Field Notes from the Tipsy Gypsy

Rumble rumble

2010-12-11T14:07:00.000-08:00

One little eyelid opens, and the blogging monster in me rouses from a deep sleep.

Greetings, nonexistent readers. Since last I threw my words into the realm of the virtual press, many things have taken place. I now live in _____, where I am a copy editor at a place I shall not name. I enjoy sitting behind a desk much more than standing behind a counter. I especially enjoy working with words--something I was destined to do since I was a child of five or six in the backseat of the car, gazing up and out the window at the signs that rolled by, reading them aloud and sometimes correcting them to the amusement or annoyance (I'm not sure) of my parents. That said, gentle nonexistent reader, I am at liberty to make errors here in my personal blog, because I said so, because I correct copy all day, and because it's my blog.

Besides being in ____, right at this very moment I'm sitting at a window-length bar in a coffee shop, watching people walk by huddling in coats or, occasionally, under umbrellas. (Those of us who are not proud embrace the use of the umbrella, even in the Pacific Northwest. I have a collection.)My feet are cold, because I was lazy today and wore my tweed-like loafers and little cotton socks. I did so not knowing that my car battery would die when I parked it on Main outside of Valley Vision and for a moment left my lights on. I was debating whether or not I wanted to walk down to the coffee shop of my choice, being in a foul mood and hating the rain. I was in a foul mood because as I had been driving down Poplar, two cars within one block pulled out directly in front of me like suicidal idiots. Two in one block. That's enough to make a normally sane person angry, because it starts to feel personal. Is my car invisible? the person wonders, and then the person realizes, No, my car is just a piece of shit, so they don't care. Then the person begins to daydream about the day when she'll get a truck and people will think twice about pulling out twenty feet in front of her vehicle. Then the person decides a truck isn't enough, and she'd rather have a Hummer--nay, a Humvee--and though she is opposed to the ridiculousness of such monstrous hunks of gas-guzzling aggression, she decides that such an investment is excusable and perhaps necessary in ____(how many times did I foolishly post my town?), where the streets are crawling with upper-middle-class drivers of SUVs who feel that the cell-phone laws do not apply to them and very, very old drivers who can't bend their necks far enough to look both ways.

So, after driving in circles looking for parking, and several times refusing to hold up traffic to wait for cars to back out of spots and then getting a little frustrated at the unfairness of the world in general when cars behind me did, I finally parked two blocks away at a lucky opening and sat for a minute, considering my fowl mood and the wisdom of inserting myself into a public place. Then when I decided to drive away, and my car didn't agree, my mood flared for a second, and then just...dropped away. So my car has died. I'll have to ask somebody to help. I am hesitant to ask people I know, and terrified of asking strangers, so I'll walk to the coffee shop with my computer, have a forbidden latte, and think about it. And so here I am.

The latte--a sugar free, nonfat hazelnut double-shot--is forbidden because I'm on day 4 of Medifast. I'm proud of myself that the extent of my cheating is having 12 oz. of nonfat milk, which, I'm well aware, does have 12 ounces of sugar--lactose--but overall is much better than the big bucket of soft, crinkle-cut french fries I was craving this morning.

I measured myself this morning and learned with some muted horror that it's possible to be in possession of a right thigh that's the same circumference as my waist was in high school. Once I wrote down my measurements, my desire for a bucket of fries magically disappeared.

I have moved beyond all the steps of grieving that are the ongoing behaviors of the obese: denial, avoidance, self-hatred, obsession, anger at the unfairness of it all, and denial and avoidance combined. I've moved into the only outlook that will do me any good: responsibility. It doesn't matter if I'm fat or thin, I've always had an eating problem (whether it's gorging, or starving myself, or throwing up, or just being lazy and eating fast food for my lunches) and I've always had a hard time not gaining weight. So I just have to accept that I'll always have to be responsible about my eating. It's not a question of whether or not to start a diet now or later, or thinking that I'll be able to accomplish this Herculean feat of a diet and then not have to worry about it. I have to change, period. And ultimately, it's a big deal but at the same time it isn't. All I have to do is eat correctly. Sometimes, to quote the notepad hanging on my stepmom's fridge, you just have to put on your big girl panties and deal with it.

I'm getting some help, though, in Medifast. And please, gentle nonexistent reader, don't think this is an infomercial for the product or the program. Any low-calorie diet is going to work if followed properly. Herbalife is a good option too. But it so happens that several things about it are especially helpful for me and my lifestyle: the first is that I have friends on it. My health coach started out at my size and is now much, much smaller, and perfectly healthy. That in itself is helpful on many levels: she's direct, visual proof that the plan works; she understands; I don't feel like a freak. The second reason the plan will work is that it's meal replacement, and with my choices taken away from me I don't have to worry about it. I can just eat when I'm supposed to, what I'm supposed to while my body learns how to exist without obscene amounts of simple carbs and fats constantly being poured into my system. And I'm busy, so it's nice to have my meals prepared. The only hesitation I had--that still bothers me a little--is that I have the mysterious disease IBS, which has no known symptoms and wreaks all kind of bullshit havoc on my life. Day 3, Friday (yesterday), I was inexplicably weak and nauseated, with those weird little body chills like my nerves are made of feathers in the wind, and I had to go home. Was it the change in diet? Was it just one of my fluke episodes, which come and go with no known cause? Do those happen because of my IBS? Because of my anxiety? I don't know, but today I feel better, so all systems go.

One possibility is that I'm reacting to the magnesium. I got hives from Doan's back-pain medicine a while ago (I know, what a winner--I'm weak like Meg in Little Women), and the doc said I was probably allergic to the magnesium in it. Who knows? I've wondered before if peanuts bother me. I've wondered lots of things--it's hard to pinpoint what's bothering a complex system like a human body. So my next steps are to A) continue on the plan but avoid eating peanut butter as my snack (which I did the other day) and B) go to an applied kinesiologist and see if I can find out and fix the problem (you can get energy therapy to overcome mild allergies, especially if the allergies come from deficiencies). Did I mention I am a believer in quackery? I have as much faith in a competent kinesiologist or chiropracter as I do in a doctor. They each have a job to do, and they look at that complex machine in different ways.

So this complex machine of fingers and cold toes and walleyes and thick hair (pulled back in a bun) and boobs and larger-than-life thighs and miraculous muscles and heart and lungs--is going to sign off now. Stay tuned, gentle nonexistent reader, for updates on all the super exciting deeds of my life.

And there were Chacos.

2009-12-12T13:20:00.000-08:00

I kind of dropped this blog like an unwanted stepchild after I got back from Europe. That's because life has been such an adventure. I was staying in the country, then I was homeless and staying in Montana, then school started and I began the craziest quarter yet. Well! I'm done with fall quarter--at least the scholastic end of it (though I still have papers to grade, and a lot of them) so time to update.

I'm living in a newer house with two charming cats. Their names are Minnie and Baby. Terrible names, but I didn't name them, and I'm sort of house-sitting (though the landlords are here often). Baby is a gorgeous, fluffy idiot. Minnie is like a school marm. She's old, has a dainty little face and a lot of extra, ahem, baggage elsewhere, and is fitted with a jingly collar so that we can keep track of her and her mischief. She prefers to think that she's keeping track of us. She follows people from room to room and keeps an eye on things

My favorite part about this house (besides the cats) is the lovely dining room. I can sit at the table and work with a view of the backyard and the creek out the sliding glass doors. My least favorite part about this house I've already mentioned, but I won't go into that.

I lost a lot of weight in Europe. The reasons are numerous and not all of them are easily duplicated. For one, I was excited to get up early in the morning and I fell asleep early (between 9 and midnight) every night. I also walked everywhere, all day, up and down stairs, all over London, Paris, Rome, Sorrento, and lots of little medieval towns. Transportation is fantastic in larger European cities but it's underground; to really get a feel for the city, one should walk. And I did.

Autun, France

Eating out in Europe also helped me lose weight. This seems counter-intuitive, but that's because of the American idea of eating out. Most of the food that I ordered in Europe was rich and delicious--and not served in gargantuan American portions. In France especially, you're expected to sit and relax, to enjoy your food, the atmosphere, and yes, the digestion process. Also, I was poor. So I ate out a lot (being on the road) but I also skipped meals. In Italy I often ate (gasp) gelato for lunch, and with my food/energy levels being so direct, I could tell the difference between a gelato with protein (the creamy, "fattening" kind) and a gelato without (the much higher glucose-rating kind), and I can tell you that the fattening kind is much more nutritious.

