Soul at 30,000 ft

As not excited as I might look here--I am listening to Al Green while flying over Louisiana. I mean, WHAT?! Yes! Wi-fi enabled plane. Totally awesome.

Christmas Party on the Savannah

This is as close as I get to acknowledging Christmas in a public forum:

Doesn't this little guy look like he's wearing one of those reindeer antler headbands little kids get to dress up for the holidays? Like, there he is at some Christmas party, and he walked in wearing the reindeer antler headband, and now he's just hanging out at the food table listening to Aunt Mildred talk and talk and talk and talk.

Good thing his sister is hosting the party and she made his favorite snacks.

Snow in the High Arizona Desert

We got snow in the high Arizona desert just a few days before the holiday. We spent the 23rd helping a friend celebrate his birthday in Prescott.

Snow and a clear sky in the Prescott pine forest

Snow on the rock entrance to our friend's high desert house

Angels in the Apocalypse

Though I recognize some will mistake the following confession as either sheer total blasphemy, or simple arrogance, I will take the risk of saying it anyway.

Sometimes I imagine I am an angel that chose to live on earth because God needed angels down here quite simply so they could struggle through the bare reality of this human toil, and do the work of making it good, even while it is so very hard. Because, honestly, it's not like angels would have it any easier once they were human too. It's just that they'd be driven to strive towards goals of refinement, awareness, improvement, compassion, and a sense of closeness to divine light. Sometimes I imagine any of us might be angels in this way, loving our way through life, just trying to remember that closeness to the divine has been in us all along. When I think this way it feels like I could love and love and love and love and love and love and love, and that somehow my being tired makes a little more sense.

The trick that goes along with such a view, it seems, would be to recognize that even angels have to adjust to the demands of earthly life, accepting the constraints of physical limitation, and finding out what can be done in them. Even an angel would have to work to be more than the patterns their parents intentionally, or inadvertently raised them to have. So, the lives any of us live would be both a joy, and a struggle, even for an angel. Whatever the conditions of the time and world situation that angel appeared in would have to be dealt with, just like any of us have to deal with the reality of our own lives.

So, just as an example, even in the bleak alternate reality of an apocalyptic future in which water is scarce, there are no more berries left in the world (which means many of the very colorful birds that once existed are now simply extinct due to lack of appropriate food source), everyone has a bad back, and it's just frickin' cold outside --in such a reality, even an angel would have to be as bad ass and crazy as this guy. In a world such as that, God be with us all.

image from German fashion
(in case you can't tell--those are wings embroidered onto the back of his jacket, and a solid patent waistband to boot)

In fact, in this world that is ours already, God be with us all right here, right now --us angels living human lives, striving to remember how close we always-already are to divine light here on earth in the midst of it all.

British Mandalas

image by shooter

Okay, look, dude. I'm not in the army. I've never been a member of the Monty-Python comedy troupe, and quit trying to tell me I look German, when I'm so very clearly British and just finished practicing Tibetan mandala style drawings all over my arms. Yes. Tibetan style drawings. Yes. On my arms. THAT'S why I'm wearing the pea-colored raincoat. Okay?

Intensity

Dear Paul, I love you. Elaine

Kate Bush, Women's Work

Zombie Chickens and Pic-A-Day Blog Sites

As some of you recall, I've got zombie chicken awards to hand out. But here's the thing: look, dammit. If you're being chased by wild zombie chickens, it's probable that just before the chickens started coming after you there you were sitting next to your sister in front of a fine Parisian bistro with a gorgeous bottle of Krug, Grande Cuvee--it's pale honey colored bubble-touched excellence hovering against your mouth in the tall crystal flute it's been poured into--the bottle perched in the sterling silver ice bucket beside you. She'd be wearing that black fringe, 20's-style dress that looks so frickin' good on her, and you'd have on that green vintage silk, authentic Japanese kimono you bought from the friperie in Montreal. Both of you would be wearing deep, though solid, red lipstick, a touch of black eyeliner, and a standard ply of black mascara on perfectly curled lashes. Being in Paris, the important point would be, however, you'd both be relaxed in so much splendor.

Your (my) Sister in that Vintage Fringe Dress and Red Lipstick Mentioned Above

Then, out of no where, hobbling at high chicken-speed, these little zombie birds would suddenly appear pecking after you to demand you play 80's pop music, that you change into multi-colored leather full-body outfits, and, thus, that you completely (to be plain) fuck up your relaxed Parisian bistro fare. I mean, really. Who do these zombie chickens think they are?

