My Lonely City

I asked my cousins, one night they spent with us, if they’d like one more bedtime story before they went to sleep. Of course they said yes, and the older girl asked me to read aloud a chapter from a book she’s been reading. It’s one of the Scary Monsters Don’t Do This or That series – I had one when I was young called Vampires Don’t Wear Polka Dots, which was actually pretty good. This one was Ghosts Don’t Eat Potato Chips.

Break for literary nerdiness: I recently re-read Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey, which is in many ways a satire on the Gothic novel. In it, the main character, who has read rather a lot of Gothic novels, is led, or rather pleased, to imagine that her friends’ father has murdered or imprisoned his wife who died of a sickness some years before. This conjecture, and her other romantic flights of fancy, not only lead her to behave imprudently, though with no lasting ill effect, but they also prevent her from perceiving the true character of those with whom she deals before that character is brought up forcefully before her attention. This same conflict – between the imagined and the real, the fanciful and the present – informs the Ghosts Don’t Eat Potato Chips book and series. The main characters are staying at a – rather verbally abusive, it seemed in the chapter I read – relative’s house, and think the ghost of her long-dead husband is living in the attic. Of course it will turn out to be someone fairly innocuous, and everyone will laugh about how silly the kids were for being so carried away. And then life will go on, until the next book. No point, just some fun comparisons.

I sometimes play guitar; I have for several years. I dabble, really. Acoustic guitar – the same one my Dad bought the day he got out of the Navy in 1969, which rode in the front seat with him on his way back from South Carolina. His cars have changed, the wife has changed, the job, haircut, religion have changed since then. The guitar has survived. I dusted it, when I was young; the neck was too wide for my fingers, then, but I tried anyway. It has three small scratches on the front where I tried to scrape off dirt that had been there for too long. The guitar sounds lovely, especially when my father plays it; round and lush, mellow and deep-throated, like Billie Holiday or that guy who sang Old Man River, whom Grandmama likes so much. Dad gave this guitar to me when I moved out. I play that guitar. Not well, and not often (which may have something to do with the ‘not well’) … but I play.

What I like about guitar playing is its sensuality. Here, you’re wrapped around this vaguely human-shaped object, warming the wood with the heat of your body, running your hands along its sinews, pressing your fingertips into it. Your arm sticks to the curve, making a slaaptching sound as you strum; your fingertips throb and tingle on the frets. You can feel the music, the rhythm, the energy of the sounds curled up and purring like a cat against your chest and belly. You can smell the slightly dusty varnish, feel the smooth dryness of its wood on your wrist. Of course, how you sound is rather variable, but … how you feel is great.

Really, there’s not a lot of practical information I can pass on about playing the guitar. Get a tuning thingamajig. If I can only find mine, I’m sure I will sound much, much better. Find songs you like – songs you enjoy hearing, over and over, and over again, and learn them. I took lessons for a while; they helped, but I don’t think they were quite suited to my … learning style. I like learning things that build on one another, like lincoln logs. Except I didn’t like lincoln logs. Scratch that, then. Anyway, the point is, guitars = cheap, obsessive fun. As long as you get the guitar for free.

In response to my overwhelming bitchiness from yesterday, I feel like focusing on something nicer. Did you know that Mr. Rogers was a vegetarian? And a Christian? And an awesome guy? I didn’t know. I used to think he was awesome, when I was little, then I thought he was very uncool, and possibly perverted. And now … now I want to be like him. In reading this article, I’ve found my new role model.

He Was Genuinely Curious about Others Mister Rogers was known as one of the toughest interviews because he’d often befriend reporters, asking them tons of questions, taking pictures of them, compiling an album for them at the end of their time together, and calling them after to check in on them and hear about their families. He wasn’t concerned with himself, and genuinely loved hearing the life stories of others. Amazingly, it wasn’t just with reporters. Once, on a fancy trip up to a PBS exec’s house, he heard the limo driver was going to wait outside for 2 hours, so he insisted the driver come in and join them (which flustered the host). On the way back, Rogers sat up front, and when he learned that they were passing the driver’s home on the way, he asked if they could stop in to meet his family. According to the driver, it was one of the best nights of his life—the house supposedly lit up when Rogers arrived, and he played jazz piano and bantered with them late into the night. Further, like with the reporters, Rogers sent him notes and kept in touch with the driver for the rest of his life.