Eating out in Vezelay, France with the crew

Starting in London at the beginning of my trip, I cut out almost all coffee, for various reasons, and picked up the habit of buying a half-carton of orange juice (about 2 quarts) and drinking it all morning. Sometimes I bought a big "Go-Gurt" instead; sometimes I bought both. And I carried my metal water bottle everywhere, which saved me a lot of money (except for one unfortunate incident in Cluny, when I thought I was ordering tap water and ended up with a large, expensive bottle of Evian:)

I filled my water bottle in hotel and hostel bathrooms, in the free breakfast rooms with juice, and in the ancient fountains of Rome and Pompeii. Water is so delicious when it's 100 degrees out and you're exploring ancient ruins.

Getting water from a very old fountain outside the Borghese Gallery, Rome

The biggest deal is that I discovered what's been bothering me (in addition to caffeine): wheat. For some reason I can eat flat breads, like pizza, with no problems. But the wheat powder in soups and cream sauces, fluffy wheat breads and rolls, and sweets all send me somewhere not fun. And the more I cut the better I feel: clean, energetic, awake.

So, yes. A lot of that is easy to duplicate, but somehow being in school is just so stressful that a person succumbs to eating fast food, sleeping in, staying up until 2 or 3 in the morning, inhaling piles of comfort food (bowls of failure), chai tea lattes, et cetera ad nauseum. Literally. So now I feel all bloaty and gross, and my clothes are tight again. =( Solution: with papers done and just grading left, I'm undertaking a fruit and vegetable fast. I'll let you all know how that goes.Update: it didn't.

There are lots of steps to climb in Europe. I do mean a lot.

Predicament

2009-09-04T21:07:00.000-07:00

Is it the heat? Lately I've been feeling like anything that I can't touch is just distraction or pretentiousness. It makes it hard to write poetry.

Third one today

2009-08-21T22:54:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I have the writer's brand of existential angst. See Brautigan, Kerouac, Plath, Poe, Baudelaire, et al. I won't take it that far though, nor do I compare myself to any of them.

Speaking of which, I saw a thing about how Heather Mills (Paul McCartney's ex, who sued and claimed that he beat her. Yeah, I was beat by a Beatle. The one who wrote "Penny Lane." SUUUUUUURE) compared herself in one breath to Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., and Malcom X. Because the truth has to be heard, regardless of personal persecution! Okay, on the 1% chance that Paul McCartney has a dark side (and still wrote "When I'm 64" and "Lalala, Lalala, Lalalovely Linda, with the lovely flowers in her hair!") I won't call her a vulturous gold digger, but even so. A model who married a Beatle (even if she does have a prosthetic leg--if I needed a prosthetic leg, I'd probably end up with a broom handle!) should not compare herself to the likes of Malcolm X, who's one of my heroes. Even older, wiser, peace-lovin' Malcom X would sneer.

Is this a diary?

2009-08-21T11:14:00.000-07:00

I'm just curious to see if anyone actually reads this, or if it's even more a waste of time than I'm thinking.

But it's all good; I've noticed that my writing doesn't actually attract readers in any forum, except fellow poets... which casts a flickering doubt on my choice of graduate degrees in the side of my mind somewhere, which I will choose to ignore. If Pliny the Elder had blogged his encyclopedias, his site wouldn't have received hits either.

Limbo

2009-08-20T12:02:00.000-07:00

I'm back from Europe, and it was an amazing time on which I have not thoroughly journaled yet. For someone who calls herself a writer, I'm really bad at journaling. Especially when my days are full, which they were. I didn't even draw, which disappoints me only half as much as my mother, who guilt-tripped me when she found out. But there wasn't time! And it was peak tourist season and often freaking hot! I spent all downtime possible near water.

I've been working on a series of photo albums, organized by section of the trip, on shutterfly at http://jessiwithaneye.shutterfly.com/. A password is required, so email me at crazijessi@gmail.com if you want permission to enter. (Who am I talking to? Only one-and-a-half people read this anyway and they're already on Facebook). I keep my photos semi-private because I don't want my pictures up for free downloading on the internet; I use a little point and click digital, but some (just some) of my shots are pretty damned good. To think what I might be capable of with a professional camera. Several people on the trip had these big, black cameras with super long lenses and additions... I suffered from a bit of camera envy (Freudian pun intended).

Anyway, I'm back in the states. I went to my father's for about a week, got sick of Fox News (in theory; there's more to it than that) and came up to Ellensburg. I'm technically homeless, or you could call it "living out of my car," or you could say "on vacation." I'm house-and-pet sitting at some friends' apartment while they visit family. (And as we speak, the big puppy is harassing the poor cat, who's just trying to cuddle with me. Poor Sienna, a silly-happy 60-pound-beast with an uncontrollable tongue, doesn't understand the difference between me petting Galahad and her smothering him. Poor Galahad just wants to chill for once.)

After my friends return, I'm going out to Montana. I'm excited because my mom and little sister just moved there after many years in Cape Cod. I've only seen them a few times in the last decade. Most of my family lives there now, and all summer I've been thinking that the only place I'd rather be is Billings (which means that I might need a brain scan).

I'm trying to decide whether to take the clunker or the bus. Last time I took the Greyhound to MT, it was a miserable experience, and I hate being anywhere without autonomy and transportation for long. I'll be there for three weeks. But my car has 270k miles on it, and I constantly worry that it'll break down.

As I type, the poor cat keeps moving around the room, trying to be close to me but rid himself of the dog, and the dog keeps cluelessly following him and throwing her paws and head all over him (Sienna has an obsession with resting her head on things, which is cute...until it's the mouse pad, or a cat). Galahad puts up with it for a second, and then bats her with his claw with a warning "mrawl!" which Sienna takes to mean "Let's play!" It's communication breakdown.

So, with only three days of work here in Ellensburg, I've been doing just a few things: playing on the internet, reading, and taking the dog to the river/lake/on hikes in the late afternoon. This might sound like fun, and it is, but anyone who knows me knows that that is very little activity and borders, for me, on depressive behavior. I need to be constantly busy. Which is one of the reasons I'm looking forward to school starting back up again. I love to go to class. I actually look forward to teaching. I love attending all the little functions on campus like poetry readings and drag shows.

This was going to be a blog about Fox News, but look where it ran off to.

Back in the U.S. ...

2009-08-06T11:10:00.000-07:00

So I had an amazing trip abroad, which you can read about on my CWU blogspot: www.cwufrance2009.blogspot.com or something to that effect. The only caveat is that my crazy sexual and alcoholic exploits cannot be posted there, because it's attached to a school website. Oh, wait...I had no crazy sexual and alcoholic exploits. Sorry to spoil the suspense.

I did, however, oddly enough, end up at a swank private house club on a hill far above Sorrento. It helps to make friends with attractive Brazilian women while you're overseas...that alone opens many doors for you, by proxy.

I also did not fall in love. Well, I take it back. I fell in love with one French man and one Italian man. They are, respectively, Giselvertous and Bernini. Yes, these are sculptors. Giselvertous is from the 12th century, and his work, though primitive in some ways (which I find endearing), is remarkably expressive and graceful. The following three pictures, two of G and one of B, are all messed up because I tried to get fancy. Use your imagination and you'll figure out which is which. I took the pictures of Giselvertous's work, but not the Bernini (naughty people, taking pictures in the Borghese). The detail of Mary Magdalen is blurry and yucky because it was a dimly lit corner and I didn't have a tripod.

Mary Magdalen in The Miracle of Lazarus.

Eve, his most famous. Notice how she slithers on the ground like the Serpent. Close-up of Eve. I love the fine lines in his work, like those in her hair.

Bernini is a great sculptor of the Baroque period. His work is just strewn across Rome. What caught me were two of his sculptures at the Borghese Gallery: Apollo and Daphne, and The Rape of Porsepina (Persephone).

Well, right now I'm sitting in a friend's fiance's parents' basement, thinking about whether or not to go back to sleep or get up, shower, and hike up Saddle Mountain. I'm in a tough spot right now because I came back in debt--though the amount is small, it is urgent--and I don't have a job. And I had promised a friend I would be at her wedding and help her out with some of the arting and the food prep...and it's also important that I'm here to support her because she's been such a wonderful friend. Meanwhile, however, I think I would have work at the Phish show if I tried, and it's the same two days. =(

Signing off for now.

2009-05-21T18:57:00.000-07:00

Sit down my friend; we have a lot of catching up to do.

