My ukulele has been on the bottom rack of my art stool as that makes it convenient and easy to grab for fiddling with. It's fairly safe, which is about as good as it gets for the $25 dollar model, and the brilliant orange color lures me in like a tin foil ball. There's a chip in the back where the kids at school argued about who had a turn last and dinged it. I don't mind, really; the kangaroo court they immediately set up to scourge the supposed wrongdoer was vehement and would have sent a French executioner blushing. All of a sudden it was one person's fault, and they smelt blood.
The instrument is home now, and since I have the clumsiest of fingers, until recently was in the pile of musical interests including a concertina, a dulcimer, a zither, a gong, recorders, things that you shake, many wooden frogs of varied pitches, and the ukulele which is as close to a legitimate instrument that I have ever owned. I have no musical talent. Zip. If thrumming produces two notes that go together, success is claimed. It took me four years to figure out how to properly hold the thing so that my fingers fit into the frets, but once that epiphany arrived, I've been practicing.
Numbness has set in my fingertips, along with hard little dents that don't go away. Alarming to lose sensation in any body part, but feeling is coming back slowly irregardless of what tactic the internet blares that day. "STOP immediately or there will be permanent damage!" "Go ahead and play, the nerves will return." In spite of the fuzziness I didn't want to stop, for even just strumming was soothing.
Currently, a simplified version of "Here Comes the Sun" is creaking along in fits and starts, it takes only six chords to get a reasonable facsimile and I am in further awe of people who can do this smoothly. I made a point to practice this evening and have the G, C, D, A positions down if you can wait a minute for me to arrange phalanxes correctly without overlap. Yup. Riffs, strumming patterns, tuning, it's coming along.
Tonight, while imagining showing a bit to a girlfriend who has taken ukulele lessons from a professional, I noticed what I thought to be a shred of brown cardboard inside the body, stuck to the label. Cardboard from the scratching post, but it didn't move when I tried shaking it out, so I put on my glasses and looked and it's a hapless, hopeless spider. Blowing on it as a Life-O-Meter check caused one leg to waggle ever so weakly, the other seven being scrunched up under it in a ball of spider legs.
The enthusiasm given the G chord while also picking out the bridging may have jounced the critter to Spider Heaven which the hell I hope is nowhere near Human Heaven. It also glued itself onto the label, meaning that a Q-Tip held in a pair of pliers or extra-long chopsticks will perform the surgical removal. Maybe the leg just moved from me poking at it, or was it a final wave of surrender to the Gods of Vibration? I think the poor thing fell in while exploring, and had no way to get out, but how long have I been practicing with it trapped in misery? Good thing spiders are deaf.
Halloween comes this Monday, and the children are dancing four inches off the ground in anticipation. Every teacher prays that please God, let no well-meaning parent send in cupcakes, for they are the bane of desktops, floors, clothing, hair, and sane digestion with that gloppy froth of grease dolloped atop as "frosting" by supermarkets. Sheet cakes are worse. "I thought you would have plates and a knife..." Really? I can't have a knife in my classroom nor take the time to dice cake into chunks and hand out during Screaming Child Fun Time. Go away, ye parent who serves their royal offspring. Thy sheet cake is sloven, thy Hawaiian Punch stains plot sticky treason on the linoleum.
Rainy day here, snowed a bit in the hinterlands leaving frost on the pumpkins in the early morning hours. The cascade of shortened days are barreling into the end of autumn, as fields become empty and brown themselves to sleep. The summer corn is gone, perhaps a few tomatoes are left; it's the hard, knotty fruits and vegetables that are rounding out the season. Heads of cauliflower, heavy squashes, apples, pumpkins, rutabagas, onions, things that can be stored a bit for later suppers. This part of the earth is readying itself for sleep.
Let your coracle of dreams carry you over the dark, somnambulant waves in rising levels, you already know who you are, who you were meant to be; so begin, begin with loving yourself so that you may love others. Happiness is in your hands. Good night.
Thursday, October 27, 2016
Saturday, October 22, 2016
Hammer Drill Time
Since stenciling and doodad-ing the entryway changed things around, a wall rack for jackets was ordered as organizational support. Organization. My most not best trait. But it came, I knew where it was to go, and proceeded with my small drill to zip two holes into the wall. However, this wall was not cooperative, even with using a masonry bit, and the drill skittered sideways leaving a gouge outside of my organized point of entry on its surface.
The outer walls and ceiling are made of concrete slab and thus are resistant to home decor whims, but this was an inner wall of plaster, or so I thought. Yet having lived here nigh on 17 years with curtains to hang, I had trotted to Sears for a hammer drill and came home with this tool that looked like it could shoot bullets into the door of a Buick. Hadn't used it in years, and forgot how much fun it is to drill with the thing.
