escape

What is it about having something else to do that makes me want to write so badly? Do I always have to have a pressing project deadline in order to get here? What a crazy formula.

And it's not that I hate the project, I don't. Well, I don't love it right now either...

dfw

A fb friend linked to an 2006 NYT article about Roger Federer by David Foster Wallace. I'm not particularly interested in tennis and know very little about Roger Federer. I read it because the late DFW was exponentially brilliant and I couldn't resist, even though I knew I'd end up depressed afterwards because he's gone. He had me enraptured with the description of a single tennis shot. Reminds me why I plod on here in blogland. Just for a whiff of that.

back from the lands

We're back from our trip to the Lands (Eng-, Fin-, Ire-) and like all great holidays away, we're so happy to be back home. Enjoyed a tour of Cambridge, had tea and scones at Grantchester (communing with the spirit of Virginia Woolf) and saw the cathedral and stained glass museum in Ely (pronounced EEL-ee). I have long loved academia. The whole dedication to learning and subsequent freedom from poverty (in my family's history) has been a strong influence in my life.

Beautiful Cambridge University...but you are not allowed to walk on the grass, grasshopper, unless you wear the robe of a professor.

But lately I've begun to rethink the manner in which we revere academics. The system of measurement is effective in many ways but in many ways it devalues much of what makes wisdom so profound. I was surprised to find the atmosphere and history of Cambridge off-putting.

Stained glass panel in the Ely Cathedral

All that glorified hierarchy is reminiscent of every type of class stratification. Only the Fellows (professors) can walk on the lawn, plum dorm assignments are based on academic performance and many wear their robes to class. Perhaps I am just freeing myself from...or widening my view of the value I placed on being a scholar nerd. I still love learning and history and words. I'm just less impressed by the way we measure such things.

All told, the close of such an adventure is bittersweet. Every place had its own smell and taste and beauty and contradiction. The 360 degree sounds of foreign languages is disorienting and delightful. The sound of English spoken with so many accents was wonderful too. The ability to do all this in my current unemployed state and bring Barbara's mother along as well makes me grateful for the material comforts I have in my life. Traveling with your mother-in-law can be trying (for her more than me, I suspect) but her joy and satisfaction with seeing these faraway lands will put a smile on my face for many years.

...Not to mention the way traveling makes you feel about home. I have many issues with our nation and its politics but love for country (and Houston, Texas in general) is strengthened, not weakened, by seeing other places. Mostly, I am grateful to Barbara. This was our 25th anniversary celebration (our anniversary is technically next month but I don't fancy Northern European temperatures in late October/early November!) and our 5th trip to Europe in 15 years...and we had such a great time. Being able to talk through the stress and share the joy of whatever we're doing is such a boon. I never tire of adventuring with her!

writing, woodworking, wishing

Ernest Hemingway about his writing:

I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, 'Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.'

—Ernest Hemingway, quoted on today's Writer's Almanac

This for me and for my dear Eric.

I've also been reading, in between the house-fixing. And traveling. And breaking bread with my beloved family and friends. I can't write about that now because as I left my son yesterday at the Portland airport, I realized that the only thing I could concentrate on to prevent the tears I'd like to keep so neatly contained was ripping wood on my table saw. Thinking about that methodical and dangerous process edges out the grief. Funny that.

But real grief is losing those you love...this to keep perspective.

I miss him. Dearly. But seeing him again is as dependable as my reality. I will wake tomorrow, in all likelihood, and I will embrace my son and laugh with him again some day, as well.

ides of october

Today is Oscar Wilde's birthday. Hear Garrison Keillor's brief bio of him on the Writer's Almanac.
And in his honor, here are Mr. Wilde's last words. I can only hope that I will have such presence of mind in my final moments.

Either that wallpaper goes, or I do.
~Oscar Wilde, writer, d. November 30, 1900

i confess

I went to see Julie & Julia and like dozens of clichés under which I am loathe to fall, I am yet another blogger who loved it.

• Not just because I happen to love writing and cooking.
• Not just because I believe fresh bread is divine but may have been created for the sole purpose of conducting sacred butter into our pastry holes.
• Not just because Meryl Streep is fucking amazing and enchanting as Julia Child.
• Not just because there were two love stories I could relate to and empathize with.
• But all these things and a Saturday afternoon matinee with my own St. Barbara.

I'm a little embarrassed to say I'm making hamburgers for dinner. Half ground beef and half ground turkey at that. Oh, I'll saute onions, add beautiful ripe tomato slices and place them on a bed of fresh romaine but we're still talking hamburgers here.

I also have another confession. Some of you are aware of this and seem to have forgiven me but...I'm seeing another blog. Yes. It's true but I love you best and this is only a fling. A three-month infidelity that makes me love you more. I understand if you are irritated. Maybe you won't want to have anything to do with the other blog.