What's going on in my life? My students are giving me gray hairs. I went to the Gorge Amphitheatre to see The Dead and The Allman Brothers. It was the most amazing concert experience of my life. I got a minor burn. My recent ex's car went up in flames after the concert. My hair is super short right now. I'm going to Europe this summer: London with a travel buddy, around Paris on a study abroad excursion, and Italy by myself. I have my plane ticket. My Mom has a trailer waiting for her in Montana; she will be 2,000 miles nearer to me. My little sister Megan too. I'm putting my stuff in storage and couch surfing until I leave for Europe. My car is smoking very badly and I think it might be the end of that. More later.

This Song Has No Title

2009-04-08T14:51:00.000-07:00

Tune me in to the wild side of life
I'm an innocent young child sharp as a knife
Take me to the garrets where the artists have died
Show me the courtrooms where the judges have lied

Let me drink deeply from the water and the wine
Light coloured candles in dark dreary mines
Look in the mirror and stare at myself
And wonder if that's really me on the shelf

And each day I learn just a little bit more
I don't know why but I do know what for
If we're all going somewhere let's get there soon
Oh this song's got no title just words and a tune

Take me down alleys where the murders are done
In a vast high powered rocket to the core of the sun
Want to read books in the studies of men
Born on the breeze and die on the wind
--Elton John and Bernie Taupin

I left out the last verse because it's kind of lame. But I love this song; I feel like it's about me: that I'm the song with no title. I'm always so safe, so nothing ever happens.

I'm talking about socially. I take chances with money and nature, but never with people. The result is that I've always been an outsider. My default is to instantly like people, but my friendly nature is just swallowed by the fact that I'm also a little shy and awkward. I think people feel that I'm insincere because of it, even though the opposite is true. I don't butt in, I don't judge, and I don't assume, so people just figure I don't care. I've never been "one of the girls," and I've never been among the group of people one turns to when they want advice or understanding.

I just keep trying, just like everyone else, because we all have these hangups and these problems that just add up and hurt. Mine just happens to lead to loneliness, which I have tried to work through or ignore or combat for all these years, but is slowly killing me. And I don't take chances, which means no relationships, no stories to regret or learn from or even remember. That's what I'm thinking about today.

Revival

2009-04-06T22:39:00.000-07:00

Okay, it might be the blast of warm air--today was 75 degrees and sunny: perfect! and I ran around without shoes on for a while--or it might be because I've been reading Emerson, but I am feeling optimism.

I'm also avoiding writing my fiction piece for class tomorrow.

List: Things that amaze me

Van Morrison. If you doubt me, just listen to "His Band and Street Choir" alone, with a good sound system and no presuppositions. Van Morrison is not ordinary. His music is soulful genius. He's just oft-overlooked because his more common numbers, like "Brown Eyed Girl," are everywhere. If you don't want some driving soul-meets-rock-n-roll, but yen for some Celtic mystic wanderings that kind of groove with the flow of water and whisper rebellion in your left ear, try "Astral Weeks" instead.

Emerson! ARGH! I am in love with a dead guy.

The fact that a housecat will eat your corpse while you're still warm. Seriously? Now that I know this, I will never look at cats the same.

Empathic intuition. It's real and it exists. I have intuitive hands; I can't describe the feeling. Kind of like air magnets tell my hands what's wrong. Sometimes I can feel when something hurts on somebody else on my own body, but only very lightly. It's not a "gift" really; it doesn't make me special--it's probably as common as lactose intolerance. But it's not taken very seriously because it can't be quantified by science. I recently read a piece of Kim Barne's memoir, and she describes a similar event from her childhood, only hers was much stronger. It made me smile to recognize my experiences in someone else's words--whom I do not know--because one is always afraid of skepticism. Furthermore, it made me even happier to know that a person could write such an account and be taken seriously in the modern, academic world. There are always ways. I sometimes feel like my subject matter for writing is limited on all sides, but that's not the case. The trick is to never claim absolutes. Allow for the unknown.

Generally sad

2009-03-30T22:22:00.000-07:00

I all but forgot this blog existed. But earlier I was watching a bit of the telly and saw something that made me need to vent. Then I remembered that I have a forum.

Has anyone seen the latest General Electric commercial? Okay, GE is one of the oldest and biggest companies around. They might be experiencing some problems lately, but something tells me they still spend a lot of money on their commercials. Yet they couldn't hire a copy editor.

The commercial in question features a series of "Today, General Electric this" and "Today, we have accomplished that" sayings, to a background of beautiful people and natural or productive scenes, played in slow motion to affective (intentional word choice) music, designed to make you forget that GE is actually the fourth worst corporate environmental contaminator in the United States and has been behind nuclear testing, Hanford's Green Run, and funding the Nazis. This from our friend Wiki: "According to EPA documents, only the United States Government, Honeywell, and Chevron are responsible for producing more Superfund toxic waste sites"). But I digress.

The point of my tirade is not global, but grammatical. The very first slide of said commercial reads "Today, is a new day." Any idiot can see that in this sentence "today" is not an adverb but the main noun. Who puts a comma between the subject and the predicate of a sentence? That's like saying "I, went to the store." Or "General Electric, spends a lot on PR but not enough on the 3 Rs." There's no pause, folks, unless you're William Shatner.

Posting this will make absolutely no difference in the state of affairs, intellectually or environmentally. Sigh. It's really all about a 30-something single student, sitting alone in front of a television set watching a million-dollar commercial wherein a lot of people are making a lot of money, while knowing that I, that 30-something student, can easily spot an error that all those bagazillionaires can't, and then continuing to sit there, forced to be content in my own ineffectual existence.

Okay I,'m done venting.

Tee hee...PoMo Paper Title Generator

2009-02-17T17:30:00.000-08:00

Okay, so these are probably funniest to lit majors and beyond.

Ephemeral Ideology and the Perversion of Migrant Pleasure in William Shakespeare's The Twelfth Night

Alien Outrage and the Periphery of Racist Phallus in John Steinbeck's East of Eden

Margins as Desire: Testing Orgasmic Tongues in John Steinbeck's East of Eden

Feminism and Tyranny in Tikki Tikki Tembo: Exploiting Existential Echolalia

Altering, Reinscribing, Altering: Nationalism in and the Responsive Homotextuality of Blackness in Tikki Tikki Tembo

We are far too young and clever...

2009-02-17T17:08:00.000-08:00

Instant happy, beyond any drugs:
Come on Eileen.

I'm exhausted and have a lot to do. I feel like a deflated balloon--not popped, but like somebody put tape over me and then poked a pin into me. PPPppppppphhhhhhhhh..... I'll get back to WHY in a second. So, I brought headphones with me to the computers in the library tonight. I should be sleeping.

Wow, it just occured to me that I need to keep this blog on the DL, because I'm a professor now, of sorts. So I'm erasing the bit about my class.... done. Anyone can see this blog, after all.

Okay, what I was essentially saying is that I brought headphones to the lab because I no longer have a working computer. Long story shortish: I have to listen to videos for the class I'm teaching, and I also want to listen to a friend's music page. But I just happened to listen to my profile music for a bit, and the opening notes to "Come on Eileen" started...and instantly, I'm happy. Or was, for 3-some-odd minutes. Now Ryan Adams is bringing me back to Earth (favorite part: "But I lied, but I lied.")...

If it seems that I'm not my usual jovial and fluent self, that would be because this weekend I moved, went to an upper-middleclass party in Seattle, drove to and from in one evening, had breakfast with my father, moved some more, and slept in a strange house last night. I'm exHAUSTed, and it's only Tuesday.

Oh, back to "Come on Eileen": I should just buy the CD, you know? But if I did, I'm afraid the opening bars wouldn't be so magical anymore. They'd become mundane. A friend of mine was just saying that he loves "Spice World" partly because he always wanted it when he was a kid and could never afford it. Now it's magical. It's like that.

Caution: Zombies Ahead. 15 mph.

2009-02-04T16:04:00.000-08:00

I had to change the title of this blog because originally it was so...lame without reading the blog.

This is great. "Pranksters" have been hacking into electronic roadsigns, and officials are not amused. Read the story here.

My question: Are officials ever amused? Okay, okay, I see their point. The road signs were there to warn people and protect the construction workers. But just the mere presence of signage and orange!orange!everywhere! does the trick; the message is already there. Doesn't matter if it says "Zombies Ahead! Run!" or "Potholes Ahead. Slow Down." Either way, a road sign will cause caution and rubbernecking.

