eating a pistachio, in fact.

Okay: from the quasi-atheistic (at least in the old-fashioned sense of "theos"), fairly existential, absurdist point of view I happen to be party to, basically what matters in the world is what I think matters. If I think religion matters, it matters. If I think the ethics of my culture matter, they matter (Hi Soren!!) If it all should go hang, it should all go hang. And if the world is populated with fairies and pigs have wings and everyone wants to have sex with me, but they're all really good at hiding their true natures, then that's the world I live in. (Which is, by the way, the world I live in.)

So the question is, I guess, how important is it to me to DO something in the world, and what is it to do something in the world, and how can one be sure that by doing something, you're not harming? I wonder how many of us fence-sitters there are in academia, theorizing our lives away. That all being said, I can't help but hope that the artists in the world, whether in academia or no, give us something to aspire to, something by which to be inspired. 

Especially when they take pictures of cowgirls.

Sweet Country Lovin'

Country music is one of my so-called guilty pleasures. My mom and I sang along to it in the car when I was little (actually, we still do!), I got massively teased about it in high school, dropped it, came back to it-- I can't call it love/hate, because it's really only ever been love. Love, love, love it. Love Top-20, love the eighties power-ballads, love the ridiculous fashions, love the alts, the oldies, the personalities. Okay? I admit it. I love country music. And I refuse to be guilty about it ANY LONGER!!

First off, can we talk about the gorgeousness of country musicians? Lots of eye-candy to choose from, but let's just pick the two most famous redheads of the bunch, as I happen to be partial. We have Willie Nelson to start, whose rugged mug graces the beginning of this post. I have a massive crush on Willie-- looks, politics, music, he's got it all. I'm slowly working through his discography, which is MASSIVE, but I just picked up "Stardust" which is a cover album. You should definitely check out "Georgia on my Mind" if you haven't already. I think part of the reason I love him so much is that he just seems like such a pure, bright spirit. I'm sure he has his share of jadedness after almost 50 years in the music business, but it doesn't show. I've taken to wearing my hair in braids. Maybe if I spend some more time in the sun...

Next up, we have Bonnie Raitt, hardcore-cool, whom my friend Jericho and I have decided is "my" diva. She's had the same hairdo since at least 1982, and baby still rocks it. She's one of the most gifted slide guitarists to sling a bottleneck, and she 's deeply committed to preserving the music and history of the blues. I love picturing her backintheday, the little roundfaced redheaded white girl, opening for Sippie Wallace, Son House, Muddy Waters, and John Lee Hooker (click to listen to one sexy-ass song). She's been active in civil rights, environmentalism, and women's rights. Yah, I want to be Bonnie when I grow up. 

Do you think we can convince them to get married? And adopt me?

La Jolla!

Well and so. Today was a beautiful day, coincidentally Easter (although Ilya and I didn't figure that out until we tried to go to the bookstore this evening), so we piled in the car and went to La Jolla, where the sea is sparkly and green and the people are not sparkly and green. Mostly they are very tan. 

Anyway, I got a chance to wade a little bit (hence: photo). And by "a little bit" I mean I was mostly ass-deep after I got soaked by a passing wave and basically said fuck it. Cause why not get wet? While I was standing there, three people came by and offered me sunscreen, which was sweet, but let's be honest: do I LOOK like I go out without it? That's how I got to be this fluorescent white color in the first place!

Who says there's no "Porn" in Inspiration?

So, as most of you know (if indeed there's anyone out there at all), I'm writing a book called "Stories are the Dreams of Lesser Gods." Yes, it's a long title. Yes, it's actually a sentence. Okay. Thanks for the input. 

What I love about this manuscript, which is a collection of short pieces that are loosely connected, is that I can write about anything I want-- usually some sort of metamorphosized human being-- a boy with one wing, a man who becomes music, an inventor who only invents things that have already been invented, etcetera. There's a lot of freedom, and when I get bored, I can start a new piece or go edit an old one. Sort of ideal. 

Most of my inspiration, such as it is, seems to come from misreading things. This had always been an irritation before-- I frequently mix up the end words of two lines from a book. So for instance, "The man in black walked down the dark street/ Hoping that no one would be playing stairway to heaven" might be read as "The man in black walked down the dark heaven" (Totally pulled this out of my ass, by the way.) 

Another way I end up wanting to write a piece is when I hear a line that I like. My friend Jericho Brown and I were discussing church recently, and I was imitating the people who sing or pray with one hand in the air. Jericho Brown made some comment about "One Handed Praisers" and I knew right then that'd be a title. 

But the purpose of this post was my most recent piece, inspired by... porn. And most specifically, the legal message that comes before porn, reassuring us all that everyone's over the age of 18-- I saw the lines "Keeper of Records" and had to stop the porn and turn on MS Word. 

Gee. Thanks Porn.