Posts (page 2)
I'm in it, I've been away for too long, and fear I've lost it, will vox ever forgive my truancy? Will I forgive myself for not meeting personal performance standards? If a blog falls in cyberspace....? well Christie Blatchford answered that one for us this weekend...I like to read rants against blogs, against facebook, against new technology in general. I feel like a bona fide Luddite myself most of the time and its comforting not be alone. For a brief moment in time, I thought I would immerse myself in things palmlike, blue tooth and blue ray, but it turns out I am not the suave and debonaire. I didn't perfect any hand-eye coordination on video gaming in my youth to make me a thumbing genius today. I suck at it, I suck at typing, but I do it to survive. I am slow moving, nothing is ever going to keep up with my speed skating brain.
But I'm here - HELLO - I'm here in voxland because I want to connect.That does seem to be the crux of it, n'est-ce pas? Belonging. Mattering. Connectedness. Community. It's different for each of us, but we want to be linked somehow to someone else, or many people. We want people to get us, to help us figure out where we fit in, and to create something when we don't quite fit. There is no gaping chasm of self esteem, no unsatisfied social scene, no personal deficiency, it is profoundly human, this desire to be with others.
The Looky loos who read blogs and don't write or comment, the facebook lurkers who search out friends but never set up a profile ( or set up a profile but never a picture) - we know these people, they are the wallflowers from the junior high school dance. They are not different from us, they are us. Their curiosity is poignant and their desire palpable; it aches in honesty but is masked by false bravado and rationale, justifications for not taking the plunge, or at least dipping their toes into the icy cool pond. They are flirting with us, watching us, holding our stare for a few seconds, and then walking briskly away to kill time in the nearest bathroom. But they know we're here, they know to come back and see if we've been back to the same spot. And so the dance goes. And we come back to do this thing, that we don't fully understand either. But there is this odd demand, request, expectation that we'll be here, and we can't abide their disappointment.
I'm giving my doghouse a makeover if I have to be in it - some citron and lime accent pillows, a fresh new texture for the walls, and a new attitude. I'm not making empty promises I won't keep. I'll ask you to dance the last waltz Stairway to Heaven tonight, but I don't kid myself that there aren't plenty of other blogs where this one came from. Just promise me when I meet you on the street, you won't pretend we don't know each other.
When you think of the long weekend, you probably think of making some plans, a little travel, change of venue, some entertainment, and some festive comestibles. You think ahead, you make a reservation, you call some people to join you, you book a flight or gas up the car, and you go.
Generally speaking, you don't while away the long weekend purchasing a new home in another region, but it appears that that is exactly what we have done. We have just bought a new home many many miles away from where we live now, and we did it rather effortlessly. Yes, there were repeated phonecalls to agents both familial and corporate in the new land, there were discussions about when, how and now, and there was an expedited flight across multiple time zones in short order to see the place up close and personal, and there was a lot of squealing with excitement as the deal closed.
There was no hemming or hawing, no wingeing or whining about whether or not we'd done the right thing. There was a calm.. not even an eerie calm. This seems like the most normal and sane thing we could have done to achieve the relocation of the near future. The near future is now WHAM! right in our faces, and it seems that in a matter of months it will be realized. This is what happens when you put your mind to things, when you set that first foot down on that path. It's not the slow moving escalator that inches towards the dream, it is the express Concorde trip - you have no sooner named the idea than you have arrived. Voila. Mission accomplished ( well, most of it). Wheels are in motion big time, and I'm not sure they plan on stopping. A cascading series of events is bound to follow ( job hunting, packing, giving notices, and extracting ourselves from one life to build another in a new place - and all the joy and grief that goes with that transition.
I am thankful for the support to be able to do this, especially from my partner, without whom this would be impossible. I am amazed by the support of friends, who despite being left behind, are happy for us, and the energetic support of family members, whose arms (and neighborhoods) we are racing into. This has such momentum on its own, and feels a bit like a carnival ride, not in the barfy,stop -I -want -to get-off kind of way, but in the dizzying and dazzling wuhoo kind of omigod -it's really happening kind of way. I can't believe we did it, and then again, it feels really normal and solid, and kind of like coming home.
Yesterday I was rushing to walk the 15 minutes it takes to get from my uber-downtown apartment to the campus where I work. Rushing, despite the fact that I'd been up since 5 am - puttering, coffee, breakfast, shower, dressed, etc. How is this possible? There's no time to think about it, so I just grab the thing resembling my bag/purse, mp3 player ( aka faux ipod) and run for the elevator. I see the battery is on low, and think, this is not good - I will need some motivational tunes to get me into the mindset of obnoxious urban pedestrian. I don't live for music, but on a morning like this, it helps. Music thingy comes to life with its last trickle of juice as I am leaping out onto the streets ( image of gazelle, minus the lithe form), and I hear some guitar/banjo pickin'. Uh oh. Then I remember I recently ripped O Brother, Where Art Thou?, and that I am immersed in "I'll Fly Away.... when I die, hallelujah by and by..." etc. Which reminds me of music for my future wake/funeral - this is a file I have actually created and discuss regularly with loved ones ( they need to be prepared after all...) There is nothing wrong with writing your own obituary, planning your own service, having a will and selecting the tunes - proper planning prevents poor performance. I also think there is room in my world for a karaoke funeral, or something where individuals instead of giving testimony/eulogies, they come up and sing (or lyp synch) a song. Now that's a variety show I could get into...
