Last week, Jan and I went to Linda's 80th--and this video captures some of the party and testimonials by her friends:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBeVNfJggtw
Linda's "well-lived life" (that phrase taken from one of her own songs you can hear on the video): teaching countless piano students while starting a real estate career in her 70s while writing and producing her play, "Senior Moments," and formerly writing a column for the Jewish Journal called "Mishigus." She was my first client as a writing coach and we became friends over tables in cafes as we worked on her story.
I call her the Energizer Bunny. She does so much, so well, that she runs circles around most of us, and whatever she does is done with her characteristic glow.
As you can see in the testimonials in the video (ending with a tribute by her 95-year-old husband, Al), she has a great big generous heart. Two words stand out in what people say about her: love and inspiration!
Linda introduced me to Lorraine, to my doctor (Dr. Heller), and to several other friends at the party who are former writing group members and friends. In fact, I credit Linda for launching me into writing groups in the first place. Back when we were working together, she said, "You should start doing this with groups!'
And anyone who knows Linda knows that when she makes a suggestion, you follow through!
Saturday, December 30, 2017
New Beginnings
“Tomorrow, is the first blank page of a 365 page book. Write a good one.”
― Brad Paisley
Speaking of new beginnings and new books:
I just got a photograph from my friend Barbel in Albuquerque--and she is in love and so happy, as you can probably tell. Love looks good on her, don't you think?
“You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.”
― Dr. Seuss
“First best is falling in love. Second best is being in love. Least best is falling out of love. But any of it is better than never having been in love.”
― Maya Angelou
Saturday Joy
1. Yoga
Pamela, today's yoga teacher, suggested--as we stretched--that we think about New Years not as a time to resolve not-to-do but to resolve to have more joy every single day. She told us about two things that bring her joy (her variegated lemon tree and her cats) and she asked us to think about the people and things that have brought joy into our lives this past year and look for more every day in 2018. I like that idea!
2. Max and Louie's
I met Linda Kaufman for lunch at this New York Diner (new to me, an old favorite for her) on Embassy Row--and had amazing cabbage rolls with red sweet and sour sauce. I already can't wait to go back and order that again. Everything looked good--Reuben sandwiches, macaroni, soups....
3. Central Market
Nathan and my tax accountant may not consider me "rich"--but going to Central Market makes me feel rich every time, especially on Saturday when the cooks are making delicious things and you get to taste and buy. A chef from Germany insisted I buy duck fat to fry pork chops, and I just did. Along with butterbeans and cornbread (recipe below), it was the best meal I've cooked in a long time.
4. Books
A new book came in the mail that Linda Kot recommended: ON LIVING--which I'll read tonight. I have always loved books. I remember when my first grade teacher used to read to us from a big magazine before we could read. I was fascinated when grownups looked at pages and read the words and took us into different worlds, and I've never gotten over it!
5.
Weather
We're expecting a hard freeze tomorrow night and many trees and plants in my neighborhood are all wrapped up for winter. We rarely get a freeze, so everyone is kind of excited about the extreme change from today's spring-like weather to frosty air!
6.
Remembering Paris and Italy
One of our yoga class members is heading to Florence, another to Italy, and the teacher goes to France regularly--so I left yoga with a bit of Euro-lust. When I got in the car, Milk Street Radio was on NPR--and Lindsey Tramuta was being interviewed regarding her book, The New Paris. When I went to Italy, Nellie was my excellent guide and traveling companion, along with her Rick Steve bible. In France, Bob--the man I probably should have kept--was a savvy world traveler and epicurean, so we had the best of foods in Paris and small villages. I'd like to find an Alpha Travel Guide as a travel companion and return to Europe before or during my big October birth-month!
"A perfect memory is never repeated, but it grows in memory to be more than it once was." Christopher Kimball, Milk Street Radio
https://www.177milkstreet.com/radio/the-new-paris
When we savor these perfect memories, it's often food that makes you want to try to repeat the experience, right?
7
Cornbread
When I think of home and Georgia, I think of the best cornbread, never made with flour, that my parents used to make every other night or so. They used self-rising cornmeal (easy to find in Georgia, hard to find here--I always bring some back with me), buttermilk, oil and eggs--and cooked it in a cast iron pan.
This is the way I cooked it tonight and it was delicious: (As Carlene says when something tastes this good, "I could get up in the pan with it.")
Margaret Williams' recipe for "The best cornbread ever."
1 and 1/4 cup SELF RISING cornmeal
8 ounces nonfat plain yogurt
2 eggs
1 ounce cream corn
2 t. baking powder
1 T. sugar
1/4 cup safflower oil
Combine all the ingredients in bowl; mix well. Pour into greased 8x8 inch pan--or cast iron skillet--or muffin tins. Bake at 425 for 20 minutes or until golden brown.
Pamela, today's yoga teacher, suggested--as we stretched--that we think about New Years not as a time to resolve not-to-do but to resolve to have more joy every single day. She told us about two things that bring her joy (her variegated lemon tree and her cats) and she asked us to think about the people and things that have brought joy into our lives this past year and look for more every day in 2018. I like that idea!
2. Max and Louie's
I met Linda Kaufman for lunch at this New York Diner (new to me, an old favorite for her) on Embassy Row--and had amazing cabbage rolls with red sweet and sour sauce. I already can't wait to go back and order that again. Everything looked good--Reuben sandwiches, macaroni, soups....
3. Central Market
Nathan and my tax accountant may not consider me "rich"--but going to Central Market makes me feel rich every time, especially on Saturday when the cooks are making delicious things and you get to taste and buy. A chef from Germany insisted I buy duck fat to fry pork chops, and I just did. Along with butterbeans and cornbread (recipe below), it was the best meal I've cooked in a long time.
4. Books
A new book came in the mail that Linda Kot recommended: ON LIVING--which I'll read tonight. I have always loved books. I remember when my first grade teacher used to read to us from a big magazine before we could read. I was fascinated when grownups looked at pages and read the words and took us into different worlds, and I've never gotten over it!
5.
Weather
We're expecting a hard freeze tomorrow night and many trees and plants in my neighborhood are all wrapped up for winter. We rarely get a freeze, so everyone is kind of excited about the extreme change from today's spring-like weather to frosty air!
6.
Remembering Paris and Italy
One of our yoga class members is heading to Florence, another to Italy, and the teacher goes to France regularly--so I left yoga with a bit of Euro-lust. When I got in the car, Milk Street Radio was on NPR--and Lindsey Tramuta was being interviewed regarding her book, The New Paris. When I went to Italy, Nellie was my excellent guide and traveling companion, along with her Rick Steve bible. In France, Bob--the man I probably should have kept--was a savvy world traveler and epicurean, so we had the best of foods in Paris and small villages. I'd like to find an Alpha Travel Guide as a travel companion and return to Europe before or during my big October birth-month!
"A perfect memory is never repeated, but it grows in memory to be more than it once was." Christopher Kimball, Milk Street Radio
https://www.177milkstreet.com/radio/the-new-paris
When we savor these perfect memories, it's often food that makes you want to try to repeat the experience, right?
7
Cornbread
When I think of home and Georgia, I think of the best cornbread, never made with flour, that my parents used to make every other night or so. They used self-rising cornmeal (easy to find in Georgia, hard to find here--I always bring some back with me), buttermilk, oil and eggs--and cooked it in a cast iron pan.
This is the way I cooked it tonight and it was delicious: (As Carlene says when something tastes this good, "I could get up in the pan with it.")
Margaret Williams' recipe for "The best cornbread ever."
1 and 1/4 cup SELF RISING cornmeal
8 ounces nonfat plain yogurt
2 eggs
1 ounce cream corn
2 t. baking powder
1 T. sugar
1/4 cup safflower oil
Combine all the ingredients in bowl; mix well. Pour into greased 8x8 inch pan--or cast iron skillet--or muffin tins. Bake at 425 for 20 minutes or until golden brown.
For a New Beginning
In out-of-the-way places of the heart,
Where your thoughts never think to wander,
This beginning has been quietly forming,
Waiting until you were ready to emerge.
For a long time it has watched your desire,
Feeling the emptiness growing inside you,
Noticing how you willed yourself on,
Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.
It watched you play with the seduction of safety
And the gray promises that sameness whispered,
Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent,
Wondered would you always live like this.
Then the delight, when your courage kindled,
And out you stepped onto new ground,
Your eyes young again with energy and dream,
A path of plenitude opening before you.
Though your destination is not yet clear
You can trust the promise of this opening;
Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning
That is at one with your life’s desire.
Awaken your spirit to adventure;
Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;
Soon you will be home in a new rhythm,
For your soul senses the world that awaits you.
~ John O'Donohue
From: To Bless the Space Between Us
Friday, December 29, 2017
A text from Will in Colorado
Overheard Nathan in the back seat to Elena: "Yenna spends money on us. No, she's not rich, she just really likes to make us happy. One time I said I liked something and she just said she'd buy it for me. I said, 'No, that's okay,' but she just insisted."
Seeing Big
Yesterday, Jan and I were talking about kids and their devices. She had read a study that showed that children who spend a lot of time on iPads and iPhones, playing games and snap-chatting for hours, are more inclined to depression, even suicide. The study explained how looking at tiny screens can make children less inclined to socialize in person; how they tend to see their friends doing exciting things that they wish they could do; and how the very size of the screen limits what they are looking at.
For example, kids who rely entirely on their phone's GPS may be able to find places, but they don't see the larger map and get a sense of how one place is connected to other places.
Kids are not inclined to see the big picture if all they look at are little pictures. If "friends" bully them or insult them online, they may be unable to put their mean words in a larger perspective.
I'm remembering a trip Betty and I once made from Texas to Cape Cod. At that time, twenty years ago, AAA gave travelers a spiral booklet called a TripTyk that showed a portion of the trip at a time. Of course, you could look at the larger map, but at that time I drove page by page and followed directions.
