Day Trip
Tuesday's weather: surprisingly warm for a cool, near-autumnal day. Sunny with few clouds that evaporated at sunset, low humidity, fresh wind. My basil and rosemary still producing, the thyme is dying back and the sage saggy.
Tuesday's drink: Jolly Green Giant, although it's really not so giant. Making me jolly, tho'.
Tuesday's link: OK, I Want In On This.
It's 6:08pm and I still have stuff to do. Every moment, practically, of nearly every day has a little floating list of things to do. Waah.
It just struck me this morning, packing up my gym bag with a, b, c, that it was as if I was taking a little day trip.
Day trips. Remember those? I took one last weekend: out to the Bay Saturday afternoon around 3:30p, catching up with P & G, collecting late harvest in the garden, searching through the bad movies for later, appetizer, dip into the hottub as the sun fell, dry off and out to light the bonfire, watch it blaze, blaze, down, down, down to reasonable, inside to prep a little dinner, garlic-coated steak roast over campfire, potatoes, onion shallot and oil reduction over top and garden fresh salad, "Diary of the Dead" (Lord it's dreadful), a dessert scotch and more fire and into and out of the pool, ice cream and "Whitest Kids U Know", off to sleep.
Wake in forest still, watch the room lighten as the sun wakes the birds, fresh walk (hike) to mailbox for Sunday paper and back, coffee going, quiet of morning paper coffee sunshine on Bay, boys wake and make breakfast, off back to town at 11:30, home again to make summer tomato sauce (there's no link! email me for recipe!!!), fresh sauce and pasta dinner with basil, oregano and tomato from yard, time on the couch with C, asleep by 9p.
Packed a lot in there. Mostly tedium for the reader. Perhaps. Perhaps not.
The end of this: waking today at 6p, turn alarm off before it rings, sneak downstairs setting bedroom door ajar, swap out dog water old for new, prep and make coffee, contemplate Cheerios for breakfast and decline, watch for weather on tv and shut it off, two cups of coffee and upstairs, one beside C when he wakes, the other inside the bathroom, shower shave eyes in brush teeth cologne on more coffee, root around for clothes to wear, down on floor for a few minutes of pets with STG, put on bare esstentials, carry STG downstairs, take her our and prepare her breakfast, back upstairs for more coffee, kiss C, finish dressing, pack gym bag with togs, letter to mail, iPod, ID for work, hunt for rings and phone, grab wallet and keys, stow sneaks in bag, grab suit to take to cleaners, one last taste of C, out the back to take out recycling, suit to cleaners buy paper on Metro mail letter buy breakfast wrap sit down at desk and toss down gym bag.
I write this not to bore you *ahem* but just to observe. Spend a moment watching the pattern. Is this normal? Is this what people do? Is this what I imagined life to be? Is this life, or the holding pattern until I find it? Is there meaning in the doing? Am I the sum of my habits and patterns, or more? And if more - what then? Am I fully in the moment in these activities? If not - what am I losing?
You see, everything is complicated with me.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
The Odometer Moves Again
Wednesday's weather: Finally fall! Almost. Beautiful sunshine and cool, dry temps. The leaves in the back have been turning piecemeal for about a month; now they begin in earnest. Herbs are dry, and windows are open.
Wednesday's drink: Something limey and a little froo-froo. It's my birthday for G-d's sake! Like that's ever made a difference.
Wednesday's meaningless link: Why, it's my year ahead! And it must be true! It's a horoscope!
So I know therapy is helping. Today is my birthday and I don't care who knows I'm 44.
A decade ago I doubt I was telling anyone how old I was. I would mumble about being in my "early thirties" (how long did I use that line?) or maybe even outright lie, shaving a year or two off. More if I thought I could get away with it.
Of course, this was still a time when I could get away with it. I did legitimately look younger than my years. And fairly hot, too...within a reasonably small universe.
Ten years is such a short passing of time. But looking back I'm genuinely shocked to think I was even on the air...on basic cable at least. "Hey everyone! It's Doug, on the teevee! Change the channel."
