OK, so I left off at about age 12. I don't even know if the aging process I'm depicting is right, but I think it's close enough.
What I remember from my 12th year is the death of my grandmother - which I covered in my January 22nd "Big Girls Don't Cry" post, so I don't need to go through that again.
Other than that, from 10 to 14 or so, nothing much stands out except Mudgekeewis. Wonderful Mucgekeewis. A camp somewhere in Maine, on a huge lake, where I was sent for several summers in a row for a two-month period.
My mother spent a good deal of effort on finding ways and places to get me out of the way, but I have to hand it to her that she generally found great places, and didn't spare the expense.
I adored camp. I adored the counselors, the campers, the activities. Somewhere around 10 I began packing on the pounds and I always came home from camp having lost a substantial amount of weight. I rode, swam, played tennis, climbed Mt. Washington (honestly). Three summers in a row we all scaled the highest peak in the Northeastern United States.
It was a three-day trip - half way up the first day to a place where we stopped to spend the night. Up the next morning to get to the summit and then half way back down again to spend the night before descending the next morning and then getting driven back to camp.
I only have clear recollections of one climb. We always had two or three guides with us and this particular climb there was one that I was totally enamored with. He took pity on me and let me climb with him whenever possible, and I remember he carried my backpack the morning we climbed to the top because I was having enough trouble getting just me up the mountain.
We also climbed Mt. Baldface (Mr. Baldy to us). This was a great event. Half the camp walked to the base of Baldy and the other half rode a horse-drawn wagon. Going home those who walked rode and those who rode walked. I don't recall for sure, but I don't think Baldy was an overnight climb. (I just googled it and can't tell if it could have been done up and down in a day - but I don't recall spending a night on Baldy.)
Other great things at Mudjie were canoe trips. We would head out with about 6 canoes, three to a canoe, one in front, one in the back and one in the center, comfortably resting on all the gear. Everybody would change up so that equal just sitting time was matched by work time, maneuvering the canoe. These trips consisted of two night of camping and each canoe trip had to result in a trip song created around the campfires and performed for everyone at dinner the day we returned to camp. I recall one line of one of those songs (sung to the tune of Oklahoma) ..
"And when we say jay*, we're talking to Carlene**
Her answer's toughie bean,
Stay in the middle of the river,
And don't go astray."
*This refers to the jay stroke which is used to keep a canoe going straight, with which I had great difficulty.
"*In the song my last name was used which rhymes with "bean." For this post I've changed it to "Carlene."
Then there was the summer I was 14 (I think - at least that's how the chronology of this blog seems to indicate) I was sent to the most wonderful place in the world. I think it was a place for "troubled teens" but that's not how I remember it.
It was high in the Colorado mountains. I don't recall how many kids there were, but I don't think there were more than 20. I only vaguely remember one or two.
What I remember was my Morgan. The most beautiful horse (a Morgan, of course). This was run as a ranch. There were lots of horse, but I latched on to Morgan the very fist day. The camp had a great deal of land and each night the horses were set loose to roam. Anyone wanting to ride needed to get a bridle and walk (sometimes for not too long, sometimes for miles) to find the horse she wanted, bring it back to the corral, put on all the tack .... and then we were free to ride until lunch and then all afternoon after lunch. Except for some time spent in the pool (I loved to swim as much as I loved horses), I was on Morgan's back.
She had been trained to rear (a really safe trick to sit to even though it looks exciting and sort of dangerous). I would ride her up to the lower mountains and on a hilll I would put her into a rear and transport myself into the Lone Ranger and Morgan into Silver.
The other high spot of that summer was being part of the Little Britches Rodeo which was part of Cheyenne, Wyoming's Frontier Days. I barrel raced! And to this day I remember that the name of the Cowboy of the Year was Jim Shoulders. And Casey Tibbs was also named something special. Amazing what I can remember and what I can't.
Other than Morgan and the Rodeo and the Wrangler at the ranch (on whom I had an enormous crush), I recall very little about my Colorado summer. But I do know it was glorious (and once again I dropped quite a bit of weight). Funny how no adult in my life ever put two and two together to realize that when I was happy (and out of the conflict with my mother) I lost weight. Seems it would have become obvious to someone over time.
Well, that's it for now. I think the next order of things will be my mother's marriage (which she didn't tell me about until I came home from school for a weekend several weeks after the event - which was also the weekend I learned that we didn't live where we used to, where all my friends were, but had moved to a 400 acre farm which may have been beautiful but which to me was nothing other than a prison and a banishment).
Talk to you later.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
hoping something will come to me .....
I was in a wonderful writing workshop several years ago where we were often given three or four words to begin a writing exercise with. I found that it was often pretty amazing what I would write, having no idea immediately where I was going. I find myself in need of such a tool right now. Going to go to a magazine, flip through the pages, stop and point. Here goes........
OK, so I cheated a bit. I let my fingers rest on a several word groupings before I found one I thought would get something started for me: total recall.
Instantly I went to one of my biggest frustrations, and loss. I do not have total recall. I barely have any recall at all.
My shrink used to tell me over and over and over - BE IN THE MOMENT. I never have been and I find it almost impossible. I am either looking back, looking ahead or just not looking at all.
I feel like I've only been a part-time participant in my life.
So many years, so many different adventures, so many losses, so much ... and I remember so little.
