Then and Now

There’s a new movie coming out, Vanity Fair, based on the book. It inspired me to read the book, which I started long ago and didn’t quite finish.

One of the things that is so interesting about Victorian novels, and which makes them so enduring for today’s readers is the struggle for POSITION. These girls who are trying to marry a man with money, so blatantly struggling to bag a husband with 5 thousand a year, or 80 thousand a year, or with a hundred a year and a title, they are struggling so hard to attain status in their “society.”

The victorian era was all about the rise of the middle class. The Middle class, the newly rich capitalists, rich off trade and business rather than inherited estates were struggling in their world to be what they felt they had a right to be. They wanted into the higher eschelons of “society” and it was a constant struggle to fit in.

The Victorian prudery and extreme care for the chastity and reputation of the ladies was a huge part of that. The lower classes were the only ones that were supposed to engage in imorality. Or, I should say, the lower class WOMEN were the only ones supposed to engage in immorality.

A new standard for women had been introduced, that the unmarried women had to be pure as the driven snow or she could be rejected by that man of X thousand a year.

Why? Because women did not have earning power. They did not have economic rights to the same degree as men did, so their earning power was their marriageability, for the most part.

But that’s really a side note.

What struck me in this novel was again, as I have seen so many times in other novels, was the the focus on CREDIT. Apparently, a young man of nice clothes could ring up bills and bills and bills and no one thought anything of it.

This is so completely contemporary that it makes me wonder.

We’ve got all kinds of new formality in place, that allows a much more egalitarian debt system. You don’t have to “cut a fine figure” as those novelists say. You just have to fill out a mean form.

Bill collectors coming after you? Like they did to Captain Crawley and Rebecca (the Heros of my novel)? Rebecca was praised for her ability to persuade them away.

The 21st century way of dealing with it was to consolidate the debt, transfer some funds and get back on the road.

Here’s the next snapshot in my train of thought:

I saw another ad for a different movie. This one is called “The Corporation”

It’s a documentary. I really want to see it.

I’ve previously complained about my life in elevators. That’s one way I describe the life of a corporate corpse. But I also admit that it can be exciting to work in a large structure.

I get to point at my corporate logo, and the corporate logo on the many tall buildings and in the marble lobbies with the huge expensive flower arrangments and say, “I am a part of this. This is the glory I contribute to.”

And I get to build a little home from the blue paychecks.

Do you remember the story of Babel? The tower of babel? They wanted to build a tower to the heavens. They said, ‘We don’t need God anymore! We will climb to heaven ourselves!”

And God looked down from heaven to the people he had created and said, ‘oh shit! They can do it, too!” okay, he actually said, “”If as one people speaking the same language they have begun to do this, then nothing they plan to do will be impossible for them.”

Then he made all the humans who were working together on this tower speak different languages from one another. Suddenly, they couldn’t work together any more. The tower faltered, and was abandoned.

What’s happened since then? A couple more towers have sprung up. A few more very tall buildings have come into existence. Is this a deferred dream we are realizing or a nightmare once averted and now awakened?

The documentary about Corporations seems to be showing how corporations are bad, and how insidious they are to our culture. Granted, take everything I say with a grain of salt because I haven’t seen the movie.

BUT, i’ve seen some other things. I’ve heard the cries for “back to the land!”

You know that commercial where the alternative-hippie-looking kids are hitchiking and talking about majoring in ceramics? But they they see a cool SUV and decide to minor in ceramics so they can afford this shiny car?

THAT”S what I’m talking about. Yes, we know about our desire to be close to the land and the rhythms of the earth. To have our hands in up to the elbows in the act of creation and the practicing of our art.

And we..the american culture…still want the SUV. Which is it?

I wonder. Which half of that equation is the most hypocritical? The pat answer is the side that wants the SUV. I’m not so sure.

I am not in love with corporations. But let us assess.

Did you know that during the victorian period, that marvelous rising of the middle class, there was a huge “back to the earth” movement too? Back to nature?

Only then it was THEIR version of nostalgia. It was for peasant hood (Carlyle is who I am thinking of). ‘Go back to being a peasant! You wil wake with the sun and grow your own food, and live life in the ebb of the earth’s seasonal pageantry! Give up this pursuit of life in the city and …

CAPITALISM

oh yeah…capitalism…That famous economic tome”Das Kapital” by Karl Marx is from the Victorian age. The Communist manifesto came out of that time too. Remember?

