There are things I've opened that I can't close again. (Get your mind out of the gutter.)

When I was a kid it, the forbidden included gifts under the tree that I would retape thinking no one would notice, or loaves of fresh bread that I hollowed out by pulling out little bits of warm bready goodness piece by piece (leaning the end piece over the gaping cavern), or the things I found out about my extended family that I could never again forget.

Now, it's mostly words I want to take back. I am a million times more tactful than I was, but as this blog reflects, I interpret things much too much in only my own context. Stupid really. I wish there was an undo key to make others forget about things said in haste that were not meant, or a pause button to make me reflect before I open my mouth. But this is a cop out, since what it really comes down to is self control. The words are mine, no one made me say them.

And there is a world of other perspectives out there to consider.

Labels: interpreting and reinterpreting

When my friends describe their lives there is always something going on. Something big, some decision or life changing event. Something tangible to grapple with, laugh over or deal with.

Whether by design or chance, my life, for some time now, has been completely drama free. Other than small blips, nothing is going on. And even when I've made big decisions, nothing has felt like a big deal. It's boring, but actually, pretty damn good. I'm bored, but nothing is out of control. Sometimes I wonder if I have disengaged in an unhealthy way. But I don't really know.

Now I would say, "knock on wood," (as a deterrent against drama) but I don't believe in fate/luck/chance etc. (Plus, as far as I can see my office has absolutely no natural wood products anywhere.) I think it's just how things pan out and sometimes people are unfairly burdened with extremely stressful situations. So instead, my chosen response to the mundane is, "Woo! I'll enjoy each uneventful drama-less day."

Question: do you think that some people bring drama into their own lives? That they somehow feel more alive with a little (or sometimes a lot) of conflict or change? Is drama in how we choose to react or is it in the external factors that are imposed on us? Maybe a combination of both?

I've also wondered if some people put themselves in situations that are high risk for drama because surviving makes them feel alive? Maybe the support of others in times of crisis makes them feel loved? (This is quite possibly me over analyzing other people in the context of my own little safe cocoon, so feel free to critique this interpretation.) It's also possible that I just don't take risks enough.

Labels: interpreting and reinterpreting, musing

Just as she set out for her trip, she thought she heard the navigation system whisper:

"I'm not taking you where you think I am."

Labels: interpreting and reinterpreting

Hiya.

I'm going to Canadia for a few weeks in July and am sooo looking forward to seeing family and friends... But I'm also escaping for a week or so by myself. Just to be home with no expectations of anyone on me. (And by home I mean Canada the country, oddly enough.)

The risk of this is that the idea of being alone is sometimes way better than the reality. I've done this before you see, and with mixed results. After a few days, typically I accost strangers and ask them to eat with me. Just when I thought I was an introvert. . . I realize that real time alone gives rise to all kinds of things I avoid thinking about. I'm bringing extra Kleenex to the hotel with me.

My plans are indefinite (I have chosen a city but not activities). It partly depends on how hot hot is. (For example, if it's sticky, sweat rolling down your back hot, where breathing is uncomfortable, I won't be walking around much. But if it's sundress comfortable hot, patios, parks and lots of walking is definitely good.)

I guess I want to think. I'm feeling a bit at loose ends with my life. Feeling the need to "accomplish something" where that something is undefined. I'm not good at operationalizing my impulses (and by this I mean making real decisions out of wishes) and I guess I'm hoping that by having this time to myself I'll sort my shit out.

And I am just excited to be going home. You have no idea.

So, what are your plans this summer?

Labels: brought to you by the letter, G, interpreting and reinterpreting

Sometimes I finish other people's sentences. Not in the nice "I'm really close to someone and this is reciprocal" type of way. But in an annoying and presumptuous way where I assume I know what they are about to say. Mid-interruption I yell at myself internally, "Shut the f*ck up. You aren't listening. Listen listen listen." This is me interrupting myself but unfortunately not fast enough. I don't know what I am so impatient for or why I needlessly interject.

I also need listen better to what people are saying beyond their words. If someone says, "I'm OK" I always take it at face value. Same with, "No, I don't need help," and "That's alright." How often is this true?

