Little Rules

Oh, my dear readers! It's the 29th already and my last post was--gasp!--5 days ago. This is not the new SFMomof1:GTT way. I did miss you. I did have things to say, but now they seem to have evaporated. But that won't stop me now.

In the last comments section, Deb gave a nice list of criteria for keeping a book: Does it inspire on site? Deserve another read? Need to be read yet? Jog sentiment? I like lists like that. Little rules for life. Not the big ones: those seem to change all the time--or just be irrelevant half the time.

When I was about 19, I was trying to catch the number 10 bus in downtown Seattle, headed some after a long day at the insurance company. I missed the bus and as I stood there gasping, a woman, probably about my age now, said to me, "Honey, never run after a bus or a man. There's always another one coming."

Now there's a rule. Big or little? And have I followed it?

Wish fulfillment?

Unpacking

Now that we have the bookcases, it's time to unpack the books.

Of course we still have too many books for the existing shelf space. And we are definitely not among the most acquisitive in that department. We just didn't get that many shelves. So what goes on the shelves and what goes into storage?

Here I have two books snagged from the top of the first box I opened: Zadie Smith's The White Teeth and Lynn Sharon Schwarz's Rough Strife. White Teeth was a good book; a "big splash" book for young author Smith. I opened it randomly and read a page about a main character on a masturbation spree. Well written, graphic and kind of funny. This sparked a vague memory of the plot. Now, Rough Strife. Before I open it, let me tell you that this book's title led me to one of my favorite poems, Andrew Marvell's To His Coy Mistress. In fact, let's take time out now for some of that great work, as I can remember it, with ellipsis for a lot of missing territory:

Had I but world enough and time, this coyness, lady, would be no crime...
My vegetable love would grow, ever more languid and more slow...
But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot drawing near...

So let us sport us while we may
And now like amorous birds of prey
Ever at once our time devour
than languish in his slow-chapped power.

Let us roll all our sweetness and all our power
into one ball
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life.

I actually used this poem to justify all the fighting we did in my first marriage. But now its poignancy is more acute. Devour time lest it devour you. That was my theme all last year, right? Of course, in my new mode, I am not supposed to be going on any more binges*. Turns out I actually lost a lot of time that way. Like months, recently. Chew time deliberately but slowly?

Back to the novel: reading the cover blurb, I realized that I used the book to justify the fighting, too. And I read the first few pages. Hmm, the picture of marriage in middle age presented here is one that would have appealed to my 20-something self. But, it's not really working for me now. In fact, I just don't think this one is holding up. This novel is an important part of my history, though, clearly.

If space is precious, which of the two goes onto the shelf? Think I am over thinking this? It's been a good excuse to get away from the boxes for a while. Plunging back in now, here goes...

Marcel Duchamp's Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2

*Binge is a relative term of course. Those who know me well may think I am too lazy to qualify as devouring time. But in my own way.

Interior Tour

I've been taking a little tour of the views in my past and present. Not the fancy vacation viewing sites, though I have had some wonderful ones. But the domestic views: what I look at, gaze at, when sitting around the house, be it the view out a window, an indoor view, or a view out into the world with the TV.

Right now, at 5:30 AM, I am sitting in the bent plywood Eames chair in the still-mostly-unfurnished main floor of our new townhouse, gazing into the dark windows, seeing mostly my own reflection, and then scanning around the room at each piece of furniture, as yet unanchored into a cohesive arrangement in this big open space. (But they are scooching toward each other, somehow.)

Most of the time I flop into the upholstered chair in the corner. There I find myself turning half way round in the chair and gazing out the window at the treeline. The treeline here is close in: just outside the fence of our small yard grows a crop of what Texas Sue calls junk trees. Those are the kind that grow fast but don't get a nice trunk and full canopy like a real, quality tree. But I am happy to have the junk and watch birds flit in and out of the top layers of green.

It reminds me of the view from our little home perched just below the top of Bernal Hill in San Francisco. That house had a ton of problems and I was very (very, very) glad to sell it off in 2006 and move on. But it had some wonderful views. From the small attic window, the tree line was in the distance, at the very top of the hill, which was a sort of nature preserve. One of the highest trees there was home to a hawk. I remember so clearly watching the hawk soar and perch, soar and perch. The attic was my office: I was talking on the phone or not writing a paper or doing nothing at all, and all the while, my eyes following the hawk. How long do hawks live? In my memory, this one had residence as long as we did—ten years or so.