Sure I was no Rob Marciano, but I had my fans. And I had my friends, and my boyfriends. My friend M. who came to visit one wintery day met me at a local hotel. He was one level up and I was bustling in the main lobby to meet him at the bar. He said I looked like a million bucks: great black longcoat, jaunty scarf, tugging my leather gloves as I moved confidently into the room. And then, the telling detail, I apparently knew just how and when to unbutton my suit jacket as I sat as if to say: "I know exactly who I am and what I'm capable of."
But I was not happy. Really, most days, I was not happy in the least. I might fake it well - I could even almost fool myself. Thinking on it now: I don't know at all what was wrong.
Well, OK, that's a big fat lie. I know the roots of what was wrong, but I still don't see how they were manifest then. Not that it's worth dwelling on.
Today I tell my therapist of the last 18 months that we are drawing to a close, he and I. I'm of many emotions about this, but see the need and practicality. Foremost among the good stuff is appreciation for his help and pride in my accomplishments. Somewhere in the murky middle is that weird sense of saying goodbye to someone who knows you so well, but is in no way a friend.
I was thinking of the old Melville metaphor in "Moby Dick" - the leviathan (great whale) is so large that you can't see him all in one view. The most you can ever grab are pieces and parts. A tail fluke, a fin, teeth and mouth, great lolling eye, a snowy fountain on the horizon. I feel like that to him: he sees me in pieces and parts, but not all together.
A better metaphor might be the internet. I, any of us really, exist as clouds of information scattered on a thousand computers across the net. My address, my favorite movies, my grocery purchases and political contributions: a million unconnected bits that, connected, make a pointillistic portrait of me. But even with that, there is one very secure computer that holds eyes-only, top-secret classified files. This computer is not connected to the net; this information does not float aimlessly through the internet's tubes. This is the computer he has had access to.
And of course, that's the point. Perhaps only one or two other people shall ever see what's in there. (Sort of like David Addington's safe.) But looking back, 18 months into therapy, 44 years into life, I wish he and the many others I know had a better sense of those clouds, that portrait, that represents me.
Wednesday's weather: Finally fall! Almost. Beautiful sunshine and cool, dry temps. The leaves in the back have been turning piecemeal for about a month; now they begin in earnest. Herbs are dry, and windows are open.
Wednesday's drink: Something limey and a little froo-froo. It's my birthday for G-d's sake! Like that's ever made a difference.
Wednesday's meaningless link: Why, it's my year ahead! And it must be true! It's a horoscope!
So I know therapy is helping. Today is my birthday and I don't care who knows I'm 44.
A decade ago I doubt I was telling anyone how old I was. I would mumble about being in my "early thirties" (how long did I use that line?) or maybe even outright lie, shaving a year or two off. More if I thought I could get away with it.
Of course, this was still a time when I could get away with it. I did legitimately look younger than my years. And fairly hot, too...within a reasonably small universe.
Ten years is such a short passing of time. But looking back I'm genuinely shocked to think I was even on the air...on basic cable at least. "Hey everyone! It's Doug, on the teevee! Change the channel."
Sure I was no Rob Marciano, but I had my fans. And I had my friends, and my boyfriends. My friend M. who came to visit one wintery day met me at a local hotel. He was one level up and I was bustling in the main lobby to meet him at the bar. He said I looked like a million bucks: great black longcoat, jaunty scarf, tugging my leather gloves as I moved confidently into the room. And then, the telling detail, I apparently knew just how and when to unbutton my suit jacket as I sat as if to say: "I know exactly who I am and what I'm capable of."
But I was not happy. Really, most days, I was not happy in the least. I might fake it well - I could even almost fool myself. Thinking on it now: I don't know at all what was wrong.
Well, OK, that's a big fat lie. I know the roots of what was wrong, but I still don't see how they were manifest then. Not that it's worth dwelling on.
Today I tell my therapist of the last 18 months that we are drawing to a close, he and I. I'm of many emotions about this, but see the need and practicality. Foremost among the good stuff is appreciation for his help and pride in my accomplishments. Somewhere in the murky middle is that weird sense of saying goodbye to someone who knows you so well, but is in no way a friend.
