Morgellon's Fibers, Handwashing, Dancing, and Daniel

Years ago when I first moved to Montreal I went late in the evening to a bar in Miles End to get some dinner. It turned out there was a cover band playing that night so after eating a smoked meat sandwich for the first time in my life (I nearly died. I couldn't believe a simple meat sandwich could be SO good. Turns out Montreal is known for its smoked meat.) I decided to hang around and listen to the music. Something more than just the music had convinced me to stay. There was a man in the bar that walked around with his backpack kept close to him, and every time the band would play a Neil Young song he'd jump up and dance, mostly doing a classic guitar hero stance with the arm swinging slowly in a circle for a big chord strum. He'd stand there strumming that imaginary guitar again and again for a full six minute cover, and then if the next song was Young, he'd sit down again. For whatever reason, I found this fascinating.

When the band stopped playing the man with the backpack got up to leave. As he walked by me (I was sitting near the entrance) I said to him, "You can't leave, man." I enjoyed the spectacle of him a little too much. He turned at me sharply and yelled, "Why are you yelling at me?!" then walked out. It was a surprising moment that I certainly hadn't expected, most particularly because from what I could tell I hadn't been yelling at all. About ten minutes later the man returned through the front door and asked me if I knew where I was. "In Montreal, in Miles End," was as much response as I could figure. He answered me, again yelling, "I don't know where I live! I don't know where I'm going!" then rushed out the door again and was gone.

A few months later I saw him again during day light, again keeping close to his backpack. Eventually I would discover this man I'd spoken with during one of my first nights in Montreal was actually a kind of local institution. He had a whole back story it turned out. Someone told me he'd actually been a well known cartoonist but at some point a decade or two prior had a drug overdose of some sort (acid, I believe) and had basically gone crazy. Now he lived the life I'd caught glimpses of, and someone had even, I guess, made a documentary about him. Right now, I honestly can't remember the man's name.

After he left the club I'd mentioned to one of the bar managers that it seemed the man needed help. They told me at the time that they knew that, but that they also knew he'd be fine, and to go ahead and sit down. A little unsure of what that all meant, I did sit down again. Within minutes most of the bar patrons cleared out since the band was finished. New to the city I figured just relaxing a while longer in this place I'd found was a reasonable thing to do. I wound up one of the few patrons left and when most everyone else had cleared out, out of no where rolls of black velvet emerged, all the windows were covered with it, and the lights were turned down low. Suddenly a whole new group of patrons started coming in the front door, but this time they all had to be let in via list. If their name wasn't on it, they were sent away. For whatever reason, the bar managers had decided I could stay, and as a result I became witness and participant to what they called "Caribbean nights," a private and regularly scheduled salsa event. The music was all pre-recorded, but the dancers were passionate about what they were doing. Within two songs the man that seemed to have organized Caribbean nights spoke to me in French, then when he realized I didn't understand, said to me in English that I must dance, that that was how it worked. I let him know I couldn't salsa, and he took my hand and led me to the floor anyway.

That was my brief introduction to salsa dancing. It was followed a couple years later by my dear friend Daniel counting in my ear "1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4." as we salsa'd to whatever music happened to have a close enough rhythm. He was a wonderful lead, and forgiving with my missteps too. We first danced at a late night house party with cover that a woman in Toronto hosted regularly. Half the cover, apparently, would go to the band, the other half would go to her living expenses. The party, afterall, was held right in her living room. Thinking back now, with all the work I've been busy doing, and living a life of a single parent with no childcare, I honestly haven't danced since the last time Daniel and I visited in Toronto at least three years ago. We'd gone to the weekly show of some friends of ours. They got together every Monday to play live music. In the midst of this, he convinced me to get up and salsa to jazz standards. I know the combination sounds ridiculous, but like I said, he's a wonderful lead, and somehow it worked.

Over the weekend I caught myself reading about this horrific medical condition online where people feel like they have bugs crawling under their skin, eventually develop sores, and claim to have these weird blue, red, and white fibers growing from the sores as well. The medical establishment is divided on their views of the ailment with some thinking it is entirely psychological, and others believing there really is some crazy bug-sore-fiber disease that, though rare, is triggered by some pathogen caught by some people. There hasn't been enough research on the condition yet to determine which view is right.

