A morning of meetings looms. That's my excuse for lingering at home a little while longer than I should, listening to the "Amelie" soundtrack and having the sort of rainy-day feelings that this augments. I have some laundry to hang in the sunshine (gotta call Centerpoint about the dryer, good thing we have a clothes line and don't live in Eden Prairie.)
This music gets on my son's nerves after about 20 minutes, at which time he'll run to the stereo and shut it off. It's very overwrought, jangly music that catapults from ecstasy to sorrow and back again, over and over. I imagine it's too much for him. I remember being his age, and just dreading one particular album my mother liked -- the soundtrack for "The Good, the Bad & the Ugly." Specifically the theme song, with the whistling and the men grunting, and the low-pitch harmonica --- very creepy. I'd always run away or stop my ears. It was something real but unseen, frightening in that particular way that sounds can sometimes still bother me. SO I feel for the kid, and I won't play this while he is around.
If I don't get up out of this chair, I'm going to run out of time to work on my project, which is the other reason I'm dragging my feet this morning. The guys leave late, this summer session, because R's class doesn't start until 10:30. I look into next week, and see that summer is half gone, and I'm depressed -- we waited so long for it this year. I actually had a dream, Sunday morning, that we couldn't go to the Farmer's Market because it had snowed overnight.
On the other hand, our garden looks lovely. I wish I could just sit out there all day in the sunshine, holding onto all the people I love, and be no more inside myself than if it were just a postcard of the scene. It's not such a big deal to be me, don't get me wrong. It's just rainy-day thoughts, on a sunny morning.
laptop confessional
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
The Four Freedoms
See below for a Times review of an interesting art show in Florida: revisiting Norman Rockwell's wartime series "The Four Freedoms" with modern images by contemporary poster artists.
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/09/arts/design/09rock.html?pagewanted=1&8dpc&_r=1
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/09/arts/design/09rock.html?pagewanted=1&8dpc&_r=1
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
house flies and game shows
There is a housefly perched near my right knee, on the edge of a drawer filled with decorative ribbons and fibers.
Now it's gone.
Where is it? As much time as I spend convincing my son that most insects are not to be feared, or killed for no reason, I am unnerved by this fly. It's in my space. It vomits on anything it perceives to be edible. It walks in everything and licks its own feet. It has habits I don't agree with. It is likely to die between a window screen and a pane of glass, smelling freedom but hopelessly trapped, and they don't tend to live long anyway. Yet, I am against it.
H. has a series of books about "Fly Guy," a pet housefly with a human friend named Buzz and an understandable predilection for garbage heaps. Fly Guy is a pretty sympathetic character, actually, in that he is smaller than most living things and vulnerable to the bad opinion of others. While H. is still responsible for a high number of ant casualties around the place, he may have grown some tolerance for houseflies -- again, not sure how I feel about this on the practical scale, but we are trying to instill some respect for living things in our child. Squashing an ant doesn't merit a time-out or anything, the way hitting someone might, but we try to present the big picture: is that nice? Was the ant hurting you, or was it minding its own business? Do we know which things are alive, and what does that mean?
Lately, H. and the husband are hooked on a new TV program double-header on Tuesday nights: "Wipeout" and "I Survived a Japanese Game Show." Both involve complicated games with teams and contestants who are required to complete an obstacle course or a difficult stunt. The rules are usually simple enough for my four-year-old to understand, and lately he has started identifying somewhat with the competitors: the young blond woman with the kind face ("Darcy") who must pedal a child's tricycle on a treadmill, keeping the trike moving forward as long as she can before she loses speed and is drawn backwards over the edge of the treadmill into a waiting pool of icewater. This same young woman is required to don a suit made of Velcro (like an old episode of Letterman) and fling herself at a wall where an outline of a person has been stenciled on the Velcro stucco; when she hits the wall, her body position must match the outline as closely as possible. With each turn the outline changes. Tonight she couldn't do this as well as the taller, slimmer girl, and was summarily booted from the show, carried off by a gang of Japanese guys dressed as yakuza. "Poor Darcy," says my son, though he's clearly entertained.
Somewhere out there is a place called Adulthood, a place we're steering him toward as best we can. A place where maybe you shouldn't kill the housefly, and maybe it's okay to laugh at the loser; but maybe these rules change from time to time, and you can't understand why until you get to know the players. Rules we keep learning, and unlearning, as we age.
Now it's gone.
Where is it? As much time as I spend convincing my son that most insects are not to be feared, or killed for no reason, I am unnerved by this fly. It's in my space. It vomits on anything it perceives to be edible. It walks in everything and licks its own feet. It has habits I don't agree with. It is likely to die between a window screen and a pane of glass, smelling freedom but hopelessly trapped, and they don't tend to live long anyway. Yet, I am against it.