Anyway, back to my commute. The zippy little pickin' gets me going, and I am all but dancing across intersections, singing along ( in my head only, I desperately hope) with Alison Krauss and Gillian Welch, trying to decipher which part of the harmony I really want to sing. This leads me to think that I am really an alto at heart, but I cannot resist often striving to sing soprano, with very mixed results. My partner is a bona fide soprano ( who I met singing in a choir) and it would be best for all concerned if I stayed in my alto box. I flip back and forth (high, low) and before I know it, I am smiling to myself, and deciding I am going to have a great day - I am not tired, discouraged, nor inundated by work - I am ready to give what I've got, and calm about the prospects. I am invinscible in this brief moment, and I arrive at the door of my of my workplace at 8:59 am. I am a personal stickler for time, being raised a military brat, I simply cannot shake this obsession. Just before entering the building I am ambushed by a colleague just back from vacation, who regales me with his travels and anecdotes for 15 minutes in the blazing sunshine. And I think, hey it's summer, I've worked hard, this is not going to mess up my day. I listen politely, ask questions, offers comments, resisting the temptation to look at my watch. Punctuality is shot to hell, but the banjo strummin's still going on in my cortex, and I do finally fly away to my office, late for once in my life.
Funny thing too.... the world did not come to an end.
Why do you live where you live?
Submitted by memtony.
As cities go, this is the one I love; I met my partner here, we both have great jobs, but are starting to get itchy feet - so we are looking for a change in the coming year. I could do with a smaller city or town, I'm ready to slow it down a little, smell the flowers I want to grow in a bigger garden, and ease up on the hustle, noise and crowds. I'm a simple homebody at heart, love connecting with friends and family, and need to be closer to an ocean (salt water preferred but I'll take any) to be in real peace. I came here twenty plus years ago because there was a great full time job and some good friends, and I was ready to take it on. Now I am ready to slip out the side door into something quieter, simplify and start doing more of what I want with the people I want, including a big beautiful family I miss terribly. This has been the hometown I never grew up with and it will always have a tender place in my heart.
It's stinky hot - the hot that makes you look for a corner of shade at every crosswalk while waiting for the light to change. The hot that makes you stand back an extra pace or two so you're not inhaling the soup of baked pavement, body odor and rotting garbage in toxic concentrations. The hot that says don't carry a purse or anything else unless absolutely necessary. There is no energy for hustling across to make the light, walking faster to get anywhere sooner, no window shopping, browsing or other wise wandering aimlessly. This is the season of absolute necessity - we are not having fun, or passing the time of day. We are - alternately - dying, gasping, dripping, leaking, freaking out, parched, fried, sizzled, grilled to perfection - we are more than done. We do not think straight nor do we make any sense. We can't be expected to perform the simplest of tasks with any certainty, finesse or competence; we are exasperated, flustered , dehydrated ( and in denial about our dehydration) exhausted, tied and , oh yeah, just plain hot. We are swearing to accentuate how we are so much hotter than you are. And we will talk this way most of the coming days and weeks and months, because it is what we do - we moan. And we love to moan on and on about the goddamned weather. We like to personalize it ( because my experience of it is so much more intense than yours could ever possibly be). What's even weirder is that we actively listen to the mutual moaning, invite it, we want all the perspiring details, we want to hear all about your pain and suffering... tell me, do we really have so little going on in our lives that heat needs to take up so much space? Do we even have a clue about what real suffering is? Are we not blind to the privileges of fresh running hot and cold water, air conditioning, pools, public spaces etc, that we have completely lost sight of the bigger picture? Let's make this the summer of love - embrace the smouldering aromatic piles of market fresh refuse, diesel exhaust from the buses, tar goo, and anything that takes on a new hue or hum in the summer months, and not succumb to the moaning masses. Get a squirt gun, run through someone's sprinkler, have a shower, drink some tap water, and play with the heat til you're silly and giggling - that's summer.
What do you enjoy most about summer?
Submitted by Alex.
Barefootin' ......and not caring too much about productivity. There is an order of the day, every day, and that is reading the paper cover to cover, unhurried, preferably outside on the patio. If I manage to do that, my chakras and karma are all good, and I can face anything else the world has to offer. It's a contemplative practice, I often go through the motions - it's not so much about what I absorb as it is what I am exposed to. I'm a visual learner and reading is my best thing.