I was thinking of the old Melville metaphor in "Moby Dick" - the leviathan (great whale) is so large that you can't see him all in one view. The most you can ever grab are pieces and parts. A tail fluke, a fin, teeth and mouth, great lolling eye, a snowy fountain on the horizon. I feel like that to him: he sees me in pieces and parts, but not all together.
A better metaphor might be the internet. I, any of us really, exist as clouds of information scattered on a thousand computers across the net. My address, my favorite movies, my grocery purchases and political contributions: a million unconnected bits that, connected, make a pointillistic portrait of me. But even with that, there is one very secure computer that holds eyes-only, top-secret classified files. This computer is not connected to the net; this information does not float aimlessly through the internet's tubes. This is the computer he has had access to.
And of course, that's the point. Perhaps only one or two other people shall ever see what's in there. (Sort of like David Addington's safe.) But looking back, 18 months into therapy, 44 years into life, I wish he and the many others I know had a better sense of those clouds, that portrait, that represents me.
Monday, September 08, 2008
St. Paul and Second Bananas
Monday's weather: Started cool and dry but late-summertime warm in the afternoon. The air is still and the ground saturated. It feels like summer's last.
Monday's drink: None, really, today. Water. Maybe using up a little of the "Sam Adams" left over from C's "McCain Viewing Party."
Monday's link: Several. JohnMcCainWriteIn. Or VoteMcCainBiden. More on these later.
Flying is just no longer any fun. The flight from Minneapolis to Washington, all my luggage in tow, stop-overs at O'Hare, inconsistently-applied security rules, stand-by flights, fellow passengers who are just too large to occupy one seat. Coach grows more like the midnight Polish train I took from Gdansk to Nowy Tomysl. Crowded, cold; a jostling smell-fest in the dark in which you are completely powerless and must simply relinquish any illusion of control of your person.
*sigh* Sorry. It is, of course, a great honor to be asked to go and work not one but both conventions, notably in this historic year. There's lots that can (and does) go wrong on the road, so they usually only send out the competent ones.
That's me. A competent one.
I haven't posted in forever and have more more to say but have found myself unable to make it happen at home. Also, for reasons of smartness, not doing it from work. Which leaves a dearth of other options. Perhaps I should blog wirelessly while waiting for my therapy appointment? I would look creepy - pardon, creepier - if I blogged in the gym locker room. I'd go to a local park and sit in the trees, but then I can't see the screen.
Of course there is a deep question here. Why the inability to blog from home? All I can say is something isn't right there, yet. Certainly not between C and I: there's little that could be going better. Perhaps it's a physical space thing. Or something more hidden.
While I AM online in a safe place I'll say what I've been wanting to say about St. Paul. Denver was all exuberance; St. Paul was all safety. Literally - the Ramsey County sheriff had troops out on the streets to beat the bands. And of the protests I saw: calling them protests seems lame. Generally modest, orderly people of heart-felt passions and convictions doing something that seems less that quaint in our overly security conscious state: expressing their opinion publicly and their disagreement with their elected leaders. Sad. Honestly people: what has become of us when we're afraid how our leaders will respond to our opinions? Who's in charge anymore?
Oh wait, I think I know the answer. Anyway, St. Paul. I'll describe the city with my friend - and Minnesota resident - Brian Strub. (Sorry Brian.) St. Paul is very much like Brian: smart but not showy.
Both are unpredictable mixes of civic progressive and social conservative, both are curiously open and guarded at the same time, both can surprise with moments of pointed clarity and generosity. And both are...well, handsome but not in a look-at-me kind of way. That may seem like a mean thing to say, but it's not meant to be at all. St. Paul is just always a quiet surprise.
Second bananas. That's how I'll remember both of these conventions. In Denver, the unintentional standouts - even more than the grandest-of-grand speech settings for Sen. Obama - were the Clintons. Unquestionably: in the hall, they killed. BOTH of them. I heard more than my share of youngsters saying things like "wow, I never really knew he was that good!" or something. Yeah, you have. We oldsters said it. You just didn't listen.