In driving page by page, you miss the backroads and you miss a sense of the way one state borders another.
As the year 2017 comes to a close, I'm thinking of all the ways I've missed the big picture myself at times, seeing only a portion of the story or the truth of what is. I use devices and GPS--but the best parts of any day are the times of free exploration of places and points of view.
For example, kids who rely entirely on their phone's GPS may be able to find places, but they don't see the larger map and get a sense of how one place is connected to other places.
Kids are not inclined to see the big picture if all they look at are little pictures. If "friends" bully them or insult them online, they may be unable to put their mean words in a larger perspective.
I'm remembering a trip Betty and I once made from Texas to Cape Cod. At that time, twenty years ago, AAA gave travelers a spiral booklet called a TripTyk that showed a portion of the trip at a time. Of course, you could look at the larger map, but at that time I drove page by page and followed directions.
In driving page by page, you miss the backroads and you miss a sense of the way one state borders another.
As the year 2017 comes to a close, I'm thinking of all the ways I've missed the big picture myself at times, seeing only a portion of the story or the truth of what is. I use devices and GPS--but the best parts of any day are the times of free exploration of places and points of view.
Thursday, December 28, 2017
Finders Keepers
When I went to Freda's to make collages, I tossed random items into a box--pages from travel brochures, magazine, etc.
Going through that box, I found three things of interest and decided to keep them intact:
1.
Visiting years ago at Carol Ann's house in Georgia, I spied a beautiful old diary on a table. I always look at letters, diaries, post cards, and old photographs in antique stores, so that diary caught my attention. It's written in a 1931 Warner's Calendar of Medical History by a woman who recounts her days, the weather, visitors and games. I asked Carol Ann if I could make copies of some of the pages. Here are two days in the life of one woman, always opening with a mention of the sun rising:
February 16
Sun rose clear. We've had our breakfast and cleaned up the house dug a little in the yard for the chickens. Mrs. McShan came over for a little while. Everything moving along O.K. Feeling pretty good bug kinder lonesome. Mother is taking her rest now and I'm going to try and get the Bermuda grass away from our Jonquils. Mr. Pearson brought the mail. Still nice the sun set clear.ters.
February 18
The sun rose behind a cloud rained last night. Mr. Geo. Lewis's barn out on his farm burned to the ground last night lost all his feed he has gone out there to estimate the damage. The McShan twins and Mrs. Lewis have been over to see us this morning. Have been alone the rest of the day have put in most of the time Writing letters. Heard Eddie Cantor and Will Rogers over the radio. Still cloudy and windy and cold at bedtime.
2.
A 52-year old love letter.
Maybe I fell in love with my children's father because he wrote four years of good letters:
"I think sometimes that it's as if we're riding a crashing wave by some contradiction of gravity and that to know gravity might bring it breaking to shore, however there always seems to be a stable power that makes me know we'll always be at the crest...."
Unfortunately, his prediction of always being at the crest didn't come true--but I love the image and love the young man he used to be, writing daily letters from his barracks in far away San Antonio to a high school girl in Georgia.
3.
On very thin paper, An invitation from a Japanese person to be a pen friend:
Dear Miss Harris
How do you do. I am the girl to whom Miss Cannon introduce you as a pen-friend. I have wanted to have the pen-friend since I began to study English. My English is very poor, but I write the letter with all my might."
Going through that box, I found three things of interest and decided to keep them intact:
1.
Visiting years ago at Carol Ann's house in Georgia, I spied a beautiful old diary on a table. I always look at letters, diaries, post cards, and old photographs in antique stores, so that diary caught my attention. It's written in a 1931 Warner's Calendar of Medical History by a woman who recounts her days, the weather, visitors and games. I asked Carol Ann if I could make copies of some of the pages. Here are two days in the life of one woman, always opening with a mention of the sun rising:
February 16
Sun rose clear. We've had our breakfast and cleaned up the house dug a little in the yard for the chickens. Mrs. McShan came over for a little while. Everything moving along O.K. Feeling pretty good bug kinder lonesome. Mother is taking her rest now and I'm going to try and get the Bermuda grass away from our Jonquils. Mr. Pearson brought the mail. Still nice the sun set clear.ters.
February 18
The sun rose behind a cloud rained last night. Mr. Geo. Lewis's barn out on his farm burned to the ground last night lost all his feed he has gone out there to estimate the damage. The McShan twins and Mrs. Lewis have been over to see us this morning. Have been alone the rest of the day have put in most of the time Writing letters. Heard Eddie Cantor and Will Rogers over the radio. Still cloudy and windy and cold at bedtime.
2.
A 52-year old love letter.
Maybe I fell in love with my children's father because he wrote four years of good letters:
"I think sometimes that it's as if we're riding a crashing wave by some contradiction of gravity and that to know gravity might bring it breaking to shore, however there always seems to be a stable power that makes me know we'll always be at the crest...."
Unfortunately, his prediction of always being at the crest didn't come true--but I love the image and love the young man he used to be, writing daily letters from his barracks in far away San Antonio to a high school girl in Georgia.
3.
On very thin paper, An invitation from a Japanese person to be a pen friend:
Dear Miss Harris
How do you do. I am the girl to whom Miss Cannon introduce you as a pen-friend. I have wanted to have the pen-friend since I began to study English. My English is very poor, but I write the letter with all my might."
Wednesday, December 27, 2017
Wednesday
"Jackqueline" is the name on her tag, but now that we know each other I can call her Jackie.
Her very curly hair is one shade lighter than those Cutie tangerines and she has beautiful teeth. She's a stunning black woman, especially when she wears the red Santa hat she's been wearing this week. She's also my source of weather news. This morning when I stopped by Dollar Tree, she told me it's going to be 21 degrees on New Years Day!
Today is wet, cold, and drizzly and I'm going over to Freda's later to make collages.
Pam and I saw Three Billboards at the Bijou yesterday and I liked it--but it won't be to everyone's taste. It reminded me of a Flannery O'Connor story; the most racist of the policemen is reading a book of her short stories at the beginning. The cast includes an angry mother (Frances McDormand), a dwarf, a policeman who can be brutal to black people, a man with cancer, flashbacks to a murdered girl before she died, an ex-husband with a ditzy 19-year-old girlfriend....
Last night I finished Insomniac City by Bill Hayes. He writes beautifully about New York and the encounters with people he photographs on the streets and in the subways. He writes about his grief when his partner, Steve, died, then his decision to move from San Francisco to New York. He writes about his lover, Oliver Sacks, the writer of books like The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, who lived a vibrant intellectual life, then died of cancer a little over a year ago.
"He was without doubt the most unusual person I'd ever known, and before long I found myself not just falling in love with O; it was something more, something I'd never experienced before. I adored him."
Her very curly hair is one shade lighter than those Cutie tangerines and she has beautiful teeth. She's a stunning black woman, especially when she wears the red Santa hat she's been wearing this week. She's also my source of weather news. This morning when I stopped by Dollar Tree, she told me it's going to be 21 degrees on New Years Day!
Today is wet, cold, and drizzly and I'm going over to Freda's later to make collages.
Pam and I saw Three Billboards at the Bijou yesterday and I liked it--but it won't be to everyone's taste. It reminded me of a Flannery O'Connor story; the most racist of the policemen is reading a book of her short stories at the beginning. The cast includes an angry mother (Frances McDormand), a dwarf, a policeman who can be brutal to black people, a man with cancer, flashbacks to a murdered girl before she died, an ex-husband with a ditzy 19-year-old girlfriend....
Last night I finished Insomniac City by Bill Hayes. He writes beautifully about New York and the encounters with people he photographs on the streets and in the subways. He writes about his grief when his partner, Steve, died, then his decision to move from San Francisco to New York. He writes about his lover, Oliver Sacks, the writer of books like The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, who lived a vibrant intellectual life, then died of cancer a little over a year ago.
"He was without doubt the most unusual person I'd ever known, and before long I found myself not just falling in love with O; it was something more, something I'd never experienced before. I adored him."
Monday, December 25, 2017
Christmas Night
Very unusual for me: I have not left the house once today!
I haven't seen anyone, taken a bath, or gotten dressed. I ironed tablecloths and napkins and quilts that needed ironing (I probably take out the iron once a year!). This is the epitome of the kind of day I'd once have thought a pathetic way to spend Christmas, but it was rather perfect. I talked on the phone to most of the people in my family and made a smoothie and some soup and read a little in my red chair. I organized craft supplies, of all things, and cleaned out a few drawers.
Will had sent me a video of Elena imitating me. In a voice very unlike her usual voice she asked, very slowly, "Would you like some hot stickas?" (i.e. heart stickers). I haven't found a way to upload a video, but I've watched it several times and laughed out loud every time.
I'm reading a beautiful book tonight: Insomniac City--about New York and his late-lover Oliver Sachs. I've gotten a few texts asking if we should see a movie or what--and most of us singletons wound up deciding to stay in and enjoy the same kind of day: in our pajamas, with books and music.
I've liked this day so much I may pick one day a week to do it some more.
Hope you've all had a wonderful day, too!
I haven't seen anyone, taken a bath, or gotten dressed. I ironed tablecloths and napkins and quilts that needed ironing (I probably take out the iron once a year!). This is the epitome of the kind of day I'd once have thought a pathetic way to spend Christmas, but it was rather perfect. I talked on the phone to most of the people in my family and made a smoothie and some soup and read a little in my red chair. I organized craft supplies, of all things, and cleaned out a few drawers.
Will had sent me a video of Elena imitating me. In a voice very unlike her usual voice she asked, very slowly, "Would you like some hot stickas?" (i.e. heart stickers). I haven't found a way to upload a video, but I've watched it several times and laughed out loud every time.