…Communism vs. Capitalism…

The words are still used today. Even though communism is widely described as dead, and capitalism has changed so much that Marx’s theories no longer apply.

What are we up to? We want all the good things, we want all we can get. Then as now. Vanity Fair was the description of London society. Couldn’t it just as well be a description of New York society? Or Beverly Hills?

We have built some pretty big towers. And if we didn’t want them, why did we bother?

What it all a big misunderstanding? Did we really want to live close to the ground, but the architect looked at the plans sideways? Did we have a meeting and someone scrawled the minutes so they build a 105 stories instead of 105 foot garden?

Maybe we don’t recognize this world because after the vision came the revisions.

Did we all get caught in the close at hand and forget the future results? Did our parents and grandparents look only at that weekly paycheck and not know what would happen when all their toil piled up into accomplishments?

I can’t believe that we didn’t know. I think many many of us learned to put aside our different ways of talking and worked together very very hard to get the world that we live in now.

But this final version, this present version of life2004 (brought to you by Microsoft~!) or Reality or however you want to see it contains ALL.
The conversions, reversions, subversions and perversions are all a part of the final version.

This version keeps all that. no pebble turns without reshaping the universe.

Maybe we are amazed at our small selves affecting so much change.

The monuments we’ve constructed changed the warp of gravity. We’ve altered the universe slightly and our environment mightily. We are what we have worked diligently to become.

And that bring it all back to Hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy…”Are you sure you asked the right question?”

Are we sure we worked toward the right goal?

Let us deal with what is here and now. You cannot begin your journey in a different place than the one you are in.

‘Do you work outside the home?”

That’s what the guy in the shuttle to the airport asked me. It was sort of stunning. He OBVIOUSLY worked outside the home, because he was there in his briefcase, starched white shirt and tie.

And I was there in my corporate casual, with my laptop bag embroidered with the corporate logo.

When he asked me that question, a big ol’ whiff of Promise Keepers came out of his mouth. Now, I realize that SOME women, those that do work inside the home with children and things, might find it consoling to hear that question. They would appreciate that he did not assume that the only work that counts is the kind that you have to drive to.

But to me, it sounded a lot like “You should be at home, but you’re not. So why are you here? Account for yourself.”

In support of this impression, as soon as I told him I managed the conferencing services for a global company he lost interest in talking to me and began to call people on his cell phone.

Now, since his expectations of females seemed to be the barefoot-and-pregnant variety, he may have found a reason not to talk to this inferior human (me!) anyway.

But the other guys in the shuttle were quite interesting and talkative.

I still feel the slight from Mr. “Traditional Roles”

I personally have learned not to assume that people work outside the home. But it has nothing to do with gender. Most of the people I know who work at home do so because they have found a way of generating income in their own home. I SO wish I could do that too.

At the same time, I have respect for mothers (and fathers) who work on family and home things without generating income. They have found a way to team with their partners and keep their lives in balance with what they think is most important.

But I don’t ask that condescending 80’s question. I say, “What do you do with your time?”

A radio host, from the show “What do you know?’ asks “what do you do in life?” That’s a good one too.

Come on now, dude! Try not to let your stereotypes spill out all ugly like that.

Thoughts on Candide and the workplace

I read Candide by Voltaire long ago. I thought it was incredibly funny, and it was hard to believe it was meant to be philosophy. It was so funny! All these crazy things happening to these people. One good thing then all of a sudden all these bad things.

It was for a class, of course. We were trying to figure out what made this philosophical. The teacher said, “Someone suggested that the actual number of bad things that happen to the characters is exactly equal to the number of good things…I havne’t counted, though.”

And that makes me think. Still makes me think. How many good things does it take to be equal to a bad thing? Really…Equivalency is what I’m talking about.

If someone says, “You have a nice smile”
is that an equivalent counter-balance to someone else saying, “Your breath really stinks”

Those are kind of equivalent, maybe. Depending on who says it and when.

But how many, “you did a good job”s does it take to make up for “We’re very disappointed in you”

It may depend on the person.

Here’s another one. People who do customer service get this all the time. Teachers too. When you have that customer, that person you are assisting, or student go ballistic on you. When they threaten to call your manager, tell you exactly how you are failing them, accuse you of some mishandling of a task….

And you have to stand there, take it, and speak in a calm voice explaining the situation and getting some necessary response/information from them until you are at last released from their tractor beam of displeasure

you are released. You kept your cool, you handled the crisis.

How long does it take to recover?