And of course St. Paul was the Sarah Show. In an interview with an overseas media operation, I described it: "For two days Republicans were wondering when their party would start. Well, Rudy Giuliani lit the fuse and Sarah Palin was the rocket that ignited the hall." Frankly, it was a brilliant moment of description. So of course, I share it now here with you all.
I'm fast running out of time where/when I can blog now, so let's just leave it with my moment of brilliance. And I'll work on finding a good space to write, so I can write much more often.
Hoorah! More blog posts! Oh...wait...
Monday's weather: Started cool and dry but late-summertime warm in the afternoon. The air is still and the ground saturated. It feels like summer's last.
Monday's drink: None, really, today. Water. Maybe using up a little of the "Sam Adams" left over from C's "McCain Viewing Party."
Monday's link: Several. JohnMcCainWriteIn. Or VoteMcCainBiden. More on these later.
Flying is just no longer any fun. The flight from Minneapolis to Washington, all my luggage in tow, stop-overs at O'Hare, inconsistently-applied security rules, stand-by flights, fellow passengers who are just too large to occupy one seat. Coach grows more like the midnight Polish train I took from Gdansk to Nowy Tomysl. Crowded, cold; a jostling smell-fest in the dark in which you are completely powerless and must simply relinquish any illusion of control of your person.
*sigh* Sorry. It is, of course, a great honor to be asked to go and work not one but both conventions, notably in this historic year. There's lots that can (and does) go wrong on the road, so they usually only send out the competent ones.
That's me. A competent one.
I haven't posted in forever and have more more to say but have found myself unable to make it happen at home. Also, for reasons of smartness, not doing it from work. Which leaves a dearth of other options. Perhaps I should blog wirelessly while waiting for my therapy appointment? I would look creepy - pardon, creepier - if I blogged in the gym locker room. I'd go to a local park and sit in the trees, but then I can't see the screen.
Of course there is a deep question here. Why the inability to blog from home? All I can say is something isn't right there, yet. Certainly not between C and I: there's little that could be going better. Perhaps it's a physical space thing. Or something more hidden.
While I AM online in a safe place I'll say what I've been wanting to say about St. Paul. Denver was all exuberance; St. Paul was all safety. Literally - the Ramsey County sheriff had troops out on the streets to beat the bands. And of the protests I saw: calling them protests seems lame. Generally modest, orderly people of heart-felt passions and convictions doing something that seems less that quaint in our overly security conscious state: expressing their opinion publicly and their disagreement with their elected leaders. Sad. Honestly people: what has become of us when we're afraid how our leaders will respond to our opinions? Who's in charge anymore?
Oh wait, I think I know the answer. Anyway, St. Paul. I'll describe the city with my friend - and Minnesota resident - Brian Strub. (Sorry Brian.) St. Paul is very much like Brian: smart but not showy.
Both are unpredictable mixes of civic progressive and social conservative, both are curiously open and guarded at the same time, both can surprise with moments of pointed clarity and generosity. And both are...well, handsome but not in a look-at-me kind of way. That may seem like a mean thing to say, but it's not meant to be at all. St. Paul is just always a quiet surprise.
Second bananas. That's how I'll remember both of these conventions. In Denver, the unintentional standouts - even more than the grandest-of-grand speech settings for Sen. Obama - were the Clintons. Unquestionably: in the hall, they killed. BOTH of them. I heard more than my share of youngsters saying things like "wow, I never really knew he was that good!" or something. Yeah, you have. We oldsters said it. You just didn't listen.
And of course St. Paul was the Sarah Show. In an interview with an overseas media operation, I described it: "For two days Republicans were wondering when their party would start. Well, Rudy Giuliani lit the fuse and Sarah Palin was the rocket that ignited the hall." Frankly, it was a brilliant moment of description. So of course, I share it now here with you all.
I'm fast running out of time where/when I can blog now, so let's just leave it with my moment of brilliance. And I'll work on finding a good space to write, so I can write much more often.
Hoorah! More blog posts! Oh...wait...
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