Category Archives: bookworthy

San francisco

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I’m in san francisco again. For work. Again.

But I managed to run out and see some friends. Even some friends I didn’t expect to see (Hi Jay!).

I am staying in the kind of hotel that I only stay in when someone else is paying for it. The Omni, right off California. It’s beautiful. Gorgeous marble, expensive chocolate mint by the bed. I even got complimentary bath salts. Very nice.

The work I had to do here was not easy, unfortunately. A lot of pressure, so I didn’t sleep as well as I could have wished. But I finished the hard part yesterday, and I took myself on a walk through the city.

Down to Market street, and to Union Square. I love this city. I love it so much I always cry, or at least feel like crying, when I come here. It is so beautiful. I love the rain here, and the fog here, and the sunshine. And when all three happen at once, which they do sometimes, I can’t stop looking at the sky.

I walked along, looking at all the amazing buildings, and the people dressed in black. I passed all kinds of shops, Macy’s and Loehman’s and the Gap. I was not interested in seeing things that are made in hundreds. Those pants and sweaters can be seen all over the place, but the building that holds them can’t.

Then again, the Virgin Megastore pulled me in. They were playing some music. I forgot to pack CDs. I went inside to see if they had different kinds of music for sale than in LA. I had barely started to move around before A huge crowd of people started clapping. I hadn’t noticed the stage.

“…INTRODUCING EPIC RECORDING ARTISTS…PHANTOM PLANET!”

hhaaaahhhh

The crowd went wild. And the drummer kicked in.

A really awesome little punk band, I have to say. They looked very young, which probably means I am getting older. But I haven’t heard that kind of tight energy in a while. I may buy the album.

After a little bit of headbanging, I moved on into the street again and I found Union Square. A true delight for the eye. I couldn’t stop looking at all the buildings and signs and the big interesting lines of the palm trees. I walked up onto the main square, and a new salsa rhythm was coming from the cafe. I slinked my hips across the top, thinking that I love cities because you can dance to all the beats.

But I was hungry. At Kearny and somthing…Stockton? I found an alley of restaurants. They looked so inviting! Christmas lights were strung over the top, making an airy ceiling over the white tablecloth seats.

There were four of them. I picked the one that looked the tastiest. Tiramisv it was called. The one next door, called “plouf” had a very flirty waiter trying to get me to come in. He was young and cute, but the menu wasn’t what I wanted right then.

I was tired and hungry, so it was very welcome to sit down. The meal was marvelous, especially the dessert. Mmm..Profiteroles with hot chocolate and butterscotch dipping sauces.

I finished it all off very pleasantly and walked home slowly. My belly was very full after my hard day. I thought about how my life is now filled with elevators, and I wondered if that is the sort of thing an artist should be worried about.

Perhaps artists should avoid places where people live and work stacked up on each other. Perhaps artists should not go for slow rides among those who follow dress codes and wearing routines.

Perhaps.

But then again, I like the places that elevators can lead to, and I like the energy that bounces off the tall walls and gives these cities that j’ne sais quoi that makes me want to cry when I see it.

My expectations did not include elevators. But expectations change. Maybe one day I will leave elevators behind for narrow roads and small, hidden buildings.

Reaching out

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Those of you, and I am so grateful for you, who read my blog on a regular basis would be aware that I haven’t written very regularly this month.

Perhaps I have been extraordinarily busy with work.

But also, at the beginning of the month, I had my piano tuned. It’s needed it for some time. I just hadn’t gotten around to it. I was feeling a vague sense of guilt that I never play it, and then I realized that I didn’t like the way it sounded, all out of tune. So, I had it tuned.

I’ve been playing it madly ever since. I pass it, on the way to get something from the kitchen, and I can’t resist playing some tricky part of a song, some trilly part that’s hard to get right.

And I’m learning to play new songs. I was getting tired of all the old ones I knew. I have been trying to learn some old irish ballads, and some old jazz songs.

Ballads are so pretty; they tear my heart out. I will often cry as I play and sing them.

But jazz is another animal entirely. They seem so simple when you hear them, and somehow, they slip away. You try to sing them, and then find you can’t remember the words. What was that again? It just slips out of your mind.

It was surprising to me to realize that most of them were just two or three very simple verses. Why is that so hard to remember?

So when I sit down to play these simple songs, I also find they are not so simple to play. I learned to play piano by teaching myself. I learned to play melodies on my own, and then I pestered other people and read things until I got an understanding of how music works. For any song, there is a structure, a musical structure. It’s like a grid that you can place down over any song, and know how you can place the parts of the song in relation to itself and in relation to music as a concept.

Jazz does not fit the grid very well.