In such case, there are two blogs you'd hope to high hell had survived the zombie invasion so that you could set them up on a multitude of laptops, and turn them on on the internet accessible tele-screens stationed around the world (like in Time's Square, and Downtown Tokyo) set at permanent repeat. To put it in more straightforward fashion: the following two blogs deserve the zombie chicken awards because they're the sites that would save us straight off, before things got bad, from the zombie chickens themselves. If you could get this mad poultry onto the internet, they'd be so consumed by the pic-a-day splendor of these sites, we'd have the chance to stop the flesh-rotting hens in their corn-demanding tracks.

The Zombie Chicken Award Goes To:


2. Why Eat?
This site showcases photos of what the Seattle based blogger happened to eat that day. Recently she's highlighted such excitement as "breakfast for dinner" and "sometimes chicken." (I wonder though, is it possible the "sometimes chicken" segment would actually piss off the zombie chickens more?) Her posts limit the commentary, but are charming and humorous in their close ups of plates from both restaurants and homemade meals.


3. Plastic Animal A Day
Judy Aldridge is well-known for her Atlantis Home blog, and for being the mother of Jane from Sea of Shoes. But even more charming is her on-the-down-low blog featuring photos of a different plastic animal scene every day. I mean, honestly. How more revealing of a person can you get than to discover that they pursue plastic animals with such voraciousness they can actually showcase a different plastic animal picture every day around the calendar forever?

Portrait

The wonderful photographer, Carol Bily Hagen of la familigia foto, took portraits of the ten-year old and I earlier this week, just after the crazy big snowstorm calmed down. We're giving them to my folks for their holiday gift. Here are a few of the photos.

Classic

Harry Nilsson, "Everybody's Talking"

Letter From Captain Picard

Cadet Picard, image from memoryalpha

Dear Master Hans,

Congratulations on your recent accomplishment. You have succeeded in your work at the academy, and continue to face an incredibly bright future. In moments like these it is important to recognize the value of our accomplishments. You have worked hard and done something significant. I know your family is very proud, and rightfully so. Anthropology has always been a passion of mine. I admire you in your pursuit of it.

Your friend Elaine expressed that you are a fan, and requested I send you a picture from early in my career as a source of inspiration to you as you continue in your good work. With that in mind, I have enclosed the above picture of me as a Star Fleet cadet. May it remind you that as you complete these early steps, you look forward to an excellent future.

Sincerely,
From the future,
Captain Picard

Wishful Thinking

Rachel Roy, F 2009
(If anyone does locate above pictured dress, please feel free to let me know.)

Dear Elaine,

We all know how much you like penpals, so I have written in advance of Christmas to, first, surprise you, and then, second, spur on the anticipatory tension that comes when I force you to wait until I actually arrive. A dress like me is tricky like that--so nonchalant in my draping you want to relax, so demanding in my color palette you can't help but pay attention.

Yes, despite the surprise, I am your Christmas present. I know it's hard to believe since your parents don't believe in the existence of such bright, or expensive clothing, and most of your friends are broke. Not to mention the fact that you have utterly resisted ever considering the merits of my dear, earnest designer until the vibrancy of her fabrics lured you in. But you are one of those rare people that looks good in such vibrant orange--thank your parents Alaska Native heritage for that--and considering your recent blog post on the vividly orange tow truck signs, your loved ones conspired to get together and search long and hard for me--this beautifully draped, asymmetrical, just-your-style, Rachel Roy dress that will look so good on you--so that you can dress up and laugh and laugh because you know that though you could dig out a car, even in designer RTW attire, and look good doing it, instead all you have to do the day you wear me is walk through town and smile.

Love,
Your new dress

p.s. I look forward to meeting you in person.

Zombie Chicken Blog Power Heck Yeah

The Award


Okay, so. I just got a blog award from insanitykim, delivered over there via her blog. And you know what, heck. I blush a little bit. It's hardish to make me blush. So, not only have I gotten a blog award, I've gotten a physiological experience I don't commonly get to have too. Thanks, Nice-Nice Kim!