Going way back, I have only one recollection of the apartment I lived in with my brother, mother and father, and dog Bunchi. I see the kitchen table and the hallway. That's it. Long ago one of the many self-help books which don't seem to have helped much told me to "find the little girl I had been" in order to comfort her.
I tried and tried and tried - I could not find her anywhere. I searched places I could remember (the apartment on 81st Street, my grandmother's apartment on 79th, Sacred Heart School where I went for the 1st and 2nd grades --- i couldn't find (see) myself in any of those places. It actually became quite scary. Did I exist? Had I existed? Was I already at that age, from newborn to 7 or 8, blocking out my senses?
From there I went to the house in Connecticut to which my brother, mother and I moved - without my father. I can conjur up some images of me in the big house but they get jumbled up. In some I am in a certain room that is my bedroom, and in others I'm in another room that is my bedroom. I know that at some point each room was my bedroom but I don't know which came first and can't place my mother's or brother's bedroom in correct corresponding order either. I see the house without my grandparents living in it and while I know they did live with us for a time I can't place which room they were in. I do see myself sitting with my grandmother in the living room.
I remember the attic = first it was both a place where my brother and I held shows with these amazing puppets that came from somewhere. A king, a prince, a princess, a horse, a jester - probably about two feet high - very realistic. There were props and a huge theatrical stage. Don't know where it all came from and don't know where it all went. But at least I remember them.
4th and 5th Grades - public school - can't find myself there at all. But strangely I remember the name of my 3rd grade teacher - Mrs. Lemoyne.
I have one image in my mind of a stepfather - last name Hydenau. I don't know his first name, don't know if I ever did. It was, I was told in later years, a very short marriage.
But the image I have of him is in what appears to be the living room (upstairs instead of downstairs for some reason at this point), but which room I also have a clear memory of being my brother's bedroom. I can see him so clearly, in a cast from the top of his head to his hips, face, ears and arms the only parts of him showing - recovering from a broken neck. (The broken neck which, my mother many years later said upon hearing of his death on the Autobahn in Cologne. had "used up all his luck.")
This "total recall" brings me to around 13 or 14, I think. Maybe 12.
I'll continue this in a day or so Going to try to see what I can recall from the next 10 years or so. I already know it's not going to be much.
...
OK, so I cheated a bit. I let my fingers rest on a several word groupings before I found one I thought would get something started for me: total recall.
Instantly I went to one of my biggest frustrations, and loss. I do not have total recall. I barely have any recall at all.
My shrink used to tell me over and over and over - BE IN THE MOMENT. I never have been and I find it almost impossible. I am either looking back, looking ahead or just not looking at all.
I feel like I've only been a part-time participant in my life.
So many years, so many different adventures, so many losses, so much ... and I remember so little.
Going way back, I have only one recollection of the apartment I lived in with my brother, mother and father, and dog Bunchi. I see the kitchen table and the hallway. That's it. Long ago one of the many self-help books which don't seem to have helped much told me to "find the little girl I had been" in order to comfort her.
I tried and tried and tried - I could not find her anywhere. I searched places I could remember (the apartment on 81st Street, my grandmother's apartment on 79th, Sacred Heart School where I went for the 1st and 2nd grades --- i couldn't find (see) myself in any of those places. It actually became quite scary. Did I exist? Had I existed? Was I already at that age, from newborn to 7 or 8, blocking out my senses?
From there I went to the house in Connecticut to which my brother, mother and I moved - without my father. I can conjur up some images of me in the big house but they get jumbled up. In some I am in a certain room that is my bedroom, and in others I'm in another room that is my bedroom. I know that at some point each room was my bedroom but I don't know which came first and can't place my mother's or brother's bedroom in correct corresponding order either. I see the house without my grandparents living in it and while I know they did live with us for a time I can't place which room they were in. I do see myself sitting with my grandmother in the living room.
I remember the attic = first it was both a place where my brother and I held shows with these amazing puppets that came from somewhere. A king, a prince, a princess, a horse, a jester - probably about two feet high - very realistic. There were props and a huge theatrical stage. Don't know where it all came from and don't know where it all went. But at least I remember them.
4th and 5th Grades - public school - can't find myself there at all. But strangely I remember the name of my 3rd grade teacher - Mrs. Lemoyne.
I have one image in my mind of a stepfather - last name Hydenau. I don't know his first name, don't know if I ever did. It was, I was told in later years, a very short marriage.
But the image I have of him is in what appears to be the living room (upstairs instead of downstairs for some reason at this point), but which room I also have a clear memory of being my brother's bedroom. I can see him so clearly, in a cast from the top of his head to his hips, face, ears and arms the only parts of him showing - recovering from a broken neck. (The broken neck which, my mother many years later said upon hearing of his death on the Autobahn in Cologne. had "used up all his luck.")
This "total recall" brings me to around 13 or 14, I think. Maybe 12.
I'll continue this in a day or so Going to try to see what I can recall from the next 10 years or so. I already know it's not going to be much.
...
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Should'a, could'a, would'a .....
Depression: a mental state characterized by a pessimistic sense of inadequacy and a despondent lack of activity
Pessimism? Check.
Sense of inadequacy? Check
Lack of activity? Check
I wrote the above about four days ago - and found I had absolutely nothing to add to it, nothing to say, no desire to say anything, so I just left it and went away.