It takes me a while. It leaves me shaky and vulnerable.

It makes it harder to help that person. Why go back to the source of pain?

How many good nights sleep does it take to get over the adrenaline rush of someone’s accusation?

What’s the equivalent?

i try to find satisfaction in a job well done. My reward is in recognizing that I did a damn good job.

I’d rather not take the bullets. I’m tired of being the target practice.

Social circles

This weekend was really busy. I had a birthday party on Saturday night, but that afternoon I had to go shopping for a function later in the month.

Then I had my writing group, which met on Sunday, and a coffee shop thing in the evening.

Busy busy.

Which is QUITE unusual for me. I have been here a year and a half, a littl more even, and I have been having trouble making friends. THis is not new. I am understanding the rhythm of friend-making after a move.

You know, friends are a tricky business. I think army brats, the ones that have to move every two to four years understand this. When you go to a new place, you have to find a way to connect with the people there.

Data, on Next Generation Star Trek, once had a line that said something to the effect that Frienship had much more to do with just being around each other than emotion.

I think there is a lot of truth to that. And I think that sometimes people you spend a lot of time with, such as co-workers or bar friends, can feel like friends when in actuality, they are merely co-existing in the same space.

A friend is someone who will make an effort to come see you or have you see them. Because they want to. That means taking time to talk on the phone or go do an activity or something. Something that is personally for you.

That personally bit is the part I’ve been missing. I haven’t done very many one-on-one things since I’ve been here. Very, very few.

I have book club, I have writing group, I have movie club. I have church, I have open mic night at the coffee shop. I have work, and I have my sweet boyfriend.

I am actually very busy and very seldom completely alone. And yet…I haven’t had the personal time with a friend very often.

It’s a tough leap, that from being a member of a group to being an individual personal friend. How do you really manage it? How do you know it’s okay to make a move.

I find it much more difficult than a date. Maybe I’m pretty good at dating. But just getting someone to go out and play…

I admit, I’m kind of shy. If someone is not willing to email me, it’s hard. Phones are a little scary to me. I don’t know exactly why. I get shy about calling someone on the phone.

So that’s probably a handicap on my part.

And then, I get very tired after work. I just want to sleep. So that makes me not want to get up and do things with friends that I feel nervous about calling.

But to make friends with someone, you have to be around them a certain amount of time. You have to make contact, and keep up the contact for a period of time so that you get to know each other’s lives. If you don’t do that, it falls flat.

It’s a little complicated.

Decisions

Valentine’s day and President’s day are very close to one another.

Chris was saying, “I wish they had left the President’s days separate.”

“You don’t like it being so generic? You mean we should not celebrate all Presidents?”

“Well! It doesn’t seem fair that the guy who caught the flu on his inauguration day and died two weeks in office should be celebrated as much as the other presidents”

Being president is something Americans are all supposed to be able to aspire to. How many American babies are cooed over in their cribs, and hear the pronouncement, “maybe this one will grow up to be president.”

Yes, This is america, the place where you can carve your own destiny. ANYONE can grow up to be president.

I wonder how many presidents aspired to the office? If they are like most people I know, the choice of becoming president was not really their own. They may have started along a political path and just sort of pushed, bumped, promoted along until they got to the White House.

Huge life decisions are not made that way. Decisions are made before you know you’ve made them. Swerve one way or the other, and your feet have changed paths.

The decision comes later. When it comes, it is less of a “will I go?” question, and more of a “Will I stop going?” question.

I think love is the same way. The small decisions are often unseen. Will you be my valentine? How often is that question asked when the answer is not known?

I think most decisions come after the fact. The momentous changes in direction are never recognized until they are past.