If you read about jazz, read what they said about it at the time, the people were freaking out at how innovative and weird and NEW it was. “Jungle music” they called it, among other things. Some people couldn’t get enough of it.

Since I’ve been so fascinated with my newly tuned piano, music has been on my mind, I found my harmonica, and I was trying to play some of the same songs on it as I was walking to the bus stop.

“Danny Boy” worked pretty well, but “Pennies from Heaven” was hopeless. I realized that the harmonica does not have all the notes that a piano has. There simply was nowhere to go, nowhere to reach for the notes I needed.

And it clicked with me. That is why Jazz was so exciting to these people when it was new. They had their minds in the grid. And when the jazz musicians reached out for a note that wasn’t in the grid, it was practicially like reaching into a fourth dimension. It was blowing their minds!

I am thinking of the novel by Sinclair Lewis, Flatland. New things are so hard for us to come to terms with.

So why does the piano keep me from writing? I don’t know. My mother raised me on theories of right-brain and left-brain functions. I will say that when I play the piano, my mind does not think in words very well. I don’t know why, but even the words in songs do not interrupt the flow of concentration created by my hands on the keys of the black and whites.

I am disappointed, because I do not play as well as I used to.

But even when I was as good I used to be, I was not as good as I wanted to be. I feel a push to do more than I can, more than I even know how to do.

I am not writing as well as I wish, or as much as I wish. And I am not playing as well as I want.

I have been feeling a hunger for a sewing machine, lately. I want to make something, create something that has not been done before.

I haunt the craft shop, and I tell myself, “you can’t find the time to write, you can’t find the time to practice your piano enough, how are you going to have time to sew?”

But I can’t leave.

I feel the urge to reach out in a direction that has not been traveled before, or even discovered. And I fight myself all the time about it. I don’t know the way to start, or to find what I am looking for. What use would it be if I did? What would it matter? Who would care? How could I possibly succeed? What would good would it do if I even did?

But still I am haunting the craft stores, feeling the materials, and fantasizing about vagues shapes and colors and textures.

WORK

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You know, I’ve been re-evaluating my life somewhat. I don’t know why I call it RE-evaluating. I seem to do it without pause, really.

I am increasingly tired of what I do to make money. I feel like I have a lot of other things I would prefer to spend my time on. For example, I recently got my piano tuned. I am really enjoying learning new songs, and playing old ones.

What is this job thing for, anyway? Yes, I have to have food, shelter and clothing. And don’t forget the mathoms, all the pretty little useless items that catch my fancy, that I just have to have.

or maybe I don’t. Maybe I can get along with a heck of a lot less than I think. I went out to a restaurant last night, because I was too tired to cook and I didn’t have much in the fridge anyway.

If I hadn’t been to busy to shop or too tired to cook, I could have saved a lot of money.

Maybe.

As I was driving back with Chris from Marie Callendar’s, he asked me about Christmas music. “What kinds of music means Christmas to you?” He was thinking of buying Christmas CDs.

Thinking about it, my family did not buy Christmas CDs. But every Christmas had music! We just made it ourselves. Either we had an instrument to accompany us or we didn’t, but we always sang together.

What a beautiful thing! Think about music, just for a minute, as a beautiful thing to collect. It doesn’t take up space, it doesnt’ cost money. All you have to do is remember to sing.

And it lasts! It’s not something you regret, like a too-rich dessert. But it makes you feel good for longer than it takes just to sing.

What else is like that? Maybe playing a game, and I mean a real game that you make up, like peekaboo, with a child or a friend. Doesn’t cost a thing, doesn’t take up space or clutter your life.

Spending some time giving love…kisses and hugs, the best things in life, really, are just the same.

I wonder if I could tip the balance, make my life full of the non-cluttery things, so full that I don’t have time or space for the physical things. That might eliminate the necessity for this daily pay for daily work stuff.

Maybe.

The real home made microwave popcorn recipe.

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Awhile back, I did some postings about homemade popcorn. I posted them because I often post about any random thing that catches my interest.

Maybe you readers didn’t know, I have ways of telling how the traffic on my website gets here. There is a detailed report, most of which is boring. But the report also tracks what kind of search strins people use to find my site.

And consistently, people come here looking for how to make homemade microwave popcorn. I get a lot of hits for that.

My last entry on the matter was not quite accurate, so I wanted to set the record straight.

To Make your OWN microwave popcorn you need:

brown lunchbag
popcorn kernels (whatver cheap kind your local store sells)
stapler with staples

1. Open the bag
2. Cover the bottom of the bag with popcorn. Some kernels may rest on top of each other, just make sure that the entire bottom is covered with corn
3. Fold over the top of the bag and staple it. Yes, the staple is metal, but it won’t spark.
4. Place in the microwave on its side
5. Cook for however long your microwave takes to cook pre-bagged popcorn.