What interested me, besides the fact that I want to party with the hackers, is the second portion of the article that talked about how hacking is not entirely about destruction. It's about locating weak links--finding the problem. Like what I wrote recently about the creative mind (in my other blog):

"Another reason a creative person might need boundaries is that, according to research I read in human development class, creative people are by nature not "problem-solvers" but "problem-finders." It makes sense to me. (And again, this can earn disapproval from the world, even though we're still invaluable.) We see a lot of different angles, we think about offshoots and spirals; we are not linear. We are intuitive. And in order to be a problem-finder we must know what's going on."

So hacking can be productive. Interesting thought. There's a correlation between the community, external network, "outside mind" of the hacker (see Amphigori's blog--external tools the brain uses are part of the mind) and the mostly internal thought process of the right brain. Both explore the issue-at-hand from all over; instead of being linear (in process or in thought, respectively), the hacker and the creative mind are freed--by exploratory, intuitive process--to feel out the complexities of the issue (or the equipment) and find its holes, its gaps, its potentialities.

I just want to say...

2009-02-02T14:53:00.000-08:00

... Every time I mess around in the blogspot area, and I see that little link at the top that says "Dashboard," I think of Meatloaf. "Paradise by the Dashboard Light." And it gets stuck in my head. Argh.

Side thought: If Judgment Day really existed (-ed being the subjunctive, not the past tense), and you were that poor soul who died with "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" stuck in your head, would you go to heaven? And how would that affect your soul? Would the song imprint itself? If it did, would you really be in a more-boring version of hell?

And what if we are all experiencing reincarnation? How would the song's imprint affect your karma in future revolutions?

Shapeshifter

2009-01-28T22:01:00.000-08:00

So all my comfy jeans are too tight, and I feel like I'm carrying a load of furniture around with me all day. Whatever could this mean?

Literally, a slough of faux-pas blog's [sic]

2009-01-26T20:58:00.000-08:00

I'm having a wordplay heyday. I remembered an old friend, www.apostropheabuse.com, and once I visited her she introduced me to a bunch of other blogs:

Passive aggressive notes
Apostrophe catastrophes
Bad parking pics
Crummy church signs (Weee!)
Literally
Perplexicon (Stuff like Xtreme!)
And my old favorite, The "blog" of "unnecessary quotes."

Okay, the bad parking one is just RAWR! And the passive agressive notes blog is hil-AR-ious. I actually put one of the pictures on my myspace profile: "Regarding the mustard." I laughed nearly until I cried. Inside.

Good Things--the recommendations continue.

2009-01-23T23:05:00.000-08:00

Today in my field notes: a secret [cleaning] agent, a really good forgotten song, and rotten tea. All shared in hopes of enhancing your living experience on this green planet.

MRS. MEYER MADE MY DAY
I'm sorry that I'm blogging about a dish soap, but things that are beautiful, utilitarian, and healthy make me happy. Make my life simpler.

I picked up some Mrs. Meyer's Clean Day lemon verbena liquid dish soap because it was on "sale" (4-ish bucks at Super 1). It smells like a good-old-fashioned, 1940s Mama-washed-my-mouth-out-with-soap, clothes-on-the-line clean. And it works really well. And it makes me happy to not be sending toxic gray water back into the earth. I admit, doing little good things for the environment is hardly proactive (cynics might point out I'm making no difference)--but I'd rather be as neutral as possible, instead of adding to the shitpile of bad.

HE SAID HE WANTED HEAVEN, BUT PRAYING WAS TOO SLOW
Steppenwolf's "Snowblind Friend." An achingly sad song with early-70s psychedelic weeping-guitar-spinning-vinyl-hole-in-my-heart dead junky blues. Steppenwolf tends to take themselves too seriously, but this time they definitely get it right. However, I have to ask: In the following lines,

Stoned upon some potion he found upon the wall
In some unholy bathroom, in some ungodly hall,

doesn't it sound like he originally wrote "some ungodly stall"?--and then his agent or somebody else of good taste was like, "Um, dude, don't go there. Leave the specifics of a shitter out of this ballad." It could have been the worst toilet in Scotland (kudos if you get that).

THIS IS NOT AN EXPLETIVE
KOMBUCHA!!!! Ahhhh! The finished product is much more appetizing, I promise.

Okay, so for that anonymous secret reader who doesn't know me, let me fill you in: I have IBS. Say it with me. It's empowering. Okay, even if you don't have IBS it's empowering. Anyway, chances are if you are eating food grown in today's soil and breathing in today's air, you may not have IBS but you probably have toxins.

Enter Kombucha tea. It's not fermented mushroom as I have been proudly declaring (like a boyscout showing off his battle scar; "I drink rotten mushrooms; I'm badass woot!")--it's actually made from a patty of yeast and bacteria. Mmmm. But it's blended with tea and sweetener, so it has a tang plus zing and it's naturally effervescent. Bubbly caffeine, that's what I'm talking about. It's a little expensive, but I'm drinking it every day because it does all these things for me:

*It seems to regulate my blood sugar
*Definitely helps control my appetite
*Gives me a little high; makes me feel balanced and energetic
*Settles my tummy immediately
*Alleviates symptoms of IBS

Some people claim that it is a liver detox. Also, the natural stuff has active probiotics (the good bacteria for your tummy) but the brand I happen to love, Kombucha Wonder Drink, pasteurizes their stuff so that benefit is out. Still seems to work though!

Summing it up for this round...
Okay, so I sound like a major health freak and a hippie, but I can explain. Oh, wait, I am a hippie (sorta). No, I'm not a health nut; as I type this, for example, I happen to be cooking a batch of Banquet's instant dinner. Mashed potatoes, chicken, and biscuits...mmmmm....and I added green beans. From a can.

No, I'm just a hedonist, and a rebel. I like things that make me feel good, and I don't trust mainstream "advice"; I'm a skeptic about things that big business paid to have us believe. They're already trying to shoot down Kombucha because so many people are waving it around like the Holy Gourd and that threatens other "feel good" products like pharmaceutical drugs and diet food. Whatever. I listen to first-hand advice, Michael Pollan, God, and the voices in my own head. As Buddha would have liked. And I'm here to tell you: ear candles work. So does expensive salon hair product. I'm discerning on my own fucking terms.

And, I like to share.

Slowly returning to poetry

2009-01-22T02:18:00.000-08:00

I'm feeling a little down and existential about my writing. Ridiculous questions I torment myself with: Why does my voice matter? There are so many intelligent and interesting people in the world. What am I supposed to write about? Staring at my walls? Why am I an English grad student? How will I ever write a chapbook?

Okay, so basically I need to write for the process.Free write more. So following is a jumble (and I do mean it!) of thought, the very seed of a poem hidden by weeds. But it's something.

The edge of the world, this pier--
a row of 3 by 5
old man’s feet
roughened planks nailed together
above the sloshing dank water of the island bay
the lapping, lapping, water
teasing the posts that suspend me
on this anchored raft.
Curious, distraught, I hang my head
through an opening that gapes in the railing, my neck
rests upon the planks like a ready victim of the guillotine.
My breathing is made shallow, my eyes feel the pull.
I stare only at the ever-shifting surface
as it peaks and valleys and cancels itself out.

Event horizon, this bay, where land meets the sea
and algae, water, and oxygen mix
in nature’s blender, the sun only sometimes
refracting from a triangular glimpse
on this ever-shifting canvas of pearlescence and scum.
Oily darkness below the pier
like a camo uniform, creeping outward, matches its
strides to the hasty, stumbling rise and fall
of triangular peaks—-two meet, and not in rhythm,
they clash like symbols
and a droplet or two,
casualties, are tossed toward my face.

The dark camouflage, the olive water’s shadow
lengthens and falls back, jumping and dancing
like pagan gods, in and out of the shadow of the pier.
The dark egg of my head
dangling, and a starburst where my hair
falls out like writhing snakes. My face
is featureless: no mouth, no eyes, all senses erased
by the tumbling, rolling water.

But look closer—
there. Through the dark surface, three feet below,
where my mouth would be,
a purple starfish clings to rounded pebbles,
its pimply surface seeming to breathe as flashes of light
flow across its clenching back. And there,
between a cleft in a gathering of solid rocks,
a hair of seaweed twirls and bobs, waving at me
and I can only see it through my darkened reflection.

AGAIN THIS IS ONLY A FREE WRITE, NOT A FINISHED POEM.