But just in case you do...it's all about DIY. Fixing up the place. No. I mean that's what it's called. I talk about tools and fixing my house. See, you aren't even interested! It's a very narrow scope and is no threat to anyone or anything right here. There are some good diagrams, however, I must admit to that.

PS. About that movie. You know, if you filled a life-sized glass cow to the brim with butter and cream and floated it in a olympic pool of wine that's probably close to what Julia Child consumed in her life. And she lived to 91! Fuck all the hater dieters. Julia sneers at your Lean Cuisine.

saturday morning solace

"At the worst, a house unkept cannot be so distressing as a life unlived."
—Rose Macaulay, from today's Writer's Almanac

Last weekend I was in Michigan visiting my sister. Grand Rapids in July (fleeing Houston) is a delight. Houston in December (fleeing Grand Rapids) is likewise. The berries were abundant and the mornings were cool. I was thrilled to have four whole days with my sister. Just two sisters and the occasional child, grandchild or friend stopping by. [I, not too subtly, also celebrated the absence of her rod-up-his-ass, soon-to-be ex-husband.] We tinkered around her new/old (1925) and completely beguiling Craftsman bungalow. Fixing this, unsticking that. In between we dined and napped and talked and laughed.

This weekend I'm facing a little post-visit slump. And the return of the What Am I Doing with My Life Short and Long Term Goal Review. I probably go through this too much, but time passes and a girl wants something to show for it.

So I review. And remember to count that time spent relaxing with partner or self is not wasted time. Inner Puritan be silenced. But there are items ahead. Projects. Travel. Health care. House Repair. Writing. Reading. Major and Minor Expenses. And I want to do it all and do it really well. Which is a key to my inaction.

When I was a girl, I joined the ranks of band fags everywhere and took up the french horn. I loved the horn. I loved the sound it produced (when I didn't make it sound like an elephant in rut). I loved the design of it. I loved the way it blended in the orchestra and I loved when it rose above the ensemble. But I was a mediocre horn player. That was clear for 8 years. It was one of the only activities I persisted at, knowing that I would never excel.

I remind myself of this when I am unwilling to complete something that isn't exactly what I wanted. When I become mired in perfection. Which is part of the reason I am writing this mediocre, self-serving post. Blogging can be a tiresome examination of all things mundane. It's not my goal. But I'm getting out of practice, so this is my response to just writing something.

I have some lumber that needs cutting. I refuse to go outside and work in this bloody heat. I ought to clean the mess in the rest of the house...but hell, why not haul in the miter saw and cover that back room in sawdust anyway? Unkept or unlived? It's a pretty easy choice.

five years later

On Saturday, May 29, 2004, I gingerly launched into this blog thing in an internet cafe in Madrid. I wasn't even sure I was doing it "right."

For the past five years (minus the one-year hiatus following my exchange student experience when I didn't think this blog was necessary anymore) I have raged, snarked and confessed here. I have waxed poetic, verbose and danced the happy dance. I have made friends and rediscovered the absolute joy of writing. For my dozen faithful readers, lurking and not, I am grateful and touched by your companionship on this journey. For those of you who stopped reading or didn't find my entries compelling, I am grateful to you for stopping by anyway.

For those I've offended, well, move along. Go on.

Jesus, it's starting to sound like I'm breaking up with my blog. I'm not.

[Note: No, I haven't lost my mind and reposted. Last month, thanks to the miracle of setting the publish time for a blog entry to a specific date in the future, I wrote this post.
Then, promptly forgot about it.
So, yesterday morning I dashed off the previous and now redundant post. This is what happens when you try to out-organize yourself. I'm going to go check the draft section of my blog now.]

epiphenita turns 5

Five years ago today I sat in an internet cafe in Spain trying to peck out my first post on a Spanish keyboard. I was sure I was "doing it wrong." I was far from home, excited and a bit homesick. Not to mention struggling to decipher the melodious cacophony around me. Or rely on words and humor to make myself understood and accepted.

I loved my experience in Spain. It was all about communication. And the perfect marriage for the birth of a blog (though married to what I'm not really clear. Hell, I call dibs on immaculate blog conception). I love writing here. It is one of the no-brainer wins for technology in my life.

I've been absent these 4 weeks. Well, these 2 months. I am constantly jotting down notes on paper or in text files on my hard drive. I take photos to share. I've got a b(ack)log of shit to share.

However, and speaking of backlogs, I am off to a routine colonoscopy* exam so I can't spend much time here. No really. Gotta go.

*If the mention of a colonoscopy brings a chorus of "TMI" you really shouldn't read this blog anymore. I plan on breaking down whatever flimsy politeness barriers I've been working behind. Buck up. There will be shit jokes.

i'm still here

Everyone I know is posting blog apologies. Blogologies, if you will. Or even if you won't. I don't owe you a post but it's hard not to feel...neglectful. And on a purely selfish level, I miss writing. Just so much flying around in the shitstorm right now. Will be back. Have all sorts of stuff simmering on the burners. Hope the pressure cooker holds until then.

new technology crab

Twitter sucks up the "real" blog writing.
Facebook sucks up the personal emails.