Pandemonium careened on two wheels as flying cats took cover from the uproar of this monster, which really didn't last that long at all, for the stubborn wall gave up and minded. It was like drilling into butter; and sad when it was over. I wanted to drill more, this power tool gave me well, power. Power over substances mere regular drills couldn't manage. Lemme tell ya, money can buy happiness if you just go purchase a hammer drill.
The job is done, but I couldn't bear to put it away, so the electrical genie is laying out in it's carrier just in case another wall gets sassy. I am trying to think of more stuff to hang up. Or for what purpose I could start a wall of Swiss cheese art.
I had gone to WalMart today, promptly forgetting the mollies needed for the screws and coming home with two bags worth of canned cat food, besides a part for a lamp and another gallon of white paint. Getting into the building was precarious as I will be darned if I can't get everything upstairs all in one trip, and so was teetering because of not well-balanced plastic bags. But thank heavens for the elevators. Wait a minute, why are all these angry people milling about?
For the umpteenth time both elevators were out; the elderly, people with baskets of laundry, an old man with a garden shovel, and babies in strollers began to overflow, seemingly dividing by mitosis while emitting mewing sounds. I couldn't stay and share the indignation, you can't blame them, but I needed to get upstairs. I live on the ninth floor. There is no elegance in hauling fifteen pounds of loot up into the stratosphere via a dull grey stairwell which doubles as a place to light up your joint. You would think that management could paint encouraging platitudes upon a step or two, "You're almost there!", "Take heart, stalwart tenant!" "Bathroom in 54 more steps." Their elevators break down that much.
It's not such a bad thing, however, except that gravity seems to become stronger the higher you go, and the flickering fluorescents only make you think of a bad horror movie. The noises I was involuntarily producing would have alarmed folks, and I was hoping no one would investigate because my neighbors sometimes check things out while holding a gun or by sending a three year old who speaks no English out on a tether.
The man who once lived above me, when in his 80s would take the stairs every day till the week before his death. He was an inspiration, and I thought of him while gurgling around the corners. Mr. Strickland, I bow to you, sir. I made it.
End of the day, the setting light went from gold to immediate dark as heavy clouds moved in off the Lake. There is a strong wind bringing change to the landscape by washing the trees of their yellow leaves, by scouring out the corners of summer flowers. I toil on with painting the apartment except that it really isn't work, but a transformational event. A letter carrier brought packages to the door and said at first he thought it looked like Christmas, which is nice, because it was made to be colorful for the deep days of the coming winter.
Blankets have been resurrected, pillows shaken out, and last year's pajamas put in the front of the dresser drawer. This is when the cats call a truce, for the chill allows an excuse for them to touch each other and I will find them sleeping with backs together, something that doesn't happen in warm weather.
The time change is a bit away yet, but in spite of the attempt to even things out, our bodies understand the rhythm of darkness and hunker in with additional covers and soup. Take a book to bed, read until your story unfolds, let the words lull you, tucked in and drowsy with myths and wishes. I wish, too. Good night.
The outer walls and ceiling are made of concrete slab and thus are resistant to home decor whims, but this was an inner wall of plaster, or so I thought. Yet having lived here nigh on 17 years with curtains to hang, I had trotted to Sears for a hammer drill and came home with this tool that looked like it could shoot bullets into the door of a Buick. Hadn't used it in years, and forgot how much fun it is to drill with the thing.
Pandemonium careened on two wheels as flying cats took cover from the uproar of this monster, which really didn't last that long at all, for the stubborn wall gave up and minded. It was like drilling into butter; and sad when it was over. I wanted to drill more, this power tool gave me well, power. Power over substances mere regular drills couldn't manage. Lemme tell ya, money can buy happiness if you just go purchase a hammer drill.
The job is done, but I couldn't bear to put it away, so the electrical genie is laying out in it's carrier just in case another wall gets sassy. I am trying to think of more stuff to hang up. Or for what purpose I could start a wall of Swiss cheese art.
I had gone to WalMart today, promptly forgetting the mollies needed for the screws and coming home with two bags worth of canned cat food, besides a part for a lamp and another gallon of white paint. Getting into the building was precarious as I will be darned if I can't get everything upstairs all in one trip, and so was teetering because of not well-balanced plastic bags. But thank heavens for the elevators. Wait a minute, why are all these angry people milling about?
For the umpteenth time both elevators were out; the elderly, people with baskets of laundry, an old man with a garden shovel, and babies in strollers began to overflow, seemingly dividing by mitosis while emitting mewing sounds. I couldn't stay and share the indignation, you can't blame them, but I needed to get upstairs. I live on the ninth floor. There is no elegance in hauling fifteen pounds of loot up into the stratosphere via a dull grey stairwell which doubles as a place to light up your joint. You would think that management could paint encouraging platitudes upon a step or two, "You're almost there!", "Take heart, stalwart tenant!" "Bathroom in 54 more steps." Their elevators break down that much.