-Boojwa

2009-01-21T16:40:00.000-08:00

*TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF - The Survey*
Name:	Jessi (with an eye) Earleywine, the Tipsy Gypsy!
Birthday:	07/24/1977 (BC)
Current Location:	Ellensburgeous (That's -boojwa)
Eye Color:	Hazel-green with yellow starbursts and bluish outline. FABULOUS!
Hair Color:	Currently dark red
Height:	5'6.5''
Right Handed or Left Handed:	Right
Your Heritage:	Irish/German/Norwegian plus
The Shoes You Wore Today:	Tan mocassin-inspired wedge-booties
Your Weakness:	French fries, sex
Your Fears:	French fries, sex
Your Perfect Pizza:	Pepperoni veggie supreme extra cheese
Goal You Would Like To Achieve This Year:	Hike to Lake Colchuck
Your Most Overused Phrase On an instant messenger:	Don't have it
Thoughts First Waking Up:	Who am I?
Your Best Physical Feature:	Lips, maybe, or legs
Your Bedtime:	Between 1 and 4 a.m.
Your Most Missed Memory:	Fishing by the potholes
Pepsi or Coke:	Diet Pepsi
MacDonalds or Burger King:	Neither
Single or Group Dates:	Yes please
Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea:	Earl Grey, hot
Chocolate or Vanilla:	Chocolate (vanilla tastes weird in my old age)
Cappuccino or Coffee:	Coffee
Do you Smoke:	Nope
Do you Swear:	Like a prim sailor
Do you Sing:	Whenever possible, sometimes when I shouldn't
Do you Shower Daily:	When I want to
Have you Been in Love:	Yep but not for a long time
Do you want to go to College:	I'm IN college. I AM the college. I EIGHT the college.
Do you want to get Married:	Yes but not desperately
Do you belive in yourself:	Yes but not desperately
Do you get Motion Sickness:	Yes but not desperately
Do you think you are Attractive:	In my own way
Are you a Health Freak:	Nope but I buy health food
Do you get along with your Parents:	Yes
Do you like Thunderstorms:	YES
Do you play an Instrument:	The mandolin barely, the harmonica, the cornet
In the past month have you Drank Alcohol:	Yes
In the past month have you Smoked:	Nope--I bought a cigarillo and never smoked it
In the past month have you been on Drugs:	Yes
In the past month have you gone on a Date:	Yes
In the past month have you gone to a Mall:	I live in Ellensburg.
In the past month have you eaten a box of Oreos:	No!
In the past month have you eaten Sushi:	Mmmm...I'm about to change my answer for dinner
In the past month have you been on Stage:	No but I lecture in front of a classroom!
In the past month have you been Dumped:	Not in the past month
In the past month have you gone Skinny Dipping:	Are you kidding? It's nostril-freezing cold out there!
In the past month have you Stolen Anything:	No, I have no balls. LITERALLY.
Ever been Drunk:	NO. NEVER.
Ever been called a Tease:	Uh, no
Ever been Beaten up:	Not to a pulp
Ever Shoplifted:	No but I wish I could from those big evil box stores
How do you want to Die:	However God plans it
What do you want to be when you Grow Up:	I don't want to be grown up
What country would you most like to Visit:	FRANCE!
*In a Boy/Girl..*
Favourite Eye Color:	Brown. MELT.
Favourite Hair Color:	Whatever...just not gray!
Short or Long Hair:	It's all good
Height:	TALL
Weight:	Little lubby handles
Best Clothing Style:	A little bit cray-zy
Number of Drugs I have taken:	Back to me? 5. Them? Doesn't matter
Number of CDs I own:	Me? Many hundreds. Music makes life worthwhile.
Number of Piercings:	I'm just going to assume this is about me again. 5
Number of Tattoos:	Zed but I like nifty ones
Number of things in my Past I Regret:	Regret nothing. Be Here Now.
CREATE YOUR OWN! - or - GET PAID TO TAKE SURVEYS!

Underwater pretties.

2009-01-20T17:43:00.000-08:00

I wish I could insert a clip of Buddy the Elf gasping "Beauuuutiful!" without it distracting from the image. I've always been in awe of rays. They're so graceful and weird. One of my things-to-do-before-I-die was fulfilled when I petted the Manta Rays in the Long Beach aquarium. So this picture gave me simple joy.

Mass migration off the coast of Mexico, picture taken by Sandra Critelli.

p.s. Look at how some of their "wings" fold up with the movement of the water. Ooooh.

Thought

2009-01-19T19:06:00.001-08:00

Three of the five songs I listed yonder (Songs for January) are waltzes. I love waltzes. They're like soul chocolate (milk, not dark). Sigh.

Leaves of Cyberspace.

2009-01-18T02:42:00.001-08:00

It's the information age. The age of profiles. And language remains, as ever, elusive, vague--signs of the ideas that are mere shadows of what is. Like a hopeful boy reaching over the counter, trying to pay for an ice cream cone in 2009 with two dimes from 1949. One foot and two dollars short, 60 years behind. That's what language is.

I just signed up for Twitter so I could comment on a [brilliant] friend's blog. Twitter--summing up what I'm doing in 140-some-odd characters: no problem. Summing up who I am, for yet another profile: getting old. The smattering of carefully chosen words may reveal a person's wit and access to the world, but certainly show nothing about who he or she really is. Like clothing, revealing a person's taste, budget, and sometimes body, but little else. Paper dolls, folded tabs.

Walt Whitman spent his whole life defining (or explaining; he called it celebrating) himself--writing, editing, revising, cutting, adding, editing, writing, explaining, complaining, writing, editing, revising, defending, bragging, writing his masterpiece "Leaves of Grass." I, on the other hand, will just settle with the first description I came up with for Twitter (I'm alarmed at how much creative energy I spend online). It goes something like: "This one girl who likes Kombucha, stays up all night reading, and goes 'ooh!' at pretties." Walt Whitman would say "I am that woman after all." I would say "I am tired right now. Goodnight."

Yes, but no pot of gold for you.

2009-01-17T02:00:00.000-08:00

So the other day I had my class get into small groups for a "rhetorical situation exercise." I told them to let me know if they had any questions.

One student across the room raised his hand. "Miss N--?"
"Yes?"
"Are you Irish?"
"Uh ... Yeah, a little. Why?"
"I thought so. You look Irish."

It was such a random little moment, and he wasn't being a smart ass, and it didn't interrupt the flow of class or anything. It was funny in a weird way, like driving past a clown on the highway. Apparently, I look Irish. That is all.

Gillian Welch & David Rawlings musical picture orgie.

2009-01-17T01:29:00.000-08:00

Why haven't I gone to any of these performances? What the heck? Why? WHY!!!? (Sorry about the side-text not working out.)

(Photo without courtesy of Pitchfork media). With Paul Simon, who now looks like a hobbit. But OH MAN. Good thing I couldn't go; I would've been arrested for climbing onto the stage in hysterics. Or I would've just passed out.

Jammin' with Peter Rowan (Panama Red).

Rubbing elbows with Elvis Costello and Emmylou Harris.

Shop talk with Ralph Stanley (!).

Chillin' with Willie (Anybody got an apple?).

Hugging Bob Weir.

With Coner Oberst. ARGH!

Singing Country Girl with Neil Young (my favorite right now; "country girl, I think you're pretty...").

More with Neil. Neil gets four pictures in three blogs.

Celebrating Wavy Gravy's 70th.

I-RON-Y

2009-01-16T17:11:00.000-08:00

Today while I was in the courthouse getting the car switched over into my name and picking up my brand spanking new shiny Washington license plates (oooh), a lady was busy backing her giant two-ton four-door truck into the front of my poor little teal Protege. She was nice enough to leave me a note. I actually saw her taking pictures, so I got all her information and everything should be okay. It's a good thing my plans for Seattle this weekend were already void and I hadn't purchased tickets.

Way back in 2001 or so, FOUR DAYS after I got my Tracker, some girl rear-ended it HARD and sent me skidding across the ice a good 15 feet. Also, my friend L just got her car and it's already making funny noises. Seems to be the thing. The car gods and the irony gods are playing a nice little game of Go Fish.

Neil Young, maybe you're not so pretty.

2009-01-15T22:46:00.000-08:00

But that much talent counts for more than a little somethin anyway.

Neil Young, I think you're pretty.

2009-01-13T18:38:00.000-08:00

I love "For the Turnstiles." It makes me giggle. You'd probably have to hear the whole thing to appreciate it. The chorus goes "You can really learn a lot that way. It'll change you in the middle of the day. Though your confidence may be shattered ... it doesn't matter." It's very irreverent. My favorite verse:

All the great explorers
Are now in granite laid
Under white sheets
for the great unveiling
At the big parade.