NOW! I have used this method on two different microwaves. One was pathetic and had very little power. The corn in that case took 3 and a half minutes to pop, and was very DRY and stale tasting by the time it came out.

My new microwave is more peppy, it’s 1000W. It takes one minute and 45 seconds to pop a full bag. The corn is much fresher tasting, probably because the water is still mostly there. The corn itself sometimes leaves moist marks on the bag, from whatever water content the kernels have in them.

For myself, I like butter on the popcorn. So i microwave a little butter and pour it on. When I’m trying to eat light, which is most of the time, I cook a little Brummel&Brown in the ‘wave and add some water. THe water gives it more pour power, letting the butter flavor cover more of the corn.

The “I can’t believe it’s not butter” spray is really good too.

You can re-use the bag too, if you feel especially frugal. As i’m typing right now, it occurs to me that a plastic paper clip might do the trick just as easily as a staple. That would really prolong the life of the bag, and eliminate the need for a new staple every time. Perhaps I will try this and let you all know.

But that’s the skinny! It really does work, I’ve done it consistely for about a year now. It’s much cheaper and far eco-friendlier than using all that packaging. Plus, if you are watching calories or sodium, you can be in charge of what goes on the popcorn. I’ve seen the low-sodium microwave popcorn for sale, it is even MORE expensive.

Comment if you have anything to say.

WRITING

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Man, I haven’t written a thing in my blog all week.

Sometime, it’s just too much.

I had to do a review (actualy two reviews, but who’s counting?) for the newspaper I write for. Now, to tell you the truth, I am really happy that I write for this paper, although I have some feelings of ambivalence about it’s quality. Even so, I feel like my ambitions are still burning when I have this place I write for.

BUT IT WAS ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE to write the review. It’s not that hard to do, normally. I just have felt under so much pressure. I felt completely incapacitated, like I oculdn’t write One single word. A sentence was too much.

“What?” you, my dear reader may ask. “You’ve just popped out several paragraphs right now, without a single whiff of agony.”

Indeed. This blog has no pressure at all. No discipline is required. There are more kinds of writing than one.

I finally finished the review, and it was a scanty one. I said nice things, but i just couldn’t quite hit the 400 word mark.

Isn’t journalism supposed to be concise?

Yikes. Well, I did finish it, and I did get the main points across. Some times, even doing the things you love, takes more effort than you can muster. Now that I’ve finished it, maybe i can beat back some of the panic that seemed to be overtaking me about all the things I have to do.

I think I am looking forward to january already. I think some things will ease off. I sure hope so.

Well, I will get through it. I’ll be stronger for it too.

The Bell Jar

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Sometimes I think I should write two book reviews. I should write one when I’m in the middle of reading a book and I don’t know how it will end. And then I should write one after I’ve finished it.

Because a book is an experience. It’s not an entire thing. You can feel one way about it in the middle and very different at the end. The middle is often the best part, it’s like being on the rollercoaster. The end of the book is what you remember about being on the roller coaster.

The Bell Jar was amazing because of how it pulled me into the emotions without me realizing I was in the middle of them.

I’ll tell you, books pull me in. I felt sick and scared and weird when I read Beloved. The Fountainhead makes me cold and fierce and ambitious. I cried for days and days about the state of the world after I read The Poisonwood Bible. My speech pattern change entirely when I read Sense and Sensibility; I require far more clauses to ask for a cup of tea.

And Plath sucked me into the bell jar. I was there with Esther in the middle of all her strange feelings. Plath doesn’t go into huge explanations of why Esther feels pointless, so I didn’t realize when I started feeling pointless too.

But oh my god, I felt pointless. Everything seemed incredibly overwhelming. While I was reading the book, I had no desire to do anything. I felt like blowing off all my responsibilities and just curling up in a chair and reading.

I feel that way sometimes. It didn’t seem unusual that I felt that way while reading this book. But when some challenges showed up at work, they practically undid me. I felt like I totally couldn’t handle them, like there was no way out, that I was damned if I did and damned anyway. My stomach tightened up and I felt like crawling under my desk and hiding.

It was intense.

I blame the book. I mean, my job sucks, but wow.

And that’s why I think this is a great book. I didn’t feel fabulous reading it, absolutely the opposite. But the fact that it could operate on me so powerfully takes my breath away.

Plath is good.

So that stuff I just wrote might have been the stuff I would have written if I hadn’t finished the book. Now, after I’ve finished it I can say all kind of detached things.

Plath wrote a good story about suicidal urges. I have not been that kind of suicidal myself, but my frieds who have describe it in a very similar way. That suicide is a thing out there, a task to be done, something that needs to be done, and it’s just a matter of finding the right time.