At the start of this week I was working on a chapter of my dissertation and in the midst of thinking hard on how to clarify a point I caught myself getting up to go wash my hands. I realized what I was doing--washing my hands as a stress reaction, rather than out of dirty hand washing need--before I'd reached the bathroom. I recognized too that I'd just been reading, the night before, about odd medical ailments. The combination, you may recall, arose out of a stress reaction during the coursework stage of graduate school. First I started unnecessarily washing my hands, and then I started reading about obscure medical conditions until I started to fret that I had them. Clearly this wouldn't do. I wasn't going to willingly fall into a bad cycle of hand washing and tape worm frenzy if I could help it.

I decided that it was time to focus on something new, something positive, and something from a list of skills I wanted to develop that I wrote for myself something like three years ago--it was a list of things I wanted to do when my life eased up a bit and I had both the time and the money for it. So, yesterday I started taking dance lessons. I just moved to a new place, and I've been feeling really inward because of it, so I decided it was not only acceptable but a good supportive thing to do for myself to take the lessons privately. So, at this point I've signed up for five lessons to occur once a week. We started with dance basics, and then quickly moved into salsa basics, and by the end of the hour long lesson my teacher was leading me around the floor to music complete with spins, and spontaneous new steps thrown in. I want to say I sucked at it, but instead I'll say I actually picked things up kind of quickly for a person that has been living in her graduate school intellectual self devoid of body for several years now, and hasn't danced at all for several years either. What I care about though is that dancing is something fun. If a man can air guitar for six minutes and enjoy it, surely I can let myself relax while I salsa.

About half way through the lesson I realized my teacher was counting in my ear, "1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4." just like Daniel used to do, and I had to laugh. It's funny how the timing of these things works out. I'd actually gotten a letter in the mail from Daniel just the day before. It had been two years since we'd really talked, and it was wonderful to hear from him. Cheers to friendship! Cheers to trying something semi-new!

New England Schtick

It turns out that (at least in the expanse that is the combination of New Hampshire and Vermont) New England, U.S.A. amounts to a conglomeration of small towns that pride themselves on having their own unique schtick. You know, that thing that is meant to make them unlike anywhere else. Each town is quaint, with a very country-esque sort of charm, but blended into this commonality is a slightly different feel, and very different local attraction to each. At least, that's supposed to be the idea.

Driving on US 4 across Vermont this weekend the 10-year old and I happened upon Killington, Vermont, the town that celebrates itself through hay. I was taken with the absurdity of it--from what I could tell the area isn't actually overwhelmed with hay harvesting, but they pride themselves on hay sculptures nonetheless.

Killington calls itself "the heart of the Green Mountains" and does sit in a beautiful area. In the winter they have a ski and boarding area. Spring offers the Maple harvest. Summer has water sports, and the Autumn has Vermont's multi-color foliage.

We discovered this weekend though that Autumn also brings The Killington Hay Festival during which the area celebrates an enormous Motorcycle Rally, and a Hay Maze. Local businesses get in on the hay celebration by using enormous round hay bails to construct enormous hay sculptures of various types of animals. A drive along Route 4 offers several miles of the hay animal extravaganza. Here's a few pics from this year's sculptures. Apparently, they generally stay up till the first snow fall.

True Love, aka., A Representation of the Good

You may recall, way back in February, I celebrated the future of this possible world through the discovery of a portrait posted on the internet. The thing about this portrait that spoke to me was the way that the moment captured by the photograph made its subject appear as having a wonderful blend of groundedness, balance, creativity, and enthusiasm.

I believe that it can be valuable to give ourselves representations of the ideals we have for ourselves, and what we want to be in our lives. That portrait stood as one of those representations for me. Having gone through this move it seems an appropriate time to renew my own ideals for myself and my life. It turns out, oh happy circumstance, that I came upon another portrait of the very same man I'd posted back in February, and Oh! magic of the stars, this portrait gives me the same wild whir of love the first one did.

Behold!

image from the Sartorialist

Isn't he lovely?

The ideal that this image represents for me is captured in the enthusiastic openness and bright expressiveness shown by his smile, coupled with the feeling of grounded, balanced honesty that seems to be shown by it too. Sprinkle on a sense of reliability to such a character and I've given myself my own ideal of what it means to be good.

Oh love! Guide me to you! Let me be good with the guidance of you.

Fear of Worms Fear of Larvae, For Kim

WARNING: DO NOT READ THIS POST CASUALLY. DO NOT TOUCH RAW MEAT AFTER READING. DO NOT GO FOR A WALK OUTSIDE POST-RAIN AFTER READING. IN FACT, DO NOT GO ANYWHERE NEAR ANYTHING THAT COULD HAVE WORMS POST READING.