Quote of the day

2009-01-11T20:34:00.000-08:00

"Personally, I like a world where men have beards and women have boobs. It's more natural, less confusing, and lets me know where my hand is supposed to be." --Tucker Nelson.

Grandma.

2009-01-11T02:14:00.000-08:00

Okay, so this blog IS personal but it's not private. Tonight I got a call that my grandma had stopped breathing and my cousin had called an ambulance. A lot of thoughts went through my head, and they're not very easy to put into words.

She's my last grandparent. I've been thinking about her lately, trying to figure out what I can do to make her life bearable. I feel obligated to call her, but she's difficult to talk to. I want to worry all the time, because she's not having any fun, but am I obligated to figure out her happiness? Once she went blind she sort of checked out and didn't think of new things to do. In her 60s she used to walk 10 miles a day, whitewater raft and travel a lot after my grandpa (God rest his antisocial, abusive soul) died. I thought she was adventurous. But then when she went blind she just sort of checked out. And recently she developed a brain disease that weakens all her muscles, so she's not happy and I don't blame her.

The other day on my walk I asked, When it comes to Grandma, what should I pray for?--and I'll admit, I wondered if she'd be happy living much longer or not. Then today I get the call, and all these things come flooding out. Guilt, hope, worry, uncertainty.

It turns out that she choked on something. They'll have to keep her in the hospital overnight, and obviously she'll need to start eating puree. Ew. I used to serve the stuff at a nursing home. When I can no longer eat steak and green beans, I'll stick to applesauce and Bourbon please. Anyway, I think I should go see her soon, and I guess I will bring those books on tape.

Dawg.

2009-01-09T22:39:00.001-08:00

Ah! I just found out that the David Grisman quintet is playing in Seattle next weekend. They're playing Thursday through Sunday. I missed it because they're listed in the "rock and pop" section in Ticketmaster (what the...?). Even if I have to go by myself--come hell or high water (it's a possibility on the latter)--I'm going.

The next 50-ish (101 cont'd).

2009-01-09T14:33:00.000-08:00

The second part of my 101 in 1001 days list. I think 51 is enough to keep track of, though, don't you? Especially with my fecal memory (fecal: euphemeism for "shitty." Not to be confused with "fecundal"). So I'm going to get rather single-minded here.

52. Manastash Ridge (more than once, of course).
53. Umptanum Falls.
54. Wedge Mountain Enchantments lookout (yes, har har).
55. Eagle Creek trail, Oregon.
56. Lion's Rock.
57. Escondido Lake.
58. Esmerelda Basin.
59. Manastash Lake.
60. Little Salmon la Sac.
61. Shoestring Lake.
62. Spectacle Lake.
63. Standup Creek.
64. Spider Meadows.
65. Lake Lillian.
66. Lake Michael.
67. Klonaqua Lake.
68. Larch Mountain Trail (Multnomah Falls).
69. Twin Lakes, Oregon (Hood River area).
70. Lozère region, France.
71. Montana hikes with Corky and Jason.
72. Frame and submit artwork for Student Art Assoc. show
73. Sell wire baskets on Etsy for what they're actually worth (around $70).
74. Now I get to the abstract ideas. First, stop viewing everything as my fault or my problem.
75. Let my actions be guided by my self, not by circumstances (BG).
76. Oooh! More hiking. Somewhere along the Mediterranean, France.
77. Get a nice digital camera.
78. Record vinyls to CD for Mom to replace what she lost.
79. Never be caught without a writers' notebook/sketchbook.
80. Songs to learn on the mandolin ... Goodnight, Irene.
81. Michael From Mountains.
82. Both Sides Now.
83. Brand New Tennessee Waltz.
84. Wildwood Flower.
85. By the Mark.
86. Take It to the Limit.
87. Things About Coming My Way.
88. Rolling in my Sweet Baby's Arms (difficult).
89. Just a Closer Walk with Thee.
90. Anabelle.
Hmm. This is getting difficult. But composing this list really helped me focus on what matters to me. The main categories seem to be: learning the mandolin, hiking, painting and writing now instead of later!, traveling to places I don't want to miss on this go-round, organizing, keeping in touch with people I love, and finding a balance with my anxiety. Seize the Day, live life to the fullest, and love. Isn't that what it should be for everyone, in their own ways? Do I have to finish the last 10? I suppose I can leave those open, in case something comes to me.

That's so gay.

2009-01-06T11:52:00.001-08:00

Today I saw a poster announcing scholarships for GLBT (gay lesbian bisexual transgender) students. It struck me as a little queer (forgive me).

I'm all about the liberation of society and sexuality, and I wholeheartedly believe in acceptance and empowerment. Additionally, foundations/the private sector has every right to give money to whomever it chooses, and those who are ostracized from "normal" society deserve a boost, just as I did once for being from a low-income, rural family. But I still have to wonder, how exactly does one prove eligibility for a gay scholarship? With references?

One day we'll be able to move beyond reverse-discrimination (though I see the need for now; I do). The day that we recognize that there are many genders and that bisexuality is the norm will be a good day.

Cute little post.

2009-01-05T20:39:00.000-08:00

Who'd a thunk? I knew about the Japanese cultural obsession with cuteness, but apparently it has its own word: kawaii. And there are subcultures, too, like erokawa (guess).

On track.

2009-01-05T14:33:00.001-08:00

Okay, it's up and running: my project, "From Behind That Locked Door" (named after a George Harrison song). The address, as I've posted before, is http://essayssayyes.blogspot.com. Or you could just swing out to my profile and back in to the other blog. I just want to reiterate that the other thing is a totally different project than this. I'm not going to continue creating different blogs for every aspect of myself. In fact, the other blog isn't really about me, Jessi, the ego, at all. It comes from my viewpoint, is all.

Speaking of potential megalomania, if anyone thinks the headline banner with my picture is too much, let me know.

Okay, switching gears: my window shade fell off the other day (because my apartment is so ... functional), so last night/this morning I couldn't help but notice that the night was peach from the light of the snow. It's been so nostril-freezing cold and gray lately that it kind of gave me a little boost. Then today, the campus came to life. Classes start tomorrow. I came upstairs, checked my mailbox, headed for my office, and realized ... I like this. I actually look forward to coming to work, to meeting my students, and to writing papers. It's a sign that I'm doing what I should be.

It's like "Bluegrass" ... heavy on the "grass."

2009-01-03T01:32:00.000-08:00

I've been obsessively spinning side 1 of "The Last of the Red Hot Burritos" by The Flying Burrito Brothers. Just got it in the mail from ebay a few days ago. Side 1 is great, starting with "Christine's Tune (Devil in Disguise)" and a few other good ones, and then breaking into full-on, fast bluegrass.

Mom had this album when I was little, so it was a weird self-referential moment for me when one of the band members announced a bluegrass standard (?), "Don't Let Your Deal Go Down" and I realized I know it, then realized that I know it from this album. Like, whoa dude.

Anyway, good stuff. Anyone who likes what country could be if done well should check out The Flying Burrito Brothers, particularly the album "The Gilded Palace of Sin," which, happily, I also own. I like to gaze upon the cover and their amazing "nudie" suits.

All the guys in the band come from and appear with a lot of great acts; it's like a who's-who of 60s music. Gram Parsons, for example, played with The Byrds, replacing David Crosby, who went on to play, of course, in Crosby Stills & Nash (duh) while Stephen Stills, I believe, lived with Joni Mitchell and wrote "Our House" for her; meantime the burrito brother Sneaky Pete Kleinow played on Joni Mitchell's masterpiece album, "Blue." It's like a late 60s, early 70s music orgie.

Geneology discovery.

2009-01-02T19:09:00.000-08:00

I have no idea who these people are.

Mom just forwarded me a big letter she received from a lost relative. Because my great-grandfather became a wino and died on Skid Row in LA, and my grandpa ran away from home when he was 13, we knew little of our Irish ancestors, the Earleywines.

Now we know more. The Irish name is Yarleywine. They all had black hair and silver eyes (where's mine?). It seems that they may have moved here in the late 1800s, as I thought. Sorry, no criminal runaways or political refugees! Just the good old potato famine. (I make up for it the best I can, every day). And the woman who contacted Mom lives in Hawaii. I suggested to Mom that they become very good friends. ;)

Edit: My Great-grandfather, it seems, is Leonard Earleywine, on the far right. Handsome devil, yes? It's kind of sad to look at a photo of a young man and know where he will die.