Yes, I'm a pessimist. Definitely a glass-is-half-empty kind'a ga;/
Yes, I feel inadequate. But, I imagine, who doesn't. Perhaps not about everything combined, but I'm sure almost everyone feels inadequate about something.
Lack of activity? Yes, but that's a self-imposed thing, isn't it? It's my decision to not have "activities," not anyone else's.
On Sunday I could have gone to a "winter hibernation" gathering, doing artistic things, but I didn't. Why? Who knows? Probably a sense of inadequacy!
So, instead I spent Sunday with the New York Times, most particularly the Puzzle, the Book Review and the Travel Section, and "The Godfather, Part I," 3 episodes of "Top Chef," "60 Minutes" and "The Shawshank Redemption." I was perfectly content to spend the day that way, but inside I was beating myself up the entire time. Telling myself that this is not what I "SHOULD" be doing. I SHOULD be productive. I SHOULD go somewhere. I SHOULD do something/
Why? What if what I was doing was what I wanted to do? Why should I be forced to believe it's not what i SHOULD do?
I think I go into a depression when I don't do what I "SHOULD" do, simply because it implies that I'm not doing it "RIGHT."
Monday to Friday, averaging 11 hours a day, and often parts of the weekend, I'm doing what I SHOULD. Actually, that's not right. I'm not doing what I should, but what I MUST ... I'm working. I'm always plugged in - always answering emails, finishing up some client work, meeting some deadline, solving some problem.
And it leaves me drained. I know there are people who do what I do, work just as hard, AND have children, spouses, dogs, parents, in-laws, and all that that is required to maintain those "appendages" before, during and after work.
I have none of those things (for better or worse, depending upon your view point of each), so I have nothing that takes "my" time away from me. Not saying I wouldn't want some of those things, but the fact of the matter is that I don't.
So I CAN spend weekends holed up with newspapers, books and TV. Even my pets, Cats, don't require much - a can of food every day, a filled dish of dry food, fresh cool water, relatively clean litter and an occasional scratch on the belly. All that can easily be squeezed ("squozen?") into the most couch-potato-ish of days.
When I complain about going a whole weekend without any human contact (except perhaps with the clerk at the grocery store), I'm usually met with envious comments like "I wish I had all that time by myself," or simply "Boy, that sounds wonderful."
The grass is always greener ...................????
My shrink once told me, at the end of a session where I was more than usually concerned with the fact that I was worthless, crazy and too much into my own thoughts and brain. She replied that I had sufficient time to consider my worthlessness and insanity and that everyone else was just to busy to pay attention to theirs, but that had they the time, they'd be feeling just like me.
To this day I'm still not sure if that made any sense or if it made me feel any better. But I know there are times when I wish my life was so hectic and frenetic and people-related crisis filled that I would have no time to question me, my motives, my losses, my purpose, my direction, my lost chances, my sense that there is something so much more that I SHOULD be doing.
Sometimes it just seems absurd and that nothing should be taken so seriously.
One thing I AM doing - thanks to Patti and Robert - is expanding my reading list and my interests. Patti was on a Rimbaud quest for much of her youth and I had to admit during the reading of the book that while I knew the name, I knew nothing about Rimbaud. Well, my old friend Google helped me out and now I know something and have purchased "A Season in Hell." (Hopefully, I'll be able to get through it.)
Also, continue to do research on Robert and purchased "Mapplethorpe: A Biography" by Patricia Morrisroe, reviewed as the best and most authoritative work on Mapplethorpe.
This is a quote from one of the reviews on Amazon, which I just love. - "In Civilization and Its Discontents, Freud talks about artists who descend into what he calls the maelstrom, meaning the unconscious, and they come back and tell us what was there. Robert went into the maelstrom, no question about it, but he came back with an elegant picture postcard --'Having a wonderful time, wish you were here. Love Robert'"
Isn't that wonderful?
I wonder if Patti saw the resemblance between Rimbaud (below) and Robert.
Realized one important thing - this blog is important to me, and for me. It gets me out of myself. It loosens some creative juices. It connects me to others, but also, more importantly, connects me to myself.
Pessimism? Check.
Sense of inadequacy? Check
Lack of activity? Check
I wrote the above about four days ago - and found I had absolutely nothing to add to it, nothing to say, no desire to say anything, so I just left it and went away.
Yes, I'm a pessimist. Definitely a glass-is-half-empty kind'a ga;/
Yes, I feel inadequate. But, I imagine, who doesn't. Perhaps not about everything combined, but I'm sure almost everyone feels inadequate about something.
Lack of activity? Yes, but that's a self-imposed thing, isn't it? It's my decision to not have "activities," not anyone else's.
On Sunday I could have gone to a "winter hibernation" gathering, doing artistic things, but I didn't. Why? Who knows? Probably a sense of inadequacy!
So, instead I spent Sunday with the New York Times, most particularly the Puzzle, the Book Review and the Travel Section, and "The Godfather, Part I," 3 episodes of "Top Chef," "60 Minutes" and "The Shawshank Redemption." I was perfectly content to spend the day that way, but inside I was beating myself up the entire time. Telling myself that this is not what I "SHOULD" be doing. I SHOULD be productive. I SHOULD go somewhere. I SHOULD do something/
Why? What if what I was doing was what I wanted to do? Why should I be forced to believe it's not what i SHOULD do?