***

My dear friend, Kim, over at A Parent's Life to Behold just got an adorable puppy that turned out to have roundworms. Appropriately, this led to a month long scrub-down-everything-in-the-entire-world frenzy. The following anecdote is my admitting to my own month long neuroses of living-in-worm-terror as a way of saying, "oh Kim, i understand, and what you just went through is awful, and it could be worse. YOU, at least, have a real live dog that had real live worms."

***

As a reminder of how bad it really was, this is what I looked like in the coursework phase of graduate school...

we call this picture: oh dear LORD, help me.

During my second year of graduate coursework I realized I was developing an untenable hand washing habit. That is, whenever I was working on a paper, a presentation, or anything else where I wasn't just reading material and working to understand it, but instead having to actually produce my own work that would then be JUDGED BY OTHERS AS SOME SIGN OF MY OWN SELF WORTH (those of you that have been through this know what I'm talking about), I would start to wash my hands every fifteen to twenty minutes.

Now, some of us clearly understand the importance of washing your hands after you've done things like, come back home from ANYWHERE, put your hands on the subway escalator hand rail, petted a dog you don't know really well, been to the bathroom, are about to do things in the kitchen, etc. Those all count as REASONABLE hand washing. I know Kim (and my mother) understands THAT kind of handwashing. But at the point of stress I'm describing all I'd been doing was sitting there at my computer struggling to get clear my ideas. The kind of habit I was developing was more of the, oh! i'm stressed out by this paper i have and stuck on figuring out how to sort this idea... crap, what if i can't figure this out? wait, focus! focus! the idea... the idea... i'm stuck. what do i do? focus! focus! ... wait, why am i washing my hands?... variety. The truth is, it took me a while to notice. It's cold enough in Montreal in the winter that hands get chapped. I was putting on more lotion, but that wasn't alleviating the problem. I think I finally caught up with my new neuroses when at some point I didn't even make it back to the desk to sit down before I was already turning again towards the bathroom sink in some attempt to wash clarity straight through my hands and right into my thoughts.

This was a problem. I couldn't be a single mom in a French speaking city living on a graduate level stipend doing grad coursework WITH OCD. I had way way too many details in my life to schedule in all ready. I had to take counter-action. I had to find a different way to respond to my paper writing stress that would distract me (1) from the hand washing, and (2) from the terror of not sorting out my own ideas.

I decided the only way to deal was to divert my attention from the stress by tricking myself. The terror (and thus the hand washing) got triggered when I would think too hard on an idea I thought I might not figure out, and start spinning in my own head. But, if I got up to do something NOT thinking related, thinking that would calm me down, I'd get stressed out feeling like I wasn't doing my work, thereby escalating the whole problem. So, I had to come up with something that would keep me feeling like I was working, but that would be just enough of a distraction to calm me down. CLEARLY, the only solution was to study intestinal parasites.

Wait, WHAT?! It's true. I'd always had a fascination with medical oddities, and medical science, and the very many ways the body deals with such things. So, it seemed to me the best solution was to go ahead and learn lots and lots about something other than just my grad work but something that would hold my attention. That way I'd still be in LEARNING mode, thus tricking my (almost) entire being into feeling like I was getting my work done, while distracting the thinkee part of me with different information than what I HAD to write on, in fact with information that I didn't HAVE TO think on at all. So, I could stay in thinkee mode without the same feeling of pressure, thereby relaxing while not removing myself from the need to get the work done entirely. If I was still in thinkee mode, the thought went, i could turn back to thinking on the topic I had to do work on once I'd calmed down enough to get it done. (You see how grad work really is an exercise in juggling neuroses, rather than getting rid of them?)

So, I spent an entire summer reading everything I could find on intestinal parasites. The really good ones, though, are various types of intestinal worms, most of which THANK GOD (I honestly do thank God on this. Really.) cannot be "caught" anywhere near any of the places I've ever lived. (Still, to be honest, just typing the sentence "the really good ones, are intestinal worms" still makes me puke in my mouth a little bit.) The information I was gathering was fascinating, and completely engaging. I managed it all quite well actually, and really only made one mistake. I decided to look at pictures.

Please, PLEASE. Never do this to yourself. Please do not research human intestinal worms and then look at pictures.