My views from the main floor of the same house tell the story of my deteriorating mental health. A partial view of the city was one of the main attractions of that house, during our mid-90s search for a place to call home in SF. And for the first couple years, our furniture was oriented to take advantage of that view. But over the years, the blinds were closed down more often and the TV became a primary view in the room. And then I remember weeks and months on the sofa, staring at whatever was on the mantle at the time. I kept my Huichol yarn painting there for a year or so, and circled around the image, telling myself the story of purification represented there. Just before I got the right medication and treatment, and started literally and metaphorically seeing the light again, I was down to a pinpoint of a view, a crude metal support for the mantle itself. I would obsess about its ugliness, as representative of the whole house's problems.


The next house, rented in a less sunny neighborhood of San Francisco, had a damned ugly view out the window of two asphalted playgrounds. The plantation shutters let in plenty of light while masking that view. I was watching the inside, anyway. I'd done this huge thing: getting "real" furniture after years of marked up odd lot leftovers and just empty space. I loved to gaze at my Eames chair (right now, now holding my butt up) and my beautiful sculptural Noguchi coffee table. I don't care if I fulfill another Starbucks-drinking, Honda-driving stereotype—I love my mid-century modern icons. We knew from the minute we moved in that the house was a temporary home. But those objects could travel with me and were icons not just of a design period, but of the huge transition we were making. We were there getting ready to leave San Francisco.

In our current home, in addition to the treeline, I am watching the lawn green up as we give it some water a couple times a week. Of course I am among those who consider lawns to be wasteful and bad for the environment. Yet, I root for the grass. (small guffaw there, please; or a moan if you must.) I was expecting xeroscape and hated seeing that grass in the beginning. I still want to dig some of it up. But it's too hot out there. I will use any excuse. And anyway, now want to see it all green up. Shame on me.


Image: Cornell, Joseph
Untitled (The Hotel Eden)
c. 1945
Construction
15 1/8 x 15 3/4 x 4 3/4 in.
National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa

© The Joseph and Robert Cornell Memorial Foundation / Visual Artists and Galleries Association, Inc. (VAGA)

Make a Move; Where Do You Go?

Here it is, at last: the IKEA post. It had to be. The little family of three moved to a new state, leaving bookcases behind. The moving expenses mounted, but they still didn't have any bookcases. Of course, they could make a trip to IKEA that is not blog-worthy. In fact, maybe no trip to IKEA is. But that won't stop her.

She'd been once already, earlier in the month, but come home with only storage boxes and a bathmat for a friend. She was afraid of the self serve bins and the big push carts, all on her own. She'd thought that maybe they'd get the bookcases at Crate and Barrel or some quaint local store. But they still didn't have any bookcases. OK, they had one really pretty skinny one from C&B that held about 25 books, but they couldn't afford enough of those to house the family's working collection.

The whole family girded up for the IKEA adventure. The child, too old now for the children's holding pen, brought an absorbing book about fairies. The father found a tape measure. The mother put her notes in her purse.

It was a long journey and when they finally arrived, they had to sit down and eat meatballs, for fortitude. Then, onward to the bookcase section. Oh, there was no bookcase section. Storage, that's what they wanted. Media storage, for paper media. They tried to cut through the maze and travel straight to their destination, but without a compass, it was impossible. Finally though, there they were, wandering among the roomlets of oddly named shelving. They looked at the Bonde, the Expedit, the Trogladit, and the premium IKEA Stolkholm collection.

But in the end, it came down to Billy. (Though 2 years ago, in another IKEA in another town, she'd sworn, NOT Billy.) Billy in black-brown. Yes, black-brown. Neither black nor brown nor white nor silver. Not beech and not birch. Black-brown. Which is actually ash veneer dressed in black.