I'm reading a beautiful book tonight: Insomniac City--about New York and his late-lover Oliver Sachs. I've gotten a few texts asking if we should see a movie or what--and most of us singletons wound up deciding to stay in and enjoy the same kind of day: in our pajamas, with books and music.
I've liked this day so much I may pick one day a week to do it some more.
Hope you've all had a wonderful day, too!
Christmas Morning
After dinner with blues, gospel and a fireplace fire at Freda's last night, today is all set to be another happy day, a day I'm enjoying spending at home in my new pajamas watching the last episode of The Crown.
Here are my two grandsons in Virginia with their dad. Marcus is catching up with Tom in height and Jackson, 16, is now the tallest person in our family by far.
Day is the queen of gift-giving! She sent me a box filled with special things--the two best being a pretty embroidered scarf (to wear) and a beautiful round quilt she made for my table! My house is filled with treasures made by Daisy--and this is one of my favorites....
Carlene, Bob, Jocelyn, and Mary Elizabeth are in a cozy mountain cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Georgia--and Jocelyn sent these pictures by text:
Here are my two grandsons in Virginia with their dad. Marcus is catching up with Tom in height and Jackson, 16, is now the tallest person in our family by far.
 |
| Two best friends, Marcus and Jackson |
Day is the queen of gift-giving! She sent me a box filled with special things--the two best being a pretty embroidered scarf (to wear) and a beautiful round quilt she made for my table! My house is filled with treasures made by Daisy--and this is one of my favorites....
 |
| Carlene's loving that fireplace, first up in the cabin this morning.... |
 |
| My brother, Bob, who'd make a great Santa with that red flannel shirt and beard! |
 |
| My adorable and funny niece, Mary Elizabeth, who just bought her own first house this year and manages a restaurant in Athens, Georgia-- the city where I was born. This just in--the three Harris women--M.E. and Jocelyn and Nana Carlene!  |
Sunday, December 24, 2017
Different sorts of gifts
Yesterday was a most Christmas-y day in its way--but nothing like the days I used to feel such excitement over when I was a child, and not like the days I used to spend weeks orchestrating for my children. I watched some episodes of The Crown, Pam came by for an unexpected visit, and I visited my next door friends. Instead of a big fragrant Christmas tree loaded with ornaments, I have this little lights-only guy:
Christmas now is less over-the-top "merry" than it used to be, but it's wonderful in a different, quieter way.
Back in the day, we children only got toys for Christmas and birthdays, so it was a day of great delight when you finally got some long-awaited gift so imbued with the fantasies that grew in wanting it. The doll, the wardrobe for the doll your mother had made, the bicycle, the record player. Even the ten-cent boxes of sparklers were thrills.
Sometimes the most pleasurable gift to give is the spontaneous and unexpected last minute ones. especially those given to someone who's given us gifts of a different kind throughout the year.
There's a young man at the drive-through window who always upsizes my drinks and gives me freebies. Not only that, he always reaches through the window and holds my hand for a minute and says, "I love you, my friend."
Here's a young man who works from 5:00 in the afternoon until 3:00 in the morning, saving every dollar to get his car repaired after a recent accident. He sometimes comes out on cold nights in a short-sleeved shirt to hand me my drink personally, and we chat.
"Where's your coat?" I asked him one cold night.
"I think I'm going to get one for Christmas," he said, happy as a kid in the old days would have been over a new bike.
I drove down Austin Highway late last night to deliver a gift of a bit of cash in a card to him. He didn't even open it while I was there, but he had tears in his eyes just holding the envelope. "I love cards!" he said. "I will keep this my whole life. My grandfather passed away two years ago and he always sent us cards, and I miss those cards more than anything."
Driving back home, listening to NPR's Christmas music, I felt--well, a different kind of merry. I felt happy and free and prosperous with good people in my world--and that includes you all who are reading this blog.
Happy Holidays to you all!
Christmas now is less over-the-top "merry" than it used to be, but it's wonderful in a different, quieter way.
Back in the day, we children only got toys for Christmas and birthdays, so it was a day of great delight when you finally got some long-awaited gift so imbued with the fantasies that grew in wanting it. The doll, the wardrobe for the doll your mother had made, the bicycle, the record player. Even the ten-cent boxes of sparklers were thrills.
Sometimes the most pleasurable gift to give is the spontaneous and unexpected last minute ones. especially those given to someone who's given us gifts of a different kind throughout the year.
There's a young man at the drive-through window who always upsizes my drinks and gives me freebies. Not only that, he always reaches through the window and holds my hand for a minute and says, "I love you, my friend."
Here's a young man who works from 5:00 in the afternoon until 3:00 in the morning, saving every dollar to get his car repaired after a recent accident. He sometimes comes out on cold nights in a short-sleeved shirt to hand me my drink personally, and we chat.
"Where's your coat?" I asked him one cold night.
"I think I'm going to get one for Christmas," he said, happy as a kid in the old days would have been over a new bike.
I drove down Austin Highway late last night to deliver a gift of a bit of cash in a card to him. He didn't even open it while I was there, but he had tears in his eyes just holding the envelope. "I love cards!" he said. "I will keep this my whole life. My grandfather passed away two years ago and he always sent us cards, and I miss those cards more than anything."
Driving back home, listening to NPR's Christmas music, I felt--well, a different kind of merry. I felt happy and free and prosperous with good people in my world--and that includes you all who are reading this blog.
Happy Holidays to you all!
Friday, December 22, 2017
2: Plot or character?
Even when the teller of the tale is the omniscient, nameless narrator, not one of the characters in the story, that narrator is a character of sorts--though we usually take his or her words as an act of faith without paying much attention to the genderless, ageless, faceless messenger. We enter their made-up worlds without even saying hello--and vice versa. It's a literary convention, an agreement between writer and reader, to pretend that this imagined world is real and comes down from on high.
Just after writing my last post--about the three men in Margaret Drabble's book and how they bored me--the narrator mercifully closed that part and made a comment to the reader explaining why she'd been shining a more restrained light on Ivor. This is bloody brilliant, as the British would say:
"And, as we have said, it is not a good idea to look too closely at Ivor. He wouldn't like it, and we do not have the right to get too close to him. We have no permitted access to the inwardness of him. We know a lot about him, and we can describe his public behaviour, which is polite, circumspect, considerate. We can describe his public and even some of his more private actions, such as his newfound church-going, and the lipstick he tried on as a boy. But we can't get too close....
Fran Stubbs doesn't mind our looking into her head, indeed she insists that we do. She's keen on the confessional mode, not necessarily with other people, but with herself. Ivor is not."
I love this playful, skilled narrator now just as much as I love Fran!
Just after writing my last post--about the three men in Margaret Drabble's book and how they bored me--the narrator mercifully closed that part and made a comment to the reader explaining why she'd been shining a more restrained light on Ivor. This is bloody brilliant, as the British would say:
"And, as we have said, it is not a good idea to look too closely at Ivor. He wouldn't like it, and we do not have the right to get too close to him. We have no permitted access to the inwardness of him. We know a lot about him, and we can describe his public behaviour, which is polite, circumspect, considerate. We can describe his public and even some of his more private actions, such as his newfound church-going, and the lipstick he tried on as a boy. But we can't get too close....
Fran Stubbs doesn't mind our looking into her head, indeed she insists that we do. She's keen on the confessional mode, not necessarily with other people, but with herself. Ivor is not."
I love this playful, skilled narrator now just as much as I love Fran!
1: Plot or Character?
Do the novels we read engage us more by the cliff hangers and mysteries woven into the plot? Or more by the evolution (and revelations) of character? Novels primarily focused on plot are called plot-driven; if it's the latter, we call them character-driven.
I almost always prefer character-driven novels to plot-driven ones. I care what happens less than to whom it happens. As times passes, I may even forget the plot, but if the characters are fleshed out in ways that make them real, they stay in my mind like real people.
Same with memoir: This happened, then that happened, then I did this: these memoirs pale in comparison to those that reveal the vulnerable, struggling, conflicted, complex, peculiar person telling the story. I want to relate to the teller, to know her inner world, to see how what happens changes, scares, delights, or deepens her. I don't want her to tap-dance in patent-leather-shoes on stage and show me how pretty she is; I want to go back stage to her dressing room and see who she really is, without makeup.
Fran, the main character in this novel I'm reading (The Dark Flood Rises) is so relatable for women of a certain age, women over sixty. Fran is in her seventies; she has a wry sense of humor, she admits her inner turmoils, she sometimes feels invisible, she loves driving around and looking, she admits her vulnerabilities, she struggles to decide what to do in the limited years left of her life. Her very British voice is so authentic I'm quite sure I could call her up and we'd be friends.
I've reached a point in the novel where the the story moves to the Canary Islands and focuses on three men, one of whom is Fran's son. I'm plodding through this part, hoping to hurry up and get back to Fran.
I recently watched three seasons of BBC's Hinterland--recommended by Betty. I enjoy watching good mysteries, but still it's the detective, DCI Matthias, who keeps me engaged. He's a troubled man (he blames himself for the drowning of his daughter; he's not stellar at personal relationships) but he's an impeccable detective. He builds his cases on evidence boards--those large cork walls on which inspectors pin pictures of suspects and victims, items found at the crime scene, and forensics reports; ultimately, in every episode, the pieces of story click into place and the crime is solved--but it's the interplay of his focused mind and his emotionally struggling self that makes the series so good.
This same dynamic mirrors real life for me. It's not so much "the facts" that connect us to certain people, but the inner life of the person telling the story--her transparency and vulnerability, her quirks, flaws, and weakness, the way she tells who she is. These are the touchstones of bloody-good conversation. We want to know: How did you survive the catastrophes and heartbreaks? In what ways did the various facets of yourself struggle with each other? Where is your shame, what are your secrets? When did you realize you were being less than honest with yourself or other people? Where's your messy?