This makes me feel like there’s hope for humanity after all. :o) Maybe not much hope – let’s not get carried away – but a bit. Check out the video of him testifying to a Senate committee about television funding. Cool stuff.

Well. As you may be aware, my next big thing is changing the theme of my blog. (And my other blogs, too – Lit in Progress which you should only visit if you’re feeling masochistic, and On Wanting More, which is my … devotional journal.)

My blogs now look different. Yes. But they are not yet the visions of loveliness I had hoped they would be. They all now use the web publishing system Mephisto – but I cannot take credit for this. My husband migrated them for me. (I’m picturing my fledgling blogs, flying with outstretched necks in a wavering V-shape, calling down derisive comments in a language no one understands…) And I’m kind of sitting here thinking … now what?

I don’t do programming. I took a Pascal class at a community college while I was in high school (concurrent enrollment, savior and bane of my scholarly sanity) and made – gasp! – a B, because I didn’t begin any of my programs until the day they were due, and I forgot about one of the tests, and … so I decided that it wasn’t for me. Because I slacked off similarly in every other class and got at least an A-. (This is me rolling my eyes. Can you see me?) I actually quite enjoyed the class, but … failed to pursue that line of study, as it were.

And that was several years ago, all I did was little dribbles of codespeak that looked things up and did simple calculations, and it was Pascal for crying out loud. So I’m not in the best of places from which to begin creating a design template.

What I’ve done: Besides piddling around on the internet wasting time? I’ve got my designs into html, using Dreamweaver. (Yes, cheating. Guilty. Lea’me-alone.) I’ve downloaded a few different themes that I like – almost, but not quite, as much as my own – and even taken a cursory look at their innards.

Which are clean and list-like, full of important-sounding chimera words like filedto and commentsblock textarea, and completely incomprehensible. Spaces, people. They have a purpose. So my first thought was, oh, I’ll just have a stare-and-compare between my little page and the template’s main css dealymabob, and Bob’s your uncle. (Side note: my husband actually has an uncle named Bob. This kind of freaks me out.)

Hah ha ha. Yeah. Right. Perhaps I’m thinking that by staring at them long enough they letters will start to rearrange themselves into some kind of recognizable syntax. Or perhaps I’m waiting for myself to lose interest. Neither has occurred.

What I need to do: Go through that article about creating a template again, and, erm, follow the directions.

Bah. I thought the point of this exercise was not to be bored?

Happy Guy Fawkes Day!

And for your disquieting song of the day, the un-condensed version of the rhyme opening V for Vendetta, taken from Wikipedia:

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t’was his intent
To blow up King and Parliament.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England’s overthrow;
By God’s providence he was catch’d
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

A penny loaf to feed the Pope
A farthing o’ cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down.
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Burn him in a tub of tar.
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head.
Then we’ll say ol’ Pope is dead.
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah hoorah!

The men in the text are all leaders – revolutionary, established, and religious – and are played off against one another. As the rhyme suggests God’s “providence” extends only to the King, it serves to entrench even more firmly in the popular imagination the legitimacy of the federal authority and the futility of either rebellion or dissent. I have more to say regarding the second verse, but I really ought to get to work. I’ll return later – I hope.

Sing to the LORD, praise his name;

proclaim his salvation day after day.

Declare his glory among the nations,

his marvelous deeds among all peoples.

–Psalm 96:2-3

Yes, I finished Harry Potter. (Mwah hah hah hah – sounds like I kilt him, doesn’t it?) And yes, it was great. A satisfying experience and a fun ride.

But it – and the other book I read yesterday, which was also satisfying and fun – have been seriously messing up my dream life. I’ve had multiple, vivid, vaguely disturbing dreams every night since finishing The Deathly Hallows, but I don’t remember enough of them to write down.