I think I go into a depression when I don't do what I "SHOULD" do, simply because it implies that I'm not doing it "RIGHT."
Monday to Friday, averaging 11 hours a day, and often parts of the weekend, I'm doing what I SHOULD. Actually, that's not right. I'm not doing what I should, but what I MUST ... I'm working. I'm always plugged in - always answering emails, finishing up some client work, meeting some deadline, solving some problem.
And it leaves me drained. I know there are people who do what I do, work just as hard, AND have children, spouses, dogs, parents, in-laws, and all that that is required to maintain those "appendages" before, during and after work.
I have none of those things (for better or worse, depending upon your view point of each), so I have nothing that takes "my" time away from me. Not saying I wouldn't want some of those things, but the fact of the matter is that I don't.
So I CAN spend weekends holed up with newspapers, books and TV. Even my pets, Cats, don't require much - a can of food every day, a filled dish of dry food, fresh cool water, relatively clean litter and an occasional scratch on the belly. All that can easily be squeezed ("squozen?") into the most couch-potato-ish of days.
When I complain about going a whole weekend without any human contact (except perhaps with the clerk at the grocery store), I'm usually met with envious comments like "I wish I had all that time by myself," or simply "Boy, that sounds wonderful."
The grass is always greener ...................????
My shrink once told me, at the end of a session where I was more than usually concerned with the fact that I was worthless, crazy and too much into my own thoughts and brain. She replied that I had sufficient time to consider my worthlessness and insanity and that everyone else was just to busy to pay attention to theirs, but that had they the time, they'd be feeling just like me.
To this day I'm still not sure if that made any sense or if it made me feel any better. But I know there are times when I wish my life was so hectic and frenetic and people-related crisis filled that I would have no time to question me, my motives, my losses, my purpose, my direction, my lost chances, my sense that there is something so much more that I SHOULD be doing.
Sometimes it just seems absurd and that nothing should be taken so seriously.
One thing I AM doing - thanks to Patti and Robert - is expanding my reading list and my interests. Patti was on a Rimbaud quest for much of her youth and I had to admit during the reading of the book that while I knew the name, I knew nothing about Rimbaud. Well, my old friend Google helped me out and now I know something and have purchased "A Season in Hell." (Hopefully, I'll be able to get through it.)
Also, continue to do research on Robert and purchased "Mapplethorpe: A Biography" by Patricia Morrisroe, reviewed as the best and most authoritative work on Mapplethorpe.
This is a quote from one of the reviews on Amazon, which I just love. - "In Civilization and Its Discontents, Freud talks about artists who descend into what he calls the maelstrom, meaning the unconscious, and they come back and tell us what was there. Robert went into the maelstrom, no question about it, but he came back with an elegant picture postcard --'Having a wonderful time, wish you were here. Love Robert'"
Isn't that wonderful?
I wonder if Patti saw the resemblance between Rimbaud (below) and Robert.
Realized one important thing - this blog is important to me, and for me. It gets me out of myself. It loosens some creative juices. It connects me to others, but also, more importantly, connects me to myself.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Snowflakes are kisses from heaven.
The title of this post is cited as "unattributed" and I think I know why ---- if he or she were named, folks around here would be seeking him/her out to give him/her some kisses of their own - baseball bat kisses, "smack in the face" kisses, "this-is-what-I-think-of-your-snowflake-kisses" kisses.
Thank you, heaven, for your kisses, but you can stop now. I think we're just about all kissed out. I know I am. I used to think that it would not be possible for me to get too many kisses, but IT IS. No more. Please. STOP KISSING ALREADY. Please?
Yesterday my backyard was a solid mass of 4 1/2 feet of snow. I was no longer able to open my back door. Cats were going stir crazy. Birds were going hungry. And I was feeling claustrophobic.
So, I hired someone to do what they could to get me a backyard that was somewhat functional. He dug out the door and shoveled a 10 foot "trench." It allowed the cats to run 10 feet forward and 10 feet back. For about 15 minutes this morning they thought that was great. Then, not so much.
I took half a bag of bird seed and pretty heavily sprinkled it along the trench. Within about 20 minutes, the first chickadee and four squirrels arrived for breakfast.
I bet you can't imagine what happened. about half an hour later......... Well, perhaps you can.
Heaven began offering up some more kisses. Just enough little sweet baby kisses to completely cover up all the seed and give the trench a nice snowy bottom.
I'm sorely tempted to throw out some more seed .... but so far this month I have used up about 20 pounds of bird food, with practically NONE actually being able to be eaten by any feathered (or fluffy, long-tailed) creatures.
I can't get to any of my hanging feeders -
I will have to simply resign myself to famine in the backyard and stir-crazed cats inside. PLUS there is more coming today and then, again, on Weds or Thurs .....
How am I ever going to be able to prove my theory that there ARE at least two snowflakes that are alike, if every time I begin looking at them they are immediately covered. There is no way that anyone will ever convince me, with the billions and billions of snow flakes that have "kissed" us all in the past month, that there aren't at least two that are alike.
Trying hard to find a silver lining and came up with the thought that at least my roof is not in danger of collapsing - I don't think!