I never know when to ask for more information to be certain I have heard or seen the right thing. Doing so makes me feel pushy. (This is just a reflection of my own resistance when other people ask me to say more than I want to. But, thank god, not everyone is like me.) Some people want that extra statement of concern and unless I'm conscious of it, I fail to provide it.

I'm trying to listen better because listening isn't about me. It's about you. And I'm sorry. Does anyone else struggle with this?

Labels: interpreting and reinterpreting, listening

That last post has had a strange effect. It has made me feel . . . boring and a bit pissed off. OMG. Love was the top word. What the hell is with that?

I need to become more of a dark bitter person. I thought I was one, but obviously I'm not letting it show enough since I came up with that June Cleaver type of list. And I don't even have a son called Beaver. An unfortunate name.

I need to become a goth or an anarchist or nihilist or someone that . . . is meaner. Yeah. That's it, meaner. And instead of talking about life, I'll pontificate endlessly about death. While wearing dark clothing and makeup. Yeah. That's it. Dark. Mean. Brooding even. Not like chicken brooding, but like kind of morbid and pensive.

(Weird that brooding applies both to chickens and morose people, don't you think?)

That's enough of this dark, mean, and somewhat angry brooding for today. Brooding. Darkly. Thinking profound thoughts. I bet Mrs. Cleaver would look awesome in black lipstick. I would too. I know it.

Labels: i'm bitter can't you tell, interpreting and reinterpreting

Fun fun fun. wordle.net produced this image based on my blog entries.

I like it very much.

***

Note: I think that the central role of the word love is, unfortunately, due to my misuse/overuse of it. e.g. "I love it when that happens!" But it looks nicer this way.

Labels: cool, interpreting and reinterpreting, other people's stuff

She's on tippy toes, peeking over the edge of the counter. She doesn't see anything she really likes, but wants to push the stool over, crawl on the counter, open the cupboards and look for something good. Last time it was disappointing, only fig newtons (a cookie that is always unsatisfying due to its purported health benefits).

Maybe she's looking in the wrong cupboards? Maybe she should wait until she knows just what "it" is. In the meantime, she crawls up anyway and finds the flour canister on the counter. Playing with flour is fun. Pouring out great heaps and running her fingers through it. Making patterns. Imagining stuff. Flour makes a wonderful mess, especially if you happen to sneeze.

Sometimes, life isn't very deliberate but just looking around for stuff to do. To fill in the time.

Labels: in my head sometimes i'm still 4, interpreting and reinterpreting

I read somewhere that people who make lists are much more effective and likely to get things done. I have also read that traffic to your Web site increases if you create blog posts like:

• 10 easy ways to create traffic to your blog by creating lists of 10 easy ways to create traffic to your blog
  
• 5 easy steps to eliminating back hair
  
• 30 ways to harness your creativity using only glue and a staple gun
  

I do create lists for work and in that context, they are pretty important... And I have a strange talent for meeting deadlines. But other than work, I don't keep lists and I'm wondering if I should as a way of helping me live more... deliberately. Less randomly.

The problem now, is that I have overly generic expectations like, make stuff, and draw more, and eat better, and write more often. The main reason for this is that I tend to rebel against my self-imposed lists. Like a little kid pouting saying, "I don't want to" and stamping their foot on the ground. And it isn't even because I don't want to. It's because ... I'm supposed to. And that foot stamp, it's really satisfying.

My list of places to travel: everywhere when possible.
Books to read: whatever seems interesting at the time.
Career expectations: doing what I enjoy, excel at, and at the same time contributes to the world somehow.

There's a specificity lacking here... but one that I weirdly protect. I justify it to myself with words like spontaneity, and relaxed, and easy-come-easy-go, but the reality is I think I envy the discipline of the list keepers.

Are you a list person? Can you give an example of the types of lists that you keep/use to guide your life/daily choices?

Labels: interpreting and reinterpreting, lists

My grandmother used to collect pillows.

In the dining room, she had a single bed. And the bed was covered in the most eclectic assortment of pillows, every shape, size and color. I remember two vividly. One was round and covered in intricately folded turquoise blue satin. It felt nice to rub against my face, silky. The other was deep maroon velvet with silk tassels on each corner. It was soft too but more cozy.