February rode in on an ambulance
I’ve been sick all week. Actually, I’ve been sick even last week.
I was feeling woozy, and extra tired. The bus ride made me especially ill, and then it seemed to last all day. Friday, I was feeling motion sick all day long. By the time I was ready to go home, I began to think, “something is not right. There is something wrong going on.”
I almost asked Chris to pick my up from work. But I hate to do that. Then i almost took a cab home.
Then I thought, “Maybe I’m jsut really hungry.”
So I ate something, and that made me feel better enough to take the bus home.
But saturday, I was supposed to go to Palm Springs. I just didn’t feel up to it. I felt like lying around and resting.
Sunday, I took myself to the doctor and got a prescription for antibiotics to cure a supposed sinus infection that was messing with my sense of equilibrium, and hence making me feel woozy, motion sick, all the time. I called in sick for Monday.l
But Monday, I dreamed that I had collapsed at the bus stop. I woke, and had to throw up. But while crawling to the toilet, I realized that I had no sense of balance whatsoever and that i was completely sick. The world would NOT stop spinning., The walls reached out and smacked me when I tried to move, because i didn’t know how to stay upright, even while crawling.
The sweat poured off me as I retched intot the toilet. I had to do something. This was bad. I needed help. But I couldn’t move! How would I get help?
I concentrated as hard as I knew how on believing that te world was not spinning. I closed my eyes and breathed very hard, pressing my head against something solid and immobile. “You are STILL, STILL, you are STILL”
Finally, I could gather my thoughts enough…i needed to get someone to help me. But I couldnn’t move at all without vomiting…
I made my plan. I would launch myself back to my bed, where my cordless phone was, and on the way I would grab the trash can to barf into. I would either call Chris or 911.

But I really wanted Chris. I would call Chris. He would help me.
I made it, with my eyes shut to keep the room from spinning. After throwing up for a while, I contemplated how to dial the phone with my eyes shut. I didn’t figure out a way, So I had to open them for a few moments.
I got Chris’s answering machine, like I knew I would. “Chris! Chris! Help! I need you help!”
He picked up right away. “Murphy!”
“Chris! I need you! Come help me!”
“I’ll be right there!”
“okay”
and then I sat there, dripping sweat and vomiting some more. But I was thinking. I had put the chain lock in place. Would chris be able to get in without my help? Is there a way to unlock a chain from the outside?
I decided that i had to go unlock it.
February rode in on an ambulance- CONTINUED
sorry everyone…I am having to tell this story in pieces, because I am remarkably weak still.
So I gathered all the strength I had, and propelled myself to the front door, dragging my trashcan behind me. I thought I was going straight down the hallways, but the wall came right at me again. I used all my strength to get to the door and flip out the chain lock.
Then I sat in spinning, sweat-soaking misery until Chris arrived. I was getting cold because I was so wet.
It wasn’t very long, but every moment took a lot of concentration. When I heard chris turning the lock I called out, “Watch out, I’m right here.”
I didn’t want him to hit me with the door. I needed to maitain my sense of space in order not to spin out again.
He stopped entirely. “It’s okay,” I said. “Just don’t hit me with the door.”
He came in carefully and leaned down over me. I tried to open my eyes. I really wanted to see his face; but the room started spinning again and i had to shut them again.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. He had no idea.
“Everything is spinning! It’s spinning and it won’t stop. It’s making me sick.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Umm…” It was hard for me to think. “I need to see a doctor. I need your help.”
“Yes, you need to see a doctor.”
I was shaking from cold and sickness at this point. He looked at me and said, “You need to get to bed.”
“I have to go to the bathroom.” It was true. I had had to go since I first woke up. But it didn’t seem possible. At the different stations of the apartment i had ended up in, I had contemplated this situation among the other dilemmas before me. How could I possibly take care of this? While vomiting, it’s hard to remain in control of my bodily functions. I contemplated going in my pants, but thought I should save that for a last resort.
Good thing. Chris helped me to the bathroom. He got me on my feet. At first I lurched way over to the side, but he got a firm hold on me, and helped me to the toilet. I pulled my pants down, sat down and vomited into my faithful trash can some more.
There is a lot of vomit in this story. I am sure it is not that much fun to read about but it was less fun to be the protagonist.
You can, in fact, relieve yourself and vomit at the same time. I gave myself fully over to being sick, but the other just sort of took care of itself. Then I breathed for a while. Breathing was a very deliberate activity.
Wiping myself seemed impossible. But I thought about it, and decided that I must. I could move my hand and feet slowly without disturbing the stillness. But my head couldn’t be moved. Raising myself up to complete this task took some courage. But in the end I leaned into the can again and simultaneously took care of my needs.
But puling my pants up again was realy beyond. As soon as I could talk, when the sickness subsided, I called for Chris. He helped me to my bed, although I collapsed half in and half out. I was shivering, and he immediately covered my with an extra blanket.
That bed felt so good, but I was cold. Chris was trying to call Kaiser, and was on hold for quite a while. He said I had to get under the blankets in bed, because I had to get warm. He helped push me in.
Even while I was being sick, the bed felt so good I never wanted to move again. The pillow was heaven, the blankets felt so good and warm. Still on hold, Chris stuck a thermometer in my mouth. “that can’t be right….”
He took my temp again…”94.7..This must be malfunctioning…”
I said, “I’m cold.”
He could see I was shivering.
He finally got through to the doctor. “Baby?” he said. “I’ve got an appointment for 45 minutes from now. Do you think you can make it if I drive you to the doctor’s in my car?”
There was a challenge. I didn’t know. This pillow felt very nice.”I don’t know.”
“What should I do baby?”
“I don’t know.” I thought some more. Maybe…”Go get the car ready, and I will see.”
I concentrated very hard. I had made it to the phone because I had to. I’d gotten to the chain lock because i had to. What would this involve? I would simply be sick the whole way. Could I throw up for the 15 mintes it would take to drive there? But what about in the waiting room? Doctors always made you wait. Did they give precedence to vomiting patients? i suspected not. How long would they make me wait?
Oh this pillow felt good.
I envisioned the path to the car. I would have to ride in the elevator. How would I do that? If I had to concentrate so hard on keeping a still room from moving, how would I do in a room that actually was moving?
It seemed unlikely that I would actually be able to do this.
Chris came back. He saw me with my eyes screwed shut, shaking with chills. “I don’t think you can make it in the car.”
“I think you’re right.”
“I’m gonna call 911. After all, they did say that I should do that if this was an emergency.”
He went into the other room to call 911. I lay there and imagined being magically whisked off to someplace that would make me feel better. I pictured a helicopter, with me being strapped into a bed and swaying at the end of a rope.
Swaying made me start to feel spinny again, so I concentrated on feeling still. No, there would not be a helicopter. There would be an ambulance, and a gurney. They would lift me onto the gurney.
Oooh…Moving. That would be bad. Riding in a car. Maybe they would give me morphine or something. What did they do, anyway?
Just breathe. THink of peace. Peace. Still. Still.
I heard the sirens. “Hear that baby? They are coming for you.” Chris was taking good care of me.
They were coming.