Maya Angelou's words can usually comfort me, but this quote, while a bit unsettling, is a perfect way to end this post .....
"Nature has no mercy at all. Nature says, "I'm going to snow. If you have on a bikini and no snowshoes, that's tough. I am going to snow anyway."
Stay warm and safe out there, everyone.
Thank you, heaven, for your kisses, but you can stop now. I think we're just about all kissed out. I know I am. I used to think that it would not be possible for me to get too many kisses, but IT IS. No more. Please. STOP KISSING ALREADY. Please?
Yesterday my backyard was a solid mass of 4 1/2 feet of snow. I was no longer able to open my back door. Cats were going stir crazy. Birds were going hungry. And I was feeling claustrophobic.
So, I hired someone to do what they could to get me a backyard that was somewhat functional. He dug out the door and shoveled a 10 foot "trench." It allowed the cats to run 10 feet forward and 10 feet back. For about 15 minutes this morning they thought that was great. Then, not so much.
I took half a bag of bird seed and pretty heavily sprinkled it along the trench. Within about 20 minutes, the first chickadee and four squirrels arrived for breakfast.
I bet you can't imagine what happened. about half an hour later......... Well, perhaps you can.
Heaven began offering up some more kisses. Just enough little sweet baby kisses to completely cover up all the seed and give the trench a nice snowy bottom.
I'm sorely tempted to throw out some more seed .... but so far this month I have used up about 20 pounds of bird food, with practically NONE actually being able to be eaten by any feathered (or fluffy, long-tailed) creatures.
I can't get to any of my hanging feeders -
I will have to simply resign myself to famine in the backyard and stir-crazed cats inside. PLUS there is more coming today and then, again, on Weds or Thurs .....
How am I ever going to be able to prove my theory that there ARE at least two snowflakes that are alike, if every time I begin looking at them they are immediately covered. There is no way that anyone will ever convince me, with the billions and billions of snow flakes that have "kissed" us all in the past month, that there aren't at least two that are alike.
Trying hard to find a silver lining and came up with the thought that at least my roof is not in danger of collapsing - I don't think!
Maya Angelou's words can usually comfort me, but this quote, while a bit unsettling, is a perfect way to end this post .....
"Nature has no mercy at all. Nature says, "I'm going to snow. If you have on a bikini and no snowshoes, that's tough. I am going to snow anyway."
Stay warm and safe out there, everyone.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
For the birds ......
About two weeks ago, I was in her office and my eyes flew immediately to her window where nuthatches, chickadees, sparrows, cardinals and many other beautiful song birds were lighting on the feeder she had affixed to the window.
For a few days I would pop into her office occasionally to see what activity she had ... a downy woodpecker one day, and then she emailed me she had a Carolina Wren, who I still have to witness first hand.
After about a week I asked her if she would mind if I, too, got a feeder for my office window. She didn't feel that it was necessary for me to ask her, but I was concerned that she would think I was just being a copycat for something she felt passionately about.
She's good - she knows her birds and she loves them.
At first I was hesitant to discuss birding at any length with her. Why? The answer to almost every negative reaction I have is always "my mother."
My mother was a top birder. She had a life list of over 600 and was recognized in CT as one of the best.
But like everything else, it came easy to her and if it didn't come easily to someone, or, God forbid, someone made a mistake, she would consider them a failure not worth having any further discussion with.
My mother did not know or care about birds until she married my stepfather and moved to the farm in Amenia. My stepfather was by no means what anyone would call a birder, but as a farmer he took note of birds, mainly because of the circle of life they proclaimed. He had a journal in which he had marked the first day each year that the red-winged blackbird had arrived on the farm, going back to something like 1938.
So, in not too long a time my mother decided to become a birder and soon turned it into a competition, where he even once said (in a rare moment of weakness) that she had ruined the birds for him. But, still, he kept track of the red-wings and went on many trips with my mother, the locations of which had two criteria - were there "good" birds and was their bourbon. She was by no means a drunk, but she did like her bourbon at the end of the day.
It wasn't long before I was going on bird walks with her, trying to learn. She didn't help. Like everything else, you were just supposed to "know."
I put feeders up wherever I was living and every now and then I'd call to ask her if what I was seeing outside my window was a such and such. "Don't be foolish," she'd say. "There's no way at this time of year," or "It's not possible." Feeling foolish, I'd hang up, go to a bird book and swear that what I was looking at was a such and such.
So, for years my birding was a solitary thing. I loved it, but was not very good at it.
I was complaining to my shrink once how difficult it was to have a perfectionist as a mother. My shrink looked at me and told me that I, too, was a perfectionist. I immediately shot back that there was no way that I, generally a failure at so many things my mother wanted me to succeed at, was a perfectionist.
My shrink explained that there were two types of perfectionists. One was my mother - those who did so many things perfectly, seemingly with little effort.
Then there was the other kind - my kind. The kind who would not try something if there was a fear of failure, a fear of living up to perfection. Bingo.
When my mother died, I continued feeding and learning some, but never becoming anything anyone would call an expert.
Several years go, I quite feeding. Many reasons. Cats that were both indoor and outdoor cats who would bring in a bird on occasion. Bears that would come tear down the feeders. And buying thistle seed for some, sunflowers for others, mixed seed for still others, suet for another group .... plus needing to know which were ground feeders and which were not --- it all got to be too much so I just slowly stopped.