It's not such a bad thing, however, except that gravity seems to become stronger the higher you go, and the flickering fluorescents only make you think of a bad horror movie. The noises I was involuntarily producing would have alarmed folks, and I was hoping no one would investigate because my neighbors sometimes check things out while holding a gun or by sending a three year old who speaks no English out on a tether.
The man who once lived above me, when in his 80s would take the stairs every day till the week before his death. He was an inspiration, and I thought of him while gurgling around the corners. Mr. Strickland, I bow to you, sir. I made it.
End of the day, the setting light went from gold to immediate dark as heavy clouds moved in off the Lake. There is a strong wind bringing change to the landscape by washing the trees of their yellow leaves, by scouring out the corners of summer flowers. I toil on with painting the apartment except that it really isn't work, but a transformational event. A letter carrier brought packages to the door and said at first he thought it looked like Christmas, which is nice, because it was made to be colorful for the deep days of the coming winter.
Blankets have been resurrected, pillows shaken out, and last year's pajamas put in the front of the dresser drawer. This is when the cats call a truce, for the chill allows an excuse for them to touch each other and I will find them sleeping with backs together, something that doesn't happen in warm weather.
The time change is a bit away yet, but in spite of the attempt to even things out, our bodies understand the rhythm of darkness and hunker in with additional covers and soup. Take a book to bed, read until your story unfolds, let the words lull you, tucked in and drowsy with myths and wishes. I wish, too. Good night.
Saturday, October 15, 2016
Cupidity
You know you want them, the polished, brilliant striations and glistening colors beckon, entice, and seduce the usually sensible frontal parts of your brain which take care of self-control and reasoning. Yet the candy-like appearance yodels gratification and temporary sweetness, something that we'd all better get before the other guy arrives over the horizon. You want to eat them, solely, furtively, now; but there is that paper the manufacturers have covered their asses with, "Do Not Eat The Rocks".
I purchased a set of polished rocks from the book club in order to expose the childrens to the wonders of geology and "look at this" amazement. A paper of descriptives accompanied the selection of jasper and jade, with the warning at the bottom: DO NOT EAT THE ROCKS. Now, I will stand on the top of a ladder whilst balancing one foot on a bookcase; I will also eat something that has hit the floor under ten seconds, and drive a car whose muffler is no longer attached to the exhaust. You gotta live fast, you see. But eat a rock? It never occurred to me that this was a frivolous platitude, nor a unique personal goal of not ingesting granite. Who the hell would eat rocks? Do I know anyone?
Yes. Yes I do. Children, who now deal with candy bars that cost $1.00 to $1.50 for a sweet that would have cost me a nickel back in the day. Few of the rocks are rather stone-like, dull with a gritty surface; but some in the collection are high-polished floozies, just waiting for a kid to ingest one into their digestive system. These rocks are masquerading as jelly beans, just waiting for one desperate child to hope that this cold mineral really is a Sugar Baby in disguise. Ha. You thought we were rocks when in reality, we are delicious caramel drops and green jelly leaves. Eat us, eat us quickly, before your mother comes into the room, grabs your ankles, and shakes you upside down like a piggybank at Christmas.
It was a macabre surprise that the company thought to put a warning of not eating rocks within the kit; and yet, there is truth. I know children so determined not to miss opportunity that they would ingest a rock if they imagined that their counterparts were also determined to have more than they. I'm telling you, being a kid these days is harder in different respects, especially if you can't tell whether or not to eat the rocks out of an introductory kit of stone specimens.
Adults also have ideas that spin like Catherine wheels in illusionary beliefs; fired by tradition and hope, people slide sideways through narrow alleys constructed by peculiar ideology. The most soothing reassurance which can be offered is that no one is completely sane, we are all crazy in bits. The best we can do is try not to wound each other with our shortcomings or unrealistic expectations, but to offer an open door, with a smile. Name calling only reveals what you believe about yourself; threats, "do as I say or you will suffer pain of some sort that you will not be able to prevent" usually backfire as the target retaliates not with fear, but with fight. Go get 'em.
Last night I was reading in bed and noticed a dark blot in the crease between ceiling and wall directly above my head. Uh-oh. Glasses were not near, so I scooted out of bed and put my contacts back in, turned on the Big Light, and the black smudge became a spider. Not the docile immensities that are banging on the screened windows in order to install a Spider City for the winter; this was one of the aggressive tough ones that would drop on me in the night and inject poison into my face. What, what can I do? It's too high up to swat or grab with a tissue, something with reach was needed. Aerosol. Hair spray. That spider got Tresemmed with a coating of extra hold shine. It glistened and being the nasty, bitey sort, was heaved ho into the next plane of arachnid existence.