When Esther recieves the “good” shock treatment, she describes how she kind of forgot that she needed to kill herself. To paraphrase, she says she went to dinner and could not quite remember what she loved the knives for.

I don’t know if other people would agree with me, but as I was reading the book, it seemed very easy to follow the logic Esther was using. It was hard to realize she was going crazy until she gave you the clues: she hadn’t slept for a week. She hadn’t bathed or changed her clothes.

The bathing part I felt was particularly significant, since she had earlier described how much she loved bathing. But then, she didn’t want to bathe anymore.

It was definitely not pleasant to read this book, but it was very powerful.

I Drather

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It is getting dark, and I am still at work.

I woke up this morning to the sound of my cell phone ringing in the wee morning. Someone in a different time zone needed my help. I sprang out of bed to answer it, heading out of the bedroom and into more cell-friendly areas of the house.

But I immediately hit my head on the door.

I didn’t know I’d closed it.

And the man in Uraguay is telling me that he can’t make a connection because no one is there, and I am trying to ask him how he knows that no one is there if he hasn’t made the connection.

And I can’t seem to figure out how to open the door. Is it locked? I lock and unlock it several times before I realize that I can’t open it because I’m leaning against it.

But at that point, the cell reception fades entirely and the phone connection is lost.

I sit down on the couch and call the other person whose time zone it is and tell him what he needs to do to take care of Uruguay’s problem. Problem solved.

And I’m awake. And my head hurts a little. Might as well get over to the office.

I’ve got to find a better way to make a living.

creative

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I am feeling the urge to spend most of my life energy on being creative. Most of my life energy right now is spent on my job, which is no longer creative.

I know that I should be practical, but I would rather be doing those things that burn in my breast. I am not excited by anything I do at work anymore. Challenged, just a little. It’s good to use the ol’ brain muscle every once in a while.

But there is a better use of my head than what these attorneys are using it for. I have my own ideas of how to use my head.

There are a number of creative types here. We all share that look-down-at-the-floor-and-raise-your-eyebrows-while-you-sigh realization that the bills come every month regardless of the burning in your bosom.

One guy is an actor, really with parts in things and stuff. He works early mornings and weekends. He has a SHIFT and does not have to stay beyond it.

One other guy is a musician. He was working and working so hard he finally put his foot down. He said, “I cannot work these hours. Change it or I’m leaving.”

He left.

But they negotiated, and he came back, part-time and paid hourly. But the hours are more and more not-so-part-time.

I am thinking of something like that too. Yes, lucky me, I am paid hourly. At least I am paid for every minute this job takes me away from myself.

But the hours are getting too long for doing something I don’t care about. 50+ hours a week. And with the bus strike, I am having to DRIVE to work. There is not enough head space to let my creativity reach critical mass and release itself.

It seems like I am gonna have to start getting creative about finding a way to get creative.

day two AWOL

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So, there’s this new guy. He was hired a couple weeks ago and seems nice enough.

But he didn’t come in last friday. And he didn’t call to say why. And he’s not here today either and he hasn’t called.

Here’s a situation. What should we do?

It happens the boss was out last friday. He’s in today, and I’m the one that called attention to the absence. Boss knew nothing about it.

He starts asking everyone if they had heard anything.

Here’s the funny bit: The guys all start backpedalling and trying to cover for the new guy…”Oh he said he might not come in on friday”

funny. So the boss calls the home number.
“Oh, this is not really where he lives, I will try to find out a better number for you.”

wow. This is new.

Now, I hope nothing is wrong. I suspect nothing is wrong.

But if nothing indeed is wrong, then what’s up with all this helping the guy cover up?

My upbringing was NEVER lie, NEVER try to get away with anything, and NEVER help anyone who was doing the above.

Good little Christian school children are taught that if they do anything, even the SMALLEST thing wrong they are sinning and deserve to go to hell, in fact they WILL go to hell if they don’t repent and have Jesus in their heart.

And if you cover up for your friend, you are not being a true friend because you are just helping them GO TO HELL!

So pretty much, there was a mad dash to tell on anyone that did anything wrong.

This is yet another example of how Christian schools do not prepare you for the real world.

In this real world that I now inhabit, it seems that there is an unspoken understanding that you cover for the guy. I didn’t know that you could get people to cover for you under these kinds of circumstances. This means that I can be a lot more cavalier about my duties, should I ever decide to be cavalier.

But I wonder why people cover for other people? is it in the hope that they will in turn be covered?

I guess. You never know when you will screw up or slack off somehow and need people to help you out. I screw unintentionally sometimes, no way around it. But to intentionally screw up. Wow.

I have never trusted people to help me out. I always assumed there would be the mad dash to tell on me.

That’s what I was raised with.

Interesting.