But would they find the right Billy parts, all in black brown, in the bowels of the building? Mystics try and fail to answer that question. The clerk upstairs didn't have a chance. But they took his word on faith, noted both aisle and bin numbers and made their way to SELF SERVE furniture. (As if there is another kind at IKEA.) And miraculously, they found every piece.

The father and the child moved on to SELF SERVE check out (to which there is an alternative) and pointed the reader wand at slightly faded bar codes. The mother slipped off to the Bistro (which really looks just like the fast food counter at Target, but with umlauts). She cut in front of a family of five, all blond and happy, to get her coffee because she really couldn't stand on her sore feet without caffeine even one minute longer.

While draining off scalding mouthfuls of coffee, she hatched a plan. They'd made it through the trip so far without the seemingly requisite IKEA fight. She imagined an entire IKEA trip without a fight. How wonderful it would be! But then she envisioned the next phase of the journey: the loading, the unloading, the driving 20 miles in traffic with 3 boxes of Billy hanging out of the back of the car, or worse yet, tied to the top with plastic twine. Then, the arrival at home, when she always wants to sit down with another cup of coffee and he always wants to get the damned stuff out of the car and set up, RIGHT NOW!

Half of her coffee gone, she drifted over to a desk near the door. There was a nice lady in an IKEA t-shirt but with beautiful fancy nails in pearlized pink. The lady took her information and typed it all into the computer, and pushed a long series of buttons and then pronounced that delivery could be done for the minimum charge.

Afterward, in the car, the mother explained her decision. She fell back on an oldie but goodie: it was cheaper than marriage counseling. Not that they wouldn't need counselling, still. But maybe they could skip the IKEA session. It isn't SELF SERVE and the delivery charge doesn't even guarantee it will go anywhere.

The child corrects: There is a way to get furniture, in addition to SELF SERVE. Those with a certain color tag are served up to you--but you must order and pay first. She knows because she was parked, with the fairy book, on a sofa in front of a TV looping the same 2 minute "everything you always wanted to know..." video, over and over.

Another Saturday, Another Market

Sunset Valley: Gorgeous name for what seems to be a home for big and little box stores. X wants to go to the Justice store there (pre-teen clothes store with more of the IPMB).

But this morning, we went to the Sunset Valley farmer's market. It's bigger than the one in downtown Austin, with an interesting variety of foodstuffs—and stuff. Grass-fed meat and roasted home-farmed chicken were among the possibilities, along with seasonal produce: figs, tomatoes, zucchinis, melons and more. X bought a gift for D at one of the craft booths at the perimeter of the market.

X had on too thick a t-shirt for the heat, so she didn't last long. She sat in the shade, serenaded by a duo who made Woodstock jokes and sang, "Rolling in my sweet baby's arms..." She had some bread (fresh made) and water (evil bottled, but she needed it) to sustain her while I tried to find stands that didn't have a long line. Many stands carried the same basic veggies and the crowd was pretty well distributed among them. We left without tomatoes because of the lines, but with spaghetti squash, basil and figs.

Another not-bad farmers market experience in Austin. It was great to have X along, even if she did wilt early on. We did not stop at Justice afterward, so I am sure we will return to Sunset Valley.

Tenderness

X has tender feet. Literally. Most kids can run around in flip-flops all summer, but they rub blisters that never go away into that space between her toes. Comfortable shoes that look nice are rare among the selection for her size 1 feet, and X's comfortable shoes are all worn out or too small or not appropriate for 90 degree days.

So we set off for the mall to find the perfect sandals. I also wanted to show X our local mall, which is pretty good, as malls go. She is into malls.

Stop one was Skechers. With some insipid pop music blaring (could I write 4 words that would better stereotype me?), we browsed among the sandals, varying on the comfort factor, the cuteness factor, and the heel height (inversely and directly related to the former two, respectively.) To my surprise, I have gotten some of my most comfortable shoes ever at Skechers, and they are...well, cheap. Worth a try. We started bickering as soon as we started choosing pairs for the clerk to dig up from the back room. I couldn't stand her dismissive tone, her hair flipping and her rejection of everything that seemed like possibilities to me. She had no tolerance for me shushing her every 2 minutes and harummphing as she posed in the mirror to check out her shoes. Now, I wonder, how many times a day does the clerk see that?) Who could blame us? We were both acting obnoxiously. No suitable sandals, anyway.