Jessica revived it all for me. And at such a perfect time. The worst winter in years. The birds really need some help this year.
Haven't begun feeding at home yet because there is at least a 5 foot blanket of snow all around my house, but at work it's delightful.
It's very Zen to be in the middle of work crisis and/or deadlines and look up and see a tiny Titmouse, jockeying for position against a female Cardinal (with her gentle dabs of red as opposed to the gaudy male) and a downy woodpecker.
Jessica was not at work today (due to weather) so I sent her an email telling her I had filled her feeder and not to worry (because I don't think anybody's going to work tomorrow once the ice starts falling from the skies).
She sent me back an email saying "Marianne, thank you for loving the birds as much as I do!"
This post is to say, "No, Jess - thank you for bringing back that part of love and joy to my life."
Saturday, January 29, 2011
A Thank-You Card for Michael and a Kindle Weighing Heavy on my Mind
Talk about mood swings.
About 15 minutes ago I signed in to my blog with the intent of posting an entry beating myself up for being shallow, needy and generally worthless.
I thought I had totally destroyed the value and purpose of my blog by being somewhat desolate for the past few days due to the fact that I had gotten used to comments and was finding none for my last post which my internal, somewhat biased, critic thought was not a bad piece of writing.
So, I therefore thought concluded that I finally knew why I had created this blog. To be petted, stroked and praised.
I've never had those things in my life - except on very seldom and far-spaced special occasions. I imagine that people cossetted as children can stand not being told "you done good" when they thought they "had done good," but I'm not one of those.
Anyway, there was Michael's thoughtful comment - and my world lit up. One of those unexpected "you done good" moments which I will press in my memory book. Thanks, Michael.
There is one hidden horror not mentioned in my post about Patti and Robert - one with which I'm trying to come to terms ..... I read "Just Kids" on a Kindle (oh my god - that looks more blasphemous in writing than it does when it's said aloud).
I have hated and railed against Kindles since they first arrived on the scene. "They will destroy books." "They will shut down book stores." "How can a flat piece of machinery take the place of book with heft and smell and reality?"
There was no way, ever, that I would even consider using a Kindle.
Well, one of my closest friends (who knows how I feel about Kindles - tool of the Devil!) gave me one for Christmas.
She correctly anticipated my reaction and started right in with her rationale, which had merit.
When I went on my Alaska cruise last year I took about 10 books with me. One of my greatest fears is being caught somewhere without something engrossing to read, so I always take more reading material than I will ever need (and generally buy some more along the way).
That was for a 7 day cruise - in June I'm doing a 14 day cruise and she said that she couldn't imagine how many books I would have to pack - probably need an extra suitcase. She thought I could travel easier, and lighter, with one loaded Kindle. (Plus I travel a lot for work and that also requires ensuring sufficient reading material for planes, airports and hotel rooms.)
So, I did not throw it back in her face. I graciously accepted the foul thing, acknowledging that I would ONLY use it for travel purposes.
She, however, was in league with the Devil and the Kindle came with a book already loaded --- Stephen King's "Full Dark, No Stars." King is one of my guilty pleasures. I think he's highly underrated (although his books would all be improved if the length of each was cut by about 30%). She knew that I would probably never even try the Kindle if I wasn't prodded a bit.
So, of course, I read the book and said to myself, "OK, now I know how it works and that's that."
Here's where the Devil got really smart.
Folks like me hear about interesting books on the radio, on TV, through conversations and through book reviews. We jot down titles on scraps of paper, tear ads out and put them somewhere and then, if they are anything like me, totally blank out when in a bookstore. We end up buying lots, but none of those we have written down on scraps of paper, matchbook covers or those covered in torn-our reviews and ads that are lost somewhere covered by other clutter on a table top or desk, or in a briefcase or other book.
I was curious as to how one goes about "buying" a Kindle book. It's way TOO easy. Google Amazon and, if you have an account (which I do), one minute later the book is loaded.
Frightening. Hats off to you, clever Devil.
Currently, I have 10 books waiting for me on the flat little horror.
My house overflows with books - a few months ago I went through them all and ended up with 7 shopping bags full of those I could bear to give away. Had to do it to make some room so that I could find what I was looking for when I went to my shelves. Still have way too many but none that can go.
So, the Devil had another way to gain acceptance into my home. It doesn't take up any shelf space.
Okay, okay! I know I'm starting to rationalize. I am a Kindle user. There I've said it. I understand that it will make me a pariah and keep me out of heaven when the time comes, but it's the truth.
Try not to hate me.
About 15 minutes ago I signed in to my blog with the intent of posting an entry beating myself up for being shallow, needy and generally worthless.
I thought I had totally destroyed the value and purpose of my blog by being somewhat desolate for the past few days due to the fact that I had gotten used to comments and was finding none for my last post which my internal, somewhat biased, critic thought was not a bad piece of writing.
So, I therefore thought concluded that I finally knew why I had created this blog. To be petted, stroked and praised.
I've never had those things in my life - except on very seldom and far-spaced special occasions. I imagine that people cossetted as children can stand not being told "you done good" when they thought they "had done good," but I'm not one of those.
Anyway, there was Michael's thoughtful comment - and my world lit up. One of those unexpected "you done good" moments which I will press in my memory book. Thanks, Michael.