The Situation
So, the way these blog awards work you're usually supposed to hand them out to other blogs too. And here's the thing, the zombie chicken award is a medal given only to those blogs you'd go crazy commando hog wild covered in mud to read even though you're facing the end of the world and chickens are actually a serious undead threat. I mean, imagine, flesh-rotting but-still-animated chickens coming after you demanding corn, stealing red leather MJ style jackets to dance in along the way. It's a horrifying situation really. Yet even in the midst of that there are those of us that know we still need something good to read. Thus, the zombie chicken blog award for those blogs that even in the midst of horrorifying running and screaming we'd be pounding across the pavement actually thinking, "God, please let me find free wi-fi so I can access that blog via iphone while I escape."

If we did ever encounter such a situation, here's what I'd be wearing.

Current Givenchy, image from Italian Vogue

I recognize the above outfit is likely an unexpected choice when encountering the zombification of poultry the world over. But here's the thing, the only chance we've got in such a situation is the power of the unexpected, and honestly if I've gotten ahold of a dress as fabulous as Givenchy couture it's because I've also transcended the limitations of this human toil, having apparently become some kind of ultra-fantastic superhero superpower, and am fully prepared to use my powers of apparition to kick some serious zombie chicken ass, appearing, disappearing, and reappearing just like Dead Pool from X-Men, except better because I wouldn't be covered in scar tissue, and I'd be apparating for the sake of what's good. In this case, clearly, the good being philosophical insight via the power of the written word as offered in blog form.

The Zombie Chicken Award Winner
So, here's a chicken award. The zombie chicken seems to come with a 10-blog award point (that is, I can hand the award out to something like 10 other blogs), but I'm gonna start by awarding only 1, so that I can save 9 points to award later. Us single moms are always trying to save what we can.

The thing about me too is that I can't just hand these things out. I've gotta offer explanation for my choice. So here we go.


This Zombie Chicken Award Goes To:


1. Learning to Be: On the Phenomenology of Development, Life, and Human Life.

The truth of the matter is, are you ready? I know a lot of philosophers. It's horrifying really. It's a crazy world when you're surrounded by people that reflect on almost anything they do in their lives as if even pulling their own socks up can offer valuable insight into the human experience. I know some of you are laughing, thinking, surely not just pulling your socks up. No. Truly. Some of us really honestly reflect on things as mundane as pulling up our own socks and turn it into theorizing.

Here's the other thing though. The best theory does makes sense of every day experience. So, in that light, even pulling up your own socks, when done well, can be a source of great philosophical, and thus also personal, insight. Recently I pulled up both my socks and discovered after that they both matched and didn't match at the same time, and not only that, they both matched my underwear too. How, you ask? They're all striped. Different colors, varied stripe sizes, but all striped. How could I have done this without realizing until after? Isn't it strange, you reflect, that I could have gotten these things on while not actually paying attention, and yet also have chosen only items that have this one common feature? It's as if some part of me was actually paying attention the whole time.

Bad example, but it turns out some people have the ability to answer such questions. So, I offer the zombie chicken blog award to the newishly born blog "Learning to Be" for two reasons (1) the author is one of those people that has the power to theorize brilliantly on things in such a way to show us that what we sometimes take to be simply mundane is really quite profound (he has a whole post on the experience of making espresso), and (2) the author is also one of those philosophers that is so clearly a philosopher, while also being one of the most loveable, dear hearted, makes-you-want-to-love-all-philosophers sort of people that you can't help but offer him a zombie chicken (z.c.) when you have one. I honestly hope he puts the power of the z.c. on his blog as a blazing bright shining medal of how good, likeable, and smart he is, even as it may appear at first to counter the intellectual seriousness of his abilities. In the face of undead, dancing, corn demanding chickens he'd win.

12 Days of Christmas

The 10-year old playing in our recent 28" snow fall

The thing about being an academic is we survive crazy, intensive four month long blocks, and then follow that up with several weeks break. In this sense, being an academic is a lot like being a logger--you work hard at your job cutting and moving trees for the dry, warm months. Then you gotta stop for a while cause of ice. In reality though, that several week break is when we're supposed to shift from either teaching, or writing our coursework, to doing some other kind of research (our dissertation, perhaps; or a professional article), but doing that in a really intensive fashion too, since we only have the several weeks to devote to it solely. So, really being an academic is a lot like being a logger that works in a mine during the off-season. Except, minus the black lung, and the physical activity. Academics are notorious butt sitters, after all. Though, many of us smoke cigarettes to deal with the stress, so maybe black lung is a live option.