Years later, we may forget exactly what happens, even to ourselves and our closest friends, but we never forget the real human being who told us and the funny, tragic, poignant ways they told us. In the telling of story, the person endears herself to us because she tells us--really, not superficially--who she is.
A connection is forged when people reveal the truly personal--not just private, sometimes-shocking secrets but the revelations of who they are way deeper than superficial facts. When friends are engaged in this kind of conversation, you see them leaning forward, nodding, saying yes yes yes, that's it, that's it exactly!
― Carl R. Rogers, psychotherapist
I almost always prefer character-driven novels to plot-driven ones. I care what happens less than to whom it happens. As times passes, I may even forget the plot, but if the characters are fleshed out in ways that make them real, they stay in my mind like real people.
Same with memoir: This happened, then that happened, then I did this: these memoirs pale in comparison to those that reveal the vulnerable, struggling, conflicted, complex, peculiar person telling the story. I want to relate to the teller, to know her inner world, to see how what happens changes, scares, delights, or deepens her. I don't want her to tap-dance in patent-leather-shoes on stage and show me how pretty she is; I want to go back stage to her dressing room and see who she really is, without makeup.
Fran, the main character in this novel I'm reading (The Dark Flood Rises) is so relatable for women of a certain age, women over sixty. Fran is in her seventies; she has a wry sense of humor, she admits her inner turmoils, she sometimes feels invisible, she loves driving around and looking, she admits her vulnerabilities, she struggles to decide what to do in the limited years left of her life. Her very British voice is so authentic I'm quite sure I could call her up and we'd be friends.
I've reached a point in the novel where the the story moves to the Canary Islands and focuses on three men, one of whom is Fran's son. I'm plodding through this part, hoping to hurry up and get back to Fran.
I recently watched three seasons of BBC's Hinterland--recommended by Betty. I enjoy watching good mysteries, but still it's the detective, DCI Matthias, who keeps me engaged. He's a troubled man (he blames himself for the drowning of his daughter; he's not stellar at personal relationships) but he's an impeccable detective. He builds his cases on evidence boards--those large cork walls on which inspectors pin pictures of suspects and victims, items found at the crime scene, and forensics reports; ultimately, in every episode, the pieces of story click into place and the crime is solved--but it's the interplay of his focused mind and his emotionally struggling self that makes the series so good.
This same dynamic mirrors real life for me. It's not so much "the facts" that connect us to certain people, but the inner life of the person telling the story--her transparency and vulnerability, her quirks, flaws, and weakness, the way she tells who she is. These are the touchstones of bloody-good conversation. We want to know: How did you survive the catastrophes and heartbreaks? In what ways did the various facets of yourself struggle with each other? Where is your shame, what are your secrets? When did you realize you were being less than honest with yourself or other people? Where's your messy?
Years later, we may forget exactly what happens, even to ourselves and our closest friends, but we never forget the real human being who told us and the funny, tragic, poignant ways they told us. In the telling of story, the person endears herself to us because she tells us--really, not superficially--who she is.
A connection is forged when people reveal the truly personal--not just private, sometimes-shocking secrets but the revelations of who they are way deeper than superficial facts. When friends are engaged in this kind of conversation, you see them leaning forward, nodding, saying yes yes yes, that's it, that's it exactly!
“What is most personal is most universal.”
― Carl R. Rogers, psychotherapist
Thursday, December 21, 2017
Home
Here's my scene when I come back from my early morning drives, Jan's house and part of mine just as the sun is coming up.
The yard is finished--all but the repair on the tile patio in back that the bobcat crashed and broke.
Seven new redbuds have been planted where the pittosporum used to be. And I've planted a big pot and my red wagon with paddle plants and other succulents.
I found this little house twenty years ago, and I've been puttering on it ever since. My parents bought it for me as a surprise for a Christmas present!
When I drive into the driveway, I sit in the warm car for a while and just look around and feel happy that this is my home, that Jan, Kate, Sebastien and Makken are my sweet neighbors.
The yard is finished--all but the repair on the tile patio in back that the bobcat crashed and broke.
Seven new redbuds have been planted where the pittosporum used to be. And I've planted a big pot and my red wagon with paddle plants and other succulents.
I found this little house twenty years ago, and I've been puttering on it ever since. My parents bought it for me as a surprise for a Christmas present!
When I drive into the driveway, I sit in the warm car for a while and just look around and feel happy that this is my home, that Jan, Kate, Sebastien and Makken are my sweet neighbors.
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
Wednesday in San Antonio
Today was a beautiful sunshiny spring-like day and about as close to looking like fall as we get in South Texas. The umbrella of trees over my street are shimmering with gold and orange, and it's so beautiful.
Since the pecan tree has finished shedding, I managed to rake the leaves a little bit today, but mostly I've just had a lazy good day. Gerlinde brought me the best clam chowder and I'm enjoying every bite as I write this!
Will just called and he and Elena both have the genuine flu--his temperature 104.6. hers 102. I'm so hoping they get rid of it and nobody else in the family gets it. They are planning to leave for a ski trip the day after Christmas.
Since the pecan tree has finished shedding, I managed to rake the leaves a little bit today, but mostly I've just had a lazy good day. Gerlinde brought me the best clam chowder and I'm enjoying every bite as I write this!
Will just called and he and Elena both have the genuine flu--his temperature 104.6. hers 102. I'm so hoping they get rid of it and nobody else in the family gets it. They are planning to leave for a ski trip the day after Christmas.
Tuesday, December 19, 2017
Christmas in Helotes
I made Spanish chicken and cornbread and delivered it to Will and Bonnie's. We'd decided to have our party at their house instead of mine since they have a Christmas tree and outdoor lights.
It's a good thing--as they had had a full day and three of them are a little sick and feverish. When Will was little, I used to take his temperature with my hand and always got it right--so tonight I discovered I still have the touch. He had a fever of 101. Both kids were glassy eyed, too, but cheerful and sweet.
Everyone recovered enough to enjoy dinner and open gifts.
Nathan was disappointed that he got "Clothes!"--a ski bib and jacket for their upcoming ski trip to Colorado; he liked the books and card game more.
Elena liked her ladybug suitcase and boots, but my best gift to her was the puppy I got yesterday at Ace Hardware. She has a roomful of stuffed animals, "But this is the best one ever!" she said, cuddling with Sugar for the rest of the night.
Here's the bowl I had Edward fill for my Christmas present to myself--a bowl I bought many years ago in Alabama.
It's a good thing--as they had had a full day and three of them are a little sick and feverish. When Will was little, I used to take his temperature with my hand and always got it right--so tonight I discovered I still have the touch. He had a fever of 101. Both kids were glassy eyed, too, but cheerful and sweet.
Everyone recovered enough to enjoy dinner and open gifts.
Nathan was disappointed that he got "Clothes!"--a ski bib and jacket for their upcoming ski trip to Colorado; he liked the books and card game more.
Elena liked her ladybug suitcase and boots, but my best gift to her was the puppy I got yesterday at Ace Hardware. She has a roomful of stuffed animals, "But this is the best one ever!" she said, cuddling with Sugar for the rest of the night.
Here's the bowl I had Edward fill for my Christmas present to myself--a bowl I bought many years ago in Alabama.
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| Elena and Sugar |
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| There's Will in the background, playing with the new MacBook Pro Bonnie gave him. |
Monday, December 18, 2017
Beautiful Monday Things
I've been fudging on my diet--and am paying for it with flaming fibro. I went to the physical therapist today and took this picture of glass bricks. I love the way whatever is behind the bricks shimmers in the light.
On the way home, the fog was thick, making everything stand out against the white background. These birds on wires remind me of notes on a page of music.
My friends have been telling me about Evergreen Nursery (Hildebrand) and I have been there three times in three days. Eddie, the owner, is an artist with plants and such a good soul!
I took in two bowls and asked him to plant them with air plants--one for me, one for Will. This is how he transformed a bowl I found in my storage room. This one will go to Helotes tomorrow as I celebrate Christmas with my family there. This one is even prettier than mine. Edward put dark mulch over the moss and then added some wood pieces. I just love it!
I also love this--a picture Elena drew for kindergarten. "I love my elf. She is beautiful!" (beyeudfo)
On the way home, the fog was thick, making everything stand out against the white background. These birds on wires remind me of notes on a page of music.
My friends have been telling me about Evergreen Nursery (Hildebrand) and I have been there three times in three days. Eddie, the owner, is an artist with plants and such a good soul!
I took in two bowls and asked him to plant them with air plants--one for me, one for Will. This is how he transformed a bowl I found in my storage room. This one will go to Helotes tomorrow as I celebrate Christmas with my family there. This one is even prettier than mine. Edward put dark mulch over the moss and then added some wood pieces. I just love it!
I also love this--a picture Elena drew for kindergarten. "I love my elf. She is beautiful!" (beyeudfo)
Nails, Apples and Ice Cubes
Three Things I've Learned this Winter:
1. Keep apples in the fridge! Who knew? When you end your days with a slice of apple and cheese, the cold will have kept the apples exactly right!
2. Don't use gel polish on your fingernails. I don't mean acrylic--I've never used that--but just the gel polish that they promise will "strengthen your nails" and stay on for two weeks. This is just anecdotal evidence, but it counts: It does neither. My nails, always very strong and fast-growing before, are now cracked and weak. Bummer!
3. I learned that certain succulents can be planted in bowls with no soil, just moss. I made an arrangement of air plants and one other whose name I've already forgotten in a pretty, low bowl I've had for a long time. There is no need for a drainage hole and you don't want to water them much, just spritz them once a week or so and/or put a few ice cubes in each week.
Saturday, December 16, 2017
Podcasts
My day began with this email from Carlene:
I have just listened to an hour-long On Being with Krista Tippett interviewing
Rebecca Solnit and thought when you have some time you might enjoy. It is a very recent podcast I think.