There is one hidden horror not mentioned in my post about Patti and Robert - one with which I'm trying to come to terms ..... I read "Just Kids" on a Kindle (oh my god - that looks more blasphemous in writing than it does when it's said aloud).
I have hated and railed against Kindles since they first arrived on the scene. "They will destroy books." "They will shut down book stores." "How can a flat piece of machinery take the place of book with heft and smell and reality?"
There was no way, ever, that I would even consider using a Kindle.
Well, one of my closest friends (who knows how I feel about Kindles - tool of the Devil!) gave me one for Christmas.
She correctly anticipated my reaction and started right in with her rationale, which had merit.
When I went on my Alaska cruise last year I took about 10 books with me. One of my greatest fears is being caught somewhere without something engrossing to read, so I always take more reading material than I will ever need (and generally buy some more along the way).
That was for a 7 day cruise - in June I'm doing a 14 day cruise and she said that she couldn't imagine how many books I would have to pack - probably need an extra suitcase. She thought I could travel easier, and lighter, with one loaded Kindle. (Plus I travel a lot for work and that also requires ensuring sufficient reading material for planes, airports and hotel rooms.)
So, I did not throw it back in her face. I graciously accepted the foul thing, acknowledging that I would ONLY use it for travel purposes.
She, however, was in league with the Devil and the Kindle came with a book already loaded --- Stephen King's "Full Dark, No Stars." King is one of my guilty pleasures. I think he's highly underrated (although his books would all be improved if the length of each was cut by about 30%). She knew that I would probably never even try the Kindle if I wasn't prodded a bit.
So, of course, I read the book and said to myself, "OK, now I know how it works and that's that."
Here's where the Devil got really smart.
Folks like me hear about interesting books on the radio, on TV, through conversations and through book reviews. We jot down titles on scraps of paper, tear ads out and put them somewhere and then, if they are anything like me, totally blank out when in a bookstore. We end up buying lots, but none of those we have written down on scraps of paper, matchbook covers or those covered in torn-our reviews and ads that are lost somewhere covered by other clutter on a table top or desk, or in a briefcase or other book.
I was curious as to how one goes about "buying" a Kindle book. It's way TOO easy. Google Amazon and, if you have an account (which I do), one minute later the book is loaded.
Frightening. Hats off to you, clever Devil.
Currently, I have 10 books waiting for me on the flat little horror.
My house overflows with books - a few months ago I went through them all and ended up with 7 shopping bags full of those I could bear to give away. Had to do it to make some room so that I could find what I was looking for when I went to my shelves. Still have way too many but none that can go.
So, the Devil had another way to gain acceptance into my home. It doesn't take up any shelf space.
Okay, okay! I know I'm starting to rationalize. I am a Kindle user. There I've said it. I understand that it will make me a pariah and keep me out of heaven when the time comes, but it's the truth.
Try not to hate me.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Raise a glass to Patti and Robert .....
I just finished reading "Just Kids" and I'm missing Robert and Patti already.
The book has some drawbacks - page after page of seeming name dropping and apparently some events and/or circumstances that diligent researchers have said just couldn't have happened that way or at that time .... but overall it's a mesmerizing book for many reasons.
There is the nostalgia element - Max's Kansas City when it really was something special, the Chelsea, not quite in its heyday but with enough icons still checking in and out (literally and figuratively), as well as an overall gentler, kinder and more forgiving NYC.
Then there are two people of whom I knew so little about and each of whom I had carelessly pigeon-holed and filed away somewhere outside of things "that matter."
Patti Smith, a grung rocker who never appealed to me and whose music I did not know (and which I assumed I would not like).
Her love, compassion and admiration for Robert is unmistakable in a book where he almost outshines the author, where she bring him more to life than herself. Hard to know if that was the plan or if it was just something she couldn't avoid doing. Raising Robert up as an offering the world didn't even know it wanted, or needed.
Robert Mapplethorpe - a pornographic, blasphemous, self-centered "artist." In my mind, he did not eveen really qualify as an artist (but as God-Daughter #3 will confirm, I am not one anyone should discuss art with - I'm still confused as to why Jackson Pollack is considered an artist --- and don't get me started about canvases painted black and titled "untitled") ....
And am I now ready to defend and claim a great understanding and admiration of his work? Some, yes. I've been googling like mad since I finished the book, looking at his work, at the portraits he did for Patti's album covers. Some, I like and find compelling. Others ... we'll, we're back to my artistically uneducated question of "Why and how is that art?"
But I digress ...
More than my simply not considering either Patti or Robert artists, neither was ever in my consiousness long enough for me to even consider them people ... they were controversial individuals to occasionally be read about in both pro and con articles and then forgotten.
I had a slight awareness at some point in my life that Patti co-wrote a song with Bruuuuuuce and that fact did get my musical attention for a while, but then it was only The Boss who I stuck with.
After reading this book, they are so very real to me. I see them now through the lens of my young adulthood, my "just kids" phase and I regret so much that I did not have the kind of inner driving forces each had, regardless of the dark sides of many of those forces).
And the dedication. The passion! That's what really gets to me. The dedication they had for each other and for their drive to find their way. The passion they had for living, loving, exploring, growing, learning, creating and just being. It's the passion I envy the most and what will keep these two young, brightly burning (and in one case burning out too soon) individuals in my heart and mind so vividly.