Anyway, I've got grading to do still. But otherwise, I've survived my ultra intensive fall term. And post-grading, I have to shift to focus on writing that other research before my spring term starts. Really though, what I need to do is focus on rejuvenating myself so that I can make sure I've got enough juice to get that other research done. Kate asked me, "what do you need?" I take that to be a way of getting at the question of what is going to rejuvenate me and juice me up. So, I'll take some time to focus on thinking about and answering that question now via the 12 things I'd want idea. (Isn't it weird that it's December?)

The 12 Days of Christmas
by Belaine Bristine Brown

1. To make various obscure cookies and pastries that require most of a day to make.
2. To sit on my butt (that academic habit) next to someone I enjoy spending time with and talk and talk and laugh.
3. To wear clothes that make me feel luscious, amazing, fun, relaxed, and excellent.
4. To plan events that are low stress for me, and make my baby girl (the 10-year old) laugh and laugh.
5. To squeezey hug my niece.
6. To eat oreos dipped in coconut milk.
7. To feel rested and enthused enough to go sledding with the kids.
8. To go classical skiing.
9. To write poems.
10. To wear a dress that goes swish-swish when I move and to have an occasion to wear it to.
11. To wear a bunch of necklaces like I'm running away from a mummy in a pirate's treasure cave and trying to get as much as I can out with me.
12. To walk around taking pictures outside.

I'm still tired enough, my list is simple. Simple is good.

Losing Your Car to the Snow, For Kate

Beginning of a Blizzard in Sedona, Arizona (half hour south of Flagstaff), December 2009

In Montreal, when it snows, the cars parallel parked on every street of the city have to magically find somewhere else to go so the snow can be plowed and hauled away. The city handles this difficult situation by hanging vibrant orange tow-truck signs with 12 hour time periods over the streets of the neighborhoods that will be plowed next. So, on the right side of the street the 12 hours overlaps day time hours, and on the left side of the street the hours are at night. The city figures this way only half the car owners are totally and completely screwed at any one time. Honestly, when there are enough cars in town that they take up every car length of street in the area, it's hard to imagine how all those cars will compress into half the car spots of the city. Somehow, it mostly works.

The reason for the tow truck sign is that at some point in that 12 hour time period a giant plow is going to come through that side of the street to get rid of the snow. If your car is on that side of the street when the plow comes down the road, a city tow truck is going to ticket, and then take your car away. The nice thing about life in a place like Montreal, is the tow company knows all too well that they don't have time to literally haul every such car to a distant tow lot, and no car owner wants to cross town to said lot. Instead, the tow truck just pulls your car around the corner to whatever open parking spot the driver is able to find. As a result, the day after a big storm there are tons of people driving around trying to find a parking spot, or there are tons of people walking around trying to find their moved car.

My last year in Montreal was the largest snow year on record. That means the biggest snow fall in 400 years (when the records started). Pretty impressive really, and quite lovely too. Towards the end of the season, right when the snow plowing budget ran out, we got the biggest snow fall within that record year--about 3 feet in one storm. Because the city had run out of money for plowing, they stopped clearing the city sidewalks, and focused only on clearing the streets, but even there the city plowed only one side of the streets in many places, figuring it would all melt eventually anyway. As a result, walking about town was like pushing along a mountain trail. People had made little step-by-step paths on top of the three foot mounds of snow on sidewalks. But in places their steps would sink in, then there would be the entrance to some apartment building where the manager had actually bothered to shovel out the front, then there would be the place where someone dug their car out and threw their snow on the sidewalk, so that suddenly the snow was five feet high. With this combination of features you'd be walking gingerly, but sweating as you climbed up, then back down, then sunk in, then perched up over the crazy mountain-like trail of sidewalk snow.