Hm.

But speaking of writing. My ramble of the day (or at least of the morning):

To write is to create. To capture, to examine, to explore. To memorialize, to crystallize, to preserve for scrutiny or praise. To give shape or definition, to distill, to expand. To communicate, to connect, to explain. To write is to be heard, even if only by oneself. This is what I mean by my theory that the work of heaven will be to write our book of God, just as he has written his Book of us.

And there I go again, talking about religious stuff in every post. Gah.

So my Best Friend (at least since 8th grade, which seems like forever ago, so the term actually almost applies, scary as that is) has had a spot of trouble with snoopy out-laws lately. No need to go into the details (nor would I be at liberty to do so even if there was a need), but I got to thinking. I might as well be considerate and save any similar nosies some trouble, if they take a notion to snoop in my direction.

I drink, but I don’t smoke. I curse like a sailor, depending on the company. I don’t do any drugs that have not been specifically prescribed to me by a doctor, and I never have. Except for occasional speeding and an illegal u-turn or two, I have never broken the law. Unless you count jaywalking. I didn’t drink alcohol until I was twenty-one, even when I was in countries (Mexico and New Zealand) whose drinking-age laws would have permitted me to do so. The worst thing I have ever done was made out with a boy who was engaged – engaged! to someone else! what was I thinking?! – on the way back from my senior trip.

I didn’t have sex until after I got married. (Yes, really.) I have never cheated on my husband. I love him very much, and love sharing my life with him. Most of the time it’s easy to love him; sometimes I love him because I promised him I would. Marriage is harder than I thought it would be, but it’s also more rewarding.

I sometimes hate spending time with my family – immediate-ish and extended – because I feel we have very little in common. I spend time with them anyway, because it’s the right thing to do.

I love God but Christians piss me off. I’m a vegan, feminist social critic with dozens of radical, half-formed ideas and almost no-one to bounce them off of. I complain a lot about being lonely and having no-one to talk to, but I don’t seek out any new relationships because I’m a lazy fraidy-cat a lot of the time.

I volunteer. I tithe. I pray. I read the Bible semi-regularly, though not as often as I ought to. I try to understand how God wants me to apply what I read to the way I behave. What I keep coming back to is this: Treat others the way you want to be treated.

I tip. I sing loudly in the car by myself. I sometimes preach sermons to people who are not, physically, present with me. I pick up paper towels that bastards in public restrooms throw on the floor. (Sometimes.) I wear underwear when trying on swimming suits.

I have a concealed-carry permit (somewhere). I enjoy shooting bottles and targets, and I’m pretty good at it. I doubt I could shoot a person, though, because I don’t want to be shot. Even in self-defense.

Sometimes I carry insects and spiders outside when they get in; sometimes I kill them. I don’t feel guilty. My cats are both declawed – though I wouldn’t make that decision again.

I lost my first child this year – a missed miscarriage six weeks after conception, discovered around four weeks later. It tore my world apart. I’m getting used to the pieces floating around, and I’m not trying to fit them together yet.

I think too much. But I’m okay with it.

Satisfied?

Is here.

And, later: the second funniest is here.

I loved the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles – when I was a kid. They were so cool. Oh my gosh. I went to see the new movie with my folks and Jared this weekend.

Oh my gosh again, but not in a good way this time. It was soooo bad. Crappy characters, nonexistent plot, cheesy animation (and not the fun, funky wacky cheesy – just cheesy), idiotic dialogue … it was embarrassing. On the behalf of selfish, uninformed, and probably not-remembering-correctly fans everywhere, I object. Did I enjoy it? Yes. If they make another one, will I see it? Probably, if it goes to the dollar theatre and I have a Tuesday off. Do I just like to complain and pose stupid, pointless questions?

Yes. Now buzz off.

Dude.

You know how you have random thoughts, disconnected from pretty much everything, and then one thing leads to another and the next thing you know you’re thinking about being executed by beheading?

No?