It turned out I spent an entire month CERTAIN I had worms. Of the worst sorts. And probably multiple kinds all at once. They were probably at war inside my gut living out a worm-lovers dream in all 7 meters, 23 feet, of my warm, worm feeding intestines. I called a friend of mine half way through this crisis and left her a message confessing that I believed myself to have intestinal worms. The next time we talked, she only laughed. I had to give up eating sprouts of any kind lest they trick me into "seeing things" in my poo. I couldn't eat noodles either. I also couldn't eat meat (a good way to get worms), and had to wash vegetables a lot. A lot. Beans and rice are also manageable in the midst of such a crisis. Though, rice really does kind of look like larvae. So, be careful with that.

Somehow in the midst of it all, I knew all that had happened was I had given myself some screwed up worm-based coping strategy for my coursework stress. That is, instead of having the terror that I would flunk out of grad work to focus on, I had the fear of having worms to focus on. I never went to a doctor. Though my fear of worms FELT real, I never quite convinced myself it WAS real. So, I didn't get pills to kill 'em all. I think I intentionally over drank whiskey a couple of times cause I'd read worms will often die off and poop out if you drink too much whiskey. At least that's my excuse. The point is though: If you've just gotten a puppy that really does have worms go ahead and neurotically wash the entire house over and over and make sure your puppy has those KILL 'EM AND KILL 'EM GOOD anti worm pills. Cause you may have worms, but you've also got a puppy, and so that said, it's not clear to me you're ACTUALLY being neurotic with all that washing and pill puppy popping.

Plus, holy heck, that puppy is cute! Congratulations on little Z!

(If you wanna see how cute Kim's new puppy dog is, check Z out via the link at the top of this post.)

Lots of love to you, Kim!

Touring the Extended Area: The Tunbridge World's Fair

the fair stage showcases live music throughout the weekend

The Tunbridge World's Fair showcases historical agricultural equipment, as well as other artifacts pertinent to small town life from the last couple of centuries. The extended area we are residing in hosts many towns that were established around 1761, it turns out. The fair celebrates this longevity by displaying numerous antique hand tools, and cattle driven farming equipment. The local historical society also gathers volunteers to offer living history enactments during the four days of the fair.

living history actors at the Tunbridge World's Fair

Within the historical area of the fair there are also displays of people today that still do crafts by hand. There was a woman demonstrating yarn spinning, for example. The most remarkable display, however, was given by Gregoire's Violin Shop where the owner still makes violins completely by hand. He worked on carving a violin for fair goers and also had one of his handmade violins on display. The wood of the violin, he said, was tiger maple, which, when varnished, offers a gorgeous striping effect, as shown clearly on the back of the violin.

Marc Gregoire displaying and working on his hand made violins

The ten-year old and I took a couple of fair rides, and she played a couple of games too.

the ten year old being the strongman, and the two of us on the merry go round

What to Wear to a Country Fair, aka., Outfit Post for Kate

white Victorian corset top, under yellow sleeveless hoodie, with black leather wrap belt,
one-of-a-kind green skirt found in Paris in 2004, Mihara black leather sandals

We traveled to the Tunbridge World's Fair in Tunbridge, Vermont today. I'll post more pics of the fair itself later. In the meantime, here's the outfit update for Kate. The ten-year-old and I rode the Merry-Go-Round but with the skirt I was wearing I had to jump on the horse sideways, and then ride side saddle. Lots of Fun!

We've Settled in Just Enough for Champagne

Picture it.

We lived in a house with pine-slat floors, high ceilings, light gushing from every window to fill the inside with warm light, without too much heat. In one room my yellow and floral duvet cover brightened the bed, while my various clothes hung in an open closet along one wall. There was a double door that swung open to a deck and private garden area. In the living room a multi-colored silk braid rug covered the pine slat floor surrounded by walls covered in books, and a black leather sofa (I way too much like black leather) plus chaise lounge welcomed guests to relax. In another room, the ten year old threw her things everywhere, papers covered every used-to-be-visible inch of the floor, and a cockatiel called for kisses! kisses! Okay, actually, let's ignore that room. Except for the bird. kisses! kisses! isn't that lovely?

There was a private back garden, a grassy yard, an apple tree in the back, a juniper, and a birch in the front. The kitchen was enormous, the bathroom had a claw-foot bathtub, and plenty of light. It was a wonderful home. I loved living in Flagstaff (once I got accustomed, which, when moving admittedly takes a while).

Remember how I mentioned all that change that's gone on since Spring? Well, truth is, we've moved. We've moved a long long way away. I've accepted a one-year dissertation writing fellowship at an ivy league college in the Northeast United States. It's unreal, really. After spending 2002 -- present as a single mom, doing full-time coursework, and also working, I now have a year where I am simply a single mom, and finishing my dissertation?

HOW THE HELL DID THAT HAPPEN?!!!