I remember that lots of warnings were associated with the uber pillow collection, "Don't touch them with your sticky hands," "Don't rub your nose into them," "Don't throw them on the floor."

What I really wanted to do was dive on top of all of them and then curl up between them like a nest.

I wonder why she collected them... what the association was?

(I have theories about collectors... none of them substantiated. I am not one -- a collector that is -- so I can't really relate but I think maybe it has to do with positive emotions associated with contact with that item. The emotion being everything from a sense of wonder, to comfort, to feeling special and so on. Somehow those things are a striving to attain that perfect moment again. Feel free to challenge me on this. It seems a nicer interpretation than "packrat".) ;)

Labels: interpreting and reinterpreting, memories

And what does the apple represent? Temptation that you can't actually succumb to because you can't reach it? Or maybe it's the whole... "if no one is there, does it have any meaning." Or how about, "A representation of my inner angst and struggle with the unattainable."

I keep trying to think of something insightful to write all over the blue part of the picture. I'm a bit afraid of writing something dumb and then feeling sad that I've wrecked sky. I *know*. It completely goes against the rules of the notebook project... But maybe part of freedom is *not* scrawling over every possible corner of every page.

So here it is. Read into it whatever you like, but tell me because I want to hear all the juicy psychoanalytical interpretations you can come up with :P

I think I'm over analyzing.

xo

Labels: interpreting and reinterpreting, notebook project

As part of my attempt to live my life more meaningfully, I'm trying to raise my awareness about different charities and causes so that I feel compelled to act. I am having a hard time choosing. They all seem worthy. They all seem insurmountable. And I am selfish. When I read about different horrors, I want to hide, forget and ignore.

There are so many different categories of causes: environment, human rights, natural disasters, famine, medical research, animal rights, health, refugees... and so many more. I appreciate that giving goes a long way for the organizations that manage efforts around these issues, but I also want to understand more about the issues themselves, so that I can structure and choose my opinions and actions.

Some causes/beliefs necessitate actions in ways that make me give up something. For example, if I really believe that ozone depletion is caused by fossil fuel consumption, I should not only not drive (which is easy to do where I live so I don't quite comfortably) but I should also not fly, since flying is by far more polluting than driving. (I feel myself whining inside... but... but... I love the mobility that air travel affords. How much am I willing to put my beliefs into action?) I've also read quite a bit about the footprint caused by western cultures' meat consumption and patterns of waste. I understand the argument. I even agree with it. Again, I'm so self indulgent. I love to eat meat. It is one thing to promote, purchase and believe in organic farming but quite another to change my patterns of behavior and the amount of waste that is part of western food consumption as a whole.

When I start adding up all of the things in my life that have a negative effect on the world around me, I am overwhelmed and hide my head in the sand quite quickly. I think that I am unwilling to think about things very much, since if I really believe, there are consequences. I am, at the very least, accountable for those things I know about, aren't I? But how can I live? To be honest, I think that my willingness to be self-sacrificing is woefully limited. It is not something I like about myself.

I feel like I need to pick something. I am sadly passive. How do I choose?

What causes are you supportive of? How did you choose?

Labels: action, choices, interpreting and reinterpreting

I am from big cups of strong milky sweet tea,
from Klepper tents and the Mason jars filled with preserved everything.
I am from the piles of paper and books on my unused desk
(read, written, precious,
forgotten and important).
I am from the bursting spring leaves on the tree outside my balcony
that make me feel like I live in a treehouse
with the loud magpies that live in its branches.

I am from tended garden delights and wood wildness,
from Margarete and Theodore.
I'm from the fighters and
the wounded,
from the awed by nature and hideaways.
I'm from the unfailing believers
who do not question and
the atheists who accept nothing at face value.

I'm from London and Gyönk and a small village in Poland that I should know the name of but don't...
and from cherry soup and smoked kielbasa.
From the slowly unwinding magic musical cigarette box my grandfather would play for me
to the way that my dad always awakes startled, afraid for his life.
In the basement lies the wonderful legacy of camping trips in Algonquin Park,
long cross-country skiing journeys in the brush and woods,
my dad's home-made satellite tracking station,
and my mothers boxes of quilt material. (In my dad's mind,
why would you cut up good fabric and sew it together again.)
I am from the dustiest corner of remade memories,
washed off and lovely in their transformation,
the hope of peace.