My sore throat and sInus continuation got me up at 2:00 to get out the neti pot and see if I could be successful with nasal washes and gargling salt water to finish off this mess.
Now after two times and passing time with podcasts, I am going to get on my regular routine Meds and drops, make a new pot of coffee and eat an orange and wait for daylight!
When we travel together, we love listening to podcasts. Here are some of my favorites:
Modern Love
On Being
The Moth
The Ted Radio Hour
Fresh Air
Dear Sugars
On Point
Invisibilia
Serial
On the Media
Radio Lab
Revisionist History
Snap Judgment
Story Corps
Unfictional
I have just listened to an hour-long On Being with Krista Tippett interviewing
Rebecca Solnit and thought when you have some time you might enjoy. It is a very recent podcast I think.
My sore throat and sInus continuation got me up at 2:00 to get out the neti pot and see if I could be successful with nasal washes and gargling salt water to finish off this mess.
Now after two times and passing time with podcasts, I am going to get on my regular routine Meds and drops, make a new pot of coffee and eat an orange and wait for daylight!
When we travel together, we love listening to podcasts. Here are some of my favorites:
Modern Love
On Being
The Moth
The Ted Radio Hour
Fresh Air
Dear Sugars
On Point
Invisibilia
Serial
On the Media
Radio Lab
Revisionist History
Snap Judgment
Story Corps
Unfictional
A rainy Saturday
I absolutely love rain, and we've had a good soak today!
Jan and I went to Linda Kaufman's 80th birthday party at the Saint Anthony Hotel today--a beautiful venue for celebrating a sweetheart human being, surrounded by so many friends and family, including her new great-granddaughter, Charlotte.
Then I drove around in the rain and went to nurseries looking for a certain plant--a succulent called a paddle plant. Turns out nobody had one for sale, but John at Big Grass gave me three sprigs of his.
While at Big Grass, I bought a garden gnome--a turquoise sculpture I'm naming Duang after the owner of the store. She called out to me and said, "You need me in your new yard to take away the ju-ju of the bad planters and celebrate the work being done to fix it all--by The Plantress." So she came home with me and will find a place in my yard to smile.
It's been a good day!
Jan and I went to Linda Kaufman's 80th birthday party at the Saint Anthony Hotel today--a beautiful venue for celebrating a sweetheart human being, surrounded by so many friends and family, including her new great-granddaughter, Charlotte.
I so enjoyed seeing Denise--former member
of a writing group.
Then I drove around in the rain and went to nurseries looking for a certain plant--a succulent called a paddle plant. Turns out nobody had one for sale, but John at Big Grass gave me three sprigs of his.
While at Big Grass, I bought a garden gnome--a turquoise sculpture I'm naming Duang after the owner of the store. She called out to me and said, "You need me in your new yard to take away the ju-ju of the bad planters and celebrate the work being done to fix it all--by The Plantress." So she came home with me and will find a place in my yard to smile.
It's been a good day!
Friday, December 15, 2017
For those of you who, like me, are not as perfectly joyous as you want to be leading up to the holidays, here are some quotes I found that speak to Christmas/political/break-up/dealing with shysters/sick pets/ and Just Plain blues:
“The best thing for being sad," replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn
something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn.”
― T.H. White, The Once and Future King
“If you know someone who’s depressed, please resolve never to ask them why. Depression isn’t a straightforward response to a bad situation; depression just is, like the weather.
Try to understand the blackness, lethargy, hopelessness, and loneliness they’re going through. Be there for them when they come through the other side. It’s hard to be a friend to someone who’s depressed, but it is one of the kindest, noblest, and best things you will ever do.”
― Stephen Fry
“The best thing for being sad," replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn
something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn.”
― T.H. White, The Once and Future King
“If you know someone who’s depressed, please resolve never to ask them why. Depression isn’t a straightforward response to a bad situation; depression just is, like the weather.
Try to understand the blackness, lethargy, hopelessness, and loneliness they’re going through. Be there for them when they come through the other side. It’s hard to be a friend to someone who’s depressed, but it is one of the kindest, noblest, and best things you will ever do.”
― Stephen Fry
Thursday, December 14, 2017
Good news of the week
1. Alabama--the reddest state in the country--chose a Democratic senator over an accused child molester~ Yay, Alabama!
2. After a harrowing experience with the guys who said they could do landscaping (and don't have a clue!) I found Linda Goodrich, the Plantress, on Next Door. She and her son and man-friend came over this morning and repaired the shoddy walkway and made it beautiful! She had already replanted all the plants they planted in SAND and edged the grass pallets they had thrown in with SOIL.
3. It's a beautiful day to rake leaves--so that's what I'm about to do, while cooking yoga stew in the crockpot.
4. Yesterday, Janet, Charlotte, Kate and I had a delicious lunch in Gerlinde's beautifully decorated house--a celebration of Kate's birthday! Her tree and lights were so festive that I almost considered coming home and putting up a tree--but decided to wait until next year, as this is the year for outside trees.
If anyone is looking for a really professional landscape team, Linda's number is 210 865 7110. Her son, Will, is also an arborist and he's going to dig up the roots of the old pittosporum and plants some new trees on that side of the yard, hiding the AC and other stuff.
2. After a harrowing experience with the guys who said they could do landscaping (and don't have a clue!) I found Linda Goodrich, the Plantress, on Next Door. She and her son and man-friend came over this morning and repaired the shoddy walkway and made it beautiful! She had already replanted all the plants they planted in SAND and edged the grass pallets they had thrown in with SOIL.
3. It's a beautiful day to rake leaves--so that's what I'm about to do, while cooking yoga stew in the crockpot.
4. Yesterday, Janet, Charlotte, Kate and I had a delicious lunch in Gerlinde's beautifully decorated house--a celebration of Kate's birthday! Her tree and lights were so festive that I almost considered coming home and putting up a tree--but decided to wait until next year, as this is the year for outside trees.
If anyone is looking for a really professional landscape team, Linda's number is 210 865 7110. Her son, Will, is also an arborist and he's going to dig up the roots of the old pittosporum and plants some new trees on that side of the yard, hiding the AC and other stuff.
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
Monday, December 11, 2017
Saturday's Writing Group
This week, both writing groups have done write-a-thons--a series of timed writings on topics they provided. Thanks to a long-time writing group member, the following timed writing expresses the oasis we all find in writing with friends.
From where I'm sitting now....
"Primary colors fill the room. There is something beautiful everywhere the eye lands. Folk art, antiques, spiritual objects, wood rough and smooth--they meld together in a comforting, inviting nest. But this is not only a pretty nest--No. It is a nest for the mind and spirit, as well. Many thoughtful and creative hours have been enjoyed in this room. It is an altar of creativity, a chapel of the heart and mind, a home for those who wish to write. The outside is brought in visually. The inside is brought out by choice. All is divine."
Thanks to Becky Kuenstler for this one!
From where I'm sitting now....
"Primary colors fill the room. There is something beautiful everywhere the eye lands. Folk art, antiques, spiritual objects, wood rough and smooth--they meld together in a comforting, inviting nest. But this is not only a pretty nest--No. It is a nest for the mind and spirit, as well. Many thoughtful and creative hours have been enjoyed in this room. It is an altar of creativity, a chapel of the heart and mind, a home for those who wish to write. The outside is brought in visually. The inside is brought out by choice. All is divine."
Thanks to Becky Kuenstler for this one!
Friday, December 8, 2017
Being Ladylike
Betty commented recently that her best-friend-since-kindergarten (naming no names) has taken to using colorful language at times--not like the words they used to use back when they were star twirlers and homecoming queens.
Back in the day, we were taught to be "ladylike" in our speech, decorous in all things, mannerly.
My sweet grandmother, for example, wouldn't even call the white meat of a chicken a breast or the dark meat legs--as that wouldn't have been ladylike. When she excused herself from the room, she never "went to the bathroom," she always went to "powder her nose."
We addressed adults with a mannerly "Sir" or "Mam." We appeared agreeable, even when we weren't. We showed respect.
Ladylike girls didn't talk about bodily functions. When adults did, the language was so veiled and proper that we'd walk away not quite knowing what they just said. On the day the school nurse came to tell us about "periods," one girl fainted right there on the spot.
Ladylike was the order of the day. We called our elders men and ladies. Some men called adult women "girls."
A lady didn't make waves; a woman--well, you never could tell what she might make. A lady was deferential and "nice." The word, woman, had a bit of a negative connotation, paired as it often was with words like "loose" or "fallen." .
But times change.
Feminists called our attention to labels. Maya Angelou, in her poem, "Phenomenal Woman," cast a whole new light on womanhood. Tammy Wynette was still singing "Stand By Your Man," but Nancy Sinatra was also singing "These Boots Were Made for Walking." We could stand by our men, if they were stand-by worthy, but we could also don boots and walk right out if they weren't. We learned to be angry, enraged by outrageous things, and independent.
While we were being ladies, many sleazy men were doing exactly what high profile men are now being called out for doing, but ladies didn't talk about it back then. It was too embarrassing to say that some bozo had actually said and done what that bozo actually said and did. Besides, we were conditioned to believe that if a man did or said those things, it was probably our fault. We were too friendly, we wore our skirts too short, we "let" them do it.
Being ladylike meant being silent, soft-spoken, and non-confrontational. But when a sea change happens, and when we've had enough of lies, betrayal, unwarranted wars, garbled nonsense, sexual harassment, bullying, insults, name-calling, men poking their noses into our business, threats that could start a nuclear war, and good-ole-boy politics, the proper womanlike response is power talk and actions that register genuine rage.
Back in the day, we were taught to be "ladylike" in our speech, decorous in all things, mannerly.