Not only that, our housing is included as part of the package. I get my own office, a one-bedroom apartment, and a stipend to live on. Wait. WHAT?!! A one bedroom apartment?!!

Yes, remember that picture I was describing above about our idyllic house in Flagstaff? We no longer have that house. Today we live in a one-bedroom apartment with high ceiling, industrial carpeted floor, stand-up-shower bathroom. We have our own oven and stove, our own sink, our own refrigerator, and no rent to pay. I am unendingly grateful. (See how by listing all the things we have I am SHOWING that I am grateful? Honestly, I am. We could have to use the stove that is out in the common room area of the rest of the house. We would have, in that case, a stove to use, so I would still be grateful. But I like so much better that we have our own stove in our own apartment.) I honestly feel incredibly lucky.

It's hard to imagine, really, that I've fallen into a situation where someone is giving me free housing. I can't say enough about what this means to me; what it means to have the opportunity for less obligation, more support, fewer expenses. As a single mom trying to finish graduate school THIS IS HUGE. The truth is that whole "2002 -- present" thing has been really intense. I've had more to do than any of my friends have been able to imagine getting done that whole time. They repeatedly tell me, "I don't know how you do it." The truth is, I haven't known either. I tend to avoid thinking about it, and instead just focus on getting it done.

I mentioned the kid, right? Well, we're living together in a one-bedroom apartment. We talked and she decided she wanted the living room. Really. SHE decided. So, we've been converting the space into her version of a dream-though-in-a-living-room-without-the-frickin'-paper-catastrophe-everywhere bedroom. It's been its own stressful situation, but we're doing pretty well with it.

Now that we're finally settling in well enough, I decided to make a dinner that would adequately capture the reality of our situation--incredible blessings within subtle constraint. What combination would celebrate the reality of free housing in a place a little too small for me and an almost-eleven-but-still-ten, ten year old?

Voila!

Four cheese--Monterey Jack, Cheddar, Queso Quesadilla, and Asedero--grilled cheese sandwich on seed and carrot bread

with Gosset Brut Grand Rose Champagne

(She didn't get champagne. She asked for soy milk instead.)

Rules for pairing wine with food (they are few):

(1) always go drink, eat, drink. That is, you taste the wine, THEN eat the food.
(2) pay attention: you're drinking AND eating--frickin' enjoy it!

That's it! Those are honestly all the rules! There are other guidelines that wine-foodies will tell you about what foods tend to go well with what wines. And those GUIDELINES can be helpful. But they are not strict, cut from the cloth RULES. When it comes right down to it THEY ARE ONLY GUIDELINES. Your job, as I said, is frickin' enjoy it. And part of the best way to do that is to try something unexpected, unpredicatble, and so, possibly fantastic. So, here I am trying a grilled cheese sandwich (admittedly FOUR cheese on a seed and carrot bread) with champagne brut rose.

jaunty bubbles; a golden, slightly caramel color; strong, bright, weighty nose; heavy flavor--a touch of burnt caramel, light apple, touch of heat at the tip of the tongue, with a hint of ginger. intense, but lively. strong flavors, that are fresh on the palate (and the gut). medium weight.

actually goes great with the grilled cheese sandwich. the sandwich tones down some of the intensity and heavy flavors of the champagne, bringing out more of the fruit, while retaining a touch of spice. i think i feel fall coming on.

Starting Slowly

It's good to have good friends.

Kate asked me to get back to blogging, cause obviously I haven't posted in a while. My life has recently gone through so many changes (since Spring really) that I've been feeling private and reflective, and in ways that have made me unsure what to write about on here. But, in the midst of all that I appreciate Kate's prodding. So, I've decided to take up her request, and start simply.

You may recall from many a previous post, that Kate and I like to get dressed up, and celebrate that interest. So, as a way to ease back into blogging, I'll start with a simple outfit picture and see what happens from there. Turns out, the ten-year old I live with loves to play with the camera, and so was excited to take these for me.

To mention another good friend, Sasha is quick to say she often hates what I wear, but loves that it somehow does something for me. She's also kindly said that it inspires her to go ahead and try things with her own getting dressed routine. Earlier today I sent her a quick text to let her know I was wearing an outfit she'd hate. She responded that she was pleased to know I was out there challenging her "Midwestern sensibilities." Sasha, this is that outfit.

for those wondering:
wearing black complex geometries top, with gray sleeveless cardigan,
black maria severnaya fabric wrap belt,
black leather and wool ann demeulemeester leggings, and black leather mihara sandals