101 in 1001 days

2009-01-02T00:48:00.000-08:00

This from livejournal: a challenge to make a list of 101 things you want to get done in the next 1001 days. Since I can't really do math, I'm not sure when 1001 days are over. Is it in 2012, connected to the Mayan calendar and all that? I don't know. What I do know is that you should live every day like it's your last (which is why I ate 3 pieces of pizza and drank 2 beers tonight).

Without further adieu, in the order in which they arrive in my brain (they're all things I've been thinking about doing anyway), the first 1/2:

1. Backpack in the Enchantments again. (This is a big goal, because of chronic, debilitating back pain.) Who wants to go with me, summer '10?

2. Finish grad school.

3. Retake my GRE, the paper version. My scores sucked a turkey's feathered ass.

4. Submit poetry to magazines. And resubmit...

5. Finish my "book" as Kathy said. (Do more than just a chapbook.)

6. Lake Colchuck.

7. Lake Ingalls (never been).

8. Lake Stuart.

9. Visit a natural hot spring.

10. Get to the bottom of my stomach problems (should I rephrase that?) and take action (should I rephrase that as well?).

11. Fix my teeth! (I have a gaping cavity and several more in the oven).

12. Go back to the Olympic Peninsula for another Me Vacation.

13. Learn to play my favorite songs on the mandolin.

14. Sing bluegrass songs in public, on my mandolin.

15. Oh! Practice the mandolin often, at least a couple times a week.

16. Exercise every. single. day. Even if it's just a yoga tape or a walk. It helps my pain so much.

17. Take up meditation.

18. Lake Heather.

19. Get a dog, get an apartment that allows dogs (is this practical?).

20. Learn what all I can recycle and DO IT.

21. Volunteer at the Humane Society.

22. Make a series of portraits of my heroes and interesting folk, both famous and known to me.

23. Write a collection of poems about memories (I've been wanting to, because I have memory problems from anxiety disorder. Memories are fleeting and wound up in emotions, like poetry).

24. Learn a martial art.

25. Visit my mother and sister in Cape Cod (but this time, camp).

25. Kayak the salt marshes in Cape Cod.

26. Have my aura photographed.

27. Study Romanesque and Gothic architecture in France this summer and DON'T BACK OUT
this time. Save up the money!!!

28. Watch Schindler's List. I've been putting it off.

29. Learn more about Hinduism.

30. Go back to Big Sur.

31. Organize the back room into an art studio (don't let there be a " back room" in my next place).

32. Go to an academic convention.

33. Okay, okay, I'll say it (goddamnit)...Lose weight.

34. Watch all the Alfred Hitchcock movies.

35. Read On Walden Pond (I've only read the first 4 chapters).

36. Stay in France for my birthday (yes, I'm a smug single. But it's damn lonely at times; may as well be exciting!).

37. Take my supplies with me and draw outside, in France. I've always wanted to do that.

38. Er, I've already gotten craaazy in "the workplace" (old goal). Have nookie outdoors, then. (Hi, Mom!)

39. Have more board game nights and enjoy my friends.

40. Workshop with writer friends more! Layla, Laurel, are you in already?

41. When I move, throw something weird or personal into the hole in my closet ceiling so that Todd's bong isn't lonely.

42. See a band at the Wellfleet Bar.

43. Go to MELTDOWN.

44. Stay off Cymbalta, try (NATURAL) alternatives (and keep emergency stuff on me for panic attacks, I guess).

45. Visit the Gram Parsons memorial in Joshua Tree Park.

46. Brush up Latin skills.

47. Go horseback riding with Dad when I visit.

48. Send out my graduation announcements, even though they're late.

49. Send cards to each of Lori's grandkids on their birthdays.

50. Ha! Send this winter's Christmas packages first!

51. Write letters--actual letters--to friends and send them in the actual mail.

Goodwill Gifts from the Universe

2008-12-31T18:36:00.000-08:00

I picked up some cassette tapes at Goodwill today. As follows:

Medicine Trace--for body healing and empowerment (Native American)
Jerry Alfred & the Medicine Beat--Etsi Shon, Grandfather Sons (I have no idea)
Chakra Balancing--To Develop Psychic Ability and Higher Consciousness
Fire Drums--Starwood Festival Drumming (cover: a black & white drawing of people dancing around a fire, with a full moon and a celtic frame)
Amambazo Sounds of Faith--African singers (hopefully old-style African Missionary choir)

How much would you like to bet these tapes all came from the same household? I guess we'll never know, and the mystery of second-hand things--where they originally came from, who chose them and why, what hands used them, what energy they carry, and the path they took to reach me--is part of what I like about them. I try not to think that way about bras, though.

As hilarious as the tape collection is, I'm not actually knocking it. I think truth and beauty can be found anywhere, especially through serendipity.

Speaking of, I'm in the process of creating a new blog. The one you're reading is strictly for shits and giggles. But anyone who knows me, knows that I love to talk religion & politics (and cheese, but that stays in this blog). Anyway, I want a medium (er, bad word choice) for my spiritual writings, essays, and poetry so that's why I'm creating the second blog: http://essayssayyes.blogspot.com/ Cute, right?

"Something's living on my skin"

2008-12-27T17:48:00.000-08:00

I couldn't go two weeks without posting Paul Simon lyrics. I think these lyrics are, to say the least, apt. Apropos maybe for this particular listener. From "Allergies," the first song on his most-overlooked album, Hearts and Bones (the one right before Graceland):

...From what I can see is that people like me,
We get better, but we never get well.
So I ask myself this question,
It's a question I often repeat:
Where do allergies go when it's after a show
And they want to get something to eat?

Another song, which I'm listening to right now, "Maybe I Think Too Much," is pretty great too. "Start to think too much when I was twelve, going on thirteen. Me and the girls from St. Augustine, and my imagining. Thinking about God, yeah" (sorry, again I couldn't help it).

I love the introspective, brilliant, neurotic songwriters, like Elliott Smith, Coner Oberst, Joni Mitchell. What makes Paul Simon different, and I think better, is his funny little ironic self-deprecating sense of humor.

Happy Winterthing Post

2008-12-25T19:20:00.000-08:00

Best present so far this year (except for the necklace Laurel made me, which to me is meaningful and can't be compared to anything): A genuine limited edition Nutcracker Rockstar. Like my sis pointed out, he looks so...British. I opened it in my treasure box from Mom and couldn't stop laughing.

Also great: my little sister made these long knit things, red-black-and-white 12" or so. I had no idea what they were, but I saw a note in the box, and hoping to find out, I read it:
"I made these by hand and they're to small to be scarfs. I hope you like them."
Bwa-ha-ha. So cute. And she used the correct "they're." Pretty good for an 11-year-old.

I've been digging on "All Things Must Pass" by George Harrison lately. It's one of my favorite albums. Spiritual lyrics.

Some things take so long
But how do I explain
When not too many people
Can see we're all the same
And because of all their tears
Their eyes can't hope to see
The beauty that surrounds us
Isn't it a pity

It's such a lush, beautiful album. I've been listening to it all day long, just about nonstop, and drinking loose leaf gunpowder green tea. I should be enlightened right about now.

The cover is pretty great, because it features a long-haired bearded George in a floppy hat wearing some kind of --I swear to God--stretch pants. He's surrounded by these large ceramic gnomes, just chilling in an open field. It really looks like he's from Mosier, Oregon.

I love to share. Mind if I share? LET ME SHARE!

2008-12-25T00:24:00.000-08:00

I found a home for Guthrie. It was a little bit sad, but now I don't have to worry about top-heavy wineglasses, revolving records, bad smells, or getting kicked out of my apartment. Well, at least not on account of a cat.

I'm really a dog person anyway. I can't wait to have dogs again. I've consoled myself by promising me to volunteer at the humane society now that I have transportation.

Oh, yeah: Happy Winterthing.

May I offer a few more recommendations? First of all, the Bigfoot books by Graham Roumieu. They're pretty much the silliest post-postmodern thing ever. Perhaps post-confessional? Plus Bigfoot is adorable. My personal favorite is "Me Write Book. It Bigfoot Memoir."