Inspired by Sylvia who was inspired by Floyd who was inspired by George Ella Lyons.

Labels: inspired by others, interpreting and reinterpreting, writing inspiration

The title of this makes it sound like a mailman murder investigation. It's not. Here's the story.

In this incredibly snowy Canadian winter (which I'm hearing about but not experiencing), my dad, who is in his eighties, still insists on shoveling the driveway himself. He claims that it is the only exercise he gets and that he likes it. (Scarier, is that he is also climbing the roof of the house on a fairly regular basis to shovel snow off of that too.)

What is very sweet ... is that I have just found out that he also shovels an extra path for the mailman from my parents' house to the neighbors. Just so that the mailman doesn't have to walk around their front yard and has a more direct route. I would love the mailman to know just who it is who is doing this for him. The kind heart who even thought of it.

I asked my dad what he wants for his upcoming birthday and he said, "Too keep living." Keep on shoveling daddy.

Labels: interpreting and reinterpreting

There's a ground-floor apartment close by that has fantastically gaudy lawn ornaments on the small two-foot wide strip of garden that runs along the building. Flamingos, spinning red and green fans, and leering garden gnomes keep each other company alongside fake flowers "planted" in the garden.
Shining white Christmas lights are strung loosely from all of the windows, and they remain there the whole year. Lit every night. Everything else in the street is grey and brown. And I smile every time I pass it.

It's kinda beautiful-ugly-vulnerable-bold in its garishness.

It reminds me of the early personal websites with their winking cherubs, cringe-worthy midi files and wildly coloured backgrounds with illegible red and green text. Somehow despite the dubious (a personal judgement) quality of their web design and my limited appreciation for "Uncle Art's collection of mold, fungus, and spores," it is pretty cool that Uncle Art taught himself how to to create a page. (Uncle Art is 72. He is arthritic and types with the index finger of his left hand, his knuckles gnarled. He was a biologist and teacher for many years. He has a story to tell.)

(I just have to mention this, cause there is someone out there who has a collection of "old pictures" of Jesus. I wasn't quite sure what to make of this. I thought that maybe they were joking, but they were very serious and earnest in quite a sweet way. I wonder if they have the shroud yet. Maybe that doesn't classify as a picture?)

Or the chain of signatures spraypainted along the walls of the Amsterdam metro in the dark tunnels where the trains whiz by, people leave their mark in complex artistic or simple scrawling graffiti. I wonder when they do it, since I look for them but have never seen anyone there. Maybe they do it after the metro stops running for the night. They're pretty brave really, there in the dark. I feel sorry for the guys who seem to run out of paint or get caught, since what is left is a half filled in bubble letter at the very end of a word, just short of complete. The disappointment.

Somehow, I've suddenly started to see all of these things as something really fantastic. It's a surprising enlightenment.

Labels: a little bit of blah blah, beauty in unexpected places, being alive, interpreting and reinterpreting

I have been thinking a lot about grace lately. By grace I'm not referring to poetic movement... But more that part of ourselves that gives extra chances. That sees the damage in all of us, the faultiness, but also sees the potential for great beauty amidst ugliness or unpleasantness, and sometimes because of it.

A friend of mine once described the most incredible thing about her relationship with her husband. She said, "We heal each other every day." And as soppy as that sounds, to me this is grace: this sort of loving that knows the worst but loves anyway.

I need lots of grace from everyone who knows me. I hope I give as good as I get.

I am sometimes scattered and selfish and bold and assuming and emotional and too blunt and hiding and distracted and loud and bawdy and shy and afraid and truly angry about nothing and everything and sometimes, I am just awful.

But I also love deeply and am creative and empathetic and productive and occasionally even nurturing and I laugh easily and truly delight in the people I know since they are all beautiful in indescribable and extremely individual ways and sometimes, I am OK, and I even love myself a little. (Don't worry, I'm not breaking into some awful song at this point... bear with me.)

I just think that we all have these things in us that make us react in ways that sometimes bruise each other or even maim more seriously, that we are sometimes not doing the best we can, but we're doing that crazy dance of forgetfulness or holding it together or being purely selfish or disappointed... Our worst selves are sometimes there and embarrassing and much louder than our best selves.