In the midst of this 3 foot snow storm I caught some kind of illness and was bed ridden. As a result, I missed first digging my car out of the frozen rubble to move it for the plowing, and then missed too when my car was actually plowed. By the time I woke up from my mysterious sleep, my car was no longer parked in front of my flat, the sidewalks were half way up the first story of the building I lived in, and the left side of my street was cleared, while the right side was still buried in snow. I have no idea where the neighborhood cars disappeared to. They'd all been moved. It was a day after the storm when I came to, and had to start wandering the streets to find my car. My car had been towed once each of the two years previous that I'd lived in Montreal, so I was familiar with the procedure. I figured it wouldn't be a big issue, I'd just walk around each of the corners within a two-block radius of my apartment, and around one of them there my car would be. This time though the around-each-corner investigation didn't work. My car wasn't to be found. I expanded the search area to five blocks, and still it didn't work. Then I realized it was time to rush off to some meeting across town so I ditched the car search and went on my way via bus. Not arriving home till later that night, I didn't bother looking for my car again till the next morning. Waking up the next day, I decided to take a systematic approach to searching for my car. I would walk north for ten blocks, looking side to side for my car at each cross street, then turn and walk ten blocks south one street over, and keep this up for the general neighborhood area. Walking like this I still didn't find my car and again other plans intervened so I ditched the hunt again. That night though after my meeting I met up with friends and one of them asked if they could catch a ride home with me. "No," I said. "I'm sorry." "Oh? What's up." They asked in response. "Oh. My car is gone. I haven't seen it in several days so I walked here." My friend started laughing at how nonchalant my response was. "You car is gone?" They thought I meant it was stolen. I clarified that oh, I had no idea what had happened to my car, since it had never wandered off this far on its own before. But I figured I'd find it eventually. And if I didn't, well, that would save me ever shoveling it out of this record snow fall again.

That night we stayed out late drinking cheap Canadian beer, and I woke up the next day with a sore back and a headache. Not enough water. I decided though that the weather was so bright and clear it was time to work even harder at finding the car. If I didn't succeed after day three of looking, I'd have to break into the French-speaking municipality system and call to report a runaway sedan. In the midst of walking a full-kilometer away from my house I received a phone call from Don and we chatted it up about Star Trek, philosophy, the snow, and our aching post-cheap-beer headaches. We were both feeling physically miserable, but I was out in the brisk air walking it off. Twenty minutes of this and I still had no idea where my car was. I was starting to say to Don that maybe it really had been stolen and here four days later I hadn't even bothered to report the theft to the police. Finally though, I walked by one of those bright-orange tow truck signs that had a phone number on it. I'd never seen one of these before. My neighborhood only ever had a friendly little picture of the truck.

I told Don I'd call him back and dialed the number. It turned out it linked directly into that French-speaking municipality system, falling right in the middle of the snow-plow, tow-truck division. If you had your license plate number memorized, you could type it into the system and a man with a heavy Quebecois accent would recite back the cross street location where your car had been towed. This was excellent. If my car had just been towed away for snow, I could just dial it in and look it up. I typed in my license plate and the man recited back a cross street I couldn't understand. It had just been towed. But to where I had no idea. In my extended neighborhood I couldn't remember any streets that even sounded remotely like what he was saying. I called Don back, who was at home snuggled up with his internet connection (the best way to deal with a hang over clearly is either sleeping or online), and gave him the dial-your-car information, asking him if he could sort out where my car was located by referencing the man's accent to a local street map. We got off the phone again and I waited. Don called back and had come up with four possible streets that could turn out to be where my car was located. One of them was more than a kilometer from my house. The rest I'd walked by in my previous searches. I start heading east towards the furthest possible street. Don and I talked more, laughing about the absurdity of the situation when you included my hang over in the story.

I walked in the sun, through the wide open snowy field of the park near my house. We chatted while I moved under the several-hundred year old trees covering the area. Finally, there on the other side of the park, I reached the street. There were cars thrown in at odd angles and underneath enormous mounds of now-frozen-to-ice mounds of snow. With the craziness of the snow storm it turned out the trucks had to take cars this far away to find a ditch-'em parking spot. In addition, though, the city hadn't recently plowed this street, and many of the cars had obviously been left there since before the last snow. The trick then wasn't going to be just walking the length of the street to spot my car, but instead to walk the length of the street to identify the mound that could fit the shape of my car. The thing about owning a sedan though, is that lots of mounds could look like the shape of your car. After walking half the street I recognized the tip of my radio antenna sticking out of a mound in just the right way. I kicked the snow off of the license plate. And there it was. My car. Buried under a mound of snow that surrounded the car by literally two feet on every side, and another foot and a half on top. I told Don the situation and then got off the phone ready to throw my aching back, and headache into the project. Hauling snow off the trunk with my hands I was able to get my shovel out of the trunk and started digging out the car. After three years in the city I'd learned how to take away only just enough snow to de-parallel park, leaving the shape of the mound mostly intact when I left with the car. This time it turned out the tow truck had hauled my vehicle onto an earlier-made mound of snow and so I had to shovel snow out from under the car too. Still, after three hours of work I was able to leave behind a rectangle brick of snow a foot and a half thick on three sides with the shape of a sedan missing from the middle of it. The tow truck ticket was $100.