On the way to Dillards, we talked about what had happened. X said she didn't understand why we were fighting while shopping, which seemed unprecedented to her. I thought it seemed all too familiar. It's a time when I see the adolescent in her, which, frankly, terrifies me (more stereotyping, of myself). We both sullenly agreed to do better. Dillards didn't have what we wanted in her size. Of course.

So we reversed direction and entered that temple of shoes, Nordstrom. Browsing the displays, we ran our fingers along the insides of potentially perfect—or at least suitable—sandals. Did we feel a seam, an overlap of strap, an edging? Then we rejected them. Did the sole provide any support? If not, we set them aside. Neither would the perfect sandal look like a 5 year old would wear it. Miraculously, we found two pairs: Born for kids and—Juicy Couture's version of Birkenstocks. I swear it. We bought the pair that cost less.

The process was lengthy and the sales associates were spread too thin. But we were harmonious. X said, "This is how we usually act." I decided to just agree with her. Then we noted the ever looping piano music in the background. X hypothesized: If she loves the music, then it makes her act out in ways that get her in trouble. Whereas, if she hates the music...

X hates it, but I can learn to love that piano music.

Matisse Redux

Like a Sandwich asks for Matisse and SF Mom of One (GTT) gives her what she asks for! At least for now.

In the header is a sample of a reproduction of a pochoir print of the Matisse cut out, Polynesia. (The print is in this book.)

I wonder-- in what way like a sandwich?

Representation

Whatever I know about art, I learned from New York's museums and my ex-husband. (He also taught me history.) I remember the first time I laid eyes on a painting by De Chirico, in NYC's Museum of Modern Art. How I kept looking for another figure to leap out from behind one of those bare buildings, because that sense of anticipation was so present in the image, on the canvas. In the cafe afterward, the ex (as opposed to the X) gave me a little talk about the historical context of the work. (Gosh, I can't remember what he said. Well, whatever I still know. I do know I love De Chirico, still.)

Here's one of those paintings, from MOMA, that I was looking at. This one is called The Enigma of a Day. Um, yeah, I can relate.

It's been fun using images of and from great paintings to represent my ideas and now our transitional state. More than fun, it's given me great pleasure-- a way of using something important from my past, still with me in the present, but in something new that I am making. And I just like looking at the images on my computer screen.

For right now, these paintings don't speak to X. She's into 3-D and compositions of found objects. (Yes, the broken pottery project is still on my mind. I haven't talked to her about my new ideas yet. )

PS X likes our new house quite a bit. Whew! And is relatively positive about our new city. Whew! A perk: today, she gets to use a Slip-n-Slide without shivering. I will see what I can do about representing that with Great Art.

Breakfast Together Again

They are back! D and X got in at about 10 last night. We mostly just went to sleep, all in the same room for coziness. Today, I took them to the Kerby Lane near us for breakfast. I am trying to find the return-to places— for example, the breakfast spot. Kerby has promise. It's a bit like an old fashioned diner, but more self-consciously funky, and very welcoming. The food pleased all of us. Migas, veggie omelet, and French toast with eggs. Except X didn't like the eggs.

But then, X's acceptance ratio on eggs is low. They have to be scrambled just right (as in the 3 Bears). And that's just eggs. Last month, our doctor told us not to label her a picky eater. She should think of herself as having refined tastes. I know, I know—how San Francisco. Apparently a lot of seeming picky eaters turn out to be gourmets, because they really do taste more subtleties than the rest of us. That bit of brown on the egg, for example.

I am so happy that we are all together again.

No art today. I had in mind Nighthawks for the diner effect, and also found that Cezanne did a nice still life of eggs and bread. But too bleak and too formal.

Treasures

I just got back from the Austin Farmers' Market. Not bad, not bad. (I am a tough customer.) More prepared foods than in my old fave Alemany in SF, which is a nice thing. The veggies and fruits were mostly the pricey local organics, which is fine with me—that's why I was there.