And we see this worst self in others too and see them doing stupid things and saying stupid things... but that we need to have grace for those moments. And that isn't to say that we let people abuse us or take unkindness... but that we weigh it all out. And when we find that seed of empathy that grows to grace, to express it as sincerely and honestly and with as much healing as we can possibly provide. And other times we defend ourselves without being cruel, because that is just unnecessary.

Because sometimes, the ugliness isn't about the recipient. Sometimes, it's just wounds on display. I think that grace is a beautiful thing.

How this all fits into the big scheme of things, I have no idea. It's just what I was thinking about today. Thanks for listening to the babble.

Labels: being alive, beliefs, grace, interpreting and reinterpreting, moments, the soppiest blog entry *ever*

Yesterday, I waited, on the cold damp green-peeling-painted park bench, for something to happen.

Two dogs passed, ahead of their owner, running together lopsidedly holding the same stick between them. I could smell wet dog. Their owner did not greet me but looked at me strangely as I sat there dripping and drinking a carton of chocolate milk. Perhaps he smelled wet human. I was envious of his umbrella and the way the two dogs lay down their stick in front of him. Asking. I watched them as they rounded the corner away from me and further into the park.

After they were out of sight I looked around hoping for something undefined. But now I could only smell the chilled soggy earth that lies under the graying grass and felt trickles of rain on my scalp, down my head, under my scarf and onto by back. And could only see the misty dead dullness of the sky that seemed unmoving above my head and feel a snot-filled sneeze growing about to unleash itself into my woolly mittened hand.

I forgot my kleenexes, you see.

Labels: being alive, interpreting and reinterpreting, moments, sighs, story

Learning to love you more. This project consists of a series of assignments. People can choose to "Accept this assignment" and then post the results on the site.

I think that this whole concept is lovely on so many different levels; so inspiring and beautiful.
Here are some some of the "assignments" and results:

5. Recreate an object from someone's past.

4. Start a lecture series.

3. Make a documentary video about a small child.

Film called: "Not right now"

2. Make a neighborhood field recording.

1. Make a child's outfit in an adult size.

Stay tuned, because I'm quite in love with the idea... So I may be participating. :) Let me know if you do too.

Labels: ideas for bleak days, interpreting and reinterpreting, moments, other people's stuff, sometimes other people are much more creative than i am. ;)

I'm starting to think that I live more in my computer than in the real world lately. . . and that this is decidedly unhealthy. It limits my senses to sight and sound for the hours I spend staring at the screen, because while I could lick the keyboard occasionally (surely some crumbs are in there somewhere), sniff the monitor or put sandpaper and velvet on my desk to stimulate myself further, there is an unreality about living life this way. Certainly, the time I spend on my bike to and from work fills me with well-being in a way that time in front of the computer never does.

So, I am going to ration. Like any good addict, I need to withdraw gradually so that I don't get the shakes. I'm giving myself an hour a day for the next month, and then wean myself down from there.

I'm going to live. I'm going to pull out my unused brand-new running shoes and go for a wheezing run, meet up with friends, create things with my hands and paper, fabric, and food, make things for other people and myself, clean out my closet (OK, that doesn't sound appealing at all), take classes again, play my new piano (which is arriving next week!!!!), read more, and most importantly... find my muse again. (Who knows, there may be multiple muses... What do you call a male muse? I know that officially there are only the Greek ones, all women... OK, mine are called Hughs.) ... find my hughs again. (Nah. That doesn't really work does it? Clearly, my creativity needs some work.)

I've become such a hermit for the past few months, I think partly out of some strange, good, bad, hard introspection I've been subjecting myself to lately. (The computer/internet is a great escape from thinking about hard things.)

Between the blogs I visit regularly, e-mail, FB stalking, online games and comparative shopping, I add hours to the time I spend in front of the computer at work.

So, no more. I have 15 minutes left in today's allotment and I will shut down. Tonight I want to DO something. And hopefully something that I can taste, smell or touch or see and hear in a different way. I will stimulate my dormant senses, maybe eat a habanero chili pepper, blow my nose repeatedly with tears flowing down my cheeks, stuff several pieces of bread into my mouth, all the while trying to blow my nose, feel the mucus membrane on the inside of my mouth swell, touch my eye by accident ... OK, that's a bad idea. But I'll do something interesting. :)

Look back on ya tomorrow.