My sweet grandmother, for example, wouldn't even call the white meat of a chicken a breast or the dark meat legs--as that wouldn't have been ladylike. When she excused herself from the room, she never "went to the bathroom," she always went to "powder her nose."
We addressed adults with a mannerly "Sir" or "Mam." We appeared agreeable, even when we weren't. We showed respect.
Ladylike girls didn't talk about bodily functions. When adults did, the language was so veiled and proper that we'd walk away not quite knowing what they just said. On the day the school nurse came to tell us about "periods," one girl fainted right there on the spot.
Ladylike was the order of the day. We called our elders men and ladies. Some men called adult women "girls."
A lady didn't make waves; a woman--well, you never could tell what she might make. A lady was deferential and "nice." The word, woman, had a bit of a negative connotation, paired as it often was with words like "loose" or "fallen." .
But times change.
Feminists called our attention to labels. Maya Angelou, in her poem, "Phenomenal Woman," cast a whole new light on womanhood. Tammy Wynette was still singing "Stand By Your Man," but Nancy Sinatra was also singing "These Boots Were Made for Walking." We could stand by our men, if they were stand-by worthy, but we could also don boots and walk right out if they weren't. We learned to be angry, enraged by outrageous things, and independent.
While we were being ladies, many sleazy men were doing exactly what high profile men are now being called out for doing, but ladies didn't talk about it back then. It was too embarrassing to say that some bozo had actually said and done what that bozo actually said and did. Besides, we were conditioned to believe that if a man did or said those things, it was probably our fault. We were too friendly, we wore our skirts too short, we "let" them do it.
Being ladylike meant being silent, soft-spoken, and non-confrontational. But when a sea change happens, and when we've had enough of lies, betrayal, unwarranted wars, garbled nonsense, sexual harassment, bullying, insults, name-calling, men poking their noses into our business, threats that could start a nuclear war, and good-ole-boy politics, the proper womanlike response is power talk and actions that register genuine rage.
Thursday, December 7, 2017
S*N*O*W*C*I*T*Y*
Kate invited me over to be her guinea pig for a fish dish she's making for her writing group--and it was A plus delicious!
While we were laughing and cheering at Stephen Colbert and Trevor Noah and Ashley Judd's Nasty Woman rant, Kate got a text. "Come look at this picture, see if you can tell what it is," she said--squinching up her eyes to try to read a little tiny picture on her phone that looked to me like a blur with a knife stuck in the ground.
Then the photo got clearer. "Snow?" I said, "On somebody's car? Where?"
"In Bulverde!" she said. (Bulverde is only a half-hour from here.)
"No shit!" I replied.
Then Charlotte called, saying she was driving to Kerrville in a white out and had to turn back. "What's a white out?" I asked.
Then she got a text from somebody else: "Is it snowing at your house?"
First, we laughed, yeah right! then we went outside to look. Sure enough, snow was coming down in a silent steady sprinkle in her yard, in the neighbors' yards, and her grass and plants were already covered in white!
Folks, snow is not a word we hear much in Texas and haven't seen in our city in years!
Driving home, listening to saxophone music, seeing people standing under street lights taking pictures with their iPhones--was magical.
While we were laughing and cheering at Stephen Colbert and Trevor Noah and Ashley Judd's Nasty Woman rant, Kate got a text. "Come look at this picture, see if you can tell what it is," she said--squinching up her eyes to try to read a little tiny picture on her phone that looked to me like a blur with a knife stuck in the ground.
Then the photo got clearer. "Snow?" I said, "On somebody's car? Where?"
"In Bulverde!" she said. (Bulverde is only a half-hour from here.)
"No shit!" I replied.
Then Charlotte called, saying she was driving to Kerrville in a white out and had to turn back. "What's a white out?" I asked.
Then she got a text from somebody else: "Is it snowing at your house?"
First, we laughed, yeah right! then we went outside to look. Sure enough, snow was coming down in a silent steady sprinkle in her yard, in the neighbors' yards, and her grass and plants were already covered in white!
Folks, snow is not a word we hear much in Texas and haven't seen in our city in years!
Driving home, listening to saxophone music, seeing people standing under street lights taking pictures with their iPhones--was magical.
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| Kate snapping snow |
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| This is the first time (in twenty years) I've seen my house in snow! |
Wednesday, December 6, 2017
"On Keeping A Notebook"--Joan Didion
You can probably find this essay online, or you can buy the Kindle version of the book, Slouching Toward Bethlehem, for about two dollars at Amazon. This is an essay worth reading for all who write.
My notebook these four years has been this blog. It's presumptuous of me to think that anyone would want to see my family pictures, read by movie and book reviews and political rants, but I know a few of you do and I appreciate it! This, however, is not the kind of "notebook" Didion keeps--a notebook for herself only, with snippets of overheard conversations and details that only she would understand and that could be fodder for more shapely writing. She writes to remember, to discover what she thinks and feels:
"I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind's door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who's deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends....
"We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forgot who we were...."
Having had a stomach bug, I've isolated myself from people these several days so as not to spread the joy. When I look up from a book, I feel lonesome. Today I have several choices narrowed down to two--either stay near bed and read some more or get out of the house into the rainy streets and do something out in the world.
I love rain! It's my favorite weather.
My notebook these four years has been this blog. It's presumptuous of me to think that anyone would want to see my family pictures, read by movie and book reviews and political rants, but I know a few of you do and I appreciate it! This, however, is not the kind of "notebook" Didion keeps--a notebook for herself only, with snippets of overheard conversations and details that only she would understand and that could be fodder for more shapely writing. She writes to remember, to discover what she thinks and feels:
"I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind's door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who's deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends....
"We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forgot who we were...."
Having had a stomach bug, I've isolated myself from people these several days so as not to spread the joy. When I look up from a book, I feel lonesome. Today I have several choices narrowed down to two--either stay near bed and read some more or get out of the house into the rainy streets and do something out in the world.
I love rain! It's my favorite weather.
Richard Flanagan
I woke up at midnight, thinking it was morning, and couldn't go back to sleep.
To borrow a phrase from Joan Didion, "what it feels like to be me" includes middles of nights like these: waking up, turning a phrase or a worry or an idea over and over, then getting up and driving to get a drink from my favorite window man who always gives me the large size free (along with a handhold and the word "sweetheart"), listening to NPR.
This trip I struck gold in an interview on BBC with Richard Flanagan on the World Book Club: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p003jhsk/episodes/guide
When I hear a writer speak so eloquently about his book, the feeling I get is almost identical to falling in love. Oh wow! I think to myself as I hear the way he puts words together, the way he pauses to reflect, the way he delivers revelations!
In this case, Flanagan talks about his book, Narrow Road to the Deep North, then answers questions from callers. When asked why he didn't portray the Japanese (who tortured men like his own father) as monsters, he talks about how long before the first bomb is dropped in any war, the lead up to that action has long been set in motion by the idea that certain people are less than human, or regarded as inferior. His "job" as a novelist is not to create victims and villains but to reflect the larger picture.
When I hear truth spoken so eloquently--that's when I fall into loving! I never have to meet the object of my affections in person, but I also never forget the encounter, just the two of us, me driving down Austin Highway, he in Britain. I'll never be the same; I'm changed by the brief affair of the the mind.
While I felt vaguely lonely when I stumbled onto this particular voice now I feel connected, enlivened by the promise of knowing more of his vibrant mind and ways of seeing the world.
And to think--there's an archive of hour-long talks about great books and I'm only just now discovering them!
Flanagan is an Australian writer from Tasmania, born in 1961.
To borrow a phrase from Joan Didion, "what it feels like to be me" includes middles of nights like these: waking up, turning a phrase or a worry or an idea over and over, then getting up and driving to get a drink from my favorite window man who always gives me the large size free (along with a handhold and the word "sweetheart"), listening to NPR.
This trip I struck gold in an interview on BBC with Richard Flanagan on the World Book Club: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p003jhsk/episodes/guide
When I hear a writer speak so eloquently about his book, the feeling I get is almost identical to falling in love. Oh wow! I think to myself as I hear the way he puts words together, the way he pauses to reflect, the way he delivers revelations!
In this case, Flanagan talks about his book, Narrow Road to the Deep North, then answers questions from callers. When asked why he didn't portray the Japanese (who tortured men like his own father) as monsters, he talks about how long before the first bomb is dropped in any war, the lead up to that action has long been set in motion by the idea that certain people are less than human, or regarded as inferior. His "job" as a novelist is not to create victims and villains but to reflect the larger picture.
When I hear truth spoken so eloquently--that's when I fall into loving! I never have to meet the object of my affections in person, but I also never forget the encounter, just the two of us, me driving down Austin Highway, he in Britain. I'll never be the same; I'm changed by the brief affair of the the mind.
While I felt vaguely lonely when I stumbled onto this particular voice now I feel connected, enlivened by the promise of knowing more of his vibrant mind and ways of seeing the world.
And to think--there's an archive of hour-long talks about great books and I'm only just now discovering them!
Flanagan is an Australian writer from Tasmania, born in 1961.
Tuesday, December 5, 2017
Joan Didion, Writer
Joan Didion was a glamorous woman in her youth, often photographed wearing dark glasses. Even then, though, she describes herself as painfully shy about making phone calls and her speech is so haltering at times that she wonders if she'd had "a small stroke." (I wondered that myself as I listened to her being interviewed on the documentary.)
She was married to John Dunne, a writer in his own right, and they adopted a daughter. She and John were companionable as writers, editing each other's writing and so close that a friend said they "finished each other's sentences."
In the documentary about her life, her discomfort in conversation is obvious, her gestures oversized and awkward. At times, her face looks almost terrified at the prospect of responding to a question with a sentence. But on the page--she is surefooted. Her sentences are often marvels of writing.
Last night, I downloaded a couple of her older books. Her persona on the page is never bashful.