D and X are still on the road, so I was buying for one and maybe three in a couple days. I was trying to be really careful about not wasting food, offsetting the higher prices. (As Deb wrote about over at Family Dinner and as Pollan argues in his books on food.) The food was mostly sold in pre-measured boxes, so I couldn't choose just two tomatoes, for example. Here's what I got: one canary melon; about 8 small tomatoes, firm, half red, half green; 8 chilies to match—I forgot to note the type, but it said they could be used in cooking or raw in salsa. I tried to imagine each piece as a treasure.


So, salsa sounds like a good choice for maybe half of my treasures. My fairly empty kitchen has salt and lemon, which may be helpful. (Deb, you can help me out here any time.)

I also sat quietly for half an hour or so, just watching. I was considering it some kind of meditation. I experienced meditation for the first time last Sunday, so I have about half a clue about what I am doing.

I bought the local homeless newspaper. Then I asked the man selling them, homeless himself, where he'd recommend doing volunteering. Those men in the median have been on my mind a lot still, and I decided that a little volunteering would follow from those thoughts. He recommended ARCH as a place that gives stuff and services directly to the homeless. As opposed to some other places that have a longer chain of service. I am not going to overdo—I am thinking two hours a month. That balance thing again.

It's been a busier morning than I imagined. And I got it all in before the temblor of anxiety for the day hit. Oh, one more thing—I had the requisite tour as I got lost AGAIN trying to get from downtown to South Austin. There are a couple of ways over the river, and I have done a grand tour of all the roads under. Well, maybe not all.

That's a photo of piece by Grant Wood, Corn Cob Chandelier for Iowa Corn Room, 1925-26. Copper, iron and paint, 94 x 32 x 34 in. Gift of John B. Turner II to the Cedar Rapids Museum of Art.

Feelings Count

So it turns out that neuroscience tells us that cognition and emotion—thinking and feeling—are intimately entwined. Learning depends on emotion as does mature decision making. The idea that we can set aside emotion in school or in making life decisions is false—and would be foolish anyway. That's what I got from this article by Mary Helen Immordino-Yang, a cognitive neuroscientist writing, in this case, for a more general audience.

Why is this good news? First of all, it validates intuition, which is the seamless combination of thought and emotion. Secondly, it means that learning is different from producing widgets, and educators should go back to thinking about students as people, not products. (That's aimed at those who want to make—who in fact, have made— education more of a business, with measurable outcomes like test scores.)

Passion, curiosity, empathy—these are emotions that are associated with learning. Without them, not much dry information can be stuffed into little brains. We've known this for a long time. We being parents and educators, both. But now, those brain scientists have validated what we know. We need that in the current regime, where education boils down to raising test scores by a few points.
For me, the finest moments are when I am clearly thinking and feeling at the same time. It's the place of creativity and of careful analysis. And I see the same in X. Actually, she's way more emotive than me. She gets so excited about ideas that she can't sit still. But what are children supposed to learn in school? To sit still. You can guess what kinds of emotions go along with that lesson, for X and many other active young children.

We are on the verge of change. Immordino-Yang is not the only one writing about the importance of emotion in learning. And "creativity" is a buzz word in some education circles again. Creativity as something to foster, not just accept as an add-on or even a nuisance. (How many times have I heard, "She is sooo creative!"? It's a compliment—sort of. )

Now's our time to push back against the system that's been imposed by the cynically named "No Child Left Behind." We have the evidence to say it's just the wrong approach.

That's DeChirico up there. I love him.

Trying Them Out

Caution: More indulgent blog fiddling below.

Here are three possible headers images, based on the three suggestions I got. (Thanks!) Like with the mural I use now, the images are samples of the original painting. I feel funny messing up th artist's composition but I get some striking new images that way. (like sampling in music, I suppose.)

Sue suggested a road as a way to connote a journey. I got most of the right parts of Van Gogh's Cypress Road.



There may be better Matisse cutouts--TEOM's suggestion-- to represent transition, but this "Polynesian Seas" caught my eye, particularly for the birds but also the scattered effect.

Deb, I found that action painting photo; tough to sample that one, but I need to leave most of Pollock out yet keep the actor idea.

Changing My Image

Warning: what follows the blog equivalent of navel gazing. That is, endlessly contemplating the format of one's blog.