How dare we criticize individuals so dedicated to each other, to themselves, to their dreams, to their visions and to the moment? They lived a more fully realized life in one day than most do in a lifetime.
It's hard to believe, but I was living in NYC at the same time they were. How could I have not have known that, not have felt that, not have been called or driven to that? What I wouldn't give to have been drawn into their world. Like a moth to a flame. I would have circled and circled, yearning to really be "in" their world, but regrettably satisfied to at least be a hanger on, a vicarious voyeur..
The closest our paths may have crossed is that Patti recalls an apartment she had just a block away from the Kettle of Fish, the bar where I smoked my first joint. Could it be possible that she was in the next stall in the ladies' room where I sat for quite a while wondering if I was high yet? Or could I have brushed by Robert as he stood at the bar, digging through his pockets to determine if both he and Patti could have a beer or if one would have to do for both of them.
I see no reason why I can't consider each of those scenarios a distinct possibility, and through enough wishful thinking turn them into reality over the coming years as I tell tales of my past. Let the diligent researchers try to disprove it ... in a few years I'll even be able to tell you exactly what Robert was wearing and what song Patti was humming in the stall next to mine.
I will lift my next glass of wine to the children who found each other in a long-ago, fairy-tale, no-longer-existing NYC, who loved each other in ways most of us will never love, and who kept the dream burning for themselves and for each other. Sometimes without understanding, but always supporting.
Here's to you, you two "just kids." You did good.
The book has some drawbacks - page after page of seeming name dropping and apparently some events and/or circumstances that diligent researchers have said just couldn't have happened that way or at that time .... but overall it's a mesmerizing book for many reasons.
There is the nostalgia element - Max's Kansas City when it really was something special, the Chelsea, not quite in its heyday but with enough icons still checking in and out (literally and figuratively), as well as an overall gentler, kinder and more forgiving NYC.
Then there are two people of whom I knew so little about and each of whom I had carelessly pigeon-holed and filed away somewhere outside of things "that matter."
Patti Smith, a grung rocker who never appealed to me and whose music I did not know (and which I assumed I would not like).
Her love, compassion and admiration for Robert is unmistakable in a book where he almost outshines the author, where she bring him more to life than herself. Hard to know if that was the plan or if it was just something she couldn't avoid doing. Raising Robert up as an offering the world didn't even know it wanted, or needed.
Robert Mapplethorpe - a pornographic, blasphemous, self-centered "artist." In my mind, he did not eveen really qualify as an artist (but as God-Daughter #3 will confirm, I am not one anyone should discuss art with - I'm still confused as to why Jackson Pollack is considered an artist --- and don't get me started about canvases painted black and titled "untitled") ....
And am I now ready to defend and claim a great understanding and admiration of his work? Some, yes. I've been googling like mad since I finished the book, looking at his work, at the portraits he did for Patti's album covers. Some, I like and find compelling. Others ... we'll, we're back to my artistically uneducated question of "Why and how is that art?"
But I digress ...
More than my simply not considering either Patti or Robert artists, neither was ever in my consiousness long enough for me to even consider them people ... they were controversial individuals to occasionally be read about in both pro and con articles and then forgotten.
I had a slight awareness at some point in my life that Patti co-wrote a song with Bruuuuuuce and that fact did get my musical attention for a while, but then it was only The Boss who I stuck with.
After reading this book, they are so very real to me. I see them now through the lens of my young adulthood, my "just kids" phase and I regret so much that I did not have the kind of inner driving forces each had, regardless of the dark sides of many of those forces).
And the dedication. The passion! That's what really gets to me. The dedication they had for each other and for their drive to find their way. The passion they had for living, loving, exploring, growing, learning, creating and just being. It's the passion I envy the most and what will keep these two young, brightly burning (and in one case burning out too soon) individuals in my heart and mind so vividly.
How dare we criticize individuals so dedicated to each other, to themselves, to their dreams, to their visions and to the moment? They lived a more fully realized life in one day than most do in a lifetime.
It's hard to believe, but I was living in NYC at the same time they were. How could I have not have known that, not have felt that, not have been called or driven to that? What I wouldn't give to have been drawn into their world. Like a moth to a flame. I would have circled and circled, yearning to really be "in" their world, but regrettably satisfied to at least be a hanger on, a vicarious voyeur..
The closest our paths may have crossed is that Patti recalls an apartment she had just a block away from the Kettle of Fish, the bar where I smoked my first joint. Could it be possible that she was in the next stall in the ladies' room where I sat for quite a while wondering if I was high yet? Or could I have brushed by Robert as he stood at the bar, digging through his pockets to determine if both he and Patti could have a beer or if one would have to do for both of them.
I see no reason why I can't consider each of those scenarios a distinct possibility, and through enough wishful thinking turn them into reality over the coming years as I tell tales of my past. Let the diligent researchers try to disprove it ... in a few years I'll even be able to tell you exactly what Robert was wearing and what song Patti was humming in the stall next to mine.
I will lift my next glass of wine to the children who found each other in a long-ago, fairy-tale, no-longer-existing NYC, who loved each other in ways most of us will never love, and who kept the dream burning for themselves and for each other. Sometimes without understanding, but always supporting.
Here's to you, you two "just kids." You did good.
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