Well, anyway, I was thinking about immigration. (I can see you scowling already; calm down.) And about how trying to keep the other kids from playing with our toys may not be the best solution. Maybe we should forget about citizenship and just have … being-here-ships. Where, you know, where you are determines how you’re expected to behave. And when you’re here, no matter who or where you were before, you play nice. And if you don’t, no matter who you are, we’ll shoot ya. (DISCLAIMER This post does not express my views on capital punishment.)

And then I was thinking about (it’s early, give me a break) the environmental impact of shooting as a form of execution. The one in the head method, versus the firing squad method. It doesn’t seem to me that guns produce a lot of litter (unless you count wrongful deaths, but even for someone who believes in an afterlife, bodies aren’t just waste). But there are of course the bullets. And whatever materials are wasted and pollution is produced in making them, not to mention the guns that shoot them. And so I was wondering about recycleable (does that have an ‘e’ in it?) execution methods, and I relized that the French were the greenest when they did away with folk on their guillotine. (I saw a wrestling commercial when Jared & I went to dinner the other night, and it had a guillotine in it; maybe that’s where this came from.) And then, as my mind does, I saw myself into the situation, wrongfully accused or perhaps being persecuted for religious reasons, led quite literally to the slaughter. Ack.

And on that happy note I was wondering what I would say if I were given the chance, knowing that it was my last opportunity to say anything. So here, for your reading pleasure, are my last words:

To God be the glory for ever. And to his son, Jesus Christ, who came into the world to save and change it, and who reigns on high as the King of kings and the Lord of lords. And to his Spirit, whose divine presence gives us the assurance of our hope, that the God of love and grace, the God of wrath and mercy, the God of holiness and power will recieve us as his own, and grant us eternal life. To this God, whose grace is sufficient for our insufficiencies, whose perfect love is enough to drive out our fear, and whose might is great enough to save, be the glory for ever and ever. Amen.

I want so much right now to go home and write and draw things that I feel good about. But it’s only 1:45, and I leave at 5:00. And we have dinner with my folks tonight.

Grrr!

So I was listening to the radio on my way to work on Friday. I know, I know; I should know better. It only puts me in a bad mood. But anyway, BobFM’s dumbass morning DJ #1 was being ripped to shreds by dumbass DJs #2 & 3, as well as various callers, because – wait for it – he took his daughter out of school for an afternoon to buy her a bicycle and spend some time with her.

“We don’t always get to do what we want,” a caller said. “There are things we have to do every day. We have to go to school every day; we have to go to work every day. And you’re telling her she doesn’t have to.” “The next thing you know,” said dumbass DJ #2, “she’ll be in middle school, shootin’ heroin and getting tattoos.”

So parents justify their decision to foist their children off to the seven-hour-per-day governmental babysitting and indoctrination service that is the public school system by telling themselves, repeatedly and with loud voices, that the schools have more of a right to their children’s time than they do. That, essentially, parents spending time – during the school day – with their children is actually doing them a disservice. As Austen says, how quick come the reasons for approving what we like.

In high school, I was captain of the academic team, I took all the advanced math courses that were offered, made straight As, attended college concurrently to get a head start, and was generally unslackerish. I graduated valedictorian , after I broke the school’s ACT score record when I was a junior. I went on to graduate from university magna cum laude. I’m not saying that school isn’t important.

Oh, wait. Yes I am. Drat. I’m miserable anyway. Oh, well.

IXOYE
It may be greek to you, but it means everything to me.

Does this not just piss you off? More later.

Oh, and I saw a man riding a motorcycle with his dog – a dog on the seat in front of him.

Sanitarium, or, In Answer to Shaggy’s “It Wasn’t Me” –

Backwards and forwards in the bathroom mirror,/ Tracing the cracks/ with his fingers, ridges/ running from her eyes,/ the dust drifts thick/ over the frame that keeps him there/ in this cold white place./ The shower door slides, groans, will close/ them in, there are too many/ of him, who hem her in/ watching her/ bleed/ Watching her bleed and clean/ and scrub herself until she smells/ like soap scum on the sink he shares/ with what he doesn’t know