I am getting ready to give up my Coit Mural header image. Not my personal icon, but the beautiful SF street scene from the WPA mural in the tower.

I am still SFMom, GTT. And I am not ready for Texas images to creep up there into the header yet. The Austin image in the corner is enough for now.

So what I want now is an image of transition. An image of not belonging to a place, without negative connotation. And of course, it's best if it is a bona-fide work'o'art, you know, like the other ones showing up in my blog recently.

Ideas? (No one helped with my broken pottery collection, but still, here I am asking for help again.)

Two + One = Three; Y* + One = A Big Birthday

* where Y is Number 2's age today.

Happy Birthday, Number 2!


OK, you get video, audio and still image. What a lucky birthday girl! I had to search hard to find these perfect gifts for you. But the price was right. T

he Beatles, Fritz Lang and Marc Chagall. Not a bad combo, but I know which one you like best. I will be sending the socks later.

And you get Chagall's Birthday because it's romantic and you do have a wedding anniversary to celebrate, too.




I found the painting at russianavantgarde.com It's at MOMA in NYC. The video--well, it's a YouTube thing.

The Broken Pottery Solution

In our family, we consider ourselves problem solvers. That's what I tell X any time we have, well, a problem. And usually we can find a solution. Here's a solution that's been in progress a long time.

When X was 4 or so, we went to the Randall Museum to make and fire pottery, raku style, I think. As X's beautiful pot cooled, she picked it up and dropped it. It shattered. Our solution was to start a collection of our broken ceramics. We added plates, cups, ornamental bowls. We saved a lot of tears with our collection.

The idea was to make a mosaic table top with the pieces. By now, that look doesn't appeal like it did in 2002. So I have been thinking about what to do with those two bins full of broken pottery, that of course, I moved to Austin.

One idea is to layer them in a tall glass or acrylic container. I mean tall, maybe 3 feet. Other ideas are welcome.

Today's image is not from our collection; it's old, Egyptian, not broken and housed at the Met in NYC.

On the Median

Here in Austin, each time I stop at a light and look at the median, I am likely to see a man holding a sign asking for money or sympathy (which is code for money.) It is startling, as they walk along the line up of cars and hold out their hands and look straight at each driver. Once I was a bit frightened by an agitated man pacing just behind my car. Would he reach out and smash my window or worse in his frenzy?

In San Francisco, encountering beggars was more a pedestrian experience. Literally. But wrapped in the protective bubble of steel and glass, I find the beggars at the side of the road more intrusive. And because of that, I have had to think carefully about my reactions. In San Francisco, X and I gave money to beggars, a few dollars a week. We believe that if someone asks, then we should give it them, up to some manageable limit. If we were really emulating Jesus, a worthy role model, then we'd give him (or her) more than he (or she) asked for. We'd keep giving until we had nothing. But we were not going to live up to that ideal; we were going to be more ordinary, but still follow Jesus a little ways into the light. Part of the plan was doing it in secret. But I am going to spill here, in public (sort of public):

Now back to the men in the median. (I haven't seen any women there yet.) So what if my sensibilities are offended or even if I am frightened? Just like in San Francisco, here are broken men. Men who, for some reason are so needy that they are willing to make a sign and beg. Here are, probably, men who will spend the money that they get on drugs or booze. And they need those substances, just like I need my medications, to survive. Cold turkey on their own is a potentially fatal choice. And beds in treatment programs are not plentiful for non-paying customers.

Having established that these men are needy, and that they need what they need (to make a tautology that shouldn't have to be made), what is the right way to help? Some people say the right thing is to give to charities aimed at helping these men (and the less visible homeless women). I think that is a good thing to do, a wonderful thing to do and a proper response.

BUT, just for myself, I think, at each median: Here is a man in front of me asking for money. A fellow human being. I have plenty of money, compared to him. I could easily give him 20 dollars and just skip buying that new T-Fal pan at Target. I cannot do that for every man, but I could easily do it for one per week and just not buy the new frying pan or the fancy cheese and a couple of lattes and a 25 mile trip to IKEA.

Why shouldn't I give, then? I don't have a good answer, so I do give. A couple of dollars, sometimes more. Not to every man, just a few a week.