It is mid-Autumn, a lovely time of year. The trees in the city are just beginning to turn, squirrels are planting future caches of winter food. Night falls sooner, chill evening air draws your jacket closer, real blankets are pulled from cupboards and given jobs. Apples bring round tidings to carry in hand, a glad sign of the ending days; pumpkins, squashes, grapes, wines, and honey from local farmers are laid before our feet, a bounty to be enjoyed. Stock up, put up, jar, dryer rack, or root cellar.
Sleep well, we are entering the time when our own human Circadian rhythm pulls us to bed earlier, as if we were hibernating. Dreams of searching, looking for answers, realization or reflection come as stories to lead us into our deepest desires and finding out who we are. Plunge forward; even though this season claims sleep as a supporting player, it is indeed a time for self-expression and change. Nod through the seances of fall, breath in tannins, latch the door. I am with you, ever. Good night.
I purchased a set of polished rocks from the book club in order to expose the childrens to the wonders of geology and "look at this" amazement. A paper of descriptives accompanied the selection of jasper and jade, with the warning at the bottom: DO NOT EAT THE ROCKS. Now, I will stand on the top of a ladder whilst balancing one foot on a bookcase; I will also eat something that has hit the floor under ten seconds, and drive a car whose muffler is no longer attached to the exhaust. You gotta live fast, you see. But eat a rock? It never occurred to me that this was a frivolous platitude, nor a unique personal goal of not ingesting granite. Who the hell would eat rocks? Do I know anyone?
Yes. Yes I do. Children, who now deal with candy bars that cost $1.00 to $1.50 for a sweet that would have cost me a nickel back in the day. Few of the rocks are rather stone-like, dull with a gritty surface; but some in the collection are high-polished floozies, just waiting for a kid to ingest one into their digestive system. These rocks are masquerading as jelly beans, just waiting for one desperate child to hope that this cold mineral really is a Sugar Baby in disguise. Ha. You thought we were rocks when in reality, we are delicious caramel drops and green jelly leaves. Eat us, eat us quickly, before your mother comes into the room, grabs your ankles, and shakes you upside down like a piggybank at Christmas.
It was a macabre surprise that the company thought to put a warning of not eating rocks within the kit; and yet, there is truth. I know children so determined not to miss opportunity that they would ingest a rock if they imagined that their counterparts were also determined to have more than they. I'm telling you, being a kid these days is harder in different respects, especially if you can't tell whether or not to eat the rocks out of an introductory kit of stone specimens.
Adults also have ideas that spin like Catherine wheels in illusionary beliefs; fired by tradition and hope, people slide sideways through narrow alleys constructed by peculiar ideology. The most soothing reassurance which can be offered is that no one is completely sane, we are all crazy in bits. The best we can do is try not to wound each other with our shortcomings or unrealistic expectations, but to offer an open door, with a smile. Name calling only reveals what you believe about yourself; threats, "do as I say or you will suffer pain of some sort that you will not be able to prevent" usually backfire as the target retaliates not with fear, but with fight. Go get 'em.
Last night I was reading in bed and noticed a dark blot in the crease between ceiling and wall directly above my head. Uh-oh. Glasses were not near, so I scooted out of bed and put my contacts back in, turned on the Big Light, and the black smudge became a spider. Not the docile immensities that are banging on the screened windows in order to install a Spider City for the winter; this was one of the aggressive tough ones that would drop on me in the night and inject poison into my face. What, what can I do? It's too high up to swat or grab with a tissue, something with reach was needed. Aerosol. Hair spray. That spider got Tresemmed with a coating of extra hold shine. It glistened and being the nasty, bitey sort, was heaved ho into the next plane of arachnid existence.
It is mid-Autumn, a lovely time of year. The trees in the city are just beginning to turn, squirrels are planting future caches of winter food. Night falls sooner, chill evening air draws your jacket closer, real blankets are pulled from cupboards and given jobs. Apples bring round tidings to carry in hand, a glad sign of the ending days; pumpkins, squashes, grapes, wines, and honey from local farmers are laid before our feet, a bounty to be enjoyed. Stock up, put up, jar, dryer rack, or root cellar.
Sleep well, we are entering the time when our own human Circadian rhythm pulls us to bed earlier, as if we were hibernating. Dreams of searching, looking for answers, realization or reflection come as stories to lead us into our deepest desires and finding out who we are. Plunge forward; even though this season claims sleep as a supporting player, it is indeed a time for self-expression and change. Nod through the seances of fall, breath in tannins, latch the door. I am with you, ever. Good night.
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