Home is where....

I must take some pics and somehow say goodbye to my childhood home.

I know there's a good story/storybook in here someplace, but how often do you take pictures of the outside of your house?

If you didn't have the ideal childhood, how do you contain the simultaneous desire to stock up on explosives...with the desire to chain yourself in "your room," throw a tantrum, and not let them take it away.

How do you separate a house from a home, and again from a home-town? What happens to all the memories of place...?

How far...How Fast?

10:58 PM

A friend's (new) husband is writing an SF novel, and she announced proudly today that he wrote 1800 words yesterday (about 600 words an hour, he modestly, but factually, stated).  Which made me think: Okay, so I like to write, and I often write about strange things, but how many words do I write - and how fast?

Forgoing any concerns about spelling, accuracy and the fact that I am not writing ABOUT anything - not telling a story or actively working on our novel (though I certainly could, and perhaps shall in a moment or so), I was curious: how many words do I write?  How fast do I write them?

So I have my start time at the top of the page, and I am just going to work for about 15 minutes, or however long it takes to say a little bit about today's fun, and see how many words it ends up being.

Today was fun, probably mostly because of a lot of Diet Coke: Caffeine, fake sugar, and a fun project with lots of folks around.

"I can't remember the last time you were this punchy, " A. said.  Hmm...it didn't feel that strange to me.  Yes, maybe I was a bit manic, but I was working with a big group of folks on a silly costume idea...and I liked the folks I was in close quarters with, and I thought the silly costume idea was brilliant and fun.

What idea, you ask?  Well, I'm glad you did!  You should see my friend K's LJ page for the full story, but my part is just this:  I really like groups of silly people, and since this project was entirely silly...if anyone was going to participate, they were by definition, pretty much self-selecting.

Anyway, we were measuring, cutting, edging and ironing a lot of tabards with symbols on them so that we could all be the knights of the Log Table at the opening night of Spamalot in San Jose.  The tabards all have mathematical symbols on the fronts, and on the backs have the symbols for K's 49th Birthday - similar to the Jersey's on a sports team.  

(taking a moment to do the math to see how long 15 minutes is - 3 minutes to go)

It was fun to think through the problem of making them; Fun to take care of a big group - order pizza, etc.  and fun to just be sewing in a big group too.  The day was quite mild - overcast, warm, and a little humid.  Occasional flashes of sunlight that make it too hot to stand in the sun, but perfectly comfy in the shade.  I enjoyed cutting with the rotary, and sewing teenie, quarter inch bias tape in along the sides of the tabards.  I very much like the smell of hot plastic adhesive from the iron on symbols.  They take 5, long seconds, and at about 4 you can actually smell when they are sufficiently melting and fusing with the fabric.

Ha, ha! Done!  

11:15 PM - 510 words in 17 minutes.  So I am okay on quantity, if not quality....

Lights on at My Neighbor's house

Every evening the lights twinkle at Pixie's house.  Every time I use the toilet, I see through the open bathroom window, and I'm drawn to the constant, sparkling lights through the trees.  

The pragmatic me says that she must not have to worry about her electric bill, since she leaves pretty, sparkly lights on all night. 

The romantic part wonders what is making that particular quality of light: lanterns? mini christmas lights?  are they reflecting through the windows of her house?  I want to know....

Pixie's lights are the mythological creatures that lured travelers into the bogs where they drowned...what are they called?  Grrrr.  They're in a Piers anthony book, but I can't remember right now.

Anyway, I think about my neighbor's lights a lot.  Every time I have to pee.  They are just over the back fence, between the big oak trees, and they are always friendly, welcoming and jovial - like Pixie herself.

Cannon Fodder

As I was biking to work today I saw something that disturbed me, because I make up stories in my head so quickly. What I saw:

A few hundred yards from the entrance of the high school, pulled over on the side of the road, half in the bike lane, half on the dirt shoulder, a common tan colored minivan. No distinguishing marks excpet the blue and white government license plates.

Approaching the van with a swinging gait, a low-slung jeans, hoodie wearing "teen". Black backpack, white stripes, white shoes - hands in pockets.

Pacing the teen, a few steps ahead and to the right, but looking back to talk, a white man also approaches the van. Brown, casual, zip-front jacket, pulled down over his hips. From beneath the jacket, navy slacks with a wide red stripe down the side. Polished black shoes. Tidy, but not severe haircut.

As I rode by on my bike, I heard the tone of the white man - clearly asking questions.

Here is the "story" my mind made up in a fraction of a second:

Marine recruiter, staking out the high school. Sees a likely candidate in his morning drive-by, pulls over, gets out and walks a little way to meet the young man, show an interest - plant a seed. The kid is early, not late. Walking, not driving to school. Obviously going TO the school, not away from it. Excellent candidate. It is April, and graduation is probably just months away. Prime time to find "cannon fodder" for the military.

I wanted to stop my bike and shout, "Get away from him!"
But I didn't.