Am I being taken advantage of? If I don't have expectations that the man will spend the money on an approved item---food or shelter--then I can't be taken advantage of. Let's say the man is lying about his level of desperation. I don't care. I don't care if he is not starving; something has led him to the median, some need terribly unmet. And if he spends it on booze, like I said above, that is the medicine he needs until he gets treatment--or until he dies. I am sure many people with my condition treat themselves with alcohol because they don't have access to a good doctor, or any doctor, or even the notion that they might have a mental illness, not just a fondness for liquor or crack.

But I earned the money, and he didn't, right? Well, yes, but I am lucky enough to have a reasonably well paying job. Sure I worked hard to get to where I am (is that cliche really true?), but luck had a lot to do with it. In my home town, as a young teen hanging around older men (bad idea), I saw men come back from Vietnam so ruined they'd never have a chance at making a good living. Sure some people rise above these problems of lost limbs and addiction. But many don't have the strength. I am not sure I would. The men on the median are the survivors of that group. There but for fortune go you and I, as Phil Ochs sang.

Maybe I would have greater impact going to volunteer in a homeless shelter or halfway house for drug addicts. Maybe I should give money to a services program. In fact, I should do some of those things. But when that man is there in front of me, I feel the need to act. I feel the need to confer at least the potential for dignity on him. The dignity of taking his own money from his pocket and buying whatever he wants in the moment. Whether it is "good for him" or not. God knows I spend plenty of money on stuff that is not particularly good for me.

I know, there are so many kinds of suffering in the world that I can't address them all. But we should be deeply ashamed, as Americans, that these men need to do what they are doing. That anyone is without shelter and food and health care. (At least two of those are likely missing for the men in the median.) My way of dealing with my shame is to roll down the window, look the supplicant in the eye, hand him some money and say, "God bless you." Then I drive away. It's not the best I can do, but it is doing something.

As you can tell, I have been thinking about this a lot. Here's what Jesus had to say on the subject, according to Luke , anyway. Notice this passage is about eternal life--enlightenment or whatever-- and what you have to do to get it.

And behold, a certain lawyer stood up and made trial of him, saying, Teacher, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?

And Jesus said unto him, What is written in the law? how readest thou?

And the lawyer, answering, said, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbor as thyself.

And Jesus said unto him, Thou hast answered right: this do, and thou shalt live.

But he, desiring to justify himself, said unto Jesus, And who is my neighbor?

Jesus made answer and said, A certain man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho; and he fell among robbers, who both stripped him and beat him, and departed, leaving him half dead.

And by chance a certain priest was going down that way: and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. And in like manner a Levite also, when he came to the place, and saw him, passed by on the other side.

But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was: and when he saw him, he was moved with compassion, and came to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring on them oil and wine; and he set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him. And on the morrow he took out two shillings, and gave them to the host, and said, Take care of him; and whatsoever thou spendest more, I, when I come back again, will repay thee.

Which of these three, thinkest thou, proved neighbor unto him that fell among the robbers?

And he said, He that showed mercy on him.

And Jesus said unto him, Go, and do thou likewise.

Image: "The Good Samaritan", by George Frederic Watts. Got it from Wikipedia.

Cold Spot Audio

If you found my post on The Jungle Effect of interest, listen to Dr. Daphne in a cute interview on The Daily Special and see some of her travel pics here.

I have a short list of things I know I will miss, am already missing, about SF and her care for my family is on it.

Anyone know of a good integrative doctor here in Austin? I have one to check out, but scanning for more.

Wither Television?

I love television. I like HBO, movies, CNN, and shows like What Not to Wear and Design on a Dime. Tell Me You Love Me improved my marriage. In contrast, I loved The L Word until we pulled the plug on Showtime. I like PBS fundraisers where they show stuff that they never would in regular programming. Oh, and American Masters. I love finding trash in the middle of the night. (Oops, not supposed to do that anymore.)

As much as I love it and X loves it, we only have one TV. I think I want to keep it that way. Competition for resources can be healthy. But where do we put that TV in our new place? Right now, it is in the master bedroom and D and I would probably like to keep it that way, except then X has to be in our room to watch. In the living room is our traditional spot. But I am a bit weary of TV as electronic fireplace (as BC Daddy once put it.) I want to arrange the furniture so people look at each other, not the screen.