Here's to life.

Labels: being alive, brains, choices, interpreting and reinterpreting

“Reach for the stars, dear heart,” my grandmother would say. I had no idea what she meant. I thought that maybe she was referring to a thai chi move that she did where her hands were outstretched above her, her face open and gazing at the sky. And this was long before Buzz Lightyear changed the associations with the phrase.

I had no idea that she could mean anything else but the literal. She was generally so absent-minded in every other way, that it never occurred to me that she was attempting to be symbolic. I used to watch the sky. For signs. Not astrology or anything like that, but I used to make deals with myself.

If that cloud turns into something that resembles a bunny, I will clean my room, I’d tell myself. Or, if it doesn’t rain tomorrow, I will call mom and dad. If the sky was red in the morning I would watch for what it was warning the sailors about. (An STD? Or storms? You know what they say about sailors. I'm Kiiiddding.)

I remember my grandmother’s face. There was a childlike innocence about her. About her hopefulness with the world and with people. She would smile so openly at people. And she would get them to do what she needed doing and she would do anything for them.

She would make deals, “Well dear, I know that you are very busy, but if you would be so kind as to take my garbage out, I’ll make enough supper for you to take home with you.” A lovely thought isn’t it? But those who didn’t know that my grandmother was a terrible cook, would often fall for the offer. She combined interesting things and seem to have little sense of what food “matched.” So you would end up with hot dogs cut into fruit salad and dressed with porridge. All food, but not such a good idea.

She used to wrangle with storekeepers in major department stores. I remember going with her to Sears at Christmas and her wearing out a salesman to get a good deal on a tape cassette player. I think he almost gave it to her for free just to have to not explain again that they don't make these kind of deals in Canada. After all, he was most definitely mistaken.

I spent Christmas with my grandparents only one year. I think that I was about 12 years old or something. I remember comparing my grandparents' cold house to the houses that I used to see in movies, where chubby cheeked grandparents greeted you with open arms. The grandmother wearing a pretty woolen knitted sweater and the grandfather a bow tie, suspenders. Both of the eyes twinkling, and their cheeks rosy. Grandma would pull a roast out of the oven and would have a huge platter with all the trimmings. No. It wasn't like that at all. It was tense and pretense. The only vaguely normal thing was my grandparents insisting that I play the old piano with the missing E flat, liking the classical pieces but hating any of that modern stuff.

I should have known better. Yes I was only twelve years old, but I knew some of the history. That my grandfather had been a wife-beater until one day, after he had aged and weakened, when my grandmother had had enough and had beaten the shit out of him until he promised that he would never touch her again. I knew that my grandfather was a monster, but had not quite managed to accept or fully understand the depth of his depravity which extended far beyond anything I can talk about reasonably or without fury. She carried the burden of a culture from which a woman who would never leave her husband; it was adultery. (I know, I don't get it either).

My grandparents' house was filled with locked doors. Neither of them trusted each other. My grandmother had sufficient cause given that he took razor blades to her favorite dresses and poured boiling water on her plants. My grandfather could trust my grandmother, but undoubtedly didn’t want her to find evidence of his most recent crimes. Whether that be the billiard ball that he used to drop onto the floor one floor above her bed to wake and startle her in the night, or the ancient pornography that we found when he died, which would now be considered funny or camp, but that at the time was scandalous, or the precious things of hers that he stole and hid in his locked room which included most gifts from grandchildren.

But my grandmother could still stretch to the sky. Take in moments as wondrous and joyous without a hint of bitterness. Astounding. She was able to love, be loved, enjoy sunsets, her garden, life, despite the fact that her husband was a horrible monster is still baffling and strange to me. How did she manage? How can I not love every good thing around me?

After he died, she was in her 80s and she, for the first time, took up camping. She would go on her own because she liked it that way. And by the fire, she would look at the stars. Wonder in them. She thought camping was the best thing they ever invented. If she was still here, I would eat pickled beets and ice cream for her.

Labels: interpreting and reinterpreting, truth is stranger than fiction