H. has a series of books about "Fly Guy," a pet housefly with a human friend named Buzz and an understandable predilection for garbage heaps. Fly Guy is a pretty sympathetic character, actually, in that he is smaller than most living things and vulnerable to the bad opinion of others. While H. is still responsible for a high number of ant casualties around the place, he may have grown some tolerance for houseflies -- again, not sure how I feel about this on the practical scale, but we are trying to instill some respect for living things in our child. Squashing an ant doesn't merit a time-out or anything, the way hitting someone might, but we try to present the big picture: is that nice? Was the ant hurting you, or was it minding its own business? Do we know which things are alive, and what does that mean?
Lately, H. and the husband are hooked on a new TV program double-header on Tuesday nights: "Wipeout" and "I Survived a Japanese Game Show." Both involve complicated games with teams and contestants who are required to complete an obstacle course or a difficult stunt. The rules are usually simple enough for my four-year-old to understand, and lately he has started identifying somewhat with the competitors: the young blond woman with the kind face ("Darcy") who must pedal a child's tricycle on a treadmill, keeping the trike moving forward as long as she can before she loses speed and is drawn backwards over the edge of the treadmill into a waiting pool of icewater. This same young woman is required to don a suit made of Velcro (like an old episode of Letterman) and fling herself at a wall where an outline of a person has been stenciled on the Velcro stucco; when she hits the wall, her body position must match the outline as closely as possible. With each turn the outline changes. Tonight she couldn't do this as well as the taller, slimmer girl, and was summarily booted from the show, carried off by a gang of Japanese guys dressed as yakuza. "Poor Darcy," says my son, though he's clearly entertained.
Somewhere out there is a place called Adulthood, a place we're steering him toward as best we can. A place where maybe you shouldn't kill the housefly, and maybe it's okay to laugh at the loser; but maybe these rules change from time to time, and you can't understand why until you get to know the players. Rules we keep learning, and unlearning, as we age.
my brain works part-time
This is the time of day when my productivity takes a hit: getting on 3pm. I am the only staff person available to the public (though at least I'm not the only person in the building today), and while the lack of co-worker interruptions should be helpful, it's exchanged for phone calls and food shelf visitors etc. The real problem though is that my friends are gone for the day, my bio-rhythm starts to ebb and I'm lonely. Lonely, distractable, and prone to naps.
I don't actually nap at the office. I mentioned to someone yesterday that I really shouldn't attempt any relational inquiries after 4pm -- in other words, by like 5 o'clock I have that unresolved teenaged brain incapable of rational forethought. I might start crying over something silly, or ask you enough personal questions that you start feeling uncomfortable, or go out with a pal and drink too much. It only lasts until 8pm or 9, and then I'm back online. If I have an evening meeting I have to just drink lots of coffee and tough it out.
Today I've almost made it through my list of grindingly unpleasant tasks that must be addressed. Evidently one of them was to negotiate with my husband over whether we can go out to eat tonight.
Here's the thing: My husband will not eat outside the limits of Northeast Minneapolis/St. Anthony. He will not drive to Roseville, to downtown, to South Minneapolis, or anywhere else. He makes an exception once or twice a year to eat sushi about a mile from where I work (technically within the downtown North Loop borders, across the river.) This restriction pertains to "date" nights as well as eating with our child. There are lots of great restaurants in Minneapolis, but if they don't serve tater tots and/or fall within the aforementioned geographical restriction, he's not interested. Every once in a blue moon he'll work me in for lunch, while H. is at daycare, and we'll hit someplace nice near the office in Northeast. But blue moons are rare and unpredictable, and it's been a while. So I just spent 10 minutes trying to convince him that we had more than two options -- one being Culvers, home of the heart attack, and the other being the Perkins' on Riverside that is always crazy busy.
It should also be noted that I'm about to buy a plane ticket, to take my first overnight trip away from home (on business) since my son was born. Compared to my husband's three fishing trips. He won't travel with our son: he's convinced that children must be at least 6 or 7 years old before they become suitable travel companions. And because he won't take me out on dates, there's no babysitter the kid is familiar enough with to stay overnight anyhow. I have not had any out-of-town anything, business or otherwise, in five years. I have not spent one night away from my child. Needless to say, the husband is freaking out -- he'll have to be responsible for baths and bedtimes for three consecutive nights. After staying up half the night with our son last night (for no discernible reason) I can't say I'm feeling very sorry for him.
I know people with marriages every bit as nuisancy as mine can be, and most of these people are much more socially active with their partners. Short vacations or occasional weekends, date nights where the kids stay at Grandma's, concerts, road trips... and I'll bet they complain about each other just as much. *sigh* Still, it would all seem so much more tolerable if I had a real social life.
See? It's 3pm, and I'm totally hacking on my husband. CASE. IN. POINT. All I'm good for is food and drink at this stage. I have the relational skills of a houseplant.
I don't actually nap at the office. I mentioned to someone yesterday that I really shouldn't attempt any relational inquiries after 4pm -- in other words, by like 5 o'clock I have that unresolved teenaged brain incapable of rational forethought. I might start crying over something silly, or ask you enough personal questions that you start feeling uncomfortable, or go out with a pal and drink too much. It only lasts until 8pm or 9, and then I'm back online. If I have an evening meeting I have to just drink lots of coffee and tough it out.