Where should we put the TV? No, not in X's room.

image from Fanboy.com's post on the Too Art for TV art show.

Penguin Mama

Do you know Club Penguin? It's a Disney-created online community for 6 to 14 year olds. Each member has a customized penguin avatar. X logs on and meets her friends there...and even her mother.

Last night, X and I chatted in her igloo. We played two games of Score Four. Then I got confused and accidentally logged off while she was trying to show me how to play Sled Race.

I learned a few things chatting in text with X: She is a terrible speller. OK, I already knew that. But she is also a bilingual speller. Over the past year, she's taken to calling me Mommy instead of Mama. At least I thought it was Mommy. But in fact, it's Mami. Somehow, this was startling to me.


This is me, in Club Penguin. I have no idea how I came up with GreensPurple. But note, I am purple.

Club Penguin is advertised as a safe place for kids. One safegaurd is strict controls on chat. In the most constrained chat, kids choose from a menu of pre-made phrases. In a less constrained mode, kids can type, but what they can type is filtered in real time. For example, attempts to type phone numbers or addresses can be intercepted and blocked, "they" say. Interestingly, one side effect is that you can't type any punctuation at all.

In this case, I am happy to see this kind of... well, censorship. The online world has too many pockets of creepiness-- even for me, with a high tolerance for creepiness. A few months ago, I gave in to X's plea to play Literati on Yahoo. She wanted to try playing someone with a really low score. So the first low-scoring idiot we ran across started ineptly asking suggestive questions. We ended the game. Geez. Fortunately, X turns her back, quickly, on anything that she perceives as creepy. And her tolerance, thank God, is low.

Two Days, Better

My Dr. tells me not to gauge it day by day, but I am on a two-day streak. Now I am probably a little TOO zippy. Feels so good, but what comes up (too high) must come down (too low).

Back to that level routine. Thanks everyone, for your support. I feel sheepish having spilled it all like that.

Now where do I get a Wii?












Inverted Personages, Joan Miro
from Art Experts Inc. website
http://www.artexpertswebsite.com/pages/artists/miro.php

Not Just Sadness

The worst part of depression is not sadness.

I am still struggling my way out of this episode of major depression. As I get just a little better, the shifts back into despair, fear and plain old sadness are even more marked. In other words, when not in a constant state of misery, misery is more noticeable. The thing is, I know those emotions are illusory. I mean, they aren't appropriate reactions to anything in my life. I have a really good life.

That's the heart of it. But it's not the worst of it.

So what is the worst part? Not being able to think clearly. I can't reason my way through every situation like I usually do. I can hardly make it out of a restaurant with a tricky door. (Seriously, that was yesterday.) I can hold it together for 20 or 30 minutes at a time, and at least perceive myself as smart and competent, and then I get stupid again.

Not surprisingly, the move has set me back. Even though I looked forward to it, and even though I mostly love our shiny brand new townhouse (with a more glamorous bathroom than I ever imagined or thought I'd enjoy so much). Moving is high up on the stress list of course. It's been hard to keep up prescribed routines. For example, I am mostly failing at getting exercise. I blame the heat; I blame fatigue. Excuses. Self flagellation, of course, does not count as exercise. So I am slowly adding in some bit of good-for-me stuff every day.

Whenever I talk to my mother, and try to explain what's going on, her questions all point to this one: "Where did I (Mom) go wrong?" So, I tell her again:

Depression is a brain disease. You know, like epilepsy. In fact, for my "brand", I take small doses of medicine for that condition. We think of depression as emotional, but it affects all that the brain affects: that is, every physiological system. There's the annoying, like skin rashes. And then there's the truly dangerous, like increased risk of heart attack.

And the good news: I will get better. I don't like how long it is taking, but if I do the right things, I will get better.

Now for some fresh Texas peaches...

Images:
Dürer's Melancholia I.jpg from Wikipedia. I know, the stereotype, but there's a reason for stereotypes.
Texas peaches from crockettfarms.com