Writing like hers doesn't come easy--drafts and drafts and drafts, she tells us, until she's said exactly what she intended to say, and even better: what she never anticipated saying until the writing led her to say it.
I tried to read her books when I was young. I wasn't smart enough, curious enough, or patient enough to read them. I had such limited knowledge of the world and was not curious about some of her subjects. She was reporting on a time I was alive but not paying attention--or ready to.
I'm still not interested in some of her subjects and I skim through the essays on, say, Howard Hughes and John Wayne. But I perk up when she tells real stories (like the one about the woman who was having an affair with a lawyer and murdered her husband in San Bernardino) with the effectiveness of good fiction, or when she reveals something that seems to have just occurred to her in the writing.
"In some ways it was the conventional clandestine affair in a place like San Bernardino, a place where little is bright or graceful, where it is routine to misplace the future and easy to start looking for it in bed."
"The Mormons settled this ominous country, and then they abandoned it, but by the time they left the first orange tree had been planted and for the next hundred years the San Bernardino Valley would draw a kind of people who imagined they might live among the talismanic fruit and prosper in the dry air, people who brought with them their Midwestern ways of building and cooking and praying and who tried to graft those ways upon the land. The graft took in curious ways. This is the California where it is possible to live and die without ever eating an artichoke, without ever meeting a Catholic or Jew. This is the California where it is easy to Dial-A-Devotion, but hard to buy a book."
Lesser writers chew on pencils and hover over keyboards waiting for something to come to us, sure that we'll write the book or play or poem when we have time, when the idea lands, when we're not so worried about if or how it will be received.
Didion's persona reflects her being always a writer, always looking, always reporting, always asking questions, always open to discoveries that land while she's writing.
She was married to John Dunne, a writer in his own right, and they adopted a daughter. She and John were companionable as writers, editing each other's writing and so close that a friend said they "finished each other's sentences."
In the documentary about her life, her discomfort in conversation is obvious, her gestures oversized and awkward. At times, her face looks almost terrified at the prospect of responding to a question with a sentence. But on the page--she is surefooted. Her sentences are often marvels of writing.
Last night, I downloaded a couple of her older books. Her persona on the page is never bashful.
Writing like hers doesn't come easy--drafts and drafts and drafts, she tells us, until she's said exactly what she intended to say, and even better: what she never anticipated saying until the writing led her to say it.
I tried to read her books when I was young. I wasn't smart enough, curious enough, or patient enough to read them. I had such limited knowledge of the world and was not curious about some of her subjects. She was reporting on a time I was alive but not paying attention--or ready to.
I'm still not interested in some of her subjects and I skim through the essays on, say, Howard Hughes and John Wayne. But I perk up when she tells real stories (like the one about the woman who was having an affair with a lawyer and murdered her husband in San Bernardino) with the effectiveness of good fiction, or when she reveals something that seems to have just occurred to her in the writing.
"In some ways it was the conventional clandestine affair in a place like San Bernardino, a place where little is bright or graceful, where it is routine to misplace the future and easy to start looking for it in bed."
"The Mormons settled this ominous country, and then they abandoned it, but by the time they left the first orange tree had been planted and for the next hundred years the San Bernardino Valley would draw a kind of people who imagined they might live among the talismanic fruit and prosper in the dry air, people who brought with them their Midwestern ways of building and cooking and praying and who tried to graft those ways upon the land. The graft took in curious ways. This is the California where it is possible to live and die without ever eating an artichoke, without ever meeting a Catholic or Jew. This is the California where it is easy to Dial-A-Devotion, but hard to buy a book."
Lesser writers chew on pencils and hover over keyboards waiting for something to come to us, sure that we'll write the book or play or poem when we have time, when the idea lands, when we're not so worried about if or how it will be received.
Didion's persona reflects her being always a writer, always looking, always reporting, always asking questions, always open to discoveries that land while she's writing.
Mystery solved
Like probably all of you, I've been pondering the mystery of this cockamamy tax cut for the wealthy and tax increases for the rest of us.
When we have homeless people sleeping under bridges and in tents, when we have sick kids and pregnant women who can't afford medical care, when we have massive violence and gun crimes, we're giving "huge Christmas presents" to Trump, Trump kids, and those in their financial bracket? We're giving tax breaks to manufacturers of booze, owners of vineyards, private jets and golf clubs?
This country is losing its soul! Most Republicans, even though their constituents are begging them to kill this cruel bill--well, they do have to pass something after all--anything will do!
While they're busy stripping rights from the poor to add to the "Christmas present" for the rich, they're grabbing acres of natural wild lands. Who needs national monuments if those pristine lands can be sold to the highest bidder or mined for "beautiful coal"?
Theodore Roosevelt and others are turning over in their graves, men and women who have protected national wild land for decades.
As for the question of tax cuts for the wealthy and tax increases for the rest of us? The mystery has been solved!
The rest of us, according to a congressman in Iowa named Grassley, are "not investing" according to the standards of the wealthy, but are busy "spending every darn penny on women, booze, and movies."
So that's it! We don't matter, we masses of layabouts!
I know a lot of these layabouts--not the desperately poor but the middle class. I am one of them. Though I don't drink booze, I admit I do spend $8 a month on Netflix and occasionally shell out about the same amount for a movie at the theater, plus popcorn. And sometimes I treat a friend to lunch or buy a birthday present for her--do those count as spending money on women?
When we have homeless people sleeping under bridges and in tents, when we have sick kids and pregnant women who can't afford medical care, when we have massive violence and gun crimes, we're giving "huge Christmas presents" to Trump, Trump kids, and those in their financial bracket? We're giving tax breaks to manufacturers of booze, owners of vineyards, private jets and golf clubs?
This country is losing its soul! Most Republicans, even though their constituents are begging them to kill this cruel bill--well, they do have to pass something after all--anything will do!
While they're busy stripping rights from the poor to add to the "Christmas present" for the rich, they're grabbing acres of natural wild lands. Who needs national monuments if those pristine lands can be sold to the highest bidder or mined for "beautiful coal"?
Theodore Roosevelt and others are turning over in their graves, men and women who have protected national wild land for decades.
As for the question of tax cuts for the wealthy and tax increases for the rest of us? The mystery has been solved!
The rest of us, according to a congressman in Iowa named Grassley, are "not investing" according to the standards of the wealthy, but are busy "spending every darn penny on women, booze, and movies."
So that's it! We don't matter, we masses of layabouts!
I know a lot of these layabouts--not the desperately poor but the middle class. I am one of them. Though I don't drink booze, I admit I do spend $8 a month on Netflix and occasionally shell out about the same amount for a movie at the theater, plus popcorn. And sometimes I treat a friend to lunch or buy a birthday present for her--do those count as spending money on women?
Monday, December 4, 2017
The Center Will Not Hold (Netflix)
"Remember what it is to be me. That is always the point."
Joan Didion
If you're like me and haven't read enough of Joan Didion's work, the documentary about her life and writing will make you want to read more. At 75 pounds and 82 years old, she looks like she may not be around much longer. But one beauty of writing is that it survives the writer. It's not too late to read the words of one of the strongest writers of her generation--as Obama said when he recognized her achievement in a ceremony to honor her.
Joan Didion wrote essays about the times we all remember--when Haight-Ashbury and Hippiedom were the focus of the world, when drugs, suicides and murders became front page news, when families and dreams were crumbling all around us. She interviewed one of the Manson women, she knew Janis Joplin, she saw a 5-year-old child on acid.
She wrote about Cheney and baseball, politics and loss. She hosted huge parties and knew many luminaries in the world of art and music and theater.
She wrote two compelling books and a play about grief after her husband and daughter died within two years of each other. One is called Blue Nights, the other The Year of Magical Thinking.
Joan Didion
If you're like me and haven't read enough of Joan Didion's work, the documentary about her life and writing will make you want to read more. At 75 pounds and 82 years old, she looks like she may not be around much longer. But one beauty of writing is that it survives the writer. It's not too late to read the words of one of the strongest writers of her generation--as Obama said when he recognized her achievement in a ceremony to honor her.
Joan Didion wrote essays about the times we all remember--when Haight-Ashbury and Hippiedom were the focus of the world, when drugs, suicides and murders became front page news, when families and dreams were crumbling all around us. She interviewed one of the Manson women, she knew Janis Joplin, she saw a 5-year-old child on acid.
She wrote about Cheney and baseball, politics and loss. She hosted huge parties and knew many luminaries in the world of art and music and theater.
She wrote two compelling books and a play about grief after her husband and daughter died within two years of each other. One is called Blue Nights, the other The Year of Magical Thinking.
Sunday, December 3, 2017
From the Land of the Moon
Reading literature and watching good films takes you into the lives of people so unlike yourself, who so often turn out to mirror of some hidden part of yourself or people you know.
While "The Land of the Moon" (new on Netflix) doesn't get high ratings from all viewers, I think it's brilliant! I will watch it again and read the novel on which it's based. It is visually beautiful and profoundly provocative. I'll be thinking about it for a long time.
The main character, Gabrielle, has perhaps some unnamed mental illness. Her emotions are mostly muted, at times exaggerated or bizarre, if you take our usual conditioned behaviors as normal.
What if we only smiled if we truly felt like it?
Can you imagine telling your future groom, "I'm never going to love you."
Or saying, "This week I'm going to stay in bed and don't want to be disturbed"?
Gabrielle is either slightly "off" or more "on" than most of us know how to be--authentically herself, even when it shocks our sensibilities to witness it.
The online description of the film describes her marriage to Jose as "loveless." While it appears so, the evolution of the relationship between Jose (from Spain) and the French Gabrielle is surprising in ways I won't give away.
After a piano performance of her son, Gabrielle's mother says to Jose: "I don't find Gabrielle very affectionate with the boy."
Jose's response, as he slowly pours a glass of wine, is measured, without judgment: "Perhaps, she was never taught any different."