If staying out of the snow means a little heavier reading (but not too heavy), and you haven't gotten into the Discworld series by Terry Pratchett, you have a treat waiting for you (who am I talking to?). It's like discovering the Coen Brothers. Or the first time I heard the Beatles... only kidding. Maybe. Discworld runs on magic instead of science, but otherwise it's just a madcappery (I made up that word, like it?) of fantasy, parody, and good old-fashioned tongue-in-cheek British humor. My favorites are the books about Death (who speaks in small caps and collects umbrellas) and Tiffany and her Nac Mac Feegle (a prepubescent witch-in-the-making who befriends a clan of kilt-wearing, drinkin'-theivin'-fightin' little men).

Hmm. In other news, work today--Christmas Eve--at the ol' gas station was aMAZing. Yes, yes, it was mundane and depressing but so much mundane depressing shit happened that I promptly came home, poured myself a Bushmills-and-Diet Pepsi, sat down at the computer and wrote it all down. A short story in the making. I think I'll leave out the part where I hurled a sharp knife over the partition, across the walkway, into the third sink in the backroom and didn't miss. No customers were there. And it doesn't really add to the story. It just made a splashy mess.

The best thing about the holidays when you're single? Er, maybe the day that it's all over and you don't have to explain to anybody that no, you actually don't MIND sitting at home in your pajamas watching Ghosthunters and no, please don't dote and the only reason you should feel sorry for me is that I have to stand here and listen to you pander.

Conversational Poetry

2008-12-23T15:26:00.000-08:00

Like I've said before, finished poetry is off-limits for posting in a public space. Not that anyone would steal anything of mine, but it's dumb to leave your car doors unlocked, regardless.
But here's some random tidbits. In the spirit of Richard Brautigan, whose as-you-go poetry was bookworthy. And because these still deserve a moment.

Notes on a Flying J Napkin
... I stayed up until 5
this morning. Insomnia and a cold,
cold draft from losing a friend. I try to fill
the short days—
with music, with painting,
with emotional eating.
The internet—endless, pointless,
a new kitten to revive
my hay fever. A plastic tree
covered in vintage ornaments—
very Glamour, very …
St. Vincent de Paul’s.
My Netflix queue dwindles as snowfall lingers.
I can’t seem to get warm.

Thought
Winter is the time
when things in your life that don’t work quite right
become more noticable.

I consider myself lucky when:
I see children playing like nobody’s watching.
Or gay men flirting.
Or an animal in the wild.
When I don’t have to watch the heterosexual prowess of nature’s elite.
That is, I go to a bar and it’s only ugly people there.
Similarly, a seedy truck stop.
I sit behind a mulleted woman at the truck stop diner.
Her husband has a veteran’s cap.
They laugh over some joke that they both get.
All the booths have phones on the wall, suspended above the tables.
I consider myself lucky when my friends call
Or family emails, even Christian forwards.
When my mailbox has something, even bills.
I get coffee refills, even though I can’t drink it anymore.
I’m lucky when I can forget about my health for a day.
The snow is soft and dry, easy to brush off my car.
I see actual snowflakes! Not crystals, not microscopic clumps or big, undiscernable blobs, but actual, sparkling, petite, geometric fractals of pristine beauty that fell from heaven.
This has happened once.

Underfoot
Like a cat
I don’t know
Where to go.

From my black notebook, who knows when
Insomnia all the sudden like dirt in your eye
that scratches the surface
and underneath, all liquid and gellatinous
and complex as a switchboard,
were it a million miles long.

Also
"Row, Jimmy Row" and the spitting and turning
flow, life is tangible and the soul is music
and I own a little piece of land, w/
fish jumping and birds riding air bubbles
and dogs smiling, ears lifted for squirrels
and I’m not in Ellensburg among
the supplanted trees; I’m free, somewhere
in an Oregon that exists between my temples, free
free free and time does not exist.
"A broken heart don’t feel so bad"…

Movie recommendation

2008-12-22T14:12:00.001-08:00

Oh, yes. I nearly forgot.

This is the best movie I've seen in a long time, new or old. And before I borrowed it from the library, I didn't even know it existed! So I'm spreading the word.

At first it seems like a sleepy 1940s romance, but that soon changes. It's beautifully shot, unpredictable, intelligent, and psychologically suspenseful. Of course, that's because of the combined genius of Alfred Hitchcock and Daphne de Maurier (whose novels I will soon begin to read, thanks to this movie).

The Room

If only someone as good as Hitchcock had adapted all my favorite books to movie! (Can you imagine, though, a spooky version of Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe? Actually, yes: there's murder, cannibalism, mystery, race relations in the South, and hints of lesbianism. It would make a smashing good Hitchcock, methinks). Anyway, yes. What happened to making my posts short?

Back to Rebecca: Watch it.

Kitty poop happens

2008-12-22T14:07:00.001-08:00

I will make my blogs short and easy-to-read.
I will make my blogs short and easy-t0-read.
I will ...

I got myself the internet for Christmas. I know, way to catch up with the Industrial Revolution! Er, wait, we're on the next one, aren't we?

So I have to get rid of Guthrie (that's his latest name; Arlo didn't work). My apartment has no ventilation. Cats stink. Not only that, but I've been having more problems with my allergies since he moved in. It makes me sad. He's so sweet and cuddly. I woke up this morning, and he was laying next to my face with his body tucked under the blankies. YES I SAY BLANKIES. Anyway, if anyone wants a 9-week-old, adorable, playful, litterbox-trained, cuddly cat with tons of personality, shout my way.

All Who Wander Are Not Stationary

2008-12-17T17:48:00.000-08:00

Recommendation: This Machine Kills Fascists, the Woody Guthrie documentary from 2005.

I watched it last night ... and watched, and watched ... the thing is 160 minutes long!--and I'm still thinking about it. Very fun. Granted, if you're not into folk music, all the close-up shots of wrinkled old people reminiscing, or the rare b&w footage of cattle drives and sinking WWII ships probably won't draw you in. The low-budget interviews with phones ringing and trucks beeping in the background won't help, either. It was very low-scale, as Woody would have liked it.

But fascinating. I love watching stories of real peoples' lives--it's like spying, sort of. And I'm a total nerd for the Depression. Hobos, dust storms, moonshine, political turmoil, music. The biggest geektastic moment for me was watching (and listening to) footage of Woody playing with Brownie & Sonny (Brownie McGee and Sonny Terry, blues duo). Imagine me alone in my apartment, just me and my cat, and I'm drinking whisky & soda and tapping my foot and grinning. At one point I even clapped along. Yep.

Additionally great: listening to Alan Lomax's interviews with Woody, or hearing how he met up with Leadbelly and Josh White and those types. Who, you might ask? Come to my apartment and I'll show you (well, okay, not if I don't know you)--I have vinyls of Josh White and Brownie & Sonny, and a threadbare music book of collected folk songs by Alan Lomax (a Goodwill steal). I'm a major geek for that folksy crap. Pre-Dylan (who also met Woody before he died).

The interviews with his kids, Nora and Arlo (yes, Alice's-Restaurant-Arlo--another album in my collection) were pretty neat too. I don't mind saying, in archaic colloquialism, that I got a real hoot out of it. It was a real hootenanny.

And I'm intrigued as to why Woody Guthrie was plagued by fire. I'm sure there's a woo-woo reason for it and we'll never know.

Non-sequitur. Did I mention a cat earlier? Why yes, I now have a cat. A nine-week-old kitten named, wait for it, Arlo. I was going to name him Cliche'--thanks to Laurel for the brilliant idea--but Arlo suits him better. He's lanky and golden-gray with stripes, and he has pretty eyes and a long nose. He's also a trouble-maker. Hence the name. I realize that cats are nocturnal animals, but I didn't realize they drank shots of Redbull in secret after their people go to bed. He runs around like a, well, a crazy cat at night, sometimes using my face for a springboard. But so long as my landlord doesn't find out about Arlo, all is well.

Your punch line: Just don't play "Alice's Restaurant" when your landlord is around.

Watering hole's frozen.

2008-12-16T18:20:00.000-08:00

Hurrah!

Anyone notice that the last moment of each quarter is always less triumphant than it should be? Finishing school (whatever kind) is less like running through the ribbon at the end of a marathon, and more like crawling by your hands and knees and eyebrows to the watering hole, only to collapse about 3 inches away from relief.

I am done. I have returned my library books, submitted my long-ass papers (Geoffrey Chaucer and Steinbeck, begone!), and entered my students' grades. Now it's just me, Cliche' (my new kitten), a bling-tree, Netflix, and paints. Oh, and bills. And cold fingers. And long days of stir-craziness. Nothing is ever so romantic as it sounds.