love talk

Chris came by to see me yesterday. I was having a rough day, and he was worried about me.

It wasn’t particularly difficult, I had just lost my sense of humor. You HAVE to have a sense of humor over here, or you grind out.

So, he helped me feel better, just by being there. As I was getting sleepy, we had this conversation:

“I have to be up very early in the morning. Tell me something.”

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“Sleepy things. Tell me a story.”

“I don’t know any stories.”

“Well, tell me what happened in the world today.”

“Let’s see….Do you know about Skull and Bones?”

“…other than their literal meaning, I couldn’t tell you. What are Skull and Bones?”

“I was listening to the radio today, and this talk show guy was talking about Skull and Bones. They are a secret society at Yale; this guy claimed they controlled everything.”

“Oh yeah…I remember hearing about them. They control everything?”

“That’s what this guy said…”

“If they control everything, I want to talk with them. There are a few things that need some improvement. How do we get a hold of these people?”

“This guy was claiming that they orchestrated the Kennedy assasination, and the Mars landing.”

“We need to find these guys and put them to better use. If there is somebody controlling everything, I say good. Too many things are out of control.”

Pause

“Chris..You’re going to become that guy, aren’t you?”

“what guy?”

“That guy who works from his home and listens to talk radio all day and turns weird.”

“I do NOT listen to talk radio all day! I only listen to it in my car.”

“WHATever. Next thing you know, you’ll be staying up late listening to that one talk guy.”

“Oh…Yeah…that guy…But he’s not on anymore. You mean Art Bell. They have another guy doing his show now. He only comes on for special occasions.”

“See? This is what I’m talking about. You already know all this stuff. You are gonna be that weird extremist right-wing guy.”

“I am not. What about you? you listen to NPR all day. Are you gonna be a left-wing extremist?”

“NPR is not extremist anything. They are all about the money. Do you know they play different songs depending on how the market is doing?”

“They do?”

“Yeah. If the market is up they play, ‘da da dedada’.”

“‘We’re in the money’…”

“Yeah. I don’t remember what song they play if it’s down. I don’t pay attention to stocks.”

“Yes, you put your money into your condo.”

“Right. But that just shows how NPR is all about the money. Whenever they do bring up some social cause, it’s so far away you could never do anything about it, so you don’t have to be distracted from worrying about your stocks.”

“Well…What’s the left-wing equivalent of the talk shows?”

“Pacifica radio. They are the ones who incite the peace marchers.”

“oh yeah. They’re weird.”

“I don’t listen to them very often.”

Reaching Out

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 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

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.

I Drather

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.