While "The Land of the Moon" (new on Netflix) doesn't get high ratings from all viewers, I think it's brilliant! I will watch it again and read the novel on which it's based. It is visually beautiful and profoundly provocative. I'll be thinking about it for a long time.
The main character, Gabrielle, has perhaps some unnamed mental illness. Her emotions are mostly muted, at times exaggerated or bizarre, if you take our usual conditioned behaviors as normal.
What if we only smiled if we truly felt like it?
Can you imagine telling your future groom, "I'm never going to love you."
Or saying, "This week I'm going to stay in bed and don't want to be disturbed"?
Gabrielle is either slightly "off" or more "on" than most of us know how to be--authentically herself, even when it shocks our sensibilities to witness it.
The online description of the film describes her marriage to Jose as "loveless." While it appears so, the evolution of the relationship between Jose (from Spain) and the French Gabrielle is surprising in ways I won't give away.
After a piano performance of her son, Gabrielle's mother says to Jose: "I don't find Gabrielle very affectionate with the boy."
Jose's response, as he slowly pours a glass of wine, is measured, without judgment: "Perhaps, she was never taught any different."
Regular Coke or Diet Coke?
For years, people (a few friends, one doctor, and many strangers) have been telling me that Diet Coke is poison. So imagine my surprise (and vindication) this morning when Dr. Aaron Carroll, a professor of pediatrics at Indiana University and a contributor to The New York Times, refuted that claim:
https://www.177milkstreet.com/radio
Sugar, he said, is more dangerous than Aspartame and other artificial sweeteners, as it leads to obesity and other health hazards.
According to Dr. Carroll, all the hoopla about artificial sweeteners is bogus. As with all "facts" out there, we need to check the source, the size of the study, and the duration of the study. If a study involves only small animals like mice, and not very many of them, and the duration of the study is a week or two, the findings for humans are not reliable.
From my own random studies (i.e. experimenting for myself ON myself), I would say that the major downfall of all sodas could be that drinking too many of them replaces better liquids, like water.
Someone gave me a delicious glass of fruit-infused water this week. Here's her recipe:
Put slices of blood oranges, slices of lemon and whole strawberries in water. Let it sit for a few hours in the refrigerator and drink it chilled. After you've drunk the whole gallon, just pour water over it for a second infusion. (Don't squeeze the citrus in, just let them release their juices naturally.)
You can also look up other recipes online for infused water.
https://www.177milkstreet.com/radio
Sugar, he said, is more dangerous than Aspartame and other artificial sweeteners, as it leads to obesity and other health hazards.
According to Dr. Carroll, all the hoopla about artificial sweeteners is bogus. As with all "facts" out there, we need to check the source, the size of the study, and the duration of the study. If a study involves only small animals like mice, and not very many of them, and the duration of the study is a week or two, the findings for humans are not reliable.
From my own random studies (i.e. experimenting for myself ON myself), I would say that the major downfall of all sodas could be that drinking too many of them replaces better liquids, like water.
Someone gave me a delicious glass of fruit-infused water this week. Here's her recipe:
Put slices of blood oranges, slices of lemon and whole strawberries in water. Let it sit for a few hours in the refrigerator and drink it chilled. After you've drunk the whole gallon, just pour water over it for a second infusion. (Don't squeeze the citrus in, just let them release their juices naturally.)
You can also look up other recipes online for infused water.
The Emperor and his Brand of Clothes
In "The Emperor's New Clothes," the emperor strides through the streets naked. He'd been duped by his tailors--you know the story--and his subjects are wary of letting him know the truth for fear of reprisals. Finally, a little kid--I can just see him giggling--shouts out, "The emperor has no clothes on!" and probably all the stuffy adults try to look surprised.
Late night comics and satirists, like Trevor Noah and John Oliver, mix news and commentary to announce that POTUS is naked. The news sources I read and watch are doing the same. Fox News, I hear, is not.
Under the orange hair is no truth-o-meter: Yes, I said that thing about groping women, and I'm sorry. No I didn't say it; It's fake news. Obama wasn't born here. My rich friends and I won't benefit from this tax plan. I have a great memory, the greatest memory. I don't remember that meeting at all. I have so many words, the best words.
If our kids at 10 or 11 behaved and spoke like Trump, we'd be seriously worried about their intelligence, their limited vocabulary, and their mental health. But when I hear kids of those ages mocking him, it gives me hope: they know that this king is seriously stark raving naked, not a dud of honest garb in his closet.
Now that Flynn has been convicted of lying to the FBI, other dominoes will surely fall, or the other shoes will drop--whichever analogy you prefer. (Maybe the gray clouds we now see will soon release so many high-dollar shoes that we'll think it's raining shoes!)
While it's unlikely that many who voted for the tax cuts for the rich have even read the bill, what those who have read it tell us is seriously scary:
In the House version of the bill, churches are being granted freedom to endorse political candidates AND fetuses are being granted the status of personhood. In other words, the line separating church and state is being erased AND all these self-righteous white men get to dictate what women do with their own reproductive rights!
Those who hold up their little pro-life flags are not likely all that concerned with fetuses, but they know that it's a bright shiny topic that will get them votes in some circles. If they were concerned with life, not just birth, would they work so hard to kill health care for pregnant women and children?
We live in dangerous times--when truth is slippery, when the wealthiest are rewarded for being rich and the poor and middle class punished for not being so, when a president can tweet lies and threats and insults every single day, and when that same guy--having misbehaved exactly like the sexual predators who are now being named and fired--can keep his chair in the oval office with impunity.
Flannery O'Connor, the Georgia writer whose stories featured grotesque characters, would have had a field day this year! When asked why she so often exaggerated human weirdness, she said, "For the almost-blind you draw large and startling figures; To the hard of hearing you shout."
Maybe Flannery sent us Trump and his guys, with all the large and startling screaming and exaggerated lying to wake us all up?
Late night comics and satirists, like Trevor Noah and John Oliver, mix news and commentary to announce that POTUS is naked. The news sources I read and watch are doing the same. Fox News, I hear, is not.
Under the orange hair is no truth-o-meter: Yes, I said that thing about groping women, and I'm sorry. No I didn't say it; It's fake news. Obama wasn't born here. My rich friends and I won't benefit from this tax plan. I have a great memory, the greatest memory. I don't remember that meeting at all. I have so many words, the best words.
If our kids at 10 or 11 behaved and spoke like Trump, we'd be seriously worried about their intelligence, their limited vocabulary, and their mental health. But when I hear kids of those ages mocking him, it gives me hope: they know that this king is seriously stark raving naked, not a dud of honest garb in his closet.
Now that Flynn has been convicted of lying to the FBI, other dominoes will surely fall, or the other shoes will drop--whichever analogy you prefer. (Maybe the gray clouds we now see will soon release so many high-dollar shoes that we'll think it's raining shoes!)
While it's unlikely that many who voted for the tax cuts for the rich have even read the bill, what those who have read it tell us is seriously scary:
In the House version of the bill, churches are being granted freedom to endorse political candidates AND fetuses are being granted the status of personhood. In other words, the line separating church and state is being erased AND all these self-righteous white men get to dictate what women do with their own reproductive rights!
Those who hold up their little pro-life flags are not likely all that concerned with fetuses, but they know that it's a bright shiny topic that will get them votes in some circles. If they were concerned with life, not just birth, would they work so hard to kill health care for pregnant women and children?
We live in dangerous times--when truth is slippery, when the wealthiest are rewarded for being rich and the poor and middle class punished for not being so, when a president can tweet lies and threats and insults every single day, and when that same guy--having misbehaved exactly like the sexual predators who are now being named and fired--can keep his chair in the oval office with impunity.
Flannery O'Connor, the Georgia writer whose stories featured grotesque characters, would have had a field day this year! When asked why she so often exaggerated human weirdness, she said, "For the almost-blind you draw large and startling figures; To the hard of hearing you shout."
Maybe Flannery sent us Trump and his guys, with all the large and startling screaming and exaggerated lying to wake us all up?
Wednesday, November 29, 2017
Hiring for Dummies, Part 2
Thanks to Next Door, I found a wonderfully competent landscaper, a grandmother who--with her fiancé--runs rings around the crew of young men who have been putzing about for weeks. In about an hour, she fixed all the former mistakes, patched the seams in the new grass, knew the names and preferences of the plants, and replaced the sand with soil.
If only a similar replacement could take place in the worst hire in history before we get used to incompetence on a massive level. Lying is not new in administrations--but we've never seen anything on this scale. Most of his statements are patently false or vague/inarticulate enough to be virtually indecipherable. Now that so many public figures are being caught with their pants down, coming out of the woodwork like roaches, he's decided that his own recorded groping comments are probably fake news!
What's he going to do about North Korea's missile launches? Not to worry--he's "going to take care of it." (whatever that means). And tax reform that benefits the wealthiest people and corporations and leaves middle class floundering? Well, he has to pass something--anything! The man can't even participate in a ceremony to honor Native Americans without finding a way to disparage both Elizabeth Warren and Native Americans by calling her Pocahontas!
If only a similar replacement could take place in the worst hire in history before we get used to incompetence on a massive level. Lying is not new in administrations--but we've never seen anything on this scale. Most of his statements are patently false or vague/inarticulate enough to be virtually indecipherable. Now that so many public figures are being caught with their pants down, coming out of the woodwork like roaches, he's decided that his own recorded groping comments are probably fake news!
What's he going to do about North Korea's missile launches? Not to worry--he's "going to take care of it." (whatever that means). And tax reform that benefits the wealthiest people and corporations and leaves middle class floundering? Well, he has to pass something--anything! The man can't even participate in a ceremony to honor Native Americans without finding a way to disparage both Elizabeth Warren and Native Americans by calling her Pocahontas!
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