I miss that shit.

Feel like a tech-loving luddite. An oxymoron if there ever was one.

And someone get those damn kids off my lawn.

vortex

Ach. I finally re-amped up my Google Reader after losing the original list in an email change...had a peaceful period of ignorance-filled light reading there...and now I'm whorling (yes, I verbified it) into a high-calorie, full-fat maelstrom of TED, boing-boing, fail, cake wrecks, make and all the words of my favorite bloggers, famous and infamous.

My head overfloweth.

DIY ends needing to be tied up. Post DIY detritus still clinging to every room of the house. A protest with my local property tax board looming. My project lists copulating (fertile little fuckers are they). The delightful anticipation of my son and a dear friend coming to visit...must clear a space.

Haven't seen any of the award-nominated movies. Cinematic mouth-breather that I've become. Want to. Feel compelled to see Milk but the time, man, where do I find the time?

And the grocery shopping! The uninspired meal plan! I am loathe. But daylight's burning and there's urgency on every horizontal surface. Fuck, fuck, fuck, where's the housekeeper cook chauffeur accountant gardener personal shopper when you need her? And why is the call to write loudest when everything else is screaming? Don't answer that.

Symptomatic of the State of Chaos I've relocated to: lost my tenant's rent check while walking in the tunnels this past week. Her first rent check. Out of my back pocket (where checks NEVER live). Freaked me the fuck out. Not the potential $35 stop payment fee, just the fact that I would do something so uncharacteristically careless. Good ending, though. Cynical as I sound, I think most people are honest. I mean in a 60/40 sense. Still good odds of getting fucked over but erring on the side of optimism. Someone DID find my check/deposit slip and turned it in to security at one of the corporations that anchor the tunnel. All is saved.

The odd side note: every security person I ended up talking to in the rescue effort reacted to my relief with a bit o' ol' time religion. "God is great." "Have a blessed day." And the weirdest, upon stating that I was pleased that there were still honest people in this big city, "well, honey, we all worship the same God." WTholyF? Is that a sensible rejoinder? How does one extrapolate to universal theism by the return of a lost item? But I'm not going to argue with the person holding my check ransom. PTL and pass the negotiable instrument.

grammatical tagging [happy sigh]

from the rut. via Dave

This may, in fact, be the best cartoon representation of my kind of social disobedience. As ever, Dave, you and your betrothed sparkle with well-mannered bad behavior. I am not barely so worthy (false modesty is just annoying).

Six of one

I submitted this entry to Six Sentences and they accepted and posted it here.
Which makes me happy, but that niggling voice in my head mocks me with yeah, but how many entries do they turn away?
I don't know.
But writing succinctly is a great exercise.
Thanks to Veronica for pointing me to 6S.
Well, just look at this, another six sentences.

two weeks

It's been two weeks since my last confession entry and I've got a bit of a backup. I can't [because I care] disgorge all the minutiae of the past couple of weeks but I can't seem to move forward until I unload some of it.

While I was watching my friends' ravenous pet corn snake devour a dead mouse this past weekend–'twas three times the width of its head, I swear–a word kept running through my head. As if on cue my smart, nature-loving friend M spoke the word:

per·i·stal·sis (pr-stôlss, -stl-)
n. pl. per·i·stal·ses (-sz)
The wavelike muscular contractions of the alimentary canal or other tubular structures by which contents are forced onward toward the opening.

What a fabulous adaptation, that unhinging jaw and muscle-rippling that moves such a proportionately gigantic lump from mouth into body, until there's nothing but a tongue-like tail left hanging from its reptilian lips.

So writer's peristalsis is kicking in. I'll catch up soon, albeit in more manageable, bite-sized pieces...

five yesterday; one exhausted post for today

I was feeling a little puny yesterday and stayed home from work. Unable to just relax and do nothing, I took the opportunity to flesh out a few draft blog entries. Then for good measure, I whipped up a couple more posts.

I have got to fucking learn to pace myself. I've had a blogging hangover all day.

More hair of the dog, please
There is one more thing, of course. I hear people say this about their offspring way too often: "Oh, my son will probably run wild in here...he's all boy!" Or, "If Suzie sees a bug, she'll run away screaming...she's all girl!"

I'm starting a new fractional gender measuring system. It goes like this. Your five-year old son loves video games and climbing trees BUT also enjoys reading and pottery. So you say, "Oh, my son might run wild in here...he's 87% boy!" Your seven-year old daughter plays t-ball, hates wearing dresses but squeals with fear at the site of a spider. So you warn, "If Suzie sees a spider, she may run away...she's 63% girl!"

You see? Rate your children on their gender strength and you'll be able to stave off the frightening prospect of having a queer child. Remember, folks, I am living in the land of big hair and "get a rope." This pussy/dick division is serious business.