....and I'm getting a cold. There is this ratio, critical mass thing that happens the second I think "hmm..I've been pretty healthy lately..." and wham, the nasty, scraping tickle of a killer sore throat creeps in to erase any illusion I had of skipping merrily though early summer. The hot streets compounded with arctic offices take your body for spin and then you are horizontal, sipping tea and pumping Vitamin C intraveneously, and chanting "I will rest more, I will not multi task, I will eat green vegetables" when there's no way in hell any of that life altering stuff in gonna happen, not in the short term, no matter how many lame promises you make to yourself - because it's Pride baby, gotta look alive, gotta get out and about, gotta know everything that's happening and coordinate it with some people, and gotta keep in the groove. Can't sit back in observational mode, gotta immerse yourself with the throngs, gotta feel alive, gotta go gotta be now, gotta run, gotta call, gotta go. Gotta look the part, gotta be where something called action is, gotta look alive, gotta gotta
Someday I'll regret it, not taking full advantage of the ultra urban experience, when I am holed up in the proverbial cabin in the woods in the back of beyond, being the hermit I long to be. I'll be wishing I had the city at my feet, on my doorstep, instead of 6 hours drive away. I'll be kicking my butt for cocooning when I should have been out soaking up the Cultcha and the cutting edges ( ow, that hurt!) and the new great things, and the have-you-tried-this-great-place-to-eats that abound in our world. I'll be wishing I had planned my life around NOW's top picks, the Globe's rave reviews, and the must reads, instead of thinking for myself. But the clock is ticking , if we are really gonna blow this town in 12 months, we gotta get moving - cross the "best ofs and must haves" off the list as we do them, one step closer to the Great Escape.
Now that I'm officially laid off, it is somehow oddly liberating; what will I really do? What is it that I want to be, or could I be? Is opportunity knocking so loudly I can't hear it? Or am I paralyzed by being liberated so definitely - the door is wide open, and I am hovering on the porch, hoping like hell I can remember how to walk through.
Perhaps it a desperate attempt to reclaim my youth, but I have fallen into the FB abyss. The excuses not to weren't standing up to persistent invitations, all fun, silly and good to see people grouped in a myriad of ways. A little too much like Alice's chart of the L Word, but amusing to see the connections. Kind of like this space and neighborhoods, and comments - the web we weave over the years does grow complex but beautiful. The bridge over generations has the greatest appeal (creaky hipster talk, I know), and you can hear/see everyone at a glance, which means you never really are alone, or don't have to be. Or sometimes you just want to look out and see who's there just in case you might want to talk to them. Whatever it is as a social experiment, it's whimsical and shouldn't be taken too seriously. Like life, just get on with it.
What we're going for here is just a little exposure - nothing trashy, no crack-ho Barbie, no pole dancing, just a little peek a boo at the toes ( once they've been excavated, glammed up and set loose on the world for the season). You can't just exchange your blundstones for espadrilles overnight - you gotta plan these things, and ease into it like all the post May 24 potential fashion crimes. I've crammed my feet into dozens of new prospects and can't find the requisite black dress sandal on which all of my recent dress purchases have been predicated - someone throw me a lifeline here!
To boot, I've forgetten where I stashed my warm weather clothes, so it's taking me a few weeks to unearth the whole collection from illogical locations. Then there is the tribulation of trying the damn stuff on again, soliciting expert opinions on accessories, desperately trying to find a way to make each item work. Emotional attachments to articles of clothing should be shed quarterly - life is too short to preserve your favorite denim miniskirt IF YOU NEVER WEAR IT, so the household rule is: You buy something new, you throw out five duds. No really, five - I'm serious. They go into the clothing recycling bin conveniently located near the garbage shute where someone will inevitably rescue them,
and then I can sleep at night knowing they have new life.
The perfect summer suit is a challenge, as it must accommodate the healthy commute to/from work ( walking), the arcticly air-conditioned office, and have enough life or versatility to transform into something palatable for the early evening, should I choose to have a life and do something. The suit must go equally well the army of work footware stashed at aforementioned workplace, as well as the commuting foootwear. And finally the suit must convey an equal amount of large and in charge attitude, creative funk, and classic style. When it is lined , it is a deathtrap; when it is unlined, one might as well wear tissue paper. (I ask too much, I know.) Don't get me started on what to wear under the damn summer suit; I'm gathering steam for my camisole tank support group anyday. You cannot trust your memory on this; you must be wearing the suit to match the freaking undrerthingy, or you will end up with a closetful of lovely slinky sleeveless "tops" ( ugh - such a gross 70s polyester infused concept) that go with nothing else you own.
shopping anyone?