Today I've almost made it through my list of grindingly unpleasant tasks that must be addressed. Evidently one of them was to negotiate with my husband over whether we can go out to eat tonight.
Here's the thing: My husband will not eat outside the limits of Northeast Minneapolis/St. Anthony. He will not drive to Roseville, to downtown, to South Minneapolis, or anywhere else. He makes an exception once or twice a year to eat sushi about a mile from where I work (technically within the downtown North Loop borders, across the river.) This restriction pertains to "date" nights as well as eating with our child. There are lots of great restaurants in Minneapolis, but if they don't serve tater tots and/or fall within the aforementioned geographical restriction, he's not interested. Every once in a blue moon he'll work me in for lunch, while H. is at daycare, and we'll hit someplace nice near the office in Northeast. But blue moons are rare and unpredictable, and it's been a while. So I just spent 10 minutes trying to convince him that we had more than two options -- one being Culvers, home of the heart attack, and the other being the Perkins' on Riverside that is always crazy busy.
It should also be noted that I'm about to buy a plane ticket, to take my first overnight trip away from home (on business) since my son was born. Compared to my husband's three fishing trips. He won't travel with our son: he's convinced that children must be at least 6 or 7 years old before they become suitable travel companions. And because he won't take me out on dates, there's no babysitter the kid is familiar enough with to stay overnight anyhow. I have not had any out-of-town anything, business or otherwise, in five years. I have not spent one night away from my child. Needless to say, the husband is freaking out -- he'll have to be responsible for baths and bedtimes for three consecutive nights. After staying up half the night with our son last night (for no discernible reason) I can't say I'm feeling very sorry for him.
I know people with marriages every bit as nuisancy as mine can be, and most of these people are much more socially active with their partners. Short vacations or occasional weekends, date nights where the kids stay at Grandma's, concerts, road trips... and I'll bet they complain about each other just as much. *sigh* Still, it would all seem so much more tolerable if I had a real social life.
See? It's 3pm, and I'm totally hacking on my husband. CASE. IN. POINT. All I'm good for is food and drink at this stage. I have the relational skills of a houseplant.
a passionate fool am i
the thing about this Desire project (a good project gone bad, which has taken over my sewing room and required me to spend literally months learning new techniques as I go), is that i'm obsessed with it now. and isn't that always the way: the passionate head-first affair that winds itself up in an ever-tightening coil of single-minded intensity. until Blam! all that pent-up craziness, the soaring expectations and the greedy lust, fly apart from internal forces too out-of-control to contain. this project is already careening down the path of self-destruction, but i don't care! i've given it a title: "Song of Songs (Epiqumew)." and after i solve just a few more formal problems, add a little more quilting and beading, maybe just one or two more lines of text...it'll be perfect. right?
Monday, July 7, 2008
watermelon man
Inspired by our trip to the Minneapolis Farmer's Market early Sunday morning, H. and I sewed up a quick project later that day. His drawing and writing are a little rusty (he's been the Read-O-Matic for the past few months now), so this was a good creative refresher.
He's watermelon-crazy this summer, and just as the crowd and the noise level started getting him down at the market, he spotted a Black Diamond. (In case you didn't know, that's a very dark stripe-less watermelon, very sweet.) The vendor had cut one open, a round rose of melon flesh about ten inches wide, and H. went for it with both hands. Stop! (He's still learning about food handling.) But the sight of it woke him up to the wonders of the market, and when we got home he was rewarded with a pile of juicy melon hunks. I snapped a few photos, and we printed one onto an EQ Inkjet Fabric Sheet. He also drew a little picture, of the Black Diamond, and included a nearby ant marching forward with greedy determination. That was done in colored pencil, marker and watercolor crayon right onto another fabric sheet, and we sewed both down onto his favorite green bug fabric, with a sheet of Timtex to stabilize it. H. helps me with the sewing, raising and lowering the presser foot and choosing thread color and trims. After about an hour, we had it done. Voila!
He's watermelon-crazy this summer, and just as the crowd and the noise level started getting him down at the market, he spotted a Black Diamond. (In case you didn't know, that's a very dark stripe-less watermelon, very sweet.) The vendor had cut one open, a round rose of melon flesh about ten inches wide, and H. went for it with both hands. Stop! (He's still learning about food handling.) But the sight of it woke him up to the wonders of the market, and when we got home he was rewarded with a pile of juicy melon hunks. I snapped a few photos, and we printed one onto an EQ Inkjet Fabric Sheet. He also drew a little picture, of the Black Diamond, and included a nearby ant marching forward with greedy determination. That was done in colored pencil, marker and watercolor crayon right onto another fabric sheet, and we sewed both down onto his favorite green bug fabric, with a sheet of Timtex to stabilize it. H. helps me with the sewing, raising and lowering the presser foot and choosing thread color and trims. After about an hour, we had it done. Voila!
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