Here is the next "story" my mind made up:

Who knows - maybe the kid is a meth dealer; un-prosecuted date rapist. No job prospects. No plans. Get him off the street. Give him someplace to go - some way to contribute...even if it is with his life. Who am I to say that the military isn't a necessary evil. Why shouldn't I agree to send him to keep "me" safe. At least ask him if he is willing to give his life for mine, subvert his anger and youthful violence against whatever enemy the government dictates. I am American, part of the country, a contributing member of the society. He isn't....yet, so why shouldn't he die for both of us?


Both of these stories are extreme - both are deeply disturbing. The reality is completely unknown. It might lie somewhere within my tangled observations. The acknowledged predjudices and beliefs I project onto the situation could be Sherlockian deduction or pure pessimistic, hyperactive imagination.

What is disturbing is to realize that the creativity of the brain is trained, for optimism or pessimism early and often. Imagine the threats, know the enemy so that "they" can be evaded. In that moment I could not stop myself from thinking and feeling all sorts of "the worst". Realizing it, and trying to be truthful about it, is the only way I know to resist being ashamed about those thoughts and feelings.

A Morning Poem (of a sort. Possibly the bad sort)

Commute

PedalPedalPedal.

Three feline gargoyles
tails over chill cat toes
on rock at the water's edge
watch, and guard.

PedalPedalLook.

Four shore birds wading
on the mud flat,
tide low, rapid legs blur
until a lapping wave washes two away.

PedalLookLook.

One flash
through black boulder
of a reflected shining -
shard of the Emerald City, bottle green light in my eyes.

LookLookLook.

Here at last,
pedal slow. No more
quivering clumps of bay grass
crowned with long, soft, pink ears.

A better person at work today.

y: Have a very funny story to relate.
hubby: Chinese food good. How'd you know that's what I was eating?
y: you'll see:
y: in addition to the company luncheon, and new messaging, Marketing opened up a contest yesterday. Because our product name is going from Product ACRONYM to just Product, the contest was to guess how many times Product ACRONYM occurred in all of our marketing materials.
y: My first reaction was "I hate those "pennies in a jar" guessing games."
y: Then when I saw the e-mail I thought: Well, we probably say it 5 times in a page / document, and we probably have 500 pages of stuff...so 2500 and a bit more....and then I just cleared my mind and let the first numbers that floated into it be my guess.
y: Then I vented that evening about all the really awful stuff that has been going on at work, including the really problematic new messaging. I really felt mad! Today, I re-read the edits I had made to the marketing info they handed out, and asked the VP of Mktng for a meeting.
y: He accepted, so I was feeling better about being able to vent constructively.
y: This e-mail arrived just now:

Subject: Product ACRONYM guessing game - And the winner is...

…Y! She guessed 3214.

The actual number of pages is 3643. Only off by 429!

Congrats Y! You win lunch on the VP of Mktng and your picture in the break room.

Thanks for playing.

y: 15 people guessed. Convenient that I already have a lunch date planned, eh?
y: I think the universe does NOT like it when I am mad....
hubby: You're AWESOME!
hubby: Why is it that you don't play the lottery?

Define "Friend"

My husband doesn't like the word "Love" in English. Too many meanings.
I don't like the word "Friend."

Some people I know announced that they were pregnant.
Has nothing to do with me.
Except that the announcement implies some things that make my gut wrench, make me want to cry and make me coldly angry. (An unusual reaction, yes, I know.)

First, to me it means that they are not friends. Some shift has happened in their lives, so great that they have gone from "We're on the No Kid Plan" to "We're Having A Baby!" A change so common that the phrase is trite: Biological Clock Ticking.

That shift is no doubt personal. And of course, this is America after all. It is their choice to share or keep the inner working of their minds, relationship, lives, to themselves...keep them from their "friends." To be as private with their lives as they choose.

But they are acquaintances - not my friends. My friends share. My friends "catch-up" after years of separation, and our intimacy is re-born - fresh, and immediate. My friends care enough about me to level with me. Not let me "worry" about them when they are sick for months. My friends let me offer to help in times of crisis, even if they do not accept. My friends grow and evolve with me. My friends are brave with their emotions, reasons, wisdom. My friends trust.

Losing friends...giving up on the idea that someone you care about and would like to spend more time with is not compatible, or that the sensation is not mutual...that is Pain. And for me, for some reason, that is pain overandoverandover.

Second, it is also implied or imagined that I am deficient. Unworthy. Nosy. Demanding. For a subset of persons, personality types, individuals...I am, because of my beliefs, my needs, my core emotionality...A Bad Friend. I have managed to find many of those people in my life, and yet each time it is a fresh, stinging. and soul-bruising blow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Out the third story window, a pair of Brown Pelicans hover, lifted in the mild northeasterly(?) wind off SF Bay. They are together in formation, knowing what they need to know and doing what they need to do. Mated, and happy, as I am with my husband, or simply flock-mates...still they know what they need to do to stay safe and cohesive as a pair, or in a larger flock.

I feel that I lack that knowledge.
I feel I stand outside it.
I am lonely, betrayed by my "group" and angry for feeling this way.
I should be beyond this sensation - don't young humans grow out of this - get past teenage angst?
And yet it remains.

In the face of happy information, I am reminded that to care is to be hurt. To have rock solid beliefs is to have them shattered by mere diversity.