Yesterday Flagstaff, Arizona experienced one of its biggest blizzards in years. That's really saying something considering Flagstaff is a mountain town situated at 7000 feet, or 2,140 meters in elevation. Last night our power went out for 10 hours as a result of over 2 feet of snow and 70 mile per hour winds. It's time to head outside and dig our way out the front door. Gratefully I brought the shovel into the mud room two days ago, knowing I'd need it soon. The car is in the driveway without threat of towing. Flagstaff too will tow your car away if its parked on the street overnight after a snow storm. But it is surrounded by two-feet high snow on every side, and on top. Not to mention a good twelve feet between the back of the car and the edge of the street that'll have to be shoveled. Gratefully, there's no hang over in sight.

U.N. Council Address

Sunday Morning Playlist

The last two days I've laid in bed for a while after waking up, as I mentioned yesterday. Today especially I feel the call of nothing to do. So I'm trying to respond only to what I want to do, as much as that's possible. That is, instead of getting straight up and going through the morning routine just because I'm awake, what would motivate me to get up?

With this "what do I want" mode in mind, yesterday, the 10-year old and I went out for burgers at the location of honest-to-god, the best burgers I've ever had in my life. I'm not big on burgers, actually. Except I am now because of this place. We really go eat burgers an average of three times in two weeks now.

So we went for burgers at Diablo, a local-focused restaurant--every ingredient (including the beef), except the condiments, originates from local, sustainable agriculture producers. The food tastes amazing. All burgers are served on gluton-free toasted English Muffins branded with their logo DB.

Rachel ordered "The Marilyn"--an adult size burger with aged sharp cheddar--or, what she says "should be renamed, 'Heaven.'" (Which, in case you didn't notice, is a brilliantly ironic comment from anyone since the name of the restaurant is "Diablo" (an allusion to the devil) but she wants this burger to be called "Heaven" (an allusion to, well, uh, the place the devil ain't allowed to go). But, the comment is even cleverer than that because it was generated by *a ten year old.* I love this sense of humor she's somehow grown into.) I got "The Yum" (okay, I can't remember what they call it but whoa. it's good.)--a full size yum burger with a fried over-medium egg and a spread of pesto on top. (Um... whoa. Are they open right now?) Anyway, the perfect burger to eat for brunch. After eating I realized I was tired. So, we honestly sat their for two hours at the burger bar stool, half-watching the Pittsburgh--Cincinnati College Football game (what an ending!), and working on making thin metal bracelets spin on their sides as long as possible. It was good.

Today on the agenda is the following playlist. Somehow this represents my mood this morning. Feel free to offer personality test style interpretations of me via the following list in comments.

1. "Poker Face" Lady Gaga
2. "Who By Fire" Leonard Cohen Live
3. "Love Lockdown" Kanye West
4. "Helpless" K.D. Lang covers Neil Young
5. "Those Three Days" Lucinda Williams
6. "Stormy Weather Pt. 1" Lena Horne Live
7. "Going to California" Led Zepplin
8. "Family Affair" Mary J Blige
9. "Give Yourself to Love" Kate Wolf
10. "Lake Charles" Lucinda Williams
11. "If You've Got the Money, I've Got the Time" Lefty Frizzell
12. "It Wasn't God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels" Kitty Wells
13. "Hounds of Love" Kate Bush
14. "Loving Her Was Easier" Kris Kristofferson
15. "La Vie en Rose" Michael Saga
16. "Can't Help Falling in Love" Lick the Tins
17. "La Belle et le Bad Boy" MC Solaar
18. "Are You Gonna Go My Way" Lenny Kravitz
19. "Speechless" Lady Gaga
20. "Sharp Cutting Wings" Lucinda Williams
21. "Lucille" Kenny Rogers
22. "I Try" Macy Gray
23. "Everybody Knows" Leonard Cohen
24. "Bad Romance" Lady Gaga
25. "I'm Your Man" Leonard Cohen Live
26. "Mercy Mercy Me" Marvin Gaye
27. "What a Wonderful World" Louis Armstrong

Lena Horne "Stormy Weather" 1966
(Her way of singing the song, her voice, changes significantly over the course of the career. Her later performances show her having 'grown into' it in a way she didn't show as thoroughly earlier (the 40's). Beautiful throughout her career though.)

Lady Gaga - New Music - More Music Videos

Lady Gaga "Poker Face"
(Apologies it's hard to find this vid online without embedding disabled. Here it is but with ads. Beh.
Also, remarkably, this video is relatively boring compared to how Lady G handles her imagery now, a mere year later in her career.)


KD Lang "Helpless" (filling in for Neil Young at the Juno Awards 2005
God, she's got such a beautiful voice. Notice too: her bare feet.)

Finding Ptarmigan Outside the Bar

A Rock Ptarmigan

I went out for a drink last night with one of the crankiest women I know. We only see each other on average of once a month. So, between hang-out sessions I tend to forget the way she behaves-- loudly spouting off about how people in the bar are acting. Each time this happens I start out surprised; uncomfortably trying to figure out if I can lower the volume on her voice without her knowing (I don't want to be rude) in order to make myself more comfortable. Then I hit a point of giving over to it-- these kinds of comments are simply how the evening is going to go, and it's too loud in here now for the two of us to have our own conversation either. The next morning, or later that night when I've left and am on my way home again, I realize that a lot of what's she said really is funny. Now that I'm not worried anymore about someone hearing I can see the spot on social critique she's offering. --The blond early-20-something woman at the bar acting like even though she's *in the middle of* the bartender station people should find another place to order their drinks because she is there. The bar owner in the corner whispering about all the women's breasts in the bar while talking to a guy that looks like he deals coke, and maybe whatever else he might be able to sell too. The women that keep walking over and stepping themselves between me and whatever man I happen to be talking to even though I'm not interested, and they're not involved.

The next morning I move through a phase of wondering why she's like this. It's not that she's drunk. We only ever have one drink together and she's only just gotten off of work-- working two jobs she finishes around 9 p.m. on week nights. And then it hits me. This cranky woman is me. Not literally. I really did go out last night and have drinks with a woman that was not simply me sitting there at the bar. What I do mean is that once a month, or every month and a half or so, I must come off as if I'm that cranky too.

I work as a professor at a University here in Arizona. The thing about that that some of my friends don't really comprehend, simply because their work life is not run on a regular semester-length cycle, is that how I feel, what I have time to care about, who I am going to have time to talk to, and even how I am going to 'see' and comment on other people in a bar is going to change, or even move in cycles, depending on where things are in the semester repetition of the academic calendar. The last week of term I just got through is an intense week of pressure. Discussing ideas with students in the classroom, we've gotta tie together everything that's been accomplished intellectually over the course of the whole semester. All the last grading is about to come in. And after 16 weeks of this, we're all so tired we have no ability to even care anymore about how the semester really went. Did our classes go well? Did the students learn what they needed to? Who cares! Let's just get this thing over with. It's a week of burn out with the demand to finish anyway. In terms of how getting through that week feels, it's like all my clothes are on tight, there is only one direction in the entire world to walk in-- it's through this hallway in the building I have to cross to get back outside, and it turns out the walls on either side are skimming both my arms as I walk. In other words, don't think there is anything else that can fit into what I have to do this week. There is already so much I can barely fit myself across the building of my life.

So, the thing about being in a week like that is from the outside I probably look pretty stiff, really determined, unrelenting, and depending on how you try to interact with me, also likely cranky. It's not that I am cranky, necessarily. It's just that there you are standing in that skinny-tight hall in front of me, triggering my claustrophobia, and slowing down my already difficult progress getting the heck across the building.

My friend last night I think has some version of this. She works two jobs. Is likely tired much of the time. Or, at least existentially tired-- there she is in the grind of her work life, because, based on what she's said, she figures she might as well work a lot and bring in more money now, since she hasn't yet gotten the job she actually wants. And still with all that work, is determined to go out and have "her own time" a night or two a week too. The trouble is, it's hard to fit in time for yourself when you're at a bar with way too many people, half of whom think the bar should open up and move for them.

This morning, after finishing the last week of teaching classes (I'll have some grading to do next week, and then the final grades to enter), I woke up and first laid in bed for a long time. I was going to get up. Then realized I was pretty tired physically for doing that. Then realized I didn't have to get up anyway. There is nothing scheduled that I have to get to. So, I slumped around doing nothing in bed until it occurred to me what I wanted to do. It's hard to shift gears and get to that point of knowing what you want when your life has been about checking off a list of requirements for the last four months.

The thing is, any of us go through some version of this, right? There are weeks we hit that just are a lot more demanding than others. And there we are feeling like a different person. It doesn't matter if our bodies are physically tired, we have to get up anyway. And maybe we don't even notice that our bodies are that tired because we're already so focused on what to get done we're not paying attention to how we feel right now. Our feelings really are largely determined by the circumstances of our daily lives-- what we have to get done, or, if we don't have enough to do; whether we're getting up and moving around, or not; how the people around us are trying to demand space at the metaphorical bar; whether we're paying attention to the physical needs of our body, or not; whether or not we feel like we have any time "for ourselves." Having moved out of the demands of this term, I woke up and felt really differently than I have for a while. But I recognized how I felt too. I felt something like this this summer when I had a lot of research work to do, but no daily schedule to have to do it in. Instead of feeling like I'm crammed in a hallway, it feels more like I'm wearing my favorite dress and walking outside in the sun. Except, it's winter now in Arizona, so it can't quite feel like summer. Instead, it's more like I'm wearing incredibly comfortable, quilt-lined, carhart-style overalls, and big felted wool cozy boots, and I'm outside laughing in the snow with my daughter. There is sun shining, and the air is brisk, but until 3:22 p.m. when the sun will start to set (I'm from Alaska, remember? The sun sets early there, so my mental images of winter include an early setting sun.) when it's time to make hot chocolate, all we have to do is roll around in the snow, laugh, and look for ptarmigan--they're the goofiest, stoutest, elegant, little, ground birds, and they change colors with the seasons. Looking for ground birds is a nice way to give yourself a project without any actual pressure in it--the demand of a little, imaginative hunt.

Today I'm going to pretend all we have to do is look for ground birds, with the idea that if we spot one it's a good omen of fulfilling our wishes, and if we don't it's a good omen for thinking up new dreams.

If this post seems a little rambley, good! That's good sign that I'm sinking into the new pattern of a less hectic schedule for the next month, till the Spring term starts up and we roll with the semester again. In fact, from what I can tell, the whole day is a good sign. Good wishes and new dreams to all of you!

Blog Loving Duality

I'd like to mention two radically different blogs that I have a strong affection for.

image from blogboard

1. Couture Millinery Atelier is the blog of, what I can tell, a sweet heart of a woman, Anya Caliendo. She's a Modiste, a hat designer, located in NYC, that just returned from several months of hat making in London! How exciting is that?

Her blog features wonderful pictures of design inspiration, images of hats in fashion history, and tales of her travels through the world of millinery. Her blog was on hiatus for the several months she just spent in London (why I didn't mention it sooner), but she's back now with more lovely pictures--right now of art photography of hat-clad woman in sumptuous Parisian flats.

Anya's "Plaza Hat"

http://www.couturemillinery.com/


2. A Parent's Life to Behold: Through Insanity and Bliss

It can be remarkable to reconnect with high school chums. Kim and I worked on our high school newspaper together, were both avid art nuts, and did a lot in our English department too. We also had a mess of mutual friends.

One of my favorite memories of her though comes from the day after a dance she went to at a rival Anchorage high school. She came back and reported to a few of us in Newspaper Class about meeting this boy that she danced with that was cute, and nice, and shy, and seemed to like her too. I remember even the image of her flipping her hair as she blushed so much she had to hide it behind her endlessly long brown locks. (My hair was always short till more recently, so someone having long, long hair stands out to me.) The most impressive thing about the story though is that now something like 18 years later they're still together. Her blog tells, in hilarious fashion, stories of her life as a parent, of home schooling their two kids, of life in the lower-48 (it's a big deal for us Alaska folks to survive 'down south'), and of the horror of flight to get back to Alaska. She also occasionally does friendly give-aways of various sorts.

One of Kim's kids SO excited about T-Day dinner

